The Reason I Have Never Been to Pride

And may never go.

I came out when I was still living with my parents. I knew my mum wouldn’t like it, but I didn’t care. She could whistle as far as I was concerned. Everyone apart from her and my sister, Mandy, was fine. But again, their problem, not mine. The village/town I grew up in didn’t have a pride festival. So the nearest one was Oxford, but I could never find anyone to go with. I went to a few lesbian bars and lesbian nights at clubs by myself. But I always either got hassled by butch women who thought I wasn’t a lesbian or harassed by the other ones who didn’t seem to understand the words, “No, thank you.”

So when I moved to Staffordshire to be with my ex, I thought pride would be great. We could go to Manchester, and I would finally get to go. She brought the idea up at first. We hadn’t been living together long, only a couple of months. The second I agreed to the idea, she backtracked. She then said she didn’t trust all the other “butch d***es” (her words, not mine) not to try and take me from her. I thought she was being silly, but the more I tried to tell her that, the more she dug her heels in and refused to budge. So I let it go. It wasn’t that big of a deal to me. I just thought it would have been fun.

Next year, when tickets went on sale, I tried to convince her that we should go again. But this year, I had a very different reason for wanting to attend. The abuse was in full swing, and I knew something needed to be done. So my plan, in a moment of possible bravery, possible stupidity, was to make a run for it at pride. I’d seen the videos and pictures. I knew how big the crowds were, especially during the parade. I could easily lose her in a gathering that big. I was what my uncle always called nippy. In that, I could nip through crowds and dodge the people as quick as a flash.

I didn’t have anywhere to go. But I knew if I went far enough I would reach the woods. I could hide there for a day or so, then maybe go to the police station. I had no solid plan other than to run and hide.

My brain works by finding out everything that could possibly go wrong with a plan. And it’s an absolute curse. It makes me talk myself out of doing stuff all the time. But not this time. I knew that things could go wrong. And the worst thing that could happen was that she could catch me. Then I would have paid a heavy price. I was prepared to do that if I didn’t escape running, I was going to go out fighting. Anything was better than this. Death would have meant no more terror. No more constant fear of punishment for nothing.

So that was the so-called plan of action. If we went to Pride I would make a run for it. Head for the hills and never look back. My stuff at the house was just stuff. I could always get more.

I had gotten to know how she worked over the course of that year. If you wanted her to do something, you had to act like it was her idea. It couldn’t come from me. Not only would she dismiss it off-hand because it was my idea. She might smell a rat, and I couldn’t let her know I was up to anything.

So I dropped silent hints. I would leave magazines out that were talking about pride. I would leave LGBTQ+ programmes on, everything I could think of. And it worked. She talked about getting tickets again. I knew I couldn’t show any enthusiasm. I would have to be reluctant for this idea to stand a chance. The thing is, I knew that this meant abuse, probably verbal, potentially physical. But I had no choice. I feigned reluctance, and right on cue came the verbal abuse. She screamed about how I was boring and never wanted to do anything fun and that I should f*** off home if I was such a bore. We were going, whether I liked it or not. That argument was circular and lasted for about four hours. But I had done it. My method worked, and I could see the light at the end of a long, dark tunnel.

I spent a fortnight psyching myself up for what I was going to do. Until one fateful Thursday, my dreams were shattered into a million pieces. She was a senior mortgage adviser. Their company was merging with another one, and they needed her to work on the weekend. There was no way out of it, and there was also no way she would let me go by myself. She didn’t trust me not to “go off” with anyone, and she certainly didn’t want me having fun. I wonder if my escape was a factor for her?

So, as joyful a celebration as it is, pride has never been for me. It’s something I have since associated with that memory. A feeling of fear and dread that I haven’t confronted. I will one day, but not today.