A Letter to My 7-Year-Old Self

"Queer people don't grow up as ourselves. We grow up playing a version of ourselves that sacrifices authenticity to minimise humiliation and prejudice. The massive task of our adult lives is to unpick which parts of ourselves are truly us and which parts we've created to protect us." - Alexander Leon

I was seven years old when I knew. It still makes me smile that I can so vividly remember the day I realised that I was different. I did not understand why I was different, or even what 'different' meant, but I knew that I was - and that it was terrifying. I didn't know then that it would take me 23 years to stop being scared.

I was born into a somewhat conservative family. Not overly conservative, but certainly traditional. Our household was a typical Christian household. We went to church on Sundays and prayed before meals. We respected our elders and we firmly believed that a life built on the teachings of the Bible was the goal. Although my parents loved me immensely, I was always afraid that they would stop - if they knew.

I excelled at school. As I recall, I was a relatively effortless child - especially academically. My parents never needed to scold me for not doing my homework or encourage me to make a greater effort. I wanted to be the best. I needed to. I never had many friends. I liked to keep my circle small. Instead of groups, I felt safer with one or two close friends. I would opt for individual sports over team sports, and I hated group work. I didn't think much of it. I only thought it meant that I was an introvert, and I was okay with that.

As I entered my teenage years, I became increasingly aware of what made me different. At first, I thought - or rather, hoped - that it was just a phase. That it would pass. I thought that perhaps it was only this one person that I felt attracted to and that it probably had nothing to do with his gender. I told myself that it was probably something about the way he carried himself and that I was attracted to that specific quality, rather than the person. But then it happened again. And again.

Given my traditional Christian upbringing, being able to finally give the feeling of being different a name, was not a moment of clarity and peace - it was a moment of internal disappointment and fear. I was 15 then, and all of a sudden, the picture of how I thought my life would look, went dark.

What followed was some pretty dark years. I was still doing well, academically, but not as well as before. I still wanted to be successful, but at the same time, I felt that success wouldn't really matter anyway because I was damaged goods. I would never, even if I turned out to be hugely successful, be good enough. I would always be less than. My secret isolated me even more and anxiety became my closest companion.

I came out to my parents two months before my 19th birthday - I needed to be sure that this was not a phase. If I was about to destroy my parents' dreams for me, I was going to be bloody sure about it. (I'll write my coming-out story one day, but this is not about that). I was hopeful that, after coming out, the anxiety would ease up a little, but it became worse.

At 22 I was put on chronic medication to help with my anxiety. I saw psychologists and psychiatrists who took me through all of it, but nothing helped. I thought that I needed to learn to live with anxiety because it was just 'who I was'.

It wasn't until this year, at the age of 30, when the right psychologist finally helped me to see the root of my anxiety: A need to control everything around me. In a moment that still makes me cry, we established that the need to control everything started when I was seven. It started when that 7-year-old boy knew he was different. He knew that every aspect of his life would need to be calculated and perfect so people wouldn't realise that he was different. He knew that he couldn't really let people in, or they would catch him out. He knew that being different meant that he was in danger.

I look back at that 7-year-old with both sadness and gratitude. I wish I could talk to him and tell him that it all turned out okay, but I can't - so I wrote him a letter:

Dear 7-year-old me, Hi from the future! We're 30 and we actually want to take naps now! I wanted to start off by thanking you. You don't know it yet, but you shaped every aspect of who we become. Pretty impressive for a 7-year-old. Your gut-feeling was right - we are different... but not in a bad way, like you thought. You'll learn what makes us different when you're about 15, but for now, just know that you will be okay. I know that you are scared. I wish I could take that away for you, but that fear drives some pretty impressive results in the coming years. It's sad that you have to be driven by fear now, but I promise it won't be this way forever. The world looks different for people like us now - it's not perfect yet, but it has gotten better. You have worked so hard - building rules and beliefs that would influence every single decision we make for the next 23 years. To be honest, it's been a pretty good system, but it has become time for 30-year-old you to be free from the rules you needed to keep you safe. We're okay now. We're safe. Turns out only about 1% of the things we were afraid of actually happened, but I appreciate that you were prepared anyway. I won't make this letter much longer (although there is so much I would like to tell you). I know you have very limited focus skills now. Two things before I forget: 1. Watch out for that other kid (you know which one). Turns out she's a biter. 2. In 2021 you get Covid-19 and almost die, so... take a multivitamin or something. Seriously - thank you. We wouldn't be where we are without your rules and beliefs, but I can take it from here. You can finally go be a kid now. Love you forever, You.