over the pond.

 

These two photos were taken in August 2019, a year after moving to Brighton. One is from a walk to Saltdean, another is from a walk up to Chattri Memorial. I was not in a good place. It had just been Brighton Pride, but I hadn't felt up for it. I hadn't coped with the crowds of people or drinking or messy group dynamics. I found myself overwhelmed and swallowed up. I was so wretched and lost, four months post break up but still messaging Connor, still feeling new to Brighton, still struggling without solid friends who just get you. So I walked. Angry, agitated, upset, spiralling. Not safe to be on my own in my flat, I forced myself out. Headphones firmly plugged in I walked and walked and walked, reaching the edges of Brighton. I wanted to scream, I wanted to throw myself into the sea, I wanted to be blown away. I didn't know that soon I would be assaulted and would spiral further. I didn't know that I would face someone difficult from my past alone at Lucy's wedding. I didn't know that my placement would be less than ideal, or that the world would fall into a rollercoaster pandemic and I would be thrown into a proper social work job without a break.

It may seem odd to bring this moment up now as I am on the cusp of leaving Brighton and starting a new life in Canada. But I was looking through photos (like the overly sentimental memory hoarder that I am) and stopped when I saw them. These days were some of the lowest I have had in this city and I wanted to remember them. I wanted to feel the wretchedness and then shout out on this little space on the internet that I survived. I survived! I forced myself out the house, pushed my feet to take each step, feeling my shoulders get slowly further away from my ears and my breathing steady. I danced on that hill to Jamie T, spinning around in wobbly loops and starting to smile. And after those days I did so much. I built up the relationships I needed that Summer, let go of Connor and some of the pain that he caused, made it through my Masters, lent into my glorious queerness, became a bloody good social worker.

I wanted this written down for when things slip in Canada. When the slog of building a new life gets too much and I feel disconnected and foggy. When I am a year in and friendships still feel shallow without years of memories behind us. When anxiety rises and words feel cloying and uncomfortable in my mouth. When the Winter and rain comes and the Spring feels so far away. I want to remember that I've got through it before and I will get through it again.

My last weekend in Brighton will be Pride 2022, camped out on my friend's sofa, four years after I first camped out in my unfurnished flat. How things have changed! I have roots and friends and a beautiful life here now. I shouldn't spiral with social interaction. I shouldn't need to walk until I feel real.

I have come so far.

And I have so far to go.

My best friend just had a baby. Her very first. It's pink and plump and tiny.

My sister is pregnant with her fourth, stomach swelling as we draw closer to October.

I always thought this would be something we would do together, an experience that we would share. Building a family, having children, being parents. With both Lucy and Louise. But I'm not straight. And that makes plans for pregnancy and babies a little bit more complicated. As I watch people around me become parents, I think more and more about my own relationship to children and whether I will ever have children of my own.

I recently read a wonderful graphic novel called Stone Fruit by Lee Lai that beautifully explores queer families and the role for queer people in children's lives. Nessie is the niece of the protagonist and is so loved and so cared for by her aunts. They play together and create worlds together and run wild together. They are such fundamental people for Nessie, and the joy she brings them is alive and visible on the pages of the novel.

In Feel Good, a netflix show I am currently bingeing, the main character Mae says that they see their unborn children in their female partner's eyes. Parenthood feels teasing sometimes. A physical impossibility with the bodies we have and the bodies we love. But that doesn't mean we don't see or feel the desire to have children or feel broody thinking of what our swirl of genes might look like.

When I saw Louise in London recently, she said that she wanted me to have a family and it made her sad to think that I might not have one. I told her that I would have family, it just might not look quite like how she would imagine a family to look. It might not be conventional or straightforward or free or even full of my own children, but there are options.

I still feel very young, I don't feel the pressure of the biological clock. Partly because I'm not sure what my journey to parenthood would look like and partly because I am just not ready for children yet.

There are a lot of people in the queer community (and the community at large) that do not want children and are very clear about it. Whilst I'm not making plans to visit a fertility clinic any time soon, I don't want to be shut off to the idea of ever having a baby. 

When I first started properly dating women and thinking about the potential of spending my life with a woman, I thought a lot about what that would mean and what my future could and couldn't look like. I was in love, or infatuated, or in awe- still not entirely sure which one- and I wrestled with the idea of the nuclear family, of the dream of marriage and children in quick succession. And I realised, with conviction, that I didn't need that. That being with the right person for me and being happy and building a life together was worth what I might lose. That there is no guarantee, even with a strapping young virile-looking lad, that children come easily. And that wouldn't make a relationship less valid. And if I find a female partner and children do not happen, then that is okay. I don't just want to slot into a heterosexual relationship for the wrong reasons, I want to find someone who is right for me.

I went on a date last week to the beach with a beautiful girl. It was our second date and the conversation turned to expectations. What are we looking for, what do we want. And the subject of children came up. She said to me that she wasn't a hard no but wasn't a hard yes. And I think that's a good place to be. I'm not looking for someone rearing to go with big adoption or IUI plans. But I do want it as an option, I want the door to be open, whether it ever happens or not.

And I will have a family, whether that's a wonderful umbrella term for those I love in my life, or whether that looks like parents evenings and school pick-ups. And I will be there alongside Lucy and Louise as they raise their children. We will still do it together. And it will be a joy and a privilege to be in their children's lives and I hope that their children appreciate their slightly messy, slightly eccentric, rough-round-the-edges queer aunt. I will dance with them in the street and on the station platform. I will embarrass them and hold them and love them. And I will always be their family.

I last wrote on this blog in July, in the midst of a pandemic. I wrote of letting go, of walking away and of waiting to forget. I forgot about that post, and this blog, and I have just read it now for the first time since July. Oh I wish I could hold the girl that wrote it, stroke her and whisper that there are biggger things coming, that you will be so glad that you didn't hold on any longer.

I didn't think I would fall in love again. Not really. Not like with Connor. Maybe a gentle growing thing, something sensible, someone I might come to care about.

I will preface this by saying that she is no longer in my life like she was, but I wanted to write this anyway. I wanted to make space on this little honest blog of mine to write about how I loved her. To write of a summer unexpected and wonderful. She showed me so much about myself and what I want and what I deserve. She is, as so many of the people I love are and were and always will be, a rushing rocky whirlwind thing. She was not going to be forever.

It wasn't something I went looking for. I had sort of forgotten that you could meet organically, through mutual interests or work or people you know. I wasn't on any particular apps, the last person I had dated had faded with lockdown uncertainties, and I had not thought that this summer would bring anyone new into my life.

I found her on the farm. Blonde, which was also unexpected. A little grubby round the edges, passionate about growing and community and the world around her. She loved to cook, to swim in the sea, to walk and camp and cycle. She had a box in her caravan that was full of craft supplies, she collaged cards and cut linograph hedgehogs. Somehow I managed to make her laugh, somehow something just clicked. I thought she was one of the most beautiful people I had ever seen. For me, she just glowed.

I don't know how to date women, but she does. As I got flustered like a fifteen year old and walked the long way home just to speak to her a little bit longer, she took me by the hand and made me feel like I knew what I was doing.

We took care of each other in the months we were together. There were many tears as we shared our lives, space to grieve, space to grow. And we had fun! We ran into the sea in the evening sun, lay on the beach together under the stars, made gnocchi and gyoza from scratch, made pancakes at 5 in the morning when the sun was up and there were no curtains to shield us from the light.

She taught me how to change the inner tube in my bike tire, about companion planting and no dig farming. She didn't mind that I was a bit messy, a bit too organised, that I cared too much about my job and the families I work with. I think maybe that I taught her that she didn't always need to be alone.

It's funny, because I think I thought that being with a woman would make me realise if I was gay or not, but it just made me realise that the gender binary is arbitrary and that I don't really care either way. It's not the answer I was expecting, but I suppose it is an answer.

We were always in different worlds, hers revolved around the seasons and the sun and the weather, as mine revolved around deadlines and processes and paying my rent on time. There was never a promise of forever. I think I was waiting for it to end even as it started.

I wasn't expecting romance or love this summer. I didn't need it. I didn't search for it. But I'm glad we met, I'm proud of myself for loving her and letting her in. It has given me hope that love like that exists, that I can still be knocked sideways by someone. And one day it might be by someone a little more solid, but for now I'll take the joy that came with sharing my life and being held and having someone to tease and laugh with even if she was, as she says herself, scatty and a little hopeless. It meant a lot to me and I am hopeful that more things will come along that mean a lot and take me by surprise and take me on adventures. And I believe they will, maybe when I'm least expecting it.

I knew that I hadn't quite let go. There were messages, letters, a birthday present, songs that still felt relevant that I had to resist sending, calls and promises.

I told my therapist that I wasn't ready to give it up. Not yet, not yet. I wanted to keep the connection, wanted the option to reach out, wanted to know that he was still there. I swore it was just a call every couple of months, that it didn't mean that much. It was harmless.

But it wasn't. Calls could make me spiral, either wrapped up in dreams or anxiety and hollow disappointment. I was putting less, but still too much of myself into our relationship, still holding on to some far off dream of a life together. I needed to break it off.

I thought I had pretty much walked away already. I had put down some firm boundaries, had offered less, accepted less, been given less. We didn't know the intricacies of each others lives, we weren't the first person or even third that we went to with good or bad news, we weren't offering comfort or support.

I didn't realise how much it would fucking hurt.

To move on without him and let him move on without me. No forwarding address provided. No chance of a letter. No waiting, waiting, waiting to see which one of us would cave first and message and ask to speak, no relief at the sound of the other's voice.

I cried a lot as I told him, I cried a lot the next day. A wretched full-body sobbing cry. A shaky jerky can't stop won't stop cry. I was just so sad. And hurt. And scared of this next step alone. Terrified of what I was without this beautiful and wild dream of a life. And I missed him. I miss him. God I miss him. So I cried and cried and cried.

Its been over a year since I left him in the airport, watched him stand and wave as I wound my way through the airport security line. I don't think I let myself believe that would be the last time I would see him. That there would be no next trip, no next time.

Each step away has been my decision. Made necessary by his actions, but it has always been me who has made the final decision. It feels like my responsibility to uphold, to stay away, to stay silent. I know he won't step over the line I've drawn, he has always respected my decisions. So its just my own battle with myself to let it go.

I am letting myself mourn, letting myself be honest about how much this meant to me, letting myself think through memories and sort through photos.

And it will fade, it always does. Its already so much hazier than it was last Summer, the wounds less raw, the colours muted, faces and expressions and touch far away.

It feels strange that this will only be such a small part of my life, when it feels so consuming. This whirlwind thing, this rushing and roaring and a little too hot to touch thing, this meeting in the midst of so much, this longing and wondering and playing and creating and loving, god how we loved.. Transient lovers, always fleeting, always temporary, always so close to the edge, never quite enough, never quite real, but lovers, always.

I needed to let it go. I couldn't risk getting swept up again.

So I'm letting it go.

So I've let it go.

I'm letting it go.

And one day it will be gone.

 


These photos are from Easter day last year. I was in Philadelphia, staying in a room with a creaky box frame bed and three locks on the door. Connor and I had finally reached a truce. We were letting go.

I found a church in a neighbourhood close by with black lives matter and rainbow flags outside. Somewhere I felt comfortable attending.

It was warm, I wore a skirt. I walked to church on my own, took my cardigan off in the heat of the sun.

It was a more conservative service than I had been expecting, old hymns and liturgy, but the church body had life, the pastor was a joyful embodiment of queer energy, they took the time to share heavy things with each other in prayer, they reached out for each other. I wasn't brave enough to come forward, I was still so hurt, everything was still so raw. I didn't trust myself not to cry in front of strangers.

Breaking up isn't the right word. We were already so broken. Peeling away might be better, wrenching apart, promising not to turn around when we walk away, forcing ourselves to let go.

There was a lot of love there. There was a lot of hurt there. There was a lot of lost expectation and fear. And there was so much care, so much tenderness, so much discomfort.

Earlier in the trip, I went to New York to stay with my friend Amelia whilst Connor worked for a weekend. It was a space to breathe in the fog of a difficult three weeks. We laughed, drank red wine and smoked on the roof of a flat block in Manhattan, ordered food in, vented all our frustrations, hid in coffee shops to discuss dating women and making art and juggling being adults, hung out in her gallery, posing so she could paint me. She took me in.

She had a ticket for a concert she had booked months before I crashed back into her life and begged her for refuge, so I had an evening to myself in her apartment.

I wanted to use it to write. To think. To make a decision. And to pray.

Everyone kept asking me what I wanted. Did I want to still be with Connor? Did I still want that relationship? Did I still want to move to America?

And I didn't know. I wanted someone else to make that decision.

So I set about writing. Frustrations and feelings and speculations. And then, once I'd reached my answer, I got on my knees, like I had done when I was a teenager and still went to God for comfort. And I was honest.

"I'm not ready to give it up," I prayed, "I'm just not ready. Is that okay, God? Is that going to stop me from doing all that I'm called to do? Am I being selfish? If you ask me to, I'll give it up."

I don't know what response I wanted. Maybe I wanted to know that yes, I should leave. A definite answer. Or maybe I wanted to feel that I was right to keep going, to keep fighting, to work to make this thing better.

But the response I got was unexpected: you don't have to be miserable.

That's all I heard. Clear and firm.

I was so wrapped up in what this life with Connor looked like, would look like, could look like. I was so concerned that I might miss my calling or not get to where I needed to be. I thought about the bigger picture, the support I provided, what Connor needed and wanted. The status and worth I gained by helping him. I had missed what all the others had been saying to me. What about you, Sarah? And, honestly, I was so miserable. I was so anxious, and stressed, and self-punishing. I was so agitated and uncomfortable. I was wrestling with suicidal thoughts. I was so worried that I was hurting Connor, so scared that I couldn't protect him, so on edge. I thought the drama, the depths of emotions, the rush of love and hurt, somehow proved how important this relationship was to us both. This pain was valid, this pain was necessary.

You don't have to be miserable.

It wasn't a command. It wasn't a clear direction. It wasn't a request.

You don't have to be miserable.

You can stay if you want, you can leave if you want. You can work on this relationship or you can let it go. You can move to the US or you can stay in the UK.

But, you don't have to be miserable.

In that moment, I still wasn't quite ready to put myself first. I came away from that night of writing, reflection, and prayer still believing that I was going to try and make this relationship work.

But as I left Amelia and met Connor in Philadelphia, and as things got worse and I got more and more wretched and unhappy, the pain became unbearable. And I let myself start to think that I didn't have to do this.

So when the decision was finally made, the tears had been shed, the anger and the hurt had been painfully and explosively released, there was relief. I don't have to be miserable anymore.

I know it is more complicated than that, that some wounds are still sore twelve months later, that I didn't quite let go, that there is still love and care and discomfort there. But when I looked at the photos from that trip this week, when I played the songs I had listened to last April, when I let myself go back into that space, the person I cried for was myself. I'm sorry, I cried. I should have known you didn't deserve to feel that bad. I'm sorry I didn't stand up for you more. I'm sorry that I let you be that wretchedly unhappy, that I justified and accepted and rationalised you being that miserable. You were worth protecting, you were worth more than that trip and that boy and that relationship.

And I am proud that I am not there anymore, that I am not agitated or on edge these days. That I smile and laugh and I'm content with who and where I am. That I know I deserve happiness and joy and silliness and wonder and amusement. I don't get extra points or gold stars for holding on to suffering and discomfort. I don't have to be miserable. And I am grateful for a God who values my joy and reminds me of my worth, even when I am uncertain.