Chapter 3: The Gag Reflex

Chapter 2: Other Boys.

Around the start of junior school, teachers expressed concern about my hearing. It turned out after testing, sessions with a specialist and an hour of electrodes being stuck to my scalp that nothing was wrong with my ears; what I had, and the reason I often asked people to repeat themselves, was a form of epilepsy.

In films all epileptics have severe symptoms, convulsing violently during seizures. Mine were extremely mild. Childhood absence epilepsy, sometimes called petit mal, involves interruptions of conscious thought that last approximately five to twenty seconds – sometimes accompanied by subtle motor twitches, sometimes (as in my case) by stillness and a blank stare. A few times a day, sometimes mid conversation, I’d black out for a few moments like a television blinking, asleep with my eyes open. This never lasted long enough for me to notice time had passed; the only reason I found out about it, or that anything was wrong, was from other people. I preferred the word ‘condition’ to ‘illness’, since although my brain glitched here or there, I felt perfectly well.

Nonetheless, treatment was arranged. At the nearest full-size hospital, twenty miles from where we lived, a doctor whose name was John Storr prescribed a course of twice-daily tablets – first sodium valproate, then when it didn’t stop the black-outs, lamotrigine. The latter was a powerful drug which had to be introduced gradually (one of few fond memories I retain of it involves Mum trying to halve tiny pills with a bread knife), and which caused the skin on my forearms to peel. When at point I missed a weekend’s doses, the whole regime of daily pills had to begin from scratch: had my intake resumed as normal, my kidneys could apparently have ruptured.

But my recollection isn’t mainly of the physical effects. Although lamotrigine has been used to treat some forms of depression, taking it was the first time I experienced the lasting feelings I’d later associate with that disorder – demotivation, numbness, helplessness. It wasn’t the tablets themselves that did this, but taking them morning and night for several years. It filled me with the sense that someone else, inside that grey-green seventies hospital with its stench of detergent, called the shots on my body and my life. I hadn’t minded absence seizures, but I minded dry rashes burning my wrists, the fear of forgetting my meds and the obligation in itself to keep someone happy by necking them.

One of British healthcare’s few downsides, I think, is that doctors can feel more public officials than advisors – as I remember, we did what ours said and that was that. I don’t recall Mum ever being part of a decisionmaking process, or having it discussed whether I needed medicating. (My epilepsy, whose symptoms treatment had only held back, cleared up by itself by itself by the time I turned twelve as CAE usually does.) My seizures were undramatic and infrequent even by petit mal‘s standards, and had never stopped me being top of the class. They may have posed risks in some scenarios – swimming, for instance, or crossing the road – but the consequences of missed tablets seem in hindsight to have posed at least as much danger.

I find myself wondering if lifestyle changes to minimise risk – not swimming or crossing in heavy traffic while alone – might have been a more constructive response. As it was, I developed difficulties swallowing my pills: they sat on my tongue partially dissolved, refusing to be caught up in copious mouthfuls of water until the bitter, powdery remains slipped down my throat. I’d retch at the taste and the sense of violation – of humiliation – this always prompted, and developed a formidable gag reflex. For many years once off lamotrigine, I simply refused to take tablets at all, going to bed with headaches instead, and even as an adult, doing so makes me feel as if I’m about to vomit.

I don’t doubt John Storr was a caring doctor who did what seemed best, but he was also the first authority figure whom I resented.

Chapter 4: Dress-up.

Gitsupportthisblog

GiTwhyinowhaveadonatebutton

GiTfollowthisblogonfacebook

Reasons to be fearful: politics and why queer minorities should care

In the gay scene, ideology is less than chic. Where ‘gaybourhoods’ exist – Canal Street in Manchester, Soho in London, etc. – pulsating bass lines and flashing neon lights, not arguments about government, dominate them. For every politician on magazine front covers, there are twenty chiselled torsos in designer swimwear. In LGBT groups at universities, activism is routinely swapped for rainbow-coloured vodka shots.

The media informs us, too, that not being straight is ‘who we are,’ as harmlessly innocuous as our favourite colour and wholly detached from all social structures. Whatever our reaction to the rise of the gay Tories, it illustrates the de-politicisation of the homosexual figure: if deviating from the sexual norm has no set political impact or consequence, why shouldn’t there be gay supporters of each party? Beyond the realm of marriage reform – widely proclaimed the final step to equality – we’re encouraged not to feel that our sexuality demands policymaking, or politics in general, matter to us.

Nothing could be further from the truth, or more acutely terrifying. In 2013, it’s painfully clear that the top-down supervision of non-straight, non-cis people remains fully functional. Far from nearing total liberation, the lives of corporate, Cameroon Britain’s queer population are managed and directed in every field of political culture. All politics, in other words, is queer politics, and with so many reasons to be fearful, it’s time we cared about it.

Applaud ourselves as we might for heightened LGBT media presence, bisexuality is comprehensively erased. ‘I’m a massive supporter of marriage,’ our Prime Minister insists, ‘and I don’t want gay people to be excluded’ – because, of course, all people in same-gender pairings identify as gay. In Last Tango in Halifax, a ratings hit on BBC One last year, Sarah Lancashire’s despondent housewife was dubbed a lesbian the instant she was linked to another woman, despite voicing both love and lust for her husband. God forbid she self-identify as bi- or pansexual, queer, questioning or anything else.

As raging bêtes noires like Patrick Moore and Ann Widdecombe are dubbed national treasures, it seems that nothing but ‘L’ or ‘G’ is recognised in media culture, and newspapers trusted hitherto to self-regulate misgender and demonise anyone trans*. With obsessive penile fixation, they hypersexualise the transition process, snubbing gender-neutral pronouns as if human dignity were somehow ungrammatical. (Need I even mention Julie Burchill?) The Leveson Report’s suggestions for trans-friendly regulation, despite all this, were brushed aside by David Cameron.

A media culture like this has consequences. In state schools where language, toilets and changing rooms are gender-split, trans* teenagers face the same endemic bullying, self-harm and suicide as their gay classmates, at even greater risk. Last year, harassment reported by over half of gay pupils went ignored by staff two-thirds of the time. Responses provided by teachers have included ‘Act less gay’, and where queer and trans* pupils retreat from school attendance, they face blame and punishment. When HIV first raised its ugly head, Thatcher’s government warned us, ‘Don’t die of ignorance’ – but where was sex education for queer youth, and where is it now?

When teachers’ sole focus is the sex straight people have, then British schools are our political concern. When closeted students on £9000-a-year degrees fear coming out to homophobic parents who pay their fees, universities are our concern. When queer youth are deprived of qualifications, bullied out of completing school, and unemployed trans* people lose out on jobs only for government to name them ‘scroungers’, then these too are our concerns.

While therapists still operate in our National Health Service who wish to ‘cure’ us of same-gender desire, LGBT sexual health projects are cut. If you’re a guy who has sex with other men, it’s still impossible to give blood; if you’re a queer woman who wants children, the NHS may not be on your side. Transitioning teenagers go without access to hormone therapy, dysphoria clinics and surgery – often, those who do obtain these have to take on thousands in debt; and those led to self-harm face mental healthcare’s steady defunding.

In law enforcement, queer-phobic violence and calls for gay men to be murdered go ignored by police, as does bigotry in their ranks: even in the last few years, crackdowns on cruising grounds have continued, and complaints of homophobia in the police force have persisted. (Last year, an officer I met responded with uncomfortable laughter to an absent person’s ambiguous gender, guffawing ‘It’s not a… it’s not a…’ – the sentence went unfinished.)

In the religious sphere, our politicians bow to a Pope who calls queer desire’s expression ‘an intrinsic moral evil’ and ‘transsexuals and homosexuals’ a ‘destruction of God’s work’; they commit to ‘doing God’, building ‘faith’ schools in ever higher numbers despite Stonewall repeatedly finding them the most homophobic; they strip public funds from LGBT charities, awarding it instead to actively-discriminating groups, among them the Catholic Children’s Society and Salvation Army. The Charity Commission, meanwhile, deems ‘advancement of religion’ an automatically charitable aim, allowing bodies like Christian Voice tax exemptions for their activities – among them, calling for our execution. Is this the government’s faith-positive, third sector-focused Big Society?

To depoliticise not being straight – to insist Pride be apolitical, to use LGBT student groups as social clubs or say sexual identity compels no political commitment – is to ignore the myriad ways we’re punished for it. When in every corner of public life our queer bodies, minds and relationships are policed, it’s a nonsense to paint them as something private, and a dangerous one. Ignoring the harsh reality of this policing may seem comforting, but forgetting about it contributes to its persistence: we have to care about politics, and about solving these problems, because if we don’t, we’re part of them.