How to Be Happy

by David Burton

  Constantly distraught over the bullying, Mum, Dad and I decided on a motto: ‘What do I care what other people think?’ I recited this to myself, over and over, during class taunts and when I was shoved into the sand in the playground. It helped. I was proud of it. It was my own little ‘positive thinking’ lesson.

  We went back to Lachlan. I explained my mantra.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Good. But is that a short-term or long-term strategy? Is that going to work for a long time?’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, instantly deflated. Mum was furious. Our little home-made exercise for sanity and self-esteem had been shot down. We didn’t go back to Lachlan after that.

  To be honest, I lose track of the psychologists after Lachlan. Eventually I gave up, and adolescent stubbornness took over. I would not go to a doctor. After all, I was fine.

  Mum nagged at me about it for years. Days would pass without me eating, hours without speaking, many nights without sleep. When Mum finally got me to go to our GP, who provided the diagnosis ‘he’s not depressed’ within two minutes of seeing me, I used it as a defence for years.

  By the time I reached senior high school, I had come to see going to a psychologist or a doctor as a personal failure. Being an independent and accomplished man meant standing tall without help. Feeling anxious, stressed, or uncontrollably sad was an effeminate failing. There was little I could do about my gangly body, which was my inescapable evidence of physical weakness. My mind, however, was easier to disguise. Every day as I showered, brushed my teeth, and walked out the door without breakfast, I put on the mask of a confident young man. Inside, though, I was only making things worse by repressing my true feelings.

  It’s easy to underestimate the power of personal denial, but I had convinced myself that I was absolutely fine. I believed that I was as happy as I could be.

  Thinking otherwise was absolutely terrifying. Even entertaining the idea that I needed help meant also accepting the possibility that I was gay, a bad friend, a terrible boyfriend, incapable of leading or responsibility, a burden on my parents, a negative influence on my brothers, and, therefore, a fundamentally unworthy human being.

  But it was a fight I was always going to lose. The negative thoughts festered and grew wild, manifesting in all kinds of ways that I didn’t expect. My immune system also suffered. It took me longer to bounce back from any minor illness. I was exhausted, sick and empty.

  The result of years of denial was paralysing fear, and the inability to get out of bed. And it was just weeks before I was to finish high school.

  9

  Getting Out of Bed

  I lay in bed and looked up at the ceiling.

  A part of my brain spoke to me with grave certainty.

  ‘If you leave this bed, you will die.’

  My entire body felt heavy, as though it was sinking into the bed. I could hear sounds of morning: Mum battering away on the sewing machine, birds twittering outside, the soft mumble of television news. The world was completely normal, but inside my brain something had happened, telling me that today was dangerous. Potentially lethal. And I simply didn’t have the strength to get up.

  But there was another part of my brain that knew this was ridiculous. This part was telling me that I was weak and idiotic, and over-dramatic. I needed to get up, have a shower and go to school. I was stronger than this.

  I made my way to the bathroom in a light run, hoping my brain wouldn’t catch up to what my body was doing. I looked up into the hot water, letting it cascade over my face but, rather than relaxing me, the water felt like needles piercing my skin. My chest began to feel tight and I couldn’t take in a breath. The shower seemed to be getting smaller; the walls were closing in around me and distorting. The square tiles became circular. The drain seemed an eternity away. I thought I was going to die.

  I didn’t know it, but I was experiencing a panic attack. The core of it passed within a minute, but it left me instantly exhausted. As I stepped out of the shower and began to dry myself, most of my mental noise left me. It was replaced with a feeling of despair that was immovable. It had the weight of lead, as though every atom of my body was dragging downwards. I had a deep desire to bury myself in the earth, to feel the comfortable warm weight of soil pressed on my body, and be surrounded by nothing but absolute, dense silence.

  Simultaneously, I felt empty. I didn’t feel sad, or anxious, and certainly not happy or light. I felt as though I was incapable of any emotion, as though the energy required to crack a smile would also crack my heart, and I would lie down and die.

  I told my parents that I wasn’t going to school, and I went back to bed. I couldn’t fight anymore.

  For the fortnight that followed, I spent most of my time in the bedroom. The main thing that surfaced in my mind was the matter of my sexuality—my unending confusion over my fascination with men.

  I didn’t see bisexuality as an option. I believed that I would be perceived as even more perverted if I was bisexual than if I came out as gay. I replayed every conversation I’d ever had with everyone I loved, to see if I could figure out how they would react to my coming out. I was sure they would all leave me, especially Simon, who had frequently expressed how uncomfortable he was with gay people and how they ‘rubbed it in people’s faces’.

  At that time, the cultural language around homosexuality was only just becoming mainstream. I didn’t have Kurt from Glee. Ellen DeGeneres was still several years from building her talk show. In 2004, my main sources of information about how gay people might go about their lives came from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and Will & Grace. Both shows boasted flamboyant gay characters.

  Was this the type of man I was destined to become? Would it be necessary to display my sexuality as the cornerstone of my personality? I was rubbish at cooking, found it incredibly difficult to tame my pubescent facial hair, and my one foray into fashion had been my purple zoot suit. This was evidence that I was a rubbish gay person. I feared that I would be rejected from the homosexual community for not fitting the type that I saw on television.

  Will & Grace was an incredibly successful sitcom with two leading gay characters. The show focused on the tight friendship of Will and Grace. Will was gay and Grace was straight. They lived in their amazing New York apartment and led wonderful and hilarious lives. Will was the only gay character I knew at the time who wasn’t overly flamboyant or effeminate. He was a lawyer, spent most of his life around straight people, and for much of the show his sexuality was barely an issue. His best friend, Jack, however, was an embodiment of the ridiculous stereotype of a gay man. Jack was a fool, but also incredibly sexually active.

  This was another aspect of gay culture that perplexed me: was monogamy in the minority in gay relationships? Would I be expected to have multiple partners? Would my eventual partner come into the relationship expecting to be able to have sex with other people?

  Frustratingly, there was little information to answer my questions, and I was too scared to reach out to anyone. My parents had given absolutely no indication that they would have anything less than an indifferent reaction to me being gay. Despite this, I was certain that they would reject me and I would disappoint them both. I was convinced the world was against me.

  In an early episode of Will & Grace, Jack is forced t
o come out to his mother after decades of hiding from her. The mother is shocked but ultimately loving. I just happened to show that emotional episode to my mother one evening. She displayed no reaction. In the silence between us, it must have been obvious to her what I was trying to deal with in my head, but I made it incredibly difficult for my parents to talk to me. I would only reply in frustrated grunts to even the simplest of requests. I was a permanently melancholic force around the household, and I growled at anyone who came close. My parents had little option but to give me space. If they hadn’t, I might have fallen into the stereotype that countless teenagers do: sneaking out of home to find solace for confusion.

  Perhaps a wine at the end of the day would’ve calmed me down a bit, but even this idea was terrifying to me. The possibility of becoming drunk and losing control over my uptight performance in front of anyone was too much of a risk. I had never had a drink and had no interest in changing that.

  As the days marched on, I built up a picture of what it meant to be gay, informed by porn and a lot of television. I thought it meant I had to be promiscuous, visiting bath houses, parks and public toilets to engage in ‘hot love’. I found this idea a little uncomfortable, but I was convinced I could come to terms with it, given the hormonal clusterfuck that was going on inside my body that meant I would happily hump a bag of flour if it meant bringing some relief to my drive. I would also have to be witty, sharp and sarcastic. This was fine with me: it was the performance I’d been giving for years. This persona would keep me a safe distance from any true intimacy with anyone, something I believed was essential to my personal safety.

  But the most attractive part of the picture I was building was the idea that I could become a girl’s best friend and have an emotionally intimate relationship with a woman without having sex with her. If I was gay, it meant women wouldn’t expect anything other than friendship from me. My female relationships could become wonderfully uncomplicated if the idea of attraction was not an issue. Maybe I would finally find a best friend, a sister of sorts, that I could rely on and talk to without becoming tangled in romance. This thought came as a sharp relief. Generally speaking, I found it much easier to be friends with girls than with guys. And anything that made my friendships with women easier was a bonus.

  But…I could imagine myself sleeping with a woman. So was I still straight?

  I was rubbish at sport, and always had been.

  I had an interest in theatre and was partial to the odd musical.

  I wore cologne and dressed in colourful clothes.

  Most damningly, while I was still attracted to them, I was terrified of any kind of romantic relationship with women.

  I found men attractive and had fantasies about them.

  With these facts in mind, it seemed I had no option other than to be gay.

  This was terrifying. Wouldn’t I have to go out to nightclubs and somehow learn the rules of body glitter? Wouldn’t I have to develop a taste for disco music, and lose any kind of strength in my inner-wrist? Would I have to wear things with feathers, and speak with a lisp and shout things like ‘Hey, gurl!’?

  Months before the panic attack, I started making secret deals with myself. If I was still attracted to a guy in a month and I hadn’t found a girl I liked, that was it: I was gay. Decision made. The month would come and go and I would extend the deadline, certain that more information was on the way. None came.

  I would lie awake at night and build fantasies that were rich and giddy with lies. I would avoid the whole issue by running away from everyone I knew. I would start anew, free of any of my previous ties to who I was. I’d find a girl. I’d build a home. We’d have kids. I’d be fine. I would have a beautiful life…

  Until the morning I couldn’t move.

  I ended up staying at home for a fortnight. The time spent in isolation made the hopelessness of the situation desperately apparent.

  I wasn’t ready to go to any kind of doctor, but I found therapy in television shows and old movie favourites like Star Wars and Harry Potter, and the comedy of Billy Connolly. For what it’s worth, I’ve found solace in certain shows and comedians again and again in my darkest hours. I end up cemented to the couch, gazing at the television. Billy Connolly, Eddie Izzard, and John Clarke have all helped me get out of bed at one time or another. Comedians are effective antidepressants. That’s their job.

  So, with no other option, I went back to school two weeks after that first panic attack in the shower. I was a little more ready to accept the idea that I was gay. The time of rest had allowed me to gather enough strength to get through the final weeks of school, and I plunged back into the miasma with my mask safely resecured.

  What other option did I have?

  I put myself to work, throwing myself into everything I could. That final block of year twelve passed in a dizzying swirl of activity. Students around me regularly crumpled into tears. It was a sad and joyful and beautiful time of our lives. We were leaving this place that I had once dreaded. We were on the cusp of adulthood. We reflected. We prayed. We celebrated.

  I felt nothing. I was still in shellshock from the time in bed. Nevertheless, Crazy Drama Dave lived on. But each day ended with a nagging question in my brain. Would anyone at school accept me if they knew I was gay?

  In one of the final English classes for year twelve, I was sitting beside a girl called Monica. Monica and I had a heap of classes together, so we knew each other quite well. Monica was everything I’m not: she was full of confidence, she was sexually active, and she wasn’t terribly afraid of what anybody thought of her. We weren’t besties, but she was a mate.

  We were talking about her long-term boyfriend, and the latest in a series of troubles they were having—each one seemingly more traumatising than the last, but easily forgotten in the face of young love. I was playing my role perfectly, being a very supportive friend and giving out my opinion relentlessly. Inside, I was awed at the length and passion of the relationship, something I desperately longed for.

  ‘The sex is amazing,’ she said.

  I made some non-specific sound of acknowledgment.

  ‘When did you lose your virginity, Dave?’ she asked, with perfect sincerity.

  Oh, Jesus. How do you play this one, Dave? A few responses ran through my mind, none of which made much sense:

  I could give a hearty chuckle and a wink: ‘When didn’t I lose my virginity?’ (What? What does that even mean?)

  I could try to seize the moment as an opportunity to flirt, do my best toothy grin and reply, ‘Well, what are you doing in the next five minutes?’

  I could upturn the table and scream in her face: ‘Ya MUM’S virginity!’ and run out of the room.

  None of these options seemed particularly feasible, so I was left with the blunt truth.

  ‘I…ah…haven’t yet.’

  ‘What?!’ she suddenly screamed at maximum volume. ‘Dave! You’re missing out!’

  I squirmed, and told her to shoosh. Kids around us were raising their eyebrows.

  I had a choice here, a perfect opportunity to come out. I did the calculations in my head. Monica was undeniably liberal and sexually open. She was not a terribly close friend, and if I lost her to this revelation, it would be a major blow,
but not heart-wrenching devastation. The only real risk was that she might tell other people.

  Before I could think too much, I grabbed a pen and wrote a small note on the side of her page.

  ‘Actually,’ it said, in tiny blue scrawl, ‘I think I might be gay.’

  She read it and looked up at me, her face arching in surprise and instant recognition. I took the pen and furiously crossed out my confession. It was one of the few times I had been honest about my feelings in years. It was terrifying.

  ‘That makes sense,’ she said. And then, amazingly, ‘You okay?’

  I smiled, and nodded. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I won’t tell anyone.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Do you like anyone?’

  I laughed. ‘No, not really.’

  ‘When you go to uni, you’ll have heaps of options.’

  I shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

  And then we went back to talking about her boyfriend.

  Monica was the best. She was reassuring. She didn’t tell anyone, and her behaviour towards me didn’t change. She was extraordinarily positive. She didn’t joke about it until I was ready to joke about it. It was a huge relief.

  I realised that I had grossly underestimated the kindness of the people around me, and their interest in my wellbeing. The world was a nicer place than I had made it out to be.

  Over the final few months of high school, I gradually came out to a wider group of my friends. Each coming out was easier than the last. I was overwhelmed with feelings of sheer disbelief. No one had run away! No one cared one way or the other!

  But I was yet to tell the people whose responses I feared the most: Mum and Dad, and Simon.