I recognise that most families are complex, strange entities that ride a roller coaster of life’s experiences. Most have a thin veneer of normality and cohesion. I also recognise that most families are fragile entities with bonds that are elastic and vulnerable, which can be overstretched by the most trivial of matters.

In this sense, my family’s story followed a familiar pattern. However, as my life progressed, certain experiences began to set my journey apart. I also acknowledge that my experiences are unique and that, as a gay person, they are probably not relatable for many, but have commonality with other people who do not closely identify with the heteronormative stereotype of what their life and relationships should be.

I grew up in a working-class family with two very hard-working parents and an older brother. On the surface, our family was no different from many others. We socialised with other members of the extended family, we got together for celebrations and events with friends of the family, and joined in community happenings with neighbours, schools, and the Methodist church, which we rarely attended apart from the occasional Sunday when my scout group band led a procession to the church. I played the fife and wore the uniform and woggle with pride.

My distant memories of those times have faded, and my recollection is vague and unremarkable. I remember Christmas gatherings with family, sharing a large table, overloaded with food, and I recall the fun we had playing card games afterwards. I recall the days we set off to the coast or to Brimham rocks for a picnic and games of cricket with my dad and uncle Reg organising the teams with my cousins whilst my mum and aunt Margaret laid out a rickety pasting table with a rich spread of picnic foods. I have fond memories of days at the coast with grandma and grandad, aunts, uncles, and cousins, eating ice cream and dusting sand off damp feet before attempting to put our sandals on.

Looking back through boxes of old photographs, it is clear that most of my earliest memories are triggered by those pictures; an important legacy of events that helped shape who I am. As I reflect more deeply, however, it becomes apparent that many photographs from my family’s later life have no meaning for me. These images seem to document times I never knew had happened or never participated in. This separation became especially noticeable as my awareness of my identity grew: as I realised I was different and moving in a direction my family hadn’t anticipated or expected. Eventually, I understood that growing up gay was the catalyst for the increasing void between me and my family.

I moved away from home to start a career in psychiatric nursing at the age of nineteen. In part, this was a conscious decision as I knew that continuing to live at home would cocoon me in a way I did not want. For a few years, I had led a secret life, with sporadic, unfulfilling friendships with male and female friends. Often feeling on the outside, having little in common, and constantly feeling like I was playing a role that was not me. The pressures to get a girlfriend, the jokes and banter directed at gays, puffs, or queers, and the never-ending feeling that I was with the wrong crowd.

I had experimented with my sexuality with one or two longer-term friends, but it always occurred in a veil of secrecy and silence and was never spoken about after the deed. I recall the shame and disgust I felt from time to time, and on occasion, I would wish myself dead. I remember the times when, in my bedroom at home, aged sixteen, I stood in darkness holding a large bread knife to my stomach and wanting to push it deep into my flesh, deep enough to kill myself and to end the unnatural desires I had toward other males. I was never brave enough to go through with it, and the thought of the hurt my Mum and Dad would feel if I had succeeded was enough for me to dry my tears and ease my way out of my pain and distress.

The pressure of leading a double life, emotionally and physically, was immense at times. The only reference within my family to gays or queers (as they were often referred to) was camp comedians, TV drag artists, or newspaper headline figures who had been arrested or prosecuted for something heinous relating to child abuse. Back in the 1970s, gays were often lumped in with paedophiles in mainstream news; nothing much has changed.

The consequence of growing up gay and not really understanding it during my teenage years had a profound impact on relationships within the family. My schooling suffered, my weight suffered, my relationships struggled at times, and there was always an uncomfortable emotional distance.

Moving away from home to commence a nursing career was a revelation to me. This move signalled the start of my independence. I secured accommodation in the nurses’ home, which was a series of bedrooms, a lounge, and a bathroom. It was situated above the wards in an old Victorian elderly care hospital, although in those days it was referred to as a geriatric hospital. A colleague on my course, Terry, was also living there along with several other male nurses and a physiotherapist. I had visits from one or two friends from Bradford within the first few weeks, and it was a good feeling to have some distance from a life I was growing increasingly uncomfortable with.

One day, after a visit from my long-term school friend Simon, Terry and I were sitting in the lounge, and out of the blue, he stated that it was a pity that my friend Simon wasn’t gay, or we could have all gone to a gay club together sometime. Looking back, this was his way of letting me know that his suspicions about me were that I was gay. His gaydar (as it’s now known) was spot on. I was taken aback and cannot remember exactly my response, but I didn’t deny my sexuality. Within a couple of days, we were planning our first adventure out to the gay scene. Unbeknownst to me, there were other gay residents in the nurses’ home that Terry had also sussed out. Within a couple of months, other gay lads had moved into the nurses’ home, and we all became a lot more comfortable in living true to who we were. This microcosm of young gay men became my new family. Whilst my biological family remained back in Bradford, it had become a lot easier to visit and talk about my new nursing experiences and new friendships whilst avoiding the subject of relationships or sexuality.

Back home, my immediate and extended family continued their lives, and I continued to visit my parents and grandparents regularly on my days off. I did not have a car back then and worked 6 days per week on shifts, so getting home by bus was not the easiest journey. The times I was unable to visit, I telephoned and maintained regular contact. At Christmas, if I wasn’t working, I would make the effort to spend some time with the family and reconnect where possible. My brother was away at University by this time, and with him being four years older than me, we never really had much in common, as the years passed, this gap widened in common interests, life experiences, and values.

As the years passed, contact with my family was maintained, but there was little intimacy, very limited expression of feelings or emotion. Small talk was the order of the day. I knew my parents’ marriage wasn’t the strongest, but in the same way they chose to avoid the subject of my relationships, I also chose to ignore their troubles. We lived with an unspoken, mutually acceptable code of denial.

The years passed, and I drifted through one-night stands, short-term relationships, and fleeting moments with family. As my lifestyle developed and my identity strengthened, I found it difficult to share my experiences with them. The acceptable bits, as I perceived them, such as work and studies, were the only common ground I had with family and, therefore, the only areas we ever talked about. Very little news was shared about my extended family, as if to limit my interest in what was happening. I later realised this was probably a subconscious coping mechanism on their behalf to maintain a distance between the family and me, driven by the fear that they might discover my sexuality. I missed so many family events, Weddings, anniversaries, christenings, and Christmas gatherings. It was years later that I discovered that invitations were issued via my Mum, whose response was usually along the lines of “he’s working” or “he can’t make it as he is away that weekend.” The invitations became less frequent, and eventually, were misguidedly accepted within the wider family, as I was not interested in family events.

I suppose what is sad is the fact that many family members knew I was gay and probably suspected that my Mum had become the gatekeeper, but they never once challenged her, and their silence permitted the ongoing denial and deceit. When the time came that I was open about my sexuality, they often demonised her actions, but they too were complicit, as was I.

There were parts of my life that became embarrassing to the family. In the early 1980s, I joined a flamboyant new romantic band, My Pierrot Dolls. The order of the day was wild clothes, androgynous looks, and even wilder makeup and hairstyles. Publicly acknowledging my involvement with the band would be one more clue that I could possibly be gay – laughable on reflection, as in the early days, none of the band knew I was gay, and the rest of them were straight. I went on to form another band, which was more conventional in image, but by this time, very few questions were asked, and little interest was shown. Once again, the potential exposure of my sexuality had marginalised me and my lifestyle.

I look back on those days and question why I did not have the courage to come right out with it and announce that I was gay. I suppose the uncertainty of what the family’s reaction might be outweighed the uncertainty of living life as an openly gay man in a time when it was still seen as wrong in the eyes of many.

I did once tell my brother and his wife, whilst staying with them for a couple of days, but my brother banging his fists on the table and announcing that he did not want to know anything about it sort of paved the way for accepting that some things are best left unsaid.

Life carried on regardless, and it wasn’t until I was thirty-four or five when I had met my current partner that I thought it was about time I confronted the elephant in the room and told my parents. Finding the right time was not easy until the day my Mum told me about a boy in her office who was gay and of how people gossiped about him and made fun behind his back, and how she thought it was totally unnecessary, as it was his choice and they should mind their own business. I thought that this was her way of giving me permission to be honest and frank. How mistaken I was.

I think it was a couple of days later when Mum and I were sitting in the lounge that I took the plunge to tell her I had met someone and that he would be moving in with me. The shit truly hit the fan with heated words, threats, and pleas.

“Oh my god”, “People will hate you”, “Don’t whatever you do ever tell your grandma and grandad”, “I can’t understand why you want to live with a foreigner?”, “I’ll never forgive you”……and so on.

At one stage, I asked if she would have preferred me to live a lie and get married to a girl; she replied “yes”.

Needless to say, it didn’t go well, and it was only later on that I realised that most of her upset was her internalised fear that I would be rejected and bullied for my sexuality, but her behaviour to me over the next ten years played out very much the same script. From that day on, my Mum refused to come to my home in case she had to meet the foreigner, and if she needed to contact me, she would get my Dad to telephone and tell me that Mum wanted to chat. Subsequently, invitations to family events and gatherings dried up, and I was ostracised from the family on so many levels.

I recall the day I went home a few days after telling my Mum and Dad that I had got a new job. A huge promotion working for the main body for nurse education on a national and international HIV/AIDS project. We were in the kitchen when Mum noticed her best friend pull up in a car. In utter panic, she looked at me with wide eyes and visible palpitations and begged me not to tell them anything about my job as she had told them I had got a new job teaching nurses. I was taken aback to say the least, but of course, I continued to collude with her deceit and insecurity. In her mind, the association between HIV/AIDS and gay people was enough to out me as a gay man.

My dad, on the other hand, was a different kettle of fish. He continued to visit my home. He met Luis, my partner, and we often went out walking together. We would pick him up at my parents’ house, but we would wait in the car for him. He told me soon after my coming out that in his job in the Police, he had met a lot of queers and some of them weren’t at all bad people, but he would never understand it, but, as long as I was happy, he was happy, but never wanted to talk about it.

Ten years on, my mum had still never met or spoken with Luis. It was not until I had a significant health problem that required neurological surgery that I confronted her. I knew that once I was in the hospital, she would want to visit, but I told her that unless she had met Luis prior to my admission, she would not be allowed to visit me, as I did not want any bedside dramas and uncomfortable atmospheres.

The informal meet-up took place at my home, and although awkward, it went well. From that day on, and with increasing frequency, we occasionally got together either at our home or theirs. The extended family situation stayed the same, with no invites that I was aware of and very little interaction with my brother and his family. Luis and I developed our own group of friends who became substitute family and with whom we could share, laugh, love, and grieve.

I reflect on past events involving the family and feel saddened by our collective inability to be honest, open, and to show much empathy to each other. The collusion of silence has not served the family well and resulted in exclusion on many levels. As with any group, be it family, community, or wider society, shared experiences bind us together, the bonds serve as support networks, and we develop a sense of shared responsibility, a greater understanding of individual needs, and a strong sense of loyalty. Without those shared experiences, we drift apart and look elsewhere for understanding, friendship and love.