1996-1997

Back in the safety of my own flat and with Julie staying for awhile, I happily pushed the memories of what happened in my family home to the back of my mind. Even weekly trips to my group therapy sessions did little to bring them out.

Counselling was good for me as it helped me structure my life at the time. I looked forward each week to the monday evening sessions and it was a great way to build up confidence. But most of my demons I kept locked inside and thought this was the best way to deal with things.

Without realising at the time, those hidden secrets were manifesting themselves in troublesome ways.

The drink was the most obvious, but there were other traits I just assumed where part of my personality.

I became obsessed about doing things in a certain way. Looking back, I was displaying classic obsessive compulsive behavour.

When I would do the washing up, the water had to be the right temperature. If it felt too cold, or too hot, I would empty the wash bowl and start all over again. The dishes had to be washed in a certain way, if they werent I would start all over again. Everything would have its place, the way the bed covers would fall over the bed, the position of Robbie's food bowl, even the way the toilet roll would

hang from it's holder.

I began to find it increasingly hard to step outside my flat - get to work or take a walk. I was always looking down at the pavement, doing my best not to step on a crack.

Although I found my behavour frustrating and would waste hours trying to get things just right, I would always feel a sense of satisfaction at getting the job done in the end.

This was my way of gaining a bit of control.

What struck me most at the time was a feeling of complete unworth. The world, I decided hated me, why would anyone like the sight of someone so ugly as me walking down their street.

These feelings of paranoia kept me locked inside and if I did get the courage to venture out, I would only make it a few steps until I rushed back for the safety of my home.

I began to move things into my bedroom at the back of the flat. The front room was too near the street, too near people, so the television and video recorder were moved to the bedroom. I would eat in bed, go back to sleep, wake up and watch a video, eat again and repeat until it was dark.

Christmas was just days away and I braced myself for a hard time. I didnt have the money to visit my children and felt very sorry for myself. I just wanted to get through the holidays on my own and rejected offers from my mum to spend time at her house.

It was another icy winter and my flat seemed colder than the year before.

After giving in and agreeing to a friends offer of spending christmas dinner with her I found myself back in my flat. I couldnt help but compare the laughter filled warm home I had just visited to the small cold flat I called home.

I spent the rest of christmas day watching my black and white portable television from bed.

As usual, the thought of putting myself out of my misery popped into my head. I fantasised about taking tablets, but decided to slit my wrists instead.

I had heard that you needed your wrists to be warm, so with no hot water to run over my arms, I kept them wrapped under my duvet. My cat Robbie jumped on the bed and shot me a suspicious look.

When I felt my arms were warm enough I went to the kitchen and found the sharpest knife I could. I hoped the serrated edge would'nt hurt too much.

Shaking with the fear of what was to come, I slowly dragged the blade over the skin of my wrists. I opened my eyes and looked down and was suprised to see just a red scratch mark. The knife wasnt sharp enough, but it would have to do.

I closed my eyes again, clenched my teeth and pushed the knife down harder and made quick slicing motions across my wrist.

I could feel the blood before I opened my eyes. There wasnt much, I had caused a few surface wounds, nothing life threatening, but the sight of my weeping blood stopped me from going further.

I dropped the knife and cryed myself to sleep.

The new year I promised myself, would bring new opportunites. It was time to fight back and lay to rest the life I had known.

The first step I took was to legally change my name. I had to get rid of my fathers surname, to build a bridge between us. When I died I didnt want his surname to be on my obituary. I didnt just want a different surname, I wanted a complete change and created a new identity for myself.

My mum hated the fact that I had changed my name, but she understood. To this day she still calls me by my original christain name and that's fine, I never wanted to run away from her.

I also threw myself into my music and met up with a talented young man called Mark.

We set our sights on entertaining the world as an acoustic duo and spent many hours practising to the annoyance of my neighbours.

Mark was one of the most talented people I had known. His musicality frightened me and he would always move me with the tone of his voice and his amazing guitar playing.

I was hooked, not just on the songs we were writing, but on him. I knew he was unavailable but even when he turned my romantic advances down and decided to end our musical partnership, I had a new found strength to carry on.

The results from my hiv test came back negative and I vowed it was time to turn over a new leaf and start being more responsible and safe where sex was concerned.

I would scour the personal ads of the local paper and go on blind dates. After a succession of complete no hopers, I felt I hit the jackpot when I began a telephone relationship with an older guy called Dave.

We arranged to meet for the first time at a restaurant out of town.

Immediately we hit it off. He was funny, good looking and sure of himself. Even when another couple at the table opposite complained about having to dine next to two queers, we laughed. At that moment we were the only people in the restaurant, nothing else mattered.

I knew it was serious when I invited him back to my flat and didnt have sex with him.

I waited until the second date - the next day, before inviting him into my bed.

The relationship was one built on trust and openess and so I found it easy to open up and let him in on what happened to me as a child. Although I was ready, he wasnt and didnt call me again.

I promised never to let anyone else inside like that again.

One evening, just before my birthday I got a call from my dad's girlfriend to tell me my dad was in hospital.

She didnt say what the problem was and I wrestled with the idea of visiting him.

I fantasised that he was on his death bed and I made up my mind to visit. For whatever reason he was there, I wanted to see him suffer. And if he was to die, I wanted to be the last person he saw.

He was laying in a bed suffering from self pity more than anything else. My brother who adored his father was obviously upset and sat at dad's side.

Dad was convinced he had had a heart attack. His girlfriend took me to one side and said "you know what your father's like, he didnt have a heart attack, he's had a few chest pains and he's just in for observation".

It was so typical of my father to tell my brother he was dying. I almost laughed out loud as I heard him tell my brother to come closer. "There's a few things I need you to know before I go" he told him. By the look on my poor brother's face, I could tell he thought his father was about to die.

The hatred I felt for this man was back with force.

I left the hospital with a feeling of huge disappointment at not witnessing the death of my dad.