Flip-charts and Phillip Schofield- why telling our stories matters

                                          

New play alert! the brilliant Pen and Paper Theatre co have started a podcast, and I have the honour of being included in the first!

You can hear it here, performed by the brilliant Phillipa Howe.

My short play 'Flipcharts and Phillip Schofield' was first written and performed as part of The Other Room theatre in Cardiff's SEEN series. A monthly evening where work in progress is shared. I always had further plans for this piece, granted those plans did not include a pandemic and a shift to a lot of online work but here we are.

This piece is close to my heart. In some ways its a thing ripped straight from the heart. Albeit delivered in a format that makes me think of Fleabag, not for the blatant one-woman-show manner but for the cutting line that I can't quite remember but is basically 'not everything needs to be delivered like a stand-up punchline'.

Which for me, and shows like Fleabag, that way of speaking about it, that mask of humour, is the way in. To get to the real stuff. And yes, maybe because we all like to think we're a bit funny.

This piece is a humourous look at what it means to be a bisexual 30-something today. At the fact you fancy exactly 5 men as the tweets suggest. And that if you don't dress like a lesbian, but also don't have a husband...you tend to confuse both sides of the sexuality divide. That at 30-something, you're also possibly dead in Gay years. And if you try and hang out at a cool Lesbian night, you'll feel like someone's dowdy Mum in the corner. It's about feeling like you want to be down with the cool generation coming up after you...but also they don't quite understand what it was like being Queer 15 years ago when you started to figure this stuff out.

It's the feeling of not having had emojis in social media bios. Or having to 'Come Out' one by one instead of an Instagram post...and it was not having lots of cool role models to choose from when it came to being Queer. And that's why one man (and his Gopher) coming out in 2020, meant more than maybe younger kids who don't remember the Broom Closet (which now takes on a whole new meaning) understand.

It's a minefield putting stuff like this out there. People won't agree with me talking about Phillip Schofield's coming out in this way. I know I've literally had the emails. To be honest I'm not that emotionally invested in Schofield as a human, some of his politics have been questionable at best. But that wasn't the point. His story was a useful jumping-off point, a reminder that the 30 somethings have had a foot in each camp- part the generation who were able to grow up online, but part the generation who were still a bit left behind. LGBTQ+ visibility was playing a lot of catch up through our lives. As the line goes in the play 'my 25-year-old brother had to google section 28, I lived it'. We're a sandwich generation between one which was devastated and decimated, and even more hidden than we were and a generation that sometimes can't fathom what it was like for us. And that's why I wrote this piece, as a jumping-off point to starting that conversation, with myself, and with audiences.

It's fitting that this comes out as Pride Month begins. A very different Pride Month than we're used to.

I'm always anxious about putting work out there- who wouldn't be as a writer, creator, whatever. But this piece especially. Any piece that deals with sexuality still runs a risk to some degree. Just before Jordan at Pen and Paper Theatre asked me if they could use this on the podcast, I was sat sobbing at my computer, because I'd received an email detailing what a vile person I was for writing this piece. That it was offensive to all kinds of people, and that I was a terrible person for putting it out there. From creative work to academic work it's not the first time, and it won't' be the last similar comments have been made (my 'favourite' still being the academic who asked if I was 'really allowed' to write about 'those people' but that's a story for another day).

Maybe I'm over-sensitive. Maybe it's a case of 'you put work out there expect criticism' but I think for people who have never experienced that side of the coin, this isn't criticism, it's the fear that we all grew up with a little or a lot...that as soon as you stick a head over the parapet a bit that's what you still, even today run the risk of.

And I say that from my very clear place of privilege- as a cisgender White woman. But that's why it's also important, in writing about this piece, that I acknowledge what even I get leveled at me. I'm able to cope with a bit of a cry at the particularly nasty stuff and go on doing what I do. And so I should, I think in order to allow others to as well.

It's also important that we all tell these stories, take ourselves out of our Broom Cupboards, because that's the way to keep moving forward.

Listen to Flipcharts and Phillip Schofield here

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'You don't look ill' and other stories (World IBD day)

On world IBD day (try saying that after a gin) I guess the main thing is to be visible about invisible illness. But also, a pretty taboo one. Really all invisible/chronic illness is terrible, but I couldn’t have got a slightly more socially acceptable one instead of the literal shit one?

Anyway for the record this is what someone with IBD looks like...

Pretty normal (aside from my hair) 

And here's me when I was first diagnosed...

 Also totally normal looking at graduation. Because I've never 'looked ill' not in public anyway. But I still managed to get a pretty gross, pretty life-impacting illness nobody wants to talk about. 

Also the one nobody has heard of. Crohns, sure lads we know that one. Famous people have that one. Oh and it makes you skinny right too?

Sigh.

Or ‘oh I get IBD if I eat too many carbs/dairy/sugar/fried chicken’

No, that’s not the same thing. Firstly IBS and IBD are totally different. And indigestion or food intolerance is neither of those. My body has decided to attack itself from the inside and picked my colon as its weapon of choice. Which is ya know, fun.

So no, I got Ulcerative Colitis, which is ‘sorta like Crohns but not’. And no, you don’t HAVE to be skinny to have them. Sorry to disappoint but no I (thankfully) never (so far) got ill enough to be super skinny. But I do love the idea that I must be lying about it, or it can’t be that bad because I’ve still got massive thighs…I still spent quite a lot of time going to the toilet into double figures, and yes that involved quite a lot of liquid and blood. Told you it was gross. And scary as fuck when you don’t know what’s going on. Which is most of us, for quite a long time.

My diagnosis was…a shit show. Pardon the pun. The thing is that they have to let you get really sick before they’ll concede there’s something wrong. Even when all the signs point to IBD…you have to stick out 6 months of peppermint tablets and ‘are you sure’ first. In fairness to the nurse who prescribed them she actually apologised saying she knew they wouldn’t work, but she had to ‘prove’ we’d tried before we could proceed with referring me to a hospital. The NHS is a wonderful thing if you’re actually dying…not when you’re trying to get a diagnosis. I was lucky, to be fair I didn’t get so sick it was really dangerous before a diagnosis, which I know is better than some people get.

I have a suitably ‘theatrical’ story about my diagnosis, that’s funny now I look back. I’d gone for what was the ‘final’ diagnosis appointment at the hospital that included a barrage of tests, and the day after I’d hopped down to London for work, and to watch for the final time Punchdrunk’s ‘The Drowned Man’. I’d gone off for lunch with a friend between things and not looked at my phone…I got back to a very confusing message from my Doctor that essentially seemed to say ‘come back to the hospital’…well now it was 3pm and obviously I was miles away…my Mum and I were frantically calling the secretary (and of course he’d left no note)…who equally was confused. At this point I was quite ill, and quite scared already. I ended up sobbing in Paddington station, to the point a woman walked past, then doubled back with a tissue. My memory of that Punchdrunk show is that of both being stuck in the toilet for IBD reasons (not ideal in a run-around-a-huge-building show) and sobbing in a toilet because I was so scared.

And I tell that story because on the outside that day. Sobbing in Paddington station aside, I looked fine. My friend I had lunch with had no idea. My friends I stood in line with for the show, and hugged goodbye after, had no idea. Anyone in the show would have seen another masked audience member wandering about, looking like everyone else…and weirdly that seems a really good metaphor.

Because most of the time everything looks normal. Whatever normal is. And in the scheme of things, I’ve not done too badly.

But what nobody sees is the not-normal days…mostly I’m able to hide them. But you don’t see the doubled up in pain moments, the rushing to the toilet however many times a day. The doing mental gymnastics over ‘is this bad enough to ring the hospital or do I sit it out’. You don’t see the runs and workouts cut short running to the loo…or doubled up in pain. You don’t see the days where I’m so fatigued, I can’t even get out on a run or a workout. (I’m endlessly amused I never manage to work out its IBD fatigue until after its over). The monthly PMS/Period making ALL of it worse (thanks being a woman etc). The ‘is this some weird new side effect of the drugs’ and ‘hmm can I not eat this thing now or was that coincidence’ a million and one tiny things a day that sometimes add up to exhaustion.

Then there’s the ‘looking forward’ in life and the endless questions. I’m pretty damn pragmatic, and with a fairly vocal online community I’m not especially scared of the future. For me it goes one of about 3 ways….

1.     Plodding on with average amounts of medication, and the odd mild and odd really bad flare up.  

2.     Increasingly bad flare ups, heavier and heavier bouts of medication and hospitalisation periodically.

3.     Surgery and probably a stoma bag.

All those are discounting the rarer, but possible scenarios of ‘sudden severe flare-up’ ‘sudden severe issues in the bowel and emergency surgery’ and yes, the real possibility that the outcome of any of that would be not surviving it. Thankfully that’s rare. As is an increased risk of cancer, but it’s there for both those. And I don’t dwell on it. But also it’s not a set of things I planned on reflecting on at 29 when I was diagnosed.

But around all the physical health stuff that I can quite honestly cope with mostly. I take my medicine like a good girl (mostly, I do still forget) I subject myself to procedures when they say so, I’ve had more blood taken than a vampire…I’ve even got over most of my fear of hospitals. But the mental health impact is often neglected.

All the above, the facing that lot at 29. The being scared out of your mind by Doctors. The ‘what ifs’ it’s all an adjustment. I (shameless plug) wrote a play about the impact of chronic illness diagnosis. Different illnesses, similar mental health impacts. (you can watch it here) 

Because you know what gets me, not the ‘will I get ill again’ it’s the ‘will this mean I’m alone?’ in a romantic way, sure but also in an isolated by illness way. Because we often are. For friends who might not understand why I’m bailing- if we’re acquaintances I’m hardly going to text with ‘Sorry I can’t come I’m literally shitting blood 20 times a day’ (lord I wish that was an exaggeration). Or ‘I can’t come there because I don’t know what the bathroom situation will be’ or ‘I am just so bone-tired I can’t actually get up and I’ve been that way for 2 days now’ or ‘I’m just in pain’…Even for close friends, it’s a really hard thing to say. In fact, I’ve never said it. But all those times I cancel, you bet that half of them are my IBD working flawlessly in tandem with my anxiety (or you know I’m just stuck in the loo).

But add to that, another taboo…romantic relationship. These, my friends, are not a romantic disease. I think it’s different if you’ve got a partner going into it, they should if they’re worth their salt, accept it. And if not, show them the door. But I look at all of it, all the possibilities above and I wonder ‘who would want this’ I mean who would sign up for all that? And also, for me, it’s a really hard thing to show someone the reality of it, the vulnerable nature of it. One thing, to make jokes about shitting the bed in a blog post…quite another to explain to someone it might actually happen.

Or what about work? Life in my industry is precarious enough, without the possibility you won’t be able to work…be that freelance or that an employer will be a little bit of a shit and not renew your contract because you missed one too many things…all of this bubbles away inside…

On the outside I might not have looked ill...but the physical and mental toll is still there. And we shouldn't be embarrassed to talk about either. 

https://crohnsandcolitis.org.uk/

Gobby Bisexual of the Internet #IDAHOBIT2020

Today is International Day Against Homophobia, Biphobia, and Transphobia. And it seems, as ever the best way to mark it is to say 'We're here' if we're able.

Also I bought a gay gnome yesterday and outed myself to the neighbours and Facebook so this seems an appropriate bit of timing.

Also because someone called me their 'favourite gobby bisexual' this morning, so it seems right to honour that title. I might start using that on my Tinder profile (joke, as if I'm on Tinder, I'm far too lazy...)

But part of days like today, and perhaps especially this year, when Pride season will be a muted affair, that those of us able to be a bit gobby on the internet do so.

As ever 'why do you need a day' etc etc. Mainly, for everyone is not able to be a bit 'gobby on the internet' for everyone still hiding. Be that our brothers and sisters in countries where they can't be themselves. Be that for our friends who can't be out to their families, friends or employers. Or for any of us (so all of us then) who have had one of those comments shouted at us. Or worse. Because there's so much worse all the time.

I think it's easy from the bubble of heterosexuality, sometimes even from our bubble of liberal, leftist, city-dwelling Queers, to forget just how much prejudice, and yes violence, there still is against our community. Or simply how difficult it is to fight that wave of prejudice. For some of us it's the micro-level. The 'jokes' in the workplace (nowhere I've worked recently thankfully) that make you falter, stop...worry that you're about to be found out. It's 'banter with the lads' in the pub (remember pubs?) that goes a bit too far. Or it's the 'oh well you're all right obviously but...' or the family gatherings where Aunt Karen has a lot to say about 'those people'....it's a million tiny things. And that reminder that you never stop 'coming out' and every time you do it there's a knife-edge moment of 'is this the time, is this the time it goes horribly wrong'.

And we need to address the nuances of this. I can't speak for the other parts of this community. I'm very conscious of the terrifying ordeals my trans friends go through. And I know I can't pretend to understand, only empathise, and use utilise my superpower of a really big mouth so that I support them best I can. So I won't speak of their stories here, those are those to tell. Only say that when we speak of the LGBTQ community, we have a responsibility from our own places of privilege to make sure we include and fight for the T in that acronym.

As for myself, the stories I can tell are of the 'B' and the need to remember that as a distinct but included identity. As a bisexual woman, I can't play with the 'proper lesbians' sometimes who see any inkling of not being 'pure' (Dunno do I have to prove the number of times I've been near a penis?) meanwhile I'm too 'gay' for the straight world (it's not my fault I'm just really fucking fabulous ok?). It's everything from how you dress- if I wear dungarees like the true theatre wanker I am, then I'm trying to be a dyke...if I wear a 50s dress, because frankly, your girl looks fabulous in one, then I'm perpetuating straight standards of beauty. I get it, clothing and looks are indicators in both camps, and we can't get away from that....but maybe, I just really like both dungarees and 50s dresses. Just like I really just like all genders. Trust me life would be easier if I just 'picked a lane' as people are fond of saying...but what can I say the heart wants what it wants, and what it apparently wants is to be rejected by people of all genders and to be a crazy dog lady...so let me be ok?

(I wrote a play about this, and Phillip Scofield which you can read here Go Go Gopher)

Seriously, however, our community has its own divisions. Biphobia is one of them. But the best way forward is sometimes through. And for that, all I can do is stand up and say 'I am a bisexual woman, and this community and the wider world has to accept that.' That's all I can do. Some days I can't do that, sometimes the weight of it, the fear of it, stops me. I might be really privileged, lucky even. No scratch that, I shouldn't say I'm 'lucky' to be accepted for who I am. That should be a given. And yet, so often it isn't. So often you have to spend time second-guessing, can I 'come out here' can I reference this part of my life, or gently skirt around it. 

It's my dream that one day I won't have to worry about starting a new job about being 'outed' or having to awkwardly confess. That I won't have to shuffle uncomfortably in a social setting when hilarious 'jokes' are made...more importantly I long for a year that I don't hear of someone I know, or indeed someone I don't, suffering abuse for being who they are. I long for a time all of that is true.

Sometimes it's true, and it's a weird glimpse into the 'what could be' ...easier for us in our liberal bubbles. Our arts bubbles. I spent this week able to talk freely about my Big Gay Play (tm) with people because I felt safe. That's not always the case. I spent a lot of time as an academic of Gay History, and much of academia didn't feel like a 'safe space'...I was asked was I 'allowed' to research 'those people' I was grilled about my HIV status...about my sexuality. It's messy and its complicated all of it, but none of it should impact my doing my job...or living my life.

Which is why days like today, with their rainbow flags and hashtags, are important. So those of us able to stand up and speak out can. So those who can't feel they've got allies. If it feels necessary to you, good for you, I'm glad you don't need it. But if you don't need it you have a responsibility to still stand up for those who do.

We're losing the most important parts of our Pride season this year- the chance to gather and stand together. And that's ok because we as a community know all too well what it is to have a virus decimate your community. So we'll do our bit. Instead, then, it falls to the gobby Queers of the internet like me to shout a bit louder, on behalf of those who can't.

So from your friendly neighbourhood Gobby Bisexual, I ask you to do your bit against homophobia, biphobia, and Transphobia however, and wherever you can. We've come so far, but there's a long way to go.

From me and lesbian gnome....go and be fabulous!