awakenings

‘Depression’ is a term that gets bandied about all the time these days, usually by people who have no idea what they’re talking about. They seem to think that ‘depressed’ is just a synonym for ‘mildly upset’ or ‘slightly disappointed’, and apply it to everything from getting bad grades to watching The Notebook. Funnily enough, I used to be one of those people. And then I discovered what it really feels like.

Depression is not sadness. It is not grief, regret, distress, or displeasure. It is not an umbrella term for every negative human emotion. It is not really an emotion at all.

Depression is the absence of emotion. It is not a feeling, but rather the complete inability to feel. When you are depressed, you live in a drugged state of utter numbness. You exist for so long on autopilot that your limbs forget how to work on their own, and you care about almost nothing.

In comparison to depression, sadness is preferable. It is even enviable. Sadness may cut you to ribbons, but the pain is honest and clean and the wounds can be healed in time. Your heart may ache, but at least it can be reached. At least it beats. At least you are alive.

I am depressed. I can say that now and know what it means. I was trying to so hard to prepare for the future that I forgot about the life I’m supposed to be living right now. I’ve met deadlines, taken on part-time jobs, done volunteer work. But everywhere I turned, someone wanted something from me. Somewhere along the line, while I was handing out bits of my soul to those greedy outstretched hands, I discovered that there was nothing left over for the people who mattered: my son. My friends. Me.

Some people tell me, ‘You’re taking on too much; you need to learn when to say no.’ And then others tell me, ‘There are no jobs. Academic excellence is not enough. You need to have more experience.’ But getting experience means sacrificing more of my already tight schedule and coming home so mentally drained that I cannot cope with anything more taxing than staring vacantly at the wall.

The only time I can feel anything is when I am with my mother. Like any parent and child, we have our issues, but she is and always has been my best friend. She cares for me without mollycoddling and encourages me without pushing, and I am inspired by her even though she has no money and no career. My father once said to me, ‘All your mother ever wanted to be was a mother. She had no ambition.’ He meant it as an insult. I took at as praise.

I understood what he meant, though, because I had once thought the same. I used to wonder how she could have lived her entire life without ever wanting to be more than a shopkeeper or a waitress. Surely that was boring? Surely she felt cheated, unappreciated, unfulfilled? As I got older, however, I began to understand something: she may not have had a fat wage packet or a fancy car, and she may not have wanted to be a doctor or a lawyer or a teacher, but she loves and is loved more than anyone I have ever known. Her work – well, it paid the bills. But her life, her soul, her pride and joy, was her family. Her home. Her friends.

There is peace to be found in the simple things; I wish I had realised that sooner. I rejected a life like my mother’s because I wanted fortune and success. I pursued loftier goals – a first-class honours degree, a beautiful house, a highly paid job. And now I look around and know that I am halfway there. I am halfway to my dream of academic and financial achievement. It doesn’t matter that I no longer want it.

My grades are as high as they ever were, and my house is cluttered with objects that are as useless as they are expensive. I have two part-time jobs and a valuable work experience placement that will look great on my CV. I have everything I ever wanted. And do you know what I want to do with it?

Give. It. Back.

I had an appointment with the hairdresser first thing yesterday morning. As I was getting ready to head out, I noticed something quite interesting:

I had butterflies. And not just small, cute, gentle and inoffensive butterflies. Oh no. They were the kind of butterflies with a wing span bigger than your hand, the kind that dive-bomb you in the back garden and make you realise that butterflies are actually just bugs with good fashion sense. I was ridiculously nervous. Preposterously excited. And more than a little bit nauseous.

And the weird thing is, it didn’t feel weird. It actually felt rather familiar, simply because this happens every time I go there. The only woman I trust to cut my hair is also exceptionally attractive. Every time she asks me to take my glasses off, I silently curse because I’m virtually blind without them, and I can’t drink in her features like a dying man in the desert. She keeps horses, and has the taut muscular thighs of a veteran rider. Her accent has the same flat vowels and clipped consonants as mine once did – before I shook it off, because I believed it made me sound stupid – and somehow she transforms it into something unbearably sexy. Quite predictably, her hair has been styled into gorgeous tousled waves, like she’s just rolled out of bed (which of course only makes me want to drag her back into it). She’s straight but she remembers my name and asks me questions about my life and tells me about hers and the whole time I’m thinking, God, I bet you look good with your clothes off.

This isn’t a one-off, either. I had a lecture the other day, and when our professor walked to the front of the room to grab the handouts, my friend leaned over and said in a dramatic stage whisper, ‘It might just be those jeans – but has she gained a bit of weight over Christmas?’ I had to bite back a snarl. It was sheer self-preservation that stopped me from responding, ‘Bugger off, you arrogant bint. Her arse is spectacular.’ And, sweet readers, it really is – BECAUSE SHE RIDES HORSES TOO.

Do you ever have those moments? The ones that make you think, how on earth could I not have known? Straight girls don’t blush from collarbone to forehead when they talk to their hairdressers, nor do they get aroused when their female lecturers say things like ‘jolly good’ or talk about corpus linguistics. (Seriously. I am just that big a nerd.)

Please tell me your moments. Please make me feel better about being just that obtuse.

At some point yesterday – perhaps while I was watching the 5th episode of Peppa Pig, or when I was feeding a plastic croissant to Buzz Lightyear – I realised something absolutely terrifying:

I’m going to have to date again.

I am not interested in being in another relationship right now, or any time soon. D. and I will doubtless spend a long time wading through the muddy waters of emotional and physical separation, and I plan to expend all my energy on my son, on myself, and on my studies. But eventually there will come a time when I have no more excuses. There will come a time when I feel steady enough and ready enough to open my heart to someone new…and I will have to start looking.

SHIT.

I hate lesbian dating. There, I said it. I may be gay, but there is something so refreshing about men’s directness in the early stages of flirtation. They leave very little to the imagination, and you’re left confident and completely convinced of their attraction to you (whether or not you reciprocate). With women, there is subtlety; there are nuances, fleeting glances, a whispering touch that lingers just a fraction of a second too long. In many ways it’s sort of beautiful, and god knows it is ridiculously erotic. But it’s also risky: what if the woman with whom you are flirting is straight, and is simply being friendly? What if you risk leaning in for a kiss, and then she flips and belts you in the face? The whole process is like trying to break a code when you’ve only got half the cipher: exasperating and perpetually confusing.

I have also been informed, by my family and friends, that I am ‘about as subtle as a brick shithouse’. In other words, the opacity of lesbian flirting etiquette is utterly lost on me. In the presence of beautiful women, I turn into a pubescent twelve-year-old; I end up blushing indiscriminately and yammering like a loon. A few people find this endearing, but most presume that I fell on my head as a child. (I did, but that’s beside the point.)

I tried being honest about my sexuality from the get-go once, but that failed quite spectacularly. I met a woman who was both married and straight, and despite the fact that she knew I was bisexual, she began a merciless campaign to get me to notice her. It worked. She didn’t half string me along, the vacuous tramp. She texted me all the time, and the messages she sent me were like something out of lesbian erotica. When I asked if she was being serious, she told me yes – twice! – so I tentatively asked her out for lunch. She readily agreed. She bought me a drink and I sat across from her, trying my best not to stare longingly at her sultry mouth. My stomach was twisting itself into knots; I couldn’t eat a thing, and I kept having vivid visions of dragging her into the bathroom and having sex with her up against the door of a dimly lit toilet cubicle (ah, sweet romance!). In the end, she listened and smiled, talked and laughed, but somehow always managed to keep her distance. Soon after, she told me it had all been a joke.

A joke? A JOKE?! In what way was that remotely funny? If I had told those kinds of jokes around the dinner table, my dad would have had a fucking coronary.

Needless to say, that friendship did not work out.

So, from the newly initiated lesbian, a plea for help: anybody got any hints? Tips? Tricks? Attractive and conveniently available lesbian friends who can wait a while (and then look past my nervous verbal diarrhoea)?

I’m not sure exactly when idea crystallises into intention, but it does. I decide that today will be the day that I tell him. I expect to feel more fear, and the lack of it makes me wonder if I am simply kidding myself. Will I actually go through with it? I do not trust myself, and I’m sure that the answer is no.

We drop our son off at my mother’s and head back home in the growing dark. In my car’s CD player is an album that I have listened to for most of this experience: Joshua Radin, We Were Here. I discovered a song of his when watching Ellen and Portia’s wedding video. His gentle, whispery syllables cradle my soul into silence; listening to the songs on continuous repeat gives me some fleeting sense of peace that is addictive. As D. tries to make conversation, I turn the music up, clinging to the snatches that come through between his sentences.

‘Isn’t it weird how –’
So we’re alone again
‘ – I can watch footy and Match of the Day –’
I wish we were over
‘ – better on your laptop than on our TV – ’
we seem to never end
‘ – because of that bloody satellite, we really need to sort it –’
only get closer to the point
where I can take no more
‘So what shall we have for tea?’
the clouds in your eyes
down your face they pour

When we get home, I find a million and one reasons not to speak. He softens onions in oil and makes soy burgers with salad and chips; we eat quietly, side-by-side on the sofa. He asks if I want to watch a DVD, and against my better judgment, I tell him yes. I curl with my head in his lap, and as always, he combs his gentle fingers through my hair. Hours pass, and the fear begins to rise. It is the kind of fear I have felt only a handful of times before: the kind that comes from your core and makes your gut shudder, the kind that slowly eats at your bones until you are rendered immobile.

The living room somehow seems too benign for my admission. It is the place of habit, the place of routine, the place we come to eat and love and rest our week-weary bodies. It feels somehow sacrilegious to fling a dramatic and life-altering truth into this room. And so I wait until we are in bed. What is the bed, after all, if not a place for sharing?

He knows something is wrong, and when he tells me that he loves me, I stare at the ceiling as tears slide down my temples. They thump gently onto the mattress, a stuttering heartbeat that breaks the silence. He wipes them away, but they come so fast that he cannot catch them all. Still, he says nothing, and neither do I. I stare and stare at the ceiling, trying to find in its blurred white pattern some shred of courage. None comes. He wraps his whole body around me, and I know he is trying to comfort me, but his arm is across my throat and I feel strangled. I work my throat, my mouth, my lips, and still nothing comes. I expect him to ask, but he does not: he only watches me quietly, waiting, knowing. This makes it harder.

I am not sure how long we stay like this, each offering comfort to the other without ever saying a word. Perhaps it is an hour, perhaps more, perhaps less. Eventually, I whisper to him that I am sorry. He only shakes his head sadly, and scoops me back into his arms.

‘I’m sorry I can’t make you happy.’

No. No. I cannot let him walk away thinking this is his fault.

‘D.’ My voice is barely audible, and I feel him go still. ‘I think…I’m gay.’

I burst, and the sobs come so hard and fast I feel I might choke. Between them, I can hear a litany that is soft and broken and I realise it is coming from me.

‘I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry oh god I’m sorry I’m sorry please don’t hate me I’m sorry.’

He only holds me tighter, sweet man, and shushes me, and strokes my face and back and hair and tells me it will be alright. Oh, I thought the truth would break him, but instead it has broken me. I am in pieces that are razor-sharp and he picks me up with his bare fingers even though it makes him bleed. His love is everywhere, everything, and it is all that keeps me from drowning.

I thought I would never say it out loud. I thought I would never be able to know myself. Oh, it is so beautiful that it hurts my eyes to look at it, but look at it I do, and I have never felt pain like this, I will never again feel pain like this. It is pain that comes from relief, the kind that radiates through your aching limbs when, after pushing them beyond all endurance, you finally get to lay them down.

When calm descends upon me, he asks me questions. He weeps quietly at the thought of what is to come, and turns his face away so that I cannot see his tears even when I tell him not to. Eventually, he tells me he feels empty. I grope beneath the duvet for his hand and grip it tight. He squeezes my fingers until they are numb but I do not let go.

‘Maybe we should hire a lesbian au pair,’ he says, and I turn to look at him and burst out laughing. For a moment, I see in his soft green gaze a microcosm of the future: the point where our relationship has transcended our mutual pain and become something simpler, more honest. Hope flutters shyly in my chest.

‘I love you,’ I say, and he smiles through his tears.

‘I know.’ His hand reaches out to cup my cheek. ‘I love you too.’

One day, my son
will lean into the future
like child into mother’s hip
except
the shadowed upper lip
will keep me from thinking
of him so
and he’ll ask for freedom
for room to grow
for space to breathe
for permission to leave

I am told – by the few I know who have been through this – that there will come a moment when I will know. No amount of soul-bearing, heart-rending self-analysis will bring that moment closer. I can fret and flap until I am blue in the face, and I can argue with myself until the cows come home – but none of it matters, in the end. I will be ready when I’m ready. I will know when I know.

It’s coming. The knowledge of this rolls over and through me, like the shadow before the crest of a wave. There are flickers of fear, of eagerness, of love and pain and wonder and awe – but mostly, I’m still. It will be here soon. There is nothing I can do to change that. And most of the time, I’m okay.

I think he feels it too, though of course I don’t ask. Despite our heart-wrenching talk, he has said nothing on the subject of separation. Instead, he clings tighter to our life, talking about our future as if it’s concrete and grabbing at me like a greedy child. This infuriated me at first, but I eventually made a decision: he can keep his fragile peace for now. It is the holidays, after all.

In the moments between tinsel and candlelight, between crumpled paper and piles of gifts, I have been quietly preparing myself. The practical details of my exit once filled me with abject terror – the vast nothingness where my future used to be was too dizzying to look at, let alone plan for – but now I realise: the blank space only remains so because I have not yet made a mark on it.

And so I worry less and less about the uncertainty of student loans and finances and housing, instead focusing on the solid facts of our situation: there is money, even if it’s not mine. If worse comes to worst, D. and his family will not see us out on the streets. I would rather buy my own way to autonomy, but the truth of the matter is, I am simply not financially able. To reject all offers of help would be martyrdom for its own sake. If it were only me leaving this home, I would happily move back in with my mother – who, I know, would welcome me with open arms – until I finished my schooling and got a job. But it’s not only me: I have a son to think about, one whose needs must come before my inflated sense of pride. As much as it galls to have to depend upon someone for independence, it may be a necessity I cannot avoid.

I know that D. will do all he can to actively co-parent our son, but circumstances alone dictate that I will be the primary caregiver. I have to think about where I want us both to be living. I do not want our son growing up in the red-brick gloom of the city, where the children are wild and the streets are riddled with crime. If there is a way I can live close to this village, to his sweet father, to his friends, and to the school we’ve chosen – even if it means swallowing my guilt and being humble enough to ask for money that is not mine – I will try my best.

There is a gulf between the life that is ours and the one that will be mine; I inch closer to it with every passing day. When I feel strong, I curl my toes at its jagged, fractured edge. It pierces my skin, and I let myself bleed. I hurt. I weep. I fear. I am.

I hope.

My first lesson in femininity came at the age of eleven, when I was on holiday in Zakynthos with my family. It was early evening, and my parents always liked to get a few drinks at the bar before we went out for something to eat. Jumping up onto a stool, I asked my dad for a Coke and sat back. My older sister looked across at me, stricken.

‘For God’s sake, Bee, put your bloody knees together,’ she said. She looked up and away from my legs, but her arm flapped in the general direction of my crotch like a flag in the wind.

I looked down at myself, confused. ‘I’m not wearing a skirt. You can’t see owt.’

‘You sit like a man,’ she said, as if that should explain it. Her face twisted in distaste.

Earlier that day, we had scuffled barefoot over our balcony railing to put our Lilos and beach towels out by the pool. Dad said the Germans would be up early trying to nick all the loungers, so we got there first. We played tig between the trees, looked for lizards, dangled our toes in the cool water and splashed each other. When the sunlight spread like butter across our cheeks, we ran to get our breakfast and put our swimming cozzies on, just like we’d always done.

I looked at this stranger with my sister’s face and wondered where she’d come from. I watched her swing one slender leg over the other, toes pointed, spine straight. She was wearing a mini skirt that clung to her like a skin, and her gaze kept flicking towards the barman, a swarthy Greek with long black eyelashes. Leaning an elbow against the bar, with her palm cupping her face and one shoulder thrust forward, she didn’t look twelve. She looked sort of beautiful. Like a dancer, or a model. Like a woman.

I wasn’t sure what the fuss was all about – even if the barman was sort of nice-looking, he was far too old and he smelled like sweat – but I gathered from my sister that we were supposed to be getting him to look at us. I tried to copy her, but in my crinkled orange shorts and tatty trainers, I didn’t look graceful or girly. I looked like what I was: a kid trying to play grown-up. My hair was threaded into a French plait; I’d asked Mum to do it earlier because I liked the feel of her gentle fingers combing my wet scalp. Now, I scowled at my braid and angrily tugged the bobble out.

‘Where you goin’?’ The question followed me as I slithered down from my stool and stomped across the sun-warmed tiles. I glanced back, but her attention had returned to the barman.

‘To change,’ I said.

As a self-confessed control freak, I find nothing more distressing than uncertainty. This stems, perhaps, from my relationship with my father: he never hit me, but his frequent threats to do so left me guarded and skittish. I lived in near-constant dread of provoking an outburst, and the anticipatory tension that wound itself around my spine completely exhausted me. As bizarre as it sounds, I just wanted him to get it over with. Cuts and bruises would heal quickly enough, but the fear never really left me.

Though there is no threat of violence, this situation feels much the same. The walking-on-eggshells anxiety, the crippling indecision, the curling body and constant tension. Am I doing the right thing? Am I being cruel? Am I seeing things how I want to see them, not how they really are? What if I leave and it is a mistake?

I am aware that I sometimes have a ‘grass is greener’ mentality, and that I can occasionally be a bit lazy. I hear so much about people needlessly ending marriages through their own unwillingness to work harder, and I ask myself: is that me? Am I throwing in the towel without even really trying? Is my sexuality just an excuse? I have a good thing here: a caring boyfriend, a beautiful home, a supportive family. Am I tossing it all aside for selfish reasons? Will I ruin my own life, and my son’s, on a whim? Could I learn to fall in love with him again? Should I? The questions flicker across my brain faster than I can process, until I am dizzy and sick with the effort of it.

When I set aside the thorny issue of my sexuality, I know what our relationship problems stem from: D. and I have always struggled to communicate. In the beginning, our vision was tunnelled by passion and our mouths were easily distracted by lustier pursuits. But on dates where this was not an option, the silence broke over us like waves – and while he seemed content with this, I squirmed with discomfort, babbled inanely, and longed for conversation that never came. I remember telling my mother about one of our first dates: I was sitting in a restaurant with D. and staring over at a couple to our left. They were two forty-somethings eating wordlessly with diverted gazes, occupying separate spaces at the same table. In the half an hour since we had arrived, I had not seen them speak once. I asked my mother, with dismay clogging in my throat, ‘Will that be us in ten years?’ And, with the knife-edge of alarm: ‘Is that us now?’

I suppose it matters less how we got here than what we plan to do about it. But that’s the problem: we don’t agree. D. is from determined stock: his family are the type to fix things through sheer force of will, and word ‘surrender’ simply is not in their vocabulary. We often laugh at D.’s dogged attempts to complete impossible tasks. I, on the other hand, have always been rather pragmatic about such things, and my attitude is usually along the lines of ‘Why flog a dead horse?’ Naturally, at this point in our relationship – or lack thereof – we have completely different opinions as to where we should go from here. He wants to try, and try harder, and try harder still…and I am longing to let go.

I suppose, when you think about it, neither option is wrong. But I am more likely to be judged for walking away than for staying. His parents have been together since they were nineteen; his mother surrendered her career after the birth of her first child and never went back since. Despite the fact that I can sometimes see undercurrents of bitterness between them, they have just celebrated their ruby wedding anniversary. Even my mother, who was married to a lying, abusive philanderer, found excuses to stay with her husband for twenty-plus years.

So I am not being pessimistic when I say that they will not understand. Where I grew up, ending a relationship for some wishy-washy reason like ‘unhappiness’ or ‘sexuality’ was considered utter bollocks. If you divorced, it was because he gave you a black eye, or because he shagged all your friends and his idea of a thoughtful gift was a couple of STIs. If you divorced, it was because he’d gambled your life savings or gotten arrested (again) for fighting. A good husband was defined by his ability to put food on the table and avoid beating you senseless. By those standards, D. is an Adonis.

So I am back at square one. Do my feelings justify my exit, or am I just making excuses? Do I stay? Do I try? If I go, will I regret it? Is this my fault? Am I lazy? These aren’t rhetorical questions, by the way. Feel free to pitch in.

Lately, I have been spending an inordinate amount of time on the internet. Though I am aware that it has spiralled from a hobby to a near-addiction, I simply cannot seem to stop. I am known to waste 7 or 8 hours video-hopping on YouTube; I spend entire days doing Google searches for articles, forums, and websites that will help me make sense of how I’m feeling. My grades are slipping, the house is a mess, I’ve put on weight, and I have a constant low-level throbbing in my temples from too much exposure to LED backlight.

When the truth comes tumbling out, it is more by accident than design. D. and I put the little one to bed and begin our usual nightly routine of sitting at opposite ends of the couch. I curl with my back to the armrest and open my laptop, using the screen to shield me from view. He flicks through the channels, coming to rest on a cooking programme, and absent-mindedly rubs my socked feet. The silence yawns uneasily between us.

I am watching Ellen and Portia’s wedding video, on mute, for what must be the hundredth time this week. Seeing their happiness, so pure and free and unsullied by doubt or fear or shame, fills me with a hunger that is bone-deep. I have never dared to watch it with D. in the house before, and it is a mistake. The grief in my face is naked and raw, impossible to miss, and it gives him pause. He asks, not really expecting or wanting an honest answer –

‘Are you okay?’

– and without warning, I snap. Sobs roll up my spine and burst out of my
chest, animal sounds that echo against the silent wall of his surprise. He gently disentangles my fingers from the computer and sets it aside; tugging me into his lap, he rocks me as though I am a child.

We talk for hours. The hope in his eyes is sweet and brittle as glass; it fractures with every word I utter, and I watch him fold at the waist with the agony of it. I tell him that I am unhappy, but I do not tell him why. I tell him I know that I am not in love with him, but I do not tell him how. I tell him I am sorry, over and over and over, until the syllables taste strange and foreign and my lips are numb with regret.

He begs. Oh, god, he begs, and it is all I can do not to just give him what he wants. To let him have me, no matter what the cost. He tells me he still loves me, and though I knew this, hearing it and not being able to say it back is the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. I tell him he deserves better, and he tells me he does not want better – he wants me.

We can make it work. Please, I’ll do anything, anything you want. There has to be something left.

I say it, not just once but over and over, because he does not believe me. No. No. It’s not going to work. I can’t do this. There is nothing left in me to give. Self-hatred rises like bile in my throat, and I want him to slap me, to kick me or bite me, so that I bruise in places he can see.

The silence, afterwards, is almost worse than the tears. The air is open and raw as a wound. I rest my forehead against his arm and quietly fiddle with the seam of his t-shirt.

‘There’s a hole,’ I say. ‘You have a hole here.’

He looks down. A baby-blue cellular blanket is crumpled on the floor by his feet. It is the same blanket, I realise, that we brought our son home in from the hospital, and I wonder what it is doing down here. He picks it up and gently folds it into a square, and then he presses it to his chest.

‘Sounds about right,’ he replies, and I know I have broken him.

I went to university at eighteen and discovered an entirely new concept: fuck buddies. Here was a way to experience the fantasy without ever having to commit to it. Despite the fact that casual intimacy had never appealed to me, I tried it out.

The first girl I slept with had soft curves, full lips, and limpid green eyes. We met at a pub, and she extended her forearm across the sticky surface of the beer-splattered table to show me her tattoo. Tracing the dark shapes with my index finger, I drank glass after glass of Malibu and Coke, until the coconut-and-sugar taste drowned out the acrid tang of my own fear.

We walked back to her flat in the pouring rain and peeled off each other’s clothes, curling our clammy thighs around one another under the duvet. A pinkish glow rose like a blush from the fairy lights she had strung around her bedroom, and minutes rolled into hours as we kissed, touched, and talked. When she lay flush against me and rested her cheek against my collarbone, I felt – for the first time in my life – complete and utter peace.

I came back for more, of course, only this time I was sober. I overcame my fear by lunging at her without pausing to think, and luckily she was pleased – rather than terrified – by my apparent eagerness.

She was the first person to give me an orgasm. Her fingers danced and gripped and stroked, and I rose for her like a tide. She tipped me abruptly into a sensation that sent shock waves down my spine, and then she peered up at me in the half-light and said, with a mouthful of accented attitude, ‘I bet a man’s never touched you like that, eh?’

Indeed.

I had an insatiable thirst for the taste of her mouth, and I drank her greedily and without apology. I had no idea what I was doing, but my hands moved over her independently of thought or design, as if they already knew her. When her body vibrated under my touch, I felt something close to invincible.

That was the second and last time I ever saw her. She revealed shortly afterwards, over the phone, that her feelings were going beyond the unspoken boundaries of our circumstances. I nodded and murmured in all the right places, and then I ran like fuck.

Before I met D., there were several more like her, but none that I enjoyed quite so viscerally. By then the fear had taken me in a stranglehold. Physical intimacy has always been bound up with my emotions, and I was terrified that surrender in the bedroom meant surrender in everything else. I told myself I had made my peace with my sexuality: I dated some guys, but mostly girls, and I never shied away from showing affection to the latter in public. When I snaked my arm around a girl’s hip at the bus stop, and a bunch of pre-pubescent boys on bikes yelled ‘DYKE!’, I did not move away. I did not apologise. In fact, I gave them the finger. But every time someone got too close, I took to the hills as though my feet were on fire.

I ran from what was to be my last relationship with a woman straight into the arms of D. He was a kind and generous lover – and, to my utter surprise, I was deeply attracted to him. He was endlessly patient and he taught me how to relax again, how to give myself over to sensation. I told myself that I could not be gay, that the pleasure I felt with him during sex was far more important than the emptiness I felt after it. I told myself that it was time to break away from everything that had gone before. I told myself that it was time to move on, to create something new, to forget everything old.

And for a little while, with his help, I truly did.