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Stories
When I was a kid there was a big mob of galahs that used to
fly over our place every morning and then again at dusk. A
couple of pairs would settle in our big, old gum trees. I learned
that galahs lived for more than twenty years and that they
mated for life.
One day I noticed a white bird that flew after the galahs.
It flew like a galah, it sounded like a galah but it was not
pink and grey, it was white. That white galah never flew with
the mob. It was always by itself. It was a make-out galah.
As time passed I came to realise that I was a make-out galah
too.
Make-out galahs can sometimes blend in with the rest of the
mob when the tree is big and leafy. They can squawk and screech
and nibble leaves and sound like everyone else. But a make-out
galah knows it is different.
In the
country there are not a lot of places to hide. You live
your whole life on public display. Everyone
knows your
family, they watch, they comment, they offer helpful
criticism and they find it difficult to accept differences. White
galahs are obvious, they stand out, ruffle feathers.
They
make the
other galahs feel uncomfortable, perhaps even restless
and that unsettles the harmony. It's not good to think
too much,
definitely not good to question. "Because that's the way
things are", becomes the standard response.
I grew up a "tomboy". All that seemed to mean to
begin with was that I seemed to have more fun than the "girlie" girls.
I got to go fishing and shooting, made cubbies, caught
taddies, built tree houses, flew kites, rode bikes, kicked
the footy,
explored, read adventure stories and had lots of dreams.
My parents encouraged my independence and creativity and
I was
never bored. I was humoured. I kept my white feathers dirty.
It
was as I began my teenage years that my white f feathers
began to stand out. I seemed to mix okay
with the other girls
but began to feel uncomfortable with their ideas. Marriage?
Babies? Yuck! Boys were mates. We rode our motorbikes
together and went crabbing or digging for old bottles. The other
girls stood around making inane comments and giggling
while
the
boys and I adjusted our carbies and oiled our chains.
The girls
wore bikinis and worked on their tans while we fashioned
squid jigs and dived for mussels on the jetty pylons.
The boys said
they preferred me to the other "dumb girls."
As my body began changing I became more aware
of my differences and tried self-consciously to become
more like the "others".
I felt a huge pressure to be "normal" whatever the
hell that was. At my Mum's urging I wore skirts and went to
parties where I felt like an impostor. I had boyfriends who
had sweaty palms and slobbery tongues. And I had crushes on
teachers and schoolmates- all female. In desperation I invented
a boyfriend for myself, would consciously think of him before
I went to sleep, but it was girls I dreamed about. At the pictures
I sat with my thigh touching my friend's, smelt the Juicy Fruit
on her breath as she leaned towards me, wished I had the courage
to reach out and touch her hand ... but I never did. In the
schoolyard the girls sneered as they discussed "lezzos" and
no-one in my school ever touched another girl for fear
of being labelled one- the greatest insult of all apparently.
By Year 11 the farm girls all knew which farmer they were
going to marry. The town girls had steady boyfriends and the
surfie chicks were rooting anything that moved. The white galah
patrolled the edges, listening, pretending but knowing by now
that the world was a dangerous place for white galahs, that
it did not belong and never would.
By my late teens I had a steady flow of male admirers, following
me around, vying for my attention, trying to win me over. I
was bewildered by their interest in me. I was certainly no
beauty queen! Perhaps it was my cool indifference, perhaps
I was a challenge? I had no idea why and found them painful
and irritating. My poor Mum had the job of pissing them off
for me when my patience ran out...
At
sixteen I went down to Adelaide to attend university.
By some instinct we country kids recognised each
other from the
first moment and we gravitated together, recreating a
mini version of the communities we had come from. We lived together,
socialised together and went home together. And the prejudices
came with us. "Poofters, dykes, perverts, deviates",
the familiar terms were thrown with scorn. How I longed
to wander up to these galahs of many colours and let
them see
my feathers. But I was shy and afraid and my new community
watched closely, protecting me from harm.
When I was 18 I became desperate and knew my
time was running out. Desperation made me brave enough
to go into a bookshop
one day and to seek out a book on lesbians I opened the
cover and saw galahs that were every colour but pink and grey
and
they all looked happy. I began to have nightmares and,
even in my crowd, began to feel lonely and desperate. I knew
very
well my Dad's views on deviates like me. I was a good kid,
bright enough, well-behaved. I had spent my whole life
trying to please my parents. They meant everything to me. What
would
my Dad do if he found out about me? Where would I go? What
would I do? Would I have the courage and confidence to
risk everything? It took months of agonising before I picked
up
the phone and called Gayline. I'd copied the number from
a toilet door. My heart was thumping, my throat so dry I could
hardly choke the words out. A man answered and I asked
to please
speak to a woman. "No sorry, we only have men working
here". And that was that. I sometimes wonder what
would have happened if someone else had answered that night...
So
I finished university, went back to the country to work,
and a year later I was married. I was straight
and I was happy.
My husband was a nice bloke and we got along well. He
accepted my refusal to have children and appreciated my differences.
The first 10 years went well. I kept myself busy and
worked
hard. Then the restlessness appeared. The niggle of dissatisfaction,
the burrowing worm of unhappiness. There were some tough
times and my husband spent more time working. I began
to dream of
women, at first occasionally, then constantly. I drew
myself up a list of things to do before I turned 35. I fulfilled
them alI bar one- "To sleep with a woman".
As my marriage began to crack and crumble I focussed
on this
thought.
35 came
and went and I worked hard at making my life interesting,
broadening my interests, meeting new people, despairing
of reaching my
goal. Knowing that I had left my run too late, that I
had waited too long...
Then one day, when I had almost given up it happened. She
saw me, she wanted me, was I interested? Yup! It was not perfect
in any way. In fact it was pretty bloody awful in a lot of
respects, but it was a Lifeline to a way of life that I knew
I wanted to be part of. When it ended abruptly after 12 months
I was devastated. Once again I was isolated and unhappy and
lonely but it was a thousand times worse because now I did
know what I was missing. I knew I could not live a lie anymore
but when I tried to think my way through it the big picture
overwhelmed me and I began to suffocate under its weight. There
was a husband who loved me, a family who would disown me, a
great job and a position of respect in my community, financial
security, a wonderful living environment. Would I toss this
away? Would I move to the city (which I hated) to wind up cruising
smoky bars, a sad, desperate and lonely old woman. The more
I tried to think my way out the harder it all got. I was too
desperately unhappy to stay, too fucking cowardly to go. I
had no-one to talk to, I was grieving and I was depressed.
I scoured the phone book trying to find a number. I'd never
asked anyone for help in my entire life. I was strong, capable
and independent. How could I possibly discuss something this
personal? There was no logical way out. There was only one
option, one answer.
It was easy once the decision was made. I went to work as
usual and arranged everything so that someone else could take
over with a minimum of fuss. I marvelled at my colleagues'
inability to see me. I was a dead person and they didn't even
know. All I felt was a resigned kind of sadness.
Fortunately for me there was a long meeting that afternoon,
otherwise I probably wouldn't be here. I got home, loaded the
shotgun and clinically decided to make two phone calls. If
they were successful I might live, if they weren't I died.
Big deal, who cared. I rang Bfriend and got a voicemail. Left
my name and number. I called my ex-girlfriend. I was desperate.
I needed help. She knew I had never asked for help in my life.
Would she help me to find someone to talk to, a counsellor?
She was too busy, too happy in her new life ... Goodbye then.
Did you know that you need long arms to pull the trigger of
a gun when it's under your chin? I realised I was going to
have to take my shoe off and use my toes... The phone rang.
Should I answer? Yes. No. Yes. It was my Mum. She heard my
sadness and despair and begged me to talk to her. Finally I
acknowledged to her that I was gay. My Mum didn't miss a beat.
She told me she loved me, that she would support me with whatever
path I chose to follow and that she was on her way. I sat and
sobbed with relief. I was gay, I had just told my Mum and she
still loved me! And I was alive. My Mum had just given me the
greatest gift and she had saved me. It felt like the weight
of the world had been lifted from my shoulders for the first
time in years.
We discovered lots of things over the next couple of weeks.
Like how few resources there are for mental health treatment
in the country. My Mum made over 24 phone calls before we found
out how to get me some counselling. I wondered how many people
lost themselves because they didn't have someone who cared
to navigate a path through the bureaucracy for them. I spent
a week in hospital, emotionally exhausted, depressed and terrified.
I wondered if I would ever feel safe with myself again. I was
distressed at my weakness. Fortunately I had access to the
most wonderful counsellor and I learned to talk honestly for
the first time in my life. When I told her I was gay she gave
me a big hug and told me that was wonderful. I cried. I talked
to my Mum who was amazing. I told my best friend who gave me
a big hug and said it was great 'cos now she had heaps more
to give me shit about (ya big lemon!). And the more I talked
the easier it got and the better I felt.
My Mum told my Dad and he had been so frightened at the thought
of nearly losing me that he said he could learn to live with
it too. Dad hugged me for the first time since I was a kid.
And with each day it becomes a little easier and though there
are tough days I get through them. I have built up an amazing
support group of people I will never be able to repay. My parents,
my friends, my counsellor, Truffy and Bfriend, a kind doctor,
the amazing women I have met. They supported me through the
excruciating task of telling my husband, through the tears
and uncertainty. The guidance of people who have been there
before me has been invaluable and their ability to share their
stories with honesty and openness has both humbled and insPiried
me and allowed me to find the courage to see this through.
It has only been five months since my coming
out process began although it seems like years. In that
time I have travelled
from a personal hell to a place of hope and optimism. For
the first time in my life I can be "me", open, honest
and proud of my choices. I know there is still a way to
go but I am a proven survivor and I now have so much to look
forward
to. My feathers are no longer white. They're whatever colour
of the rainbow I bloody well want them to be and I wear
them with pride!
Thankyou Mum and Dad,
Alex, Deb and Truffy.
Thankyou Mxx I love you!
You are special people. xx
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