sharing | The Magnificent Something

I usually write my posts in cafés, on my ipad, with coffee in a paper cup and a cheeky slice of cheesecake on the side. But not this one; this one is different.

I am at home, listening to a Joyful Noise by Gossip, drinking a cup of lukewarm liquorice tea out of a chipped pale yellow mug. I have my laptop on my lap, my feet dangling from my window, stepping on a blue and pink sky.

I got some DMs on Twitter and a message on Facebook about my ‘cryptic’ last few posts. What happened in Greece? What did I mean in Red and Gray? Is everything ok?

So here I am, with all the answers. Today has been a challenging day, and I feel like sharing.

Earlier this month, I had to deal with two deaths in my family. Irvin Yalom said that the thought of death is an ‘awakening moment’, as life’s alarm clock. Realizing that we are mortal wakes us up; and losing two people in the space of 2 weeks is a rather loud wake up call.

I don’t know how I cope with the thought of death. My grandmother died 4 years ago, and it is something I don’t think I have processed completely. I don’t remember why i didn’t go to her funeral; distance, coursework, denial. One day I was walking, and I saw someone that looked like her; I turned the corner, buried my face in my hands and cried for 20 minutes. I am dreading the moment I get a call about my other grandmother. I think I dread the thought of death, its consequences to others, the finality of it, the normality of it.

I had to go to Greece for the funerals, hence the being Greek post. I cried in both funerals. On the plane home, I was reading gossip magazines and eating Maltesers. Life seems so surreal sometimes.

So, I came back to London. I swapped my T-shirt and flipflops for a coat and an umbrella, walked down streets taking pictures of corner shops and having icecream in the rain.

I am working part time, and doing a part time internship in a magazine as well. So, in one of my internship days, I was preparing a file, when I heard a ringing sound. An alarm bell that I had been ignoring for some time. An awakening moment that stayed dormant as I kept pressing the snooze button. So, I decided to listen to the sound, wake up, open my eyes and see what is out there. What do I want to be spending my time on? And I knew.

Through a truly lovely person, I found an opportunity in one of my favorite magazines as an intern. In addition to that, I found some freelance work to an amazing up-and-coming fashion brand. Cue anxiety. This was becoming real. Do I quit my job to pursue a full time internship and freelance work? Leave what is certain for a possibility? Do I dive in or keep floating?

There was a moment in me, where I had to choose: do I follow my heart, or do I do what is right? I spent five days thinking about it. My head felt like a televised political debate: on the left, my carefree do-what-you-like self was urging me to leave as fast as I can, start pursuing my goals at this moment-seize the day! On the right, my suited-and-booted self was looking at me in disbelief, in awe of how immature I was being, leaving a certain job to chase a dream. The television set was running all day, and I found myself going through the motions, smiling mechanically as I was contemplating who would win the elections. What would my choice be? On the fifth day I woke up, and I knew.

I quit. I walked in my part-time, steady job, and I quit. I made a decision, and trust me it was really hard. In the end, I followed my heart, and did what was right; what was right for me.

But quitting suddenly and in an unfortunate time causes ripples, and sometimes this might blur the image underneath. Since then, and for a variety of reasons (mostly personal), these ripples have been intensified, and it has been progressively harder to move on. Today was one of these day. I still have two days left at this job; I feel like I already left, like I am not a part of it anymore- maybe because it stopped being a part of me. And in its place something else, excitement mixed with another feeling -fear?

I have this internal fear of moving on. What will happen if I don’t get a permanent job after the three month internship? What will happen if I suck at it? What will happen if the freelance work stops? What happens when you are within touching distance of your dream and it feels too good to be true?

I am taking a chance. I am diving head first; and it feels right. I need to do it, because I can not keep wondering, asking myself when my dreams will take form. Dreams don’t come true by themselves, you have to work hard, pursue and persevere.

And that I will.

It is now dark, and my tea is cold. I hop into the living room, and turn up the volume on my iPod dock. Beth Ditto says she is in The Right Direction; and so am I.

Thank you for being a part of my journey,

I have been staring at the screen for the last 5 minutes. I wrote the text, proofed it, and the only thing that is standing between thinking and doing is one click at the publish button.

It started yesterday, when I was talking with a friend about the LGBT History Month. He was telling me that we everyone has a cross to bear, and that he did not understand why we should be having a whole month for the LGBT crowd; and then I told him what I am about to tell you. I felt as vulnerable sharing it then as I am feeling now, but if it helps at least one person, in any way possible, I genuinely think it will be worth it.

Everyone has a cross to bear. This is mine.

When I was 17, I woke up in a hospital. My mouth was parched, my head sore, and my eyes unable to focus. I felt the weight of the sheets, comforting and sickening at the same time, and swallowed hard. Next to me, my best friend was sitting looking bored stiff.

I asked him what happened; he looked at me quizzically, weighing in his head what response he should give someone lying on a bed with a bruised face and no memory of the many times he asked the same question in the space of the same day; he began by telling me that I had already asked him several times, he answered me several times, and after I dozed off, I would wake up to ask him again. When I started promising that I would remember, he finished my sentence with the exact same words I told him all the previous times. Nevertheless, he sighed, and started telling me.

I was visiting him, as he was just settling in a different city for university. On the day that I was scheduled to leave, I offered to run some errands. When I returned home, I had a massive bruise running from my forehead down to my chin. I told him I was ok. We sat down, and I looked at him blankly, before asking him if he just put that vase on the table; he reminded me that I put it there before leaving. I nodded, stood still, and formed a puzzled expression on my face. Minutes later, I asked him: ‘oh, did you just put this vase on the table’?

He called our friends, and they told him he needed to take me to a hospital. He called my father, who jumped on the first plane, and we hopped in a taxi. Of course, I did not remember all this; I still don’t. But I remember him telling me. And I then fell asleep.

When I woke up, my father was sitting at the corner of the room. His worried face was focused at me. I looked at him, and he smiled. I smiled back. I knew I was keeping a secret locked in my head, and for some reason, I felt that it should remain there.

We then went to a cafe before catching a flight back home. It was spacious, with large windows allowing the light to flood the room, fall on people’s faces and expose their identities. I sat there, watching my dad and best friend trying to talk as if nothing happened. I noticed that the room was getting quieter by the minute, time slowing down as a thought slid though me like a knife: he could be here. Whoever hit me could be here, in this room, and I would not know it. I would not recognise him. He could be the waiter, or the guy with his daughter, or someone passing outside. I blinked hard, and bit my lips. Time came back to normal, and my father was asking for the cheque.

The truth about that day escaped me for many years. I once dreamt that I was back on that street, panic ringing in my throat, when I noticed two men coming towards me from the opposite sidewalk. I woke up gasping for air and touched my forehead. I lied back down, and stood still as my heart was racing.

Throughout college, I took an active interest in psychology, and especially the study of homophobia. I did research, run experiments, and published work on the subject. I was particularly interested in the line between verbal and physical bullying, the split second that separates the swear word from the knuckles thrusting into flesh. I never knew why, until I came to London.

Pieces of the event were slowly coming together. I remembered dropping off the DVDs at the rental store; picking up my tickets to fly back home; talking on the phone to my friend as I was walking home. My memory stopped when I turned the corner to the street I was hurt. Then everything cuts sharply to black.

One night, I was out with a good friend. One drink led to another bottle, and soon we were talking about everything from our sordid past. And as I was telling her about this event, for a moment I stopped being in the pub; I was back in the street. My eyes were scanning the street, and I saw myself lying down, facing the pavement. And then life moved backwards, and I got up, and a man’s hand moved away from my face, and him and his friend moved away from me, walking backwards. I took a sharp inhale, and I was back in the pub, in uncontrollable tears. I remembered.

I was walking down the street when two men were walking towards me in the opposite sidewalk. I can still not remember their faces or shapes, but I am assuming that they must have been attractive, as I was looking at them. They changed their direction and came towards me. They asked me why I was looking at them, wanted to know if I was a fag, and moments later were hitting me to the ground.

My friend took me to her house, where I slept on her bed. In the morning, my cheeks were covered with dried tears, my eyes were blank, and my mouth was half open, ready to say something, not sure what it was.

I still have no detailed recollection of what happened that day. I will probably never know. What I do know though is that I can not ignore homophobia when I see it; I know that mocking someone and physically attacking them is not far away when you are with like-minded friends, caught in the macho moment in time. It is easy to feel superior by pointing the thing you consider inferior to the other. It is much harder to feel safe in your sexuality, and accept others.

This is why we should be having an LGBT History Month. It first started in the US, in October of 1994, and moved to the UK in 2005. since then, It relies on the individual and collective effort for change, both on a national and local level. From uncovering the sexualities of major historical figures, like Florence Nightingale, William Shakespeare and Leonardo da Vinci, to presenting the achievements and lives of current LGBT icons (with the recently popular J. Edgar and Alan Turing), it bring the LGBT identity out of the shadows.
This serves a really important purpose: show that gay people are not caricatures in the background of a 90 minute episode; are not an exotic addition to your daily life; are not ‘the other’.

You can find the full schedule of the London Events here.

Let’s change the world, one prejudice at a time.

Love,

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