I lay in bed and looked up at the ceiling.
A part of my brain spoke to me with grave certainty.
‘If you leave this bed, you will die.’
My entire body felt heavy, as though it was sinking into the bed. I could hear sounds of morning: Mum battering away on the sewing machine, birds twittering outside, the soft mumble of television news. The world was completely normal, but inside my brain something had happened, telling me that today was dangerous. Potentially lethal. And I simply didn’t have the strength to get up.
But there was another part of my brain that knew this was ridiculous. This part was telling me that I was weak and idiotic, and over-dramatic. I needed to get up, have a shower and go to school. I was stronger than this.
I made my way to the bathroom in a light run, hoping my brain wouldn’t catch up to what my body was doing. I looked up into the hot water, letting it cascade over my face but, rather than relaxing me, the water felt like needles piercing my skin. My chest began to feel tight and I couldn’t take in a breath. The shower seemed to be getting smaller; the walls were closing in around me and distorting. The square tiles became circular. The drain seemed an eternity away. I thought I was going to die.
I didn’t know it, but I was experiencing a panic attack. The core of it passed within a minute, but it left me instantly exhausted. As I stepped out of the shower and began to dry myself, most of my mental noise left me. It was replaced with a feeling of despair that was immovable. It had the weight of lead, as though every atom of my body was dragging downwards. I had a deep desire to bury myself in the earth, to feel the comfortable warm weight of soil pressed on my body, and be surrounded by nothing but absolute, dense silence.
Simultaneously, I felt empty. I didn’t feel sad, or anxious, and certainly not happy or light. I felt as though I was incapable of any emotion, as though the energy required to crack a smile would also crack my heart, and I would lie down and die.
I told my parents that I wasn’t going to school, and I went back to bed. I couldn’t fight anymore.
For the fortnight that followed, I spent most of my time in the bedroom. The main thing that surfaced in my mind was the matter of my sexuality—my unending confusion over my fascination with men.
I didn’t see bisexuality as an option. I believed that I would be perceived as even more perverted if I was bisexual than if I came out as gay. I replayed every conversation I’d ever had with everyone I loved, to see if I could figure out how they would react to my coming out. I was sure they would all leave me, especially Simon, who had frequently expressed how uncomfortable he was with gay people and how they ‘rubbed it in people’s faces’.
At that time, the cultural language around homosexuality was only just becoming mainstream. I didn’t have Kurt from Glee. Ellen DeGeneres was still several years from building her talk show. In 2004, my main sources of information about how gay people might go about their lives came from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and Will & Grace. Both shows boasted flamboyant gay characters.
Was this the type of man I was destined to become? Would it be necessary to display my sexuality as the cornerstone of my personality? I was rubbish at cooking, found it incredibly difficult to tame my pubescent facial hair, and my one foray into fashion had been my purple zoot suit. This was evidence that I was a rubbish gay person. I feared that I would be rejected from the homosexual community for not fitting the type that I saw on television.
Will & Grace was an incredibly successful sitcom with two leading gay characters. The show focused on the tight friendship of Will and Grace. Will was gay and Grace was straight. They lived in their amazing New York apartment and led wonderful and hilarious lives. Will was the only gay character I knew at the time who wasn’t overly flamboyant or effeminate. He was a lawyer, spent most of his life around straight people, and for much of the show his sexuality was barely an issue. His best friend, Jack, however, was an embodiment of the ridiculous stereotype of a gay man. Jack was a fool, but also incredibly sexually active.
This was another aspect of gay culture that perplexed me: was monogamy in the minority in gay relationships? Would I be expected to have multiple partners? Would my eventual partner come into the relationship expecting to be able to have sex with other people?
Frustratingly, there was little information to answer my questions, and I was too scared to reach out to anyone. My parents had given absolutely no indication that they would have anything less than an indifferent reaction to me being gay. Despite this, I was certain that they would reject me and I would disappoint them both. I was convinced the world was against me.
In an early episode of Will & Grace, Jack is forced to come out to his mother after decades of hiding from her. The mother is shocked but ultimately loving. I just happened to show that emotional episode to my mother one evening. She displayed no reaction. In the silence between us, it must have been obvious to her what I was trying to deal with in my head, but I made it incredibly difficult for my parents to talk to me. I would only reply in frustrated grunts to even the simplest of requests. I was a permanently melancholic force around the household, and I growled at anyone who came close. My parents had little option but to give me space. If they hadn’t, I might have fallen into the stereotype that countless teenagers do: sneaking out of home to find solace for confusion.
Perhaps a wine at the end of the day would’ve calmed me down a bit, but even this idea was terrifying to me. The possibility of becoming drunk and losing control over my uptight performance in front of anyone was too much of a risk. I had never had a drink and had no interest in changing that.
As the days marched on, I built up a picture of what it meant to be gay, informed by porn and a lot of television. I thought it meant I had to be promiscuous, visiting bath houses, parks and public toilets to engage in ‘hot love’. I found this idea a little uncomfortable, but I was convinced I could come to terms with it, given the hormonal clusterfuck that was going on inside my body that meant I would happily hump a bag of flour if it meant bringing some relief to my drive. I would also have to be witty, sharp and sarcastic. This was fine with me: it was the performance I’d been giving for years. This persona would keep me a safe distance from any true intimacy with anyone, something I believed was essential to my personal safety.
But the most attractive part of the picture I was building was the idea that I could become a girl’s best friend and have an emotionally intimate relationship with a woman without having sex with her. If I was gay, it meant women wouldn’t expect anything other than friendship from me. My female relationships could become wonderfully uncomplicated if the idea of attraction was not an issue. Maybe I would finally find a best friend, a sister of sorts, that I could rely on and talk to without becoming tangled in romance. This thought came as a sharp relief. Generally speaking, I found it much easier to be friends with girls than with guys. And anything that made my friendships with women easier was a bonus.
But…I could imagine myself sleeping with a woman. So was I still straight?
I was rubbish at sport, and always had been.
I had an interest in theatre and was partial to the odd musical.
I wore cologne and dressed in colourful clothes.
Most damningly, while I was still attracted to them, I was terrified of any kind of romantic relationship with women.
I found men attractive and had fantasies about them.
With these facts in mind, it seemed I had no option other than to be gay.
This was terrifying. Wouldn’t I have to go out to nightclubs and somehow learn the rules of body glitter? Wouldn’t I have to develop a taste for disco music, and lose any kind of strength in my inner-wrist? Would I have to wear things with feathers, and speak with a lisp and shout things like ‘Hey, gurl!’?
Months before the panic attack, I started making secret deals with myself. If I was still attracted to a guy in a month and I hadn’t found a girl I liked, that was it: I was gay. Decision made. The month would come and go and I would extend the deadline, certain that more information was on the way. None came.
I would lie awake at night and build fantasies that were rich and giddy with lies. I would avoid the whole issue by running away from everyone I knew. I would start anew, free of any of my previous ties to who I was. I’d find a girl. I’d build a home. We’d have kids. I’d be fine. I would have a beautiful life…
Until the morning I couldn’t move.
I ended up staying at home for a fortnight. The time spent in isolation made the hopelessness of the situation desperately apparent.
I wasn’t ready to go to any kind of doctor, but I found therapy in television shows and old movie favourites like Star Wars and Harry Potter, and the comedy of Billy Connolly. For what it’s worth, I’ve found solace in certain shows and comedians again and again in my darkest hours. I end up cemented to the couch, gazing at the television. Billy Connolly, Eddie Izzard, and John Clarke have all helped me get out of bed at one time or another. Comedians are effective antidepressants. That’s their job.
So, with no other option, I went back to school two weeks after that first panic attack in the shower. I was a little more ready to accept the idea that I was gay. The time of rest had allowed me to gather enough strength to get through the final weeks of school, and I plunged back into the miasma with my mask safely resecured.
What other option did I have?
I put myself to work, throwing myself into everything I could. That final block of year twelve passed in a dizzying swirl of activity. Students around me regularly crumpled into tears. It was a sad and joyful and beautiful time of our lives. We were leaving this place that I had once dreaded. We were on the cusp of adulthood. We reflected. We prayed. We celebrated.
I felt nothing. I was still in shellshock from the time in bed. Nevertheless, Crazy Drama Dave lived on. But each day ended with a nagging question in my brain. Would anyone at school accept me if they knew I was gay?
In one of the final English classes for year twelve, I was sitting beside a girl called Monica. Monica and I had a heap of classes together, so we knew each other quite well. Monica was everything I’m not: she was full of confidence, she was sexually active, and she wasn’t terribly afraid of what anybody thought of her. We weren’t besties, but she was a mate.
We were talking about her long-term boyfriend, and the latest in a series of troubles they were having—each one seemingly more traumatising than the last, but easily forgotten in the face of young love. I was playing my role perfectly, being a very supportive friend and giving out my opinion relentlessly. Inside, I was awed at the length and passion of the relationship, something I desperately longed for.
‘The sex is amazing,’ she said.
I made some non-specific sound of acknowledgment.
‘When did you lose your virginity, Dave?’ she asked, with perfect sincerity.
Oh, Jesus. How do you play this one, Dave? A few responses ran through my mind, none of which made much sense:
I could give a hearty chuckle and a wink: ‘When didn’t I lose my virginity?’ (What? What does that even mean?)
I could try to seize the moment as an opportunity to flirt, do my best toothy grin and reply, ‘Well, what are you doing in the next five minutes?’
I could upturn the table and scream in her face: ‘Ya MUM’S virginity!’ and run out of the room.
None of these options seemed particularly feasible, so I was left with the blunt truth.
‘I…ah…haven’t yet.’
‘What?!’ she suddenly screamed at maximum volume. ‘Dave! You’re missing out!’
I squirmed, and told her to shoosh. Kids around us were raising their eyebrows.
I had a choice here, a perfect opportunity to come out. I did the calculations in my head. Monica was undeniably liberal and sexually open. She was not a terribly close friend, and if I lost her to this revelation, it would be a major blow, but not heart-wrenching devastation. The only real risk was that she might tell other people.
Before I could think too much, I grabbed a pen and wrote a small note on the side of her page.
‘Actually,’ it said, in tiny blue scrawl, ‘I think I might be gay.’
She read it and looked up at me, her face arching in surprise and instant recognition. I took the pen and furiously crossed out my confession. It was one of the few times I had been honest about my feelings in years. It was terrifying.
‘That makes sense,’ she said. And then, amazingly, ‘You okay?’
I smiled, and nodded. ‘Yeah.’
‘I won’t tell anyone.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Do you like anyone?’
I laughed. ‘No, not really.’
‘When you go to uni, you’ll have heaps of options.’
I shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
And then we went back to talking about her boyfriend.
Monica was the best. She was reassuring. She didn’t tell anyone, and her behaviour towards me didn’t change. She was extraordinarily positive. She didn’t joke about it until I was ready to joke about it. It was a huge relief.
I realised that I had grossly underestimated the kindness of the people around me, and their interest in my wellbeing. The world was a nicer place than I had made it out to be.
Over the final few months of high school, I gradually came out to a wider group of my friends. Each coming out was easier than the last. I was overwhelmed with feelings of sheer disbelief. No one had run away! No one cared one way or the other!
But I was yet to tell the people whose responses I feared the most: Mum and Dad, and Simon.
In those final months of year twelve, I gave a pitch-perfect performance as Crazy Drama Dave at school. At home, I was a silent brooding shadow. I was full of raw self-hatred. I was terrified of the oblivion that was to follow graduation; I was certain I would plummet into nothingness. I was miserable. I had finally been open with some of my friends, and now it was only a matter of weeks before we were all separated.
There was that other small thing, of course: I had to decide what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.
A couple of years earlier, after Mary and Mrs Coates left, the school debating team had fallen by the wayside. Simon became obsessed with grades and started to bow out of any extra-curricula activities, seeing them as distractions.
Legal Studies was one of my senior subjects, and I had taken up mooting. Mooting is basically arguing fake law cases that are designed to groom up-and-coming lawyers. It’s like debating, but with more complex rules. It required weeks of preparation for a single case, including reading other law cases for examples of precedence. I loved the research aspect of it and the improvisational nature of the final delivery. The judge could interrupt your case at any time and ask any number of questions, demanding that you knew your case history in fine detail and could argue out any number of legal technicalities.
I was Junior Counsel in year eleven and Senior Counsel in year twelve, and was awarded the best in the state in both roles. The whole exercise was run by a very posh university, and the awards garnered me some attention. One day my mooting coach pulled me aside.
‘You know, Dave,’ he began, ‘with awards like these you’d be neatly placed for a scholarship. You’d be a great lawyer.’
‘Oh,’ I said, surprised. ‘Thanks. I hadn’t really thought about it.’
‘You should. You’d be insane to turn down an opportunity like that. It’s the best university for law, and it’d be the start of a very lucrative career.’
I hadn’t thought about my future in concrete detail. I had plans, but they were vague. This was despite my teachers and peers asking me constantly, ‘What are you going to do when you graduate?’
Way back at the start of high school, I had asked Simon what he wanted to be when he grew up. It was a playful and light-hearted question, but Simon proceeded to lay out his ten-year plan for becoming a member of the defence force. At the age of thirteen, Simon already knew which subjects he would choose, and what marks he needed to get in each of his exams. Five years on, Simon’s life was on schedule. I didn’t know what the hell was going on with mine.
Law seemed like a reasonable option. It involved a combination of human relationships, communications and problem-solving. Legal Studies was fun: most of my mates were in the class with me. And I was good at it. There was also a good chance that I’d get a scholarship and there would be no financial cost. Plus, Will from Will & Grace was a lawyer, so I knew gay people could be lawyers. It was obvious.
Ironically, given all of my uncomfortable experiences with psychologists, I also had a minor interest in psychology. The thing that fascinated me was the way human minds work. Helping people with depression, like my mother and Tiff and Mary (and myself), seemed to be a noble undertaking, and one I thought I would be good at. My endless drive to help people might actually be put to good use.
And then there was drama.
I was shocked to find you could actually study it at university. You could do ‘theatre studies’. I had no idea what ‘theatre studies’ meant, but it sounded exciting. It was a path that could lead to drama teaching, and I realised, somewhat quietly, that I could probably do that and enjoy myself. Becoming someone like Mr or Mrs Coates meant writing shows and producing them every year, and spending hours of time in drama classrooms, which were my favourite places on earth.
I researched what doing ‘theatre studies’ might actually mean and I came across the degree in acting and performance.
A whole degree in acting? Three years of just performing? And then to be an actor, in film, or TV or the theatre, as a job?
The time came to fill out the university application forms. With the paperwork laid out, Mum and Dad sat down with me to go through the university guide.
‘What are you thinking?’ Dad asked.
‘Theatre. Psychology. Law,’ I replied. This was no surprise to my parents. They nodded.
And then they did something that I’ve since realised is a complete rarity.
They smiled warmly and said, ‘Do whatever makes you happy.’
So I took their advice. I had to put in six options. I put psychology in the last two spots, law in the middle two, and acting and theatre at the top.
Each senior student was required to see a school counsellor to go over their preferences before they submitted them. I took my filled-out sheet into the counsellor’s office to talk to a mild-mannered middle-aged woman whom I’d never met before.
‘Okay, David. Let’s have a look.’
I gave her the sheet.
‘Okay, now I see you’ve put down theatre for the first two options, but that’s going to be terribly difficult to find a job in, isn’t it? So I think law will be best. Your grades are excellent. Here we go.’
She produced a red pen and, right in front of me, crossed out the theatre options on the page.
I nodded warmly. ‘Thanks so much,’ I said. ‘You’re very right.’
I walked out of the room and threw the paper in the bin.
Stupid bitch.
There was no way I was doing anything but theatre now.