Posted in Blog, Personal, Writing

The Truth, On National Coming Out Day.

I have known I was a lesbian since I was about ten, and it scared me to death.

Well, I say that, but it was more that I knew I was interested in women, not men, but didn’t know what that really meant since I was about ten. More on why that was in a second.

I grew up in a very progressive household when I lived with my mother, and that is such a blessing and a privilege, but it didn’t make a difference to how I felt about myself and the fears I had. I’m grateful for it, but they couldn’t save me from the world outside.

At school, “promotion of homosexuality” was banned, so I thought something was wrong with me. My family would try to teach me about other types of families and people, but I was being fed homophobia from a school that had no choice but to teach it to us.

(For more on why my school experience was so bad, and the history of homophobia in Kent from our local government, check out this really good article by Kent Live).

My faith is very important to me too, and I imagine that played a part. My relationship with it has changed as I’ve gotten older and felt confident in questioning what I’m told. I firmly believe God would not hate me for feeling love, but that took a long time to understand.

I will probably never be able to marry in a Catholic Church, despite being more of a Catholic than many straight people who have been allowed to. It’s painful to think about but I’m kind of at peace with it.

As I got older, and particularly when I went to university, I discovered that it wasn’t a sickness and that I wasn’t damned to hell, but it has taken literal years to unlearn that fear and self loathing. I spent years trying to be someone else.

Telling my family was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I am so fortunate that my (living) relatives reacted with love. I still don’t know how my father would react, but it’s too late to find out.

In my mid twenties, I began calling myself bisexual, because it felt a bit safer than telling the truth. Bisexuality is absolutely real and bisexuals are 100% valid, I just wasn’t one of them.

Even after getting over the fear of being sick or damned to hell, I was still afraid of the reality of being a lesbian. I wanted a family. I wanted to be a wife. When I became legally old enough to marry in the UK, it was still illegal for me to marry a woman.

And I mean REALLY marry by the way. Civil partnerships are not the same imo. Labour should have pushed equal marriage through and they failed the LGBT community by not doing so. Come at me Tonty Blair.

I became convinced that I’d have to “put up with a man” to get what I wanted. To be a wife, and more importantly, to be a mother (being married is kind of a required step to have kids as a Catholic lmao). Putting up with a man would be worth it to hold my child in my arms.

The only man that it wasn’t torture to have a sham relationship with. He was kind and patient in a way nobody had ever been, and not being able to love him in the way he loved me is my only regret. I think I did (and still do) love him, in my own way, and he will always mean more to me than he could ever understand.

When I was a teenager, I’d pray every night for it all to go away. I’d stare at boys all day in class and plead with myself to find them attractive. Up until this year, I’d basically force myself into relationships with men to try and make myself like them. It just made me sad.

I would invent reasons to like men. Pretty much anything I’ve ever “found attractive” in a man throughout my life have either been typically feminine traits (a coping mechanism) or made up stuff I’ve projected onto them to find some way to like them.

I am almost thirty years old and I don’t think I have ever truly been in love, because I’ve been masquerading and pretending out of fear or I’ve been in a fleeting connection with a woman that I run away from because I feel like I shouldn’t be with her.

I joke all the time about being emotionally broken but if I’m honest, I really do think that suppressing my real self and bullying myself into the closet over and over out of fear has done legitimate damage to me, and I don’t know what to do about that.

My greatest wish is to find this girl again and tell her that she’s going to be okay.

I eventually came out (properly this time) because of two things. One, I was on a date with a man and he literally said to me “I think you’re a lesbian” and I knew the jig was up. Two, I couldn’t face turning thirty and still being desperately unhappy.

I don’t want to be lonely anymore. I don’t want to feel like I’m constantly chased by a shameful secret. I want the people I love to really know me. I want to find someone to build a real life with instead of settling for a sham marriage. I want to really live.

I don’t say any of this so that people will feel sorry for me, by the way, because it’s one of those things where the damage is done (by myself lmao) and I don’t really need validation, I just want people to understand why we can’t allow future generations to do this.

People ask why LGBT inclusive sex and relationships education needs to happen. People like me are why. You have to let kids know that they’ll be okay. Nobody is saying “teach kids about anal at five years old!” but just let them know it’s okay if they grow up to be gay, so they don’t end up like me.

Posted in Creative Writing, Writing


Don’t be stubborn.

Don’t be distrusting.

Don’t be so distressed.

Don’t carry the crimes of lost souls, into your new life.

These are the mantras,

I repeat in my mirror,

every morning,

trying hard to adore the idea,

of existing in such an unsure,

unappealing universe.

I don’t mean to be unkind,

but as a great crab once said,

the human world,

it’s a mess,



I am messy,

but was I born this way,

or am I just the result of my environment?

It doesn’t really matter,


we are where we are,

and I am miming my mantras,

to the mirror,

for far longer than I intended.

He holds onto me,

stubborn and seductive,

as I venture between the valleys,

without leaving his arms.

Maybe one day,

I will free him,

from the sentence my past suitors have inflicted,

on him,

and anyone else I encounter,

so that they do not fall prey,

to a prison,

that they refuse to escape from.

I want him to escape,

so that we can be free,



but my mantras meld,

into one,

unintelligible mess,

and I forget,

all I remembered,

about how to be in love.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

I Am a Goddess

I am a goddess.
I wonder what it will feel like to live.
I hear the sound of the clouds, impossible, inspirational.
I see a new day.
I want what I deserve.
I am a goddess.



I pretend I am a human.
I feel accomplished in my performance.
I touch the darkest part of my soul, and all the secrets it has silenced.
I worry that I’ll never live forever.
I cry about my crimes, and all the ways I’ve marked myself.
I am a goddess.



I understand that life goes on.
I say that I decide when I do.
I dream about my diary entries.
I try to write myself better.
I hope my dreams come true.
I am a goddess.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing


Some days,

I think I’ve recovered,

and then I remember,

the first time I thought I had,

and I miss my naivety,

so much,

that I drown myself,

in the knowledge that I will always be struggling for air.

I have a little girl,

but not in the way you think.

She’s so optimistic,

sticking around,

hoping for recovery that can never reach her.

People don’t get it.

I don’t want to spend my life,

with the word “oh” before my name,

as people who can’t understand,

rub my shoulders,

and tell me that it’s okay.

I don’t know how I want to spend my life.

I don’t know what “better” or “recovery” look like.

I don’t want their hands on my shoulders.

I don’t want pity in their voices.

I don’t want ghosts to still hold onto my little girl,


nobody really gets what they want,

in the end.

Do they?

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Hunger Pains

I think I was ten.

Wearing midnight blue,

in the middle of the day.

My neighbourhood knew that one day,

probably in the middle of the day,

I’d be the world’s greatest dancer,

and so it span around me,

as I sat,

in the big girl’s passenger seat,

feeling real sweet,

in my midnight, midday, blue,

after dance class.


Hawley Road.

You were my hero.

As I said,

I was probably ten,

but now,

I’d rather not say how old I am,

just that I am taking strepsil after stressed out strepsil,

hoping to finally choke to death.



back to the car,

Hawley Road,

and the ten minute drive I cannot forget.

I think I was ten.

You were driving me home,

after dance class.

You’ve just done it again,

and I can’t see what I’m writing,

because the day you drove me home,

is replaying,

and tripping down my cheeks and lips.


I was ten,

dance class.

I was a booster seat for a box,

filled with my favourite cakes.

I was Hawley Road.

Driving down ten.

Box booster seat.

I’d been dancing for hours.

I asked for a cake,

and you said,

that I was sent to dance,

so I could lose weight,

and suddenly,

I fell from the stars I performed for.


I’m still falling now,

and I can see you,

forgetting to remember,

what I cannot forget.

I hadn’t had breakfast that day,

because we had overslept.

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