Honest confessions of a disillusioned 50-something gay guy!

Are we ever pleased with the way our lives turned out?

So here I am at 51. A whole year on from turning the big 5-0. I still can’t quite believe that I’ve reached that terrifying stage of life that when I was younger seemed terribly ancient. Of course, I’ve had time to make my peace with it and no longer feel incredulous at the thought of being a world-weary gay man entering his 50s. I mean, I can’t fight it, I can’t change anything. It’s a simple fact. Pure and simple.

The process of ageing is a funny and occasionally heart-breaking one. As some of us may have discovered, life as a teenager or twentysomething can be, if we’re lucky, something of a breeze. That’s not to say we don’t have moments of angst – in my case dealing with my burgeoning sexuality and desperately trying to ignore those nasty so-and-sos who spent a lot of their time pointing it out to me. But for some of us, we were lucky not to have too many responsibilities. I still lived at home in my 20s, so any money I earned I spent on myself. I was lucky. I had a mum – a single parent no less – whose sole reason for being was to give me a comfortable life. And I did. I wanted for nothing. And I was very appreciative, even if I didn’t always show it. We were a working-class family. Money didn’t come easy and anything my mum was able to give me I knew she had worked hard for. I understood the value of money and was usually cautious about spending it. Except, of course, when I wasn’t!

When I entered my thirties, I felt more at ease. By then, I had landed a job I had always dreamed of – writing entertainment stories for the first wave of websites and a weekly magazine. I had my own flat, was comfortable in my own skin and had finally come to terms with the sexuality that I had stifled for so many years. I was happily out. My friends knew, my work colleagues knew and, most important of all, my mum knew. I was in a good place.

Well, to start with anyway!

Turning thirty was a wake up call. I suddenly felt very grown up, like a proper adult with responsibilities. I felt a little out of my depth, knowing that I was in an era of life where I couldn’t make the silly mistakes I’d made during my teens and twenties. I also began thinking about my mortality and that of my mother’s. She was twenty years older than me so had just entered her fifties. Back then, I thought people at that stage of life were on their last legs, staring death in the jaws. I suddenly had the fear that my mum wouldn’t be around for much longer, even though she was spritely, youthful looking and nowhere near as fuddy duddy as those blue-rinse fifty-something queens on Golden Girls. Selfishly, I worried I was going to end up an orphan at thirty years of age and as I was yet to find a significant other at the time, it would mean I’d be totally alone in the world. Ridiculous thoughts, I know, but those were the kind of irrational thoughts spinning around in my thirty-something head.

A few years into my thirties, my troubled mind began to settle down. I met the love of my life, curated a larger and more diverse group of friends, and landed a dream role on celeb bible OK! magazine. Life was bliss. I felt naively unstoppable.

Until I wasn't!

My forties turned out to be a rollercoaster. While my relationship and friendships deepened, my glittering career suffered a series of setbacks. My dream job suddenly disappeared, and I found it hard to seek out another role that offered me the same joy I’d experienced. I was plunged into a lonely depressive state that I wouldn't totally acknowledge for many years to come. 

And then before I knew it - before I was ready - the big 5-0 suddenly loomed. A lot had changed in my life by then. My husband’s career was on the rise – which made me immensely proud and, if I’m truly honest, a little jealous - while I struggled to find a role to satisfy me. I felt lost, disillusioned. The determination and ambition that had driven me when I was younger had all but disappeared. I was riddled with insecurities, sadness, and a dash of self-loathing, all of which led to some serious errors of judgement.

I felt redundant. I felt like I no longer fit into the world I had excelled in. I was just a middle-aged podgy white man who’d never recovered from losing the role he loved so much, one that I believed defined me. Finding another role in an ever-changing industry that was becoming smaller and more youth-centric, was hard. I took on anything that came my way, grabbed hold of it with both hands and made the best of it. Even when there was little or no money on offer, I embraced every opportunity to not only activate my creative mind and to ultimately prove my worth to others and myself.

Sadly, that wasn’t enough.

Right or wrong, I had convinced myself that a man of my age had no place in the media world. I felt lost at sea, desperately treading water, trying to stay afloat. But I was beginning to drown. I’d always thought by this stage of life, I would be successful and financially stable. It didn’t help my self-esteem that many of my peers were flying high. I felt inadequate, like I’d failed myself. Why wasn’t I running my own company? Why wasn’t I jetting around the world whenever the mood took me? I had worked so hard over the years and yet had so little to show for it. I thought about changing careers, but I didn’t know what else I could do. Writing and being creative was part of my DNA!

After a crash and burn, I saw a counsellor who helped me out a great deal. She helped me make sense of my feelings and my insecurities. She reminded me that regardless of my age, I was just as skilled as I always was and still had the potential to succeed.

Something clicked in my mind and the future suddenly didn’t look so bleak.

And then it happened. Fifty! The night before my actual birthday I spent the evening designing a montage of pictures of myself from across the decades for a celebratory social media post. I cried my heart out. Ugly tears streamed across my face as it dawned on me what a landmark age I was about to turn. Looking at my face in those old pictures I realised how happy I had looked all those years ago, without realising it at the time. But now I could see that I had been. My eyes looked so bright and hopeful.

In my twenties and thirties I had been riddled with insecurities about the way I looked and how people perceived me. There were times I actually refused to meet PRs because I was scared they would think I was gawky or ugly. How stupid was that? But looking back at the pictures I realised that I wasn’t half as ugly or as awkward as I thought. This made me angry for wasting so much of my young life, worrying about what other people thought of me, especially in light of the fact I was now entering the final stages of my life.

I know fifty is no longer considered old, but I’ve come to realise that life flits by so fast, gone in the blink of an eye and that I still have so much more I want to do in a much more limited amount of time. Like writing that novel I’ve been writing since 1991. But turning 50, suddenly invigorated me. Yes, time was limited, shorter now than ever. I had a choice. I could sit around and mope or I could make a concerted effort to make more of myself.

I reflected and took time to appreciate what I had achieved. I had spent so much time comparing myself to other people over the years, that I forgot the great things I had done, like editing national magazines, writing best-selling memoirs, finding true love and becoming a dog daddy to two supercute pooches. I was lucky enough, in this precarious market, to be still ghost-writing and editing magazines I loved on a regular basis. I wasn’t so badly off, after all!

But I wanted more. I wanted to live, to be happy and successful. And so I decided to take drastic action. After seeing horrifying pictures of myself at my fiftieth bash looking like the Pilsbury Doughboy, I joined Slimming World and proceeded to lose almost four stone in six months. Losing weight was important. I had to start looking after myself if I intended to live a long and happy life. And over the past year or so I have done just that and have found creativity and determination again. I am hopeful.

But if I’m honest – and I hope this resonates with other people at a similar place in their lives – I still think I have some way to go. At 51, I’m not living the life I expected to live. Yes, I have more than some, but life is still a struggle. The work I do now makes me happy but it’s not financially fruitful enough to give me the freedom to take my foot off the pedal. If anything, I find myself constantly trying to find as much work as I can just to keep afloat.

The notion of retiring or travelling the world with gay abandon is just a dream. I will no doubt die working. But so be it. It’s actually when I’m at my happiest. I guess I must keep reminding myself that I have the important things in life that keep me warm at night.

But while I can appreciate all the good things I have experienced over the years, I still can’t help but feel I’ve let myself down for not having reached the heights that so many around me have. I always feel like I’m on the outside looking in, when I know I’m actually pretty good at what I do. Maybe I didn’t push myself. That was never me. I was the nice guy who masterminded so much and let others take the credit. I never l sought to bathe in the spotlight. I simply enjoyed the process and let others shine. It’s frustrating to think that about all those opportunities I may have let slip by because I’ve not been ruthless or pushed myself. But it’s too late to change that! I have to look forward, not back so that I can enjoy a second flourish at life.

Here’s hoping anyway.

Admissions Of Guiltenane is a witty collection of incisive mind burps and madcap memory farts by a seasoned entertainment journalist and magazine editor who’s just crashed unwittingly into his reflective 50s. Feel free to pop by anytime you like and if you do like it, please pop a friendly comment below and share with all your friends.