Where's Home - Chapter 1

Where’s home, I ask myself often? Ah, the eternal quest for clarity, self-acceptance, and that elusive place we yearn to call home which is about much more than bricks and mortar but also a sense of self. It's a journey that often leads us back to our childhood, where the seeds of our behaviour patterns and mental health issues are believed to be sown. And while my upbringing was a tapestry of complexity to say the least, it was my dear grandmother and grandfather who raised me, swooping in to rescue me from my sweet but troubled mother when I was just a mere three months old.

You see, my mother, bless her heart, was only seventeen at the time, grappling with undiagnosed mental health issues. It was a tumultuous journey for her in the misogynistic era of the early 1980s in a small rather desolate but once thriving town called Pembroke Dock, south west Wales. The downward spiral had began my nan tells me with a bewildering episode of delirium when she was fourteen and gasping for breath, she was rushed to the hospital, but no clinical explanation could be found to the cause of this frightening episode. And so, my grandparents were left frustrated, watching as her once vibrant spirit faded into a subdued and withdrawn existence, punctuated by bouts of anger and self-destructive behaviour, including those infamous drinking binges that ultimately led to my separation from her as a blissfully unaware baby.

Now, I must clarify that while this may sound like a textbook tale of triggers that would shape my own mental health over anything else, my mother was more than just a sad statistic even though this is a narrative certain family figures and dubious characters try to convince me to this day. She was a troubled figure I can accept this but she was also a character of warmth, kindness, and sass with a razor-sharp wit, always with a luscious pout and fag in her hand. She had a unique way of expressing her emotions and her gifts were always memorable. I remember, at the tender age of five, when she returned from some time in London, she showered me with gifts that only she could conjure up for a boy of that age - a bottle of Coco Chanel perfume, the latest album from the fabulously camp London Boys, and a Harrods pencil case. Oh, how I treasured those trinkets, for they were tokens of her love and affection and unbeknown at the time but would later occur to me this was a sign she saw me and the person I would grow up to be.

But alas, the world outside this little bubble was not always so kind. At school, I was constantly reminded of my "difference." I'll never forget the day when a classmate's mother warned them to stay away from me, proclaiming, "He's gay!" I was a mere six years old, innocently making my way through the playground to my grandmother waiting at the end of the school day. And then there were those obligatory greetings cards in which I was forced to write "mum and dad," even though that was far from my reality and these days would not be forced. You see, my father was never a relevant figure and didn’t even feature on my birth certificate. This really didn’t matter to me I felt I had an abundance of love and as I get older irrespective of the challenges and traumas I have encountered I understand the privilege of the upbringing I had

Now, these experiences could have been quite troubling for a young child, but I considered myself fortunate. I had the most unbelievably loving grandparents, my grandfather a chiropodist with his own practice and my grandmother a very successful medium and president of my hometowns Spiritualist church I grew up in what I guess you would call a middle class household with my own patch in garden to grown plants, flowers and vegetables plus lovely clothes, holidays plus piano and violin lessons and a mother who, despite her complexities, was a mythical figure in my eyes. She was petite, with cheekbones that could rival Debbie Harry's, and a sense of style that turned heads as she strolled down the street. And then there were those holidays she would often go on ,where I would visit her in St. David's Hospital, a mental institution in Carmarthen a town in South Wales. I thought it was perfectly normal for mothers to be "sectioned," never batting an eyelid as she always seemed normal. It took years for me to realize that this was not the norm for everyone. I had blissfully assumed for years everyone’s mums went.

My mother's affection, however, was not in the way that society deemed "the norm." At the tender age of ten, when my dear grandfather suddenly passed away, she presented me with a gift, her beautiful face stained with black tears from her running mascara. She looked at me with her large brown beautiful but vulnerable eyes and passed me what was a cassette copy of Kylie Minogue's latest single at the time, "Confide in Me." Little did I know the profound impact this gesture would have on me for years to come. Even at that age, I understood her in a way that others couldn't comprehend, and I was both fascinated and bewildered by the extreme reactions to her so-called "alarming" behaviour.

So, readers, peer’s or the peanut gallery who love to tell me there opinion of me even and my story even when I haven’t asked them. The question of Where’s home is not a simple one. It is a multi coloured and layered tapestry woven with complex threads of love, loss, and the search for understanding all which have troubled me but made me the person brave enough to put myself out there in the world and one which doesn’t always feel that welcoming. But I fear not, for I am on a quest to find my place in this crazy world, to unravel the mysteries and curiosities of my past, and to create a home that is uniquely mine and can’t be taken away. And in this journey, I shall embrace the quirks and complexities that are part of me and the experiences good and bad that shaped me, for they are the very essence of my being no matter how many times people have tried to diminish me but I’m still here, still unapologetically queer and ready to share my truth without living in fear.

#whereshomepart1 #whereshome #myjourney