It was Spring 1986. I was 18 years old.
I was too busy waving to gathered friends and family, saying goodbye to me from the platform, to notice how close the train was to the entrance of the dark tunnel, taking me into what I was hoping would become a happy, successful future – my escape, from a moderately traumatic childhood.
I have some very fond memories of my twelve years of service; hot summers in Wales, London, Germany and the Cotswolds. Even the cold of winter gave us some great times, however, there were always dark clouds over my life.
Many summer days spent sitting in the sun with endless cold beverages, enjoying the banter and laughter of colleagues and friends, who enjoyed the freedom of being in love. A freedom denied to me, because being gay was illegal.
I refer to my service during the 1980s and 1990s as the dark ages, a period where each day I had to choose between living a lie or facing the prospect of jail and a dishonourable discharge should I have found the courage to criminalise myself by openly showing my love for another man. Courage I could never find.
Despite being in my prime, and having the normal, natural functions and enjoyment of life stolen from me, I continued to serve my country proudly as best I could. I served in the Gulf war, and later peace keeping duties within the Middle East, as well as regular detachments and duties in many other regions.
I completed my service despite living in fear, desperation, isolation and desolation for the most part, but also of sheer grit and determination to complete the contract I had signed up for.
Although the vast majority of my colleagues and senior ranks were decent, friendly, caring people, there were the sinister ones who thrived on bullying.
From the early days, I was bullied, mainly verbal, but occasionally physical. I had contemplated suicide a couple of times, even unsuccessfully attempting it on one occasion.
Such was the feeling of sheer angst I was feeling at the time, about halfway through my career, I couldn’t take anymore and I flew to the USA, where I toured the States by Greyhound, hoping fate would intervene with a job and accommodation, albeit illegally.
I returned to the UK, but immediately took myself up into the wilds of the Scottish Highlands intending to hide away, but after a couple of days I was reminded that the Highlands in January isn’t the Bahamas.
After some weeks sofa surfing I eventually handed myself in, and had to face jail time for being AWOL.
My subsequent years of service remained chequered, not helped because I couldn’t seek help for my growing depression. This left many irreparable psychological scars, but I was becoming hardened and carried on.
I am so glad that things are different now for current serving personnel in the military.
Fighting with Pride has been liberating and life altering for me.
