The coming out scene in All Of Us Strangers got me thinking...

How it took me decades to finally reveal my true self to those I loved. And myself.

And breeeeeathe out. 

I’ve just been to see All Of Us Strangers, Andrew Haigh’s devastating Brit flick about grief, coming out and loneliness. And to say it’s made quite the impact on me is an understatement. 

Unrelenting in its portrayal of middle-aged gay angst and loss, it tells the story of Adam (the always-mesmerising Andrew Scott), a lonely gay screenwriter who is still trying to come to terms with the unexpected death of his parents twenty years before. Things, however, begin to look up when he meets oddball neighbour Harry (the rufty-tufty flavour-of-the-month, Paul Mescal).

As their relationship blossoms, Adam starts to work through the trauma of losing his parents by visiting them at his childhood home – no, they’re not ghosts, they’re simply living somewhere in his mind as he embarks on writing a screenplay about them to help him find closure. This gives him the chance to fill them in on everything they’ve missed since dying in a car crash in 1987 – including the fact he’s gay. Their reactions are sombre, tainted with disappointment, embarrassment, fear, and regret. 

The scenes are beautifully written and tenderly shot and conjured up memories of my own coming out experience. As I watched Adam struggle to find the words to tell his nearest and dearest that he loved men, I sunk low in my seat, tears glazing my eyes. The memories they brought back, swept once again throughout my body, leaving me feeling clammy, awkward and anxious.

Don’t get me wrong, my coming out experience was much smoother than Adam’s. My mum, my friends, the people around me were all fully accepting of who I was, with every single one of them expressing absolutely no surprise whatsoever that I was gay as a pom-pom. I guess my penchant for Kylie, Dynasty, Wonder Woman and hairy chests had already given it away to everyone but me.

However, it was the years building up to that revelatory moment that were by far the hardest to deal with. Living a secret life, feeling absolutely confused about the thoughts and feelings that were running through my head and having no one to share them, was excruciating. 

For almost 25 years, I was unable to be at peace. 

I grew up in the 70s and early 80s, a very different time to the one we live in now. There was no internet, and while there were gay people all around, I never really understood what gay was. Sure, I’d seen the likes of Larry Grayson, John Inman and Julian Clary on the telly. I knew they weren’t like most of the men that I had met in my life. They were colourful and playful, far from macho and intimidating. They were also so very intriguing. I was mesmerised by them, unaware of who they really were and what they did behind closed doors. I had no concept whatsoever about what gay people actually did.

Then when the word ‘gay’ did enter my life, it came with negative connotations. The boys at primary school took great exception to me spending my break times with the girls, recreating scenes from Dallas or Charlie’s Angels. They thought I was being “girly” and “gay” and should have been playing football with them instead.  

This kind of brutish behaviour carried on through my snooty religious secondary school where I finally understood what the word meant. I was horrified and denied it as loudly as I could. I WASN’T GAY! I FANCIED WOMEN, for crying out loud. You know, like Kylie, Madonna and, er, all those other female gay icons. 

It was only when I got to sixth form college - where girls were part of the mix - that the pink-pounder-penny finally dropped. I was a screamer! Ironically, this self-discovery came at a time when the lads no longer teased me about being a gay and girls were declaring their undying love to me.

In my state of confusion, I tried dating a couple of them who I truly believed I had romantic feelings for. But something just wasn’t right. Something was missing. (I wonder what, eh?) As lovely as those girls were, they just weren’t the sporty, swarthy, manly-looking boys in my year who I had formed unfortunate one-sided crushes on! 

Don’t get me wrong, my interest in the guys at college wasn’t entirely lustful. Sure I was piqued by their handsome manliness but I didn’t really want to get down and dirty with them. The idea of gay sex left a nasty taste in my mouth. Still does, if I’m honest! I was more enamoured by their devil-may-care swagger and yearned to be held in their protective arms. (I had no father figure in my life, so perhaps, in retrospect, that was what I was seeking!)

As I was attending a rough, urban west London college, none of the lads showed any signs that they might be riding the same rainbow bus as me. That said, I’m sure there was a whole gaggle of covert gays lurking in the shadows, but none of whom were confident enough to show any signs of their pesky penchant for peen and pecs.

And so at the grand old age of 20 I finally came to terms with the fact that I was indeed a dandy. A homosexualist. A friend of Dorothy. A lifter of shirts! A connoisseur of Kylie. It all suddenly fell into place like a cinematic montage of my gayest life moments. All the signs were there… 

At the age of five I used to pretend I wasWonder Woman, dressed in a make-shift costume comprising of a red vest, blue underpants and red wellies, courageously jumping from the staircase as if I were blessed with her fabulous Amazonian superpowers. (I wasn’t.)

I also spent way too many years obsessed with building a life-size version of Wonder Woman’s invisible plane out of large plastic milk cartons! How I expected to do this I have no idea. But I was naively under the impression that a tube of superglue would be strong enough to seal them all together and take the weight of any passengers who climbed aboard. Insane as the idea was, it just goes to show I was always creative and ambitious. 

When I wasn’t trying to save the world dressed as that sassy Amazonian queen, I was playing happy families with my Bionic Man doll (the one with the telescopic eye) and my beloved Sindy (Barbie was poison to me and, and having seen that film, still is!). By that I mean, I spent a lot of the time styling Sindy’s lush blonde locks into pigtails or a tight pony and finding out what lay beneath Steve Austin’s clothes. When I knew no one was watching - I’d pull up his shirt, pull down his trousers and trail a hesitant finger across his hard plastic torso, sending my heart in a spin.

I was also absolutely invested in soap operas, the camper the better. I wasn’t just interested in watching the drama unfold, mind. I wanted to write them, be part of the drama. When I wasn’t glued to the screen, I’d recreate Dynasty’s infamous royal wedding massacre from season five with my collection of dolls and toys or set fire to my very own Crossroads Motel, that I’d lovingly constructed from LEGO bricks. I was madly obsessed with that notorious episode in which the nation was led to believe that motel boss lady Meg Mortimer had perished in a Bonfire Night blaze. (She hadn’t, and reappeared weeks later on the QE2 sailing off to Spain.)

So the lads at school had been right all along. They had seen something in me that I hadn’t! Now I’d caught up, I was raring to start the next flamboyant chapter of my life. But something was still getting in the way. I couldn’t really throw myself into the life I wanted to just yet! While I had come to terms with the fact I was a whoopsie, no one else around me did. 

Most of all my mum, who I desperately wanted to tell but just couldn’t. Not at that time, anyway. I was confident she would be fine about it as she was liberal-minded and had gay friends of her own. But I couldn’t be sure. What I was afraid of most, was broaching the subject with her. Uttering the simple but impactful words out loud filled me with unfathomable dread. Seeing a look of disappointment spread across her face as my revelation washed over her would just kill me. I didn’t want to let her down after having single-handedly raised me as well as she had.

So, I decided not to say a word to her about it. However, I still needed to get it off my chest somehow or I’d explode. By this point in time, the stress I was feeling was beginning to show through my increasingly erratic and aggressive behaviour, highlighted best when I launched an armoury of juicy nectarines at some friends who one night refused to accompany me to meet a friend in a gay bar. So I decided to share my little secret with five of my closest friends. Again, I was nervous. So nervous, in fact, that it was another five years before I finally found the courage to do it. 

When I eventually did, I decided to tell them individually, inviting each of them out to lunch to drop the earth-shattering bombshell. On each occasion, my heart pounded hard in my ears, as I feared my ‘shameful’ admission would create a permanent wedge in our otherwise strong relationships.

With them sitting across from me, totally oblivious to the reason why they’d been summoned, the words were so hard to find. Again I lost my confidence. How do you even begin to tell someone you are not the person they think they’ve known all these years? I wasn’t sure where to begin, but I knew I had to do it. Otherwise, life would become unbearable. So I carried on, awkwardly jibber-jabbering about all sorts before nervously explaining how after all the years of them seeing me as ‘a red-blooded ladies’ man’, I was, in fact, a chap who desired other chaps.

When I was done, they simply looked at me with blank faces. Each time, I thought my heart had stopped beating. I felt that my world around me was about to collapse, that all I held dear in life would be destroyed, that I would lose my best friends. But, after an excruciating few seconds, a wicked smile begin to simmer on each of their faces, followed by a cascade of warm, comforting laughter. I knew then, to my great relief, that everything would be a-okay.

It turned out they’d known I was gay all along and had been discussing it among themselves for years, but decided it was best for me to broach the subject with them first. It also emerged that by day two of my coming out confessions, they’d all been discussing my dramatic lunchtime face-to-faces so the last few feigned ignorance and came along for the free lunch anyway! The bloody cheek! 

With my dearest pals now fully aware of my not-so-shocking truth, I began to enjoy a fruitfully fruity life. Well, I say fruitful. That’s not quite accurate. In truth, I went on far too many disastrous pre-app online dates with guys who, if they were brave enough to show up, didn’t bother to hide the fact they didn’t fancy me, which shattered my confidence for many years.

My next step was to tell people at work. At this point, I was working in the tape library of a globally renowned media company. It was a very hyper masculine establishment, populated by earthy tech-fellas who sunk beers like water and brash cocky salesmen who spoke at the top of their voices like city brokers. It wasn’t exactly the best environment to cartwheel across the office and announce to them that I had a passion for peen. 

However, as luck would have it - though perhaps ‘luck’ is not the word I’d use in hindsight - I worked alongside a guy who was openly gay. He certainly wasn’t my cup of tea. His angular head gave him the look of a Hammer horror creature of the night. But we hit it off and I was able to confide in him about my secret life. As we got to know each other, and my desire to enjoy an intimate gay experience reached fever pitch, eventually one thing led to another after a booze-fuelled company party! It wasn’t exactly what I’d call a pleasant fairy tale experience, but, thankfully, it was all quite vanilla. 

Nevertheless, I woke the next day full of regret and shame. In fact, so aghast was I by what I’d done, I felt compelled to share what had happened with my closest friends at work. I had to get it off my chest or I’d just explode! Most of my work pals were easy to tell, but one of them – let’s call him G - was the hardest. G was one of the junior editors. We’d both started out as runners and became firm friends even though he had a dubious taste for Goth metal, while I preferred to shimmy around to the dandy disco strains of Kylie Minogue and Spice Girls. In spite of our differences, we had a very good friendship. 

My only worry about telling him what – or who – I’d done last night, was that he might never speak to me again. Okay, super dramatic, I know, but in the past, he’d made one or two jokey – though not homophobic - comments about other gay people, which always made me wary about ever revealing my true self to him. But I couldn’t not tell him if I’d already unloaded on everyone else. 

Unable to look him in the eye, I waffled nervously about my bawdy adventures from the previous night without giving away too much salacious detail. When I’d finished, G gave no reaction and simply stared at me from behind the oily strands of long wavy rock hair that hung around his face. After what felt like an unbearable age, he muttered in his thick Hull accent, “You what?” 

Fear suddenly swelled in my chest. Was he going to storm off and never speak to me again? He didn't move, then leaned forward and asked “Why didn't you tell me before?” I explained that the comments he’d previously made poking fun at gays had led me to think that he’d never accept me. At that, he looked crestfallen and said something that made me tear up. “How can you say that? Of course I accept you. You’re my friend.” I was jubilant. Of all my close work mates, G had been the one I least expected to understand. But he did. In spades, and I was on top of the world.

With all my close circle of friends and work mates now fully informed, there was just one person left to tell. One very important person. My mum. But still I was too nervous to do the deed…

Fast forward to 31 - yes folks I’m a late bloomer. I had started dating a gorgeous man I would end up marrying and decided it was time to bite the bullet. I’d finally met someone who really meant something to me and who loved me equally. If ever there was a time to tell my mum, it was now. But finding that moment still wasn’t easy.

But then, something happened that took me by surprise. 

It was Christmas Day and I had travelled across London to have a roast turkey dinner at my mother’s house in Beaconsfield with her husband. During the tasty meal, he jubilantly boasted about how excited he was that his son had just got engaged and that one of his daughters had announced she was having a baby. 

I suddenly felt embarrassed. There he was beaming with pride talking about his kids’ fruitful family lives and all I could think about was my mother wondering why I had never brought anyone home.

I really wanted to say something to put an end to my tiresome charade and declare out loud once and for all I was gay, that I was seeing someone I liked, that I was happy. But the words just wouldn’t come. Simple as they were, the weight they carried was unimaginable. So, frustratingly, I didn't say a word.

After dinner, mum drove me back to my flat in Fulham. With smooth sombre tunes playing on Magic FM, I felt down, angry at myself for not being brave enough to say anything. As we cruised along the empty night streets, I could feel my muscles tighten and a compulsion to say something there and then. But the words still wouldn’t come. Why? They were just words! But then they weren’t just words. They were words that could change everything! Words that might break my mother’s heart, or disappoint her. My heart ached, and tears welled in my eyes, because I just couldn’t find the courage to be honest.

When we pulled up to my house, we sat in silence for a moment. I really wanted to come clean and pour my heart out, but I couldn’t. I said goodbye and started to get out but my mother’s voice suddenly stopped me. “You know,” she said. “I just want you to be happy…”

I looked at her. What a random comment, I thought. Perhaps she’d seen that something had been troubling me. She continued, looking me deep in the eyes. “Whether it’s with a girl or…a boy…” What had she just said? Was I hearing things? Had she said what I thought she had?

The look of love in her eyes told me everything. She knew. And she seemed pretty okay with it. “How did you know?” I ventured, adding a hasty, “I never wanted to disappoint you.” 

“You never could,” she replied, softly. In that split second, I finally breathed out and the feeling was exquisite. I suddenly felt lighter, jubilant, finally at peace with myself. My greatest fear had been happily quashed.

It turns out that, like my friends, my mother had always had an inkling but didn’t know how to ask about it. She’d even called the Gay Switchboard to ask about ways she could encourage me to open up to her. What a mother!

I can’t explain enough how life changed after this. I no longer felt like I was hiding away from others. Or myself. For the first time, I could walk through life totally at ease with myself. It meant that I was no longer ashamed of who I was or worried that any of my shenanigans would be fed back to my mother. Her acknowledgment and acceptance meant everything to me. It unlocked a part of my life I had longed to explore and have done so ever since. 

I like to think things are much easier than they were thirty years ago. And they are. The world is far more accepting, and people have a louder voice to express themselves. Or at least we are led to believe that.

Yes, discussions about gender and sexuality are commonplace, but sadly there are still young kids and even adults who still face shame, abuse or a lack of understanding and feel like they have to hide themselves away. In the past couple of weeks alone, I’ve heard two terribly sad stories about young teenagers who have been cruelly cast aside from friendship circles and families just because they said they were gay.

It’s hard to believe that still happens in this day and age which will explain why boys girls and those identify as neither continue to find it terrifying to reveal their true selves to the world, desperate  to one day finally breathe out. 

If you are one of them, or you know someone who is, I hope my story has helped just a little. 

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. On Sundays and Thursdays he will share what’s going on in that noggin of his. 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.