À contre-cœur (Moi non plus)

It occurred to me today, a theme in my life over the course of the past few years, which I must engage if the next few months are to be successful, or even at least bearable…

I guess it was brought on, in part, by my having to sort through a lot of old papers, old letters, certificates, forms and so on, dating back six or seven years; in particular, my university applications, offers, and a letter of acceptance from where I ended up.

The offer from Manchester reminded me how, years later (within the time-frame of this diary), I would say that I wished that I hadn’t achieved the five ‘A’ grades I miraculously garnered at A-level, because it meant that I was obliged to go to Oxford and not Manchester, my second choice (rendered hopefully romantic by the recent Queer as Folk), or even a place in Clearing (I could have gone up to Newcastle, or somewhere near, to be near my love of the time and much time since, Michael). I regretted the course my life had taken, even though technically I could have withdrawn from the whole process and re-applied a year later, even moving to the Northeast and working the intervening year.

So I went to a prestigious university, and never felt comfortable. Michael himself, for comparison, always wanted to be in Newcastle. His family originated there, and he asserted that it was considered the finest centre of medical teaching in the country at the time (if he had got his second choice place, and me my first, we’d have been within an hour of each other by bus, and a relationship, or at the very least, a good close friendship, would have been eminently feasible, an alternative history that soured my A-level results day for the record…). His life went one way, but that is hardly the point; in any case, I felt unhappy about going to Oxford, because it wasn’t what I really felt I wanted, rather, it was a nexus of what my parents and school felt was best, and I suppose (so as not to pin the blame on them, whose fault it really wasn’t), it was, ultimately, what I believed to be the prudent choice at the time.

So, I went to Oxford, and for a lot of the four years I was a student of that august establishment, I wanted out. I never settled, because I was an outsider (in part, that status was self-imposed: I was in a minority for a number of reasons (sexuality, geography, social class), but I need not have been). On  a number of occasions, I considered the possibility of leaving, of moving, of seeking out a life more comfortable, for the point-of-view of my beliefs of the time, though I never carried out those plans. In short, I felt uncomfortable there. My thus-far eternal body dysmorphia added to that feeling.

When I left, I went to Newcastle, to seek my love. However, this too was a reluctant decision, in a way. Look at it like this: I wasn’t going up there because I wanted to – I never would have considered living there of my own accord. No, I wasnted to be near him, so I waould be best-placed when the opportunity arose to put myself forward as candidate for his greatest affection. The few weeks I was there were difficult, at times excrutiating, because I was nowhere near wholeheartedly in support of my decision to go there. So I left.

Then I came home. Since that time – and it’s very nearly two years since I went to seek my romantic fortune – I have lived at home with my mother. Not because I *really* wanted to – again, I didn’t support myself, not even in part. No – it was expedient, for financial and nostalgic reasons, and for the ease of that path. But I didn’t want to be here, at home, constrained by my lethargy, always greater at home, and my self-censorship, imposed in the presence of my family, and the lack of opportunities my home town affords. I had never, and have never, planned to spend my life here. But leaving is hard, so I didn’t do it.

So, where this leaves me is clear, I think: I must stop being the victim, the object, the one carried along by events, by the expediency of circumstance. I must be the one in control – it is my life, after all, and noone will really suffer from it but me, in the end. I am going to London because it makes sense – but that is nowhere near enough. I must want it, I must believe it – I have to know it is not only the right thing to do, but the thing I most want to do. If I don’t want to do it, I shouldn’t do it.

I have always known that there are things I like, and enjoy, and on the other hand that there are things that must be done in order to survive. I need to integrate those things into my life right now – I can’t have the easy/lazy/dissolute/debauched life I may believe I want. I know that certain things are good, fun, enjoyable, exciting, comforting – and I know what I need to do in order to get them (earn them). London is not the end of the journey. It is a means to an end, and as such must not dominate me, nor distress me. I must go there with no conflict in me, as there has been all my adult life so far, because it has done me no good whatever. Indeed, I could argue that my lack of resolution, which up till now I have seen as my clinging to freedom, has been the foremost obstacle preventing my feeling comfortable in any place.

I won’t always be happy, I won’t always know the best course ahead, but I must be confident, and I must put aside the alternatives, because once I have chosen, it makes no sense at all to believe in anything else.