O is for 'Out'

Sometimes things just line up - and as I get to 'O' in my alphabetic list of ramblings and musings it seems that I've coincided with Coming Out Day 2020 - an international day marking the 1987 march on Washington DC and supporting LGBTQ+ folks who 'come out' and reveal their true selves to everyone.

It's a big deal in lots of ways, and in my usual way, I'll share a few personal insights from the three times I came out (excluding all the mini-outings I go through all the time)

Music - well there's only really one option here right? RIGHT? (Nile Rodgers 🥰)

In my life I came out three times in the 'this is me' sense - once was innocent and 'i'm just answering your question', once was 'I need help and I think you'll understand' and the last was 'oh shit, I've been found out, is there any lie better than the truth?'

First off, what does it mean to be 'in the closet' - a typical 'your mileage may vary' question, but from my perspective it meant a lot of things, some of which didn't become clear until I had properly come out and begun to advocate for Trans lives and the broader community.

For me it was a prison of shame and guilt. It was a constant shroud in my mind making me behave in a way which was just not 'me' - a lot of my choices in what I wore (obvs), what I liked to do and how I spoke were influenced by 'how men behave' - that isn't to say that I was a toxic arsehole - although there are times in my life, university in particular, that I look back on with horror and embarrassment.

I lived, reading and watching tv and films which said that Trans people were dangerous, tricksters, perverts, a danger to children - I was none of these things and I spend years, decades, wondering if I was really trans or something else entirely. That's TIRING. All I knew was that Emily was none of those things. Emily was outraged by misogyny, Emily felt closer to her female friends in terms of experiences, Emily loved her male friends, but had to absent herself all the time to be on her own and couldn't say why. Emily inhabited the shell of another person, simultaneously the same person but seen as 'complex' 'sad' and 'troubled' by those around her.

I lived in terror of someone finding out my secret, the thought that an item of clothing dropped, or someone opening a bag i'd hidden would result in my world ending was hideous. The knowledge that I could not express bodily autonomy - having my ears pierced, or deal with the effects testosterone (raised testosterone at that) was having on my body was crippling and left me not caring about it - I ballooned to 29 stone, ended up rolling into A&E with blood pressure that made the admitting doctor say that I was on the verge of a stroke.

I hadn't really considered how much of the mental ill health I'd struggled with for years, and hiding because 'boys don't cry' [Pro-tip - they do, and it's OK] was as a result of carrying my identity in a locked box for so long.

So - to coming out.

First time - 'just answer his questions and it'll be fine'

That was my Mum's advice as she took me to see a psychiatrist after I announced to her aged 10/11 that I was 'depressed' - I'd worked this out in one of my perusals of the family medical encyclopedia. (this very edition - I remember the cover well!).

I used to nip through it to improve my knowledge - I was and am still a voracious reader, but also to look for possible ailments to claim for getting out of having to go to school - which I loathed. However, 'Depression' rang a lot of bells and I came downstairs after bed and announced to my parents that I was indeed depressed. My parents took this seriously and Mum suggested that we go and see someone to help. Half wanting the help and half thinking it meant a day off school I agreed and mum made an appointment - it was a with a doctor with premises in Hammersmith, which is in West London, not far from where I grew up. The details of the journey and his surgery are imprinted in my brain. It was a victorian terraced townhouse, black railings outside and the ubiquitous brass plaque. The consulting room, in common with my experience of doctors back then was furnished with heavy wood and leather and included the stereotypical couch - albeit I sat on it rather than lying down. On the way to the appointment on the tube I asked my mum what I needed to do. She told me to be honest and just answer his questions and he'd help me to feel happier. This seemed like great advice, I had utmost trust in doctors then, our family doctor back then was my personal doctor from birth until I moved to university 18 years later.

The psychiatrist introduced himself, he was an old, white haired man and seemed kind enough, he had a lot of leather bound books on his shelf, and a very large desk with nicknacks on it, which I was fascinated with.

He asked me how I felt, and I told him how sad I always was, and that I hated school and didn't like that I couldn't make friends very easily. He then asked me a question I have always remembered - and have recounted before: 'What is it that's making you sad do you think, what is wrong' - so I answered and came out for the first time. 'I'm a girl' - it was that simple and it was true. I watched his face change, he stopped looking kind, he looked annoyed or like I had told him something obscene. His language slipped a bit too. He stopped being a medical professional, well spoken and careful and said 'You're too big for that nonsense - pack it in and tell me what's really wrong' - His observation about my size was one that hit home and lasted. I was 5'11" when I was 10 years old, and my height from then until I was 42 was always top of the list of reasons I 'couldn't' transition. The rest of the consultation is a little more blurred as my mind was racing as to whether he'd tell my mum and what the consequences of this obviously dreadful revelation would be. I learned that there was something wrong with me and who I was, I learned that it was a secret not to be shared and I learned that girls were not like me, they were shorter, I was going to have to like being a boy and get on with things. I told my mum he had been helpful and as a treat we had a MacDonalds on the way back home. I didn't see him again, but the damage was done.

Second time: 'You're in the club, I can tell you and maybe you'll help?'

So, the second time I tried to tell someone was ten years later - lots had happened, but still trans. I'd done some super 'boy' things - cadets, shooting, army, rugby but all the while sneaking moments as Emily - risking discovery, naming myself - I only really did that in about 1999 - I realised then that it wasn't going away and I needed some means of rationalising this part of me. I didn't tell anyone, but that was probably the moment where I stopped thinking that I would ever stop being me.

I had my first civilian job, working at a recruitment consultancy [utter madness, and I hated it] - I was skint, living in a flat with a university friend, thoroughly miserable, my family going through their own travails courtesy of serious mental illness and I was finding it really difficult to rationalise this shell I was struggling to hold together. I let things fall apart, I couldn't afford to live in London on what I was earning, and I allowed this to destroy a good friendship by falling behind with rent and letting my friend and flatmate down very badly indeed. I sofa surfed and became a borrower - not always paying people back; looking back I'm disgusted with myself and how I behaved - I can't excuse it with the internal turmoil I was dealing with, but it does underly my behaviours then. Some of my friends from those days are still my friends. I don't know why, but I am grateful for it.

Anyway - back to the coming out story. After work in the pub drinking with my colleagues (cadging drinks as I was skint) - being prevailed on to sing songs - probably to humiliate me, but who knows, I got to chatting with a colleague who was openly gay. I didn't know him very well, I hadn't been there that long and I didn't socialise well, again largely because I was working with people earning good commission while I was on a very small basic salary. I'd had quite a lot of beer, and for some reason I thought I should tell him that I was 'transexual' - which was the word I'd alighted on. I had assumed that as an out, proud gay man he'd understand and help me to untangle my head and get some peace. So I just said it...

The face again - I was back to 1987 and the psychiatrist's office. The look of confusion which turned immediately to disgust was there, but this time there wasn't an admonition about my size or 'packing it in' - there was anger, why was I telling him this? I was terrified, and rightly so to a certain extent, as he turned to the other colleagues drinking at the bar near our table and said 'Do you know what this dirty bastard just told me? - He's a fucking tranny'. Then to me: 'why the fuck would you tell me that?' I was already out of my seat, tears starting and I ran from the pub. It was the 'Dogget's coat and badge' on the Thames. I ran out onto Blackfriars bridge and across onto it. I'd just ruined my life. Skint but now without a job - I could never go back there. I clambered over the railings of the bridge and onto a gantry of some sort - I think it was for lighting

I then spent, what turned out to be, 3 hours staring into the swelling water below - in the dark and hidden from the people walking past on the bridge - I went through all sorts of scenarios - would my family find out? How would I ever find another job - surely I'd not get a reference - and they'd say I was a deviant and I'd be unemployable. Obviously I couldn't bring myself to jump in - I honestly don't know why. I was ready to and the world was completely black and dead to me. At that point the entirety of existence was that little perch and the drop down into the Thames. Eventually, near midnight, I climbed back over and started to walk back to my flat in Stratford which took me hours - sobbing and stopping to sit and consider the collapse of my world all the way back. The next day I stayed in bed contemplating n overdose but terrified of messing it up and being in pain long term and when my flatmate and friend came back, I told him I had been sacked. He was predictably non-plussed at this news and I realised I'd have to find something else, which I did, and they didn't ask for references. But my head was well and truly broken. I purged the clothes I had and also threw away a book I had bought from the then new to the UK Amazon (my first Amazon purchase - still visible on my account with them) which was about how to present yourself as female in public. Things fell apart rather rapidly after that and with it I resolved to do everything I could to not be transgender, as it was so destructive.

I learned that I couldn't assume community cohesion and that being LGBTQ+ is not a guarantee of solidarity, acceptance or kindness. I nearly paid a very high price for not knowing this.

Third time: Oh Shit, how do I explain this?

Out of respect for my family I'll not go into too many details about the first part of this, but in August 2019 I took my family on holiday in the Ardennes in Belgium. For the preceding few years, my gender dysphoria was becoming completely untenable - being 'him' was killing me, but I could not reconcile that with losing my family who I love. I had started to take time to be myself when I stayed away from home in hotels during the week. I'd still never seen my face as Emily. I was buying my underwear at M&S and throwing it away when I'd worn it - as I had no way to do laundry. I had however left a pair of knickers in the pocket of my work bag - forgotten I'd done it and brought the bag on holiday.

My wife did not want to join me, my daughter and my Mother in Law on a day out at a theme park in the village we were staying in. And when we returned later that afternoon, I found my wife in bed, clearly upset. I asked her what was wrong and she asked me why I had ladies underwear in my work bag. I felt my world and my family explode in an instant. My brain went at a million miles an hour to think of an excuse which would be better than the truth. There wasn't one. She made the obvious assumption that I was having an affair, and having been entirely monogamous and faithful and could not go down that road. So I told the truth. It was every bit as bad as I had feared any coming out would be. I had hurt a person I love very dearly very badly. She didn't want to touch or talk to me. I knew it was all over. I left the apartment for my 'evening walk' - I got in my car and drove to a dam to take my life. I've talked about this before so I won't dwell on it, but this was my most serious attempt - I checked my life insurance to ensure it would pay the mortgage and give a lump sum to my family and shimmied to the edge - about to place my phone down when it lit up with a whatsapp from my friend Aimee. She asked me how my holiday was going. I told her I'd fucked up my life, she probed a bit more, asked where I was, and ascertaining the danger I'd placed myself in she brought me back. I decided to come out to her, to illustrate how awful the situation was, how terminal it was and she just.... took it in her stride. She asked about Emily, she said it made no difference to our friendship, she told me I would be loved by my daughter whether I 'wore pants or a skirt' - we chatted for ages and I shared some pictures of myself (head missing) from when I'd been in hotels for work. She didn't laugh, minimise the situation or impose her own thoughts on me, other than openness and acceptance. For the very first time in my life someone knew who I actually was and still wanted to be my friend, and wanted me to live and be myself. I cried a lot. Still losing my family, but with a small shaft of light in the darkness. Aimee saved my life simply by being a safe person to come out to.

The rest of the vacation was as you'd expect, two people knowing something the other two didn't - and I had to try and ignore that I'd wanted to die, and be a parent to my daughter.

Back to work the week after, I had to deal with another issue; prior to going away I had made a different blunder. I'd ordered some wigs and shoes from China and had them delivered to work. A member of my team picked the parcel up from the post tray and seen the customs label stating the contents - she was understandably amused at the purchase of a wig and teased me a little. I had panicked then again and immediately embroidered a crazy story about a university reunion party with a rocky horror show theme. I'd embroidered it so much that I had of course set the appetite for photographs from this party. And of course, I didn't have any to show. The only photos I had were from my first makeover in which I'd seen the face of Emily for the first time. They were a million miles from anything to do with Rocky Horror - I was wearing 'normal' day clothes with my first pair of 'proper' shoes.

I tried to style it out and deny having any pictures, but over lunch at a local cafe with a colleague I was offering some career coaching to, Veronika, we got to talking as we stood by our cars at the end of the meal. Veronika asked to see some pictures. I showed her one of the shoes only. A pair of ballet flat snakeskin shoes (which I still love) - and she asked to see more - possibly confused at the rather conservative choice for such a party, at which point I started to well up again. I think I needed to know if the rejection at home would be universal so I told her who I was and that I suffered with terrible Gender Dysphoria. I explained what this meant and she gave me a hug. She asked me my name, she told me it would be OK. She became like a sister to me. I drove back to the office with a sense of relief I had never felt. I needed to open up and release the burden of being in the closet. I told another colleague who had been keen for photos, Suzie - this time in a meeting room, again explaining the pain and shame I felt for being trans and for lying to everyone. Again there were tears, a hug and nothing but acceptance and support. I had another sister. And I felt loved. Veronika brought in some cosmetics in an envelope and immediately started calling me 'Ems' on our internal messaging systems. I felt a sense of gender euphoria I'd never felt.

I felt human and I felt like there was a life, and I started to feel some of the oppressive weight lifting from my shoulders. These first two people gave me the strength to go on a 2 month process of coming out which culminated in my sharing a video with our LGBTQ+ support group at work, chaired by someone who is now one of my closest friends, Preston. Preston was the first 'out' Trans person at my work, and again gave me nothing but support and love - as well as a lot of practical advice.

The people at my workplace were safe to come out to, they gave me humanity, love, support and encouragement to bring my true self to work, and a year later - with some wobbles - I am confident, transitioned at work, on HRT and advocating for trans people openly and passionately. I've become active in our support group, and for Coming Out day, I asked if we could do an 'I'm safe to come out to' campaign, where people were inviting to share not only that they are safe to come out to, but also why. Coming out is a big deal, it's opening your heart to the world and hearts are delicate.

I'm so proud of my friends and colleagues - they're literally lifesavers. I hope that by encouraging people to step out of the oppression of the closet that they can also thrive and be enveloped with the love I felt at the third time (and a bit!) of asking. Trans people are beautiful, Trans people are intelligent, Trans people are vulnerable, Trans people are who they say they are. I hope you'll consider if you are safe to come out to, why you are and let people know - you could save a life too.