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    Gypsy Rose Lee

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    Chirology, Chiromancy, Palmistry or Hand Reading; All names used to describe the reading of the lines, as well as the hand itself.  Do you remember, going to a fun fair or walking along a beach and finding a 'Palm Reading' Kiosk. Traditionally an old Lady dressed in gypsy clothes, a few candles and dim lighting.  These places still exist, up and down the Country. I remember going to one myself and thinking how good she was, knowing me as she did. However, I never fully believed in the process of Hand Reading and felt that there was certainly an element of 'People Reading' too.  Able to tell the body language and read more into the answers given by the client,

    The first Bipolar relapse I can remember was in 2003/4.  At that time I was looking for answers.  I had no idea I was Bipolar then and was really unsure what was going on inside my brain.  I studied Tarot and healing with crystals, both of which did nothing to solve my current situation.  Finally, I discovered Palmistry - I read book after book. Currently, I have a collection of books on the hand, that number around 300.  The more I read, the more I studied, the more things made sense.  Above is a picture of my hand from 2004 and the lines, marks and dates I had marked off; It was amazing.  Dates were corresponding, marks related to me and importantly it was helping me discover who I was and what future I had ahead of me!
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    I am a thinker and want answers to questions.  I need facts and figures to back up an idea or statement.  Palmistry offered me that information.  I could see the traditional lines of Life, head and heart as well as many others I had only discovered through study.  I could see periods of success and periods of stress.  There were travel lines, lines of addiction, marks for suicide attempts, family and sibling lines, relationship lines, a writers fork as well as scary marks of illness, loss of energy and even the loss of someone close.  I was balled over with amazement.  The more I studied the more shocked I became.

    I began to read friends hands, just to prove to myself I wasn't seeing things I wanted too, rather than what was there. Each hand I read gave me more confidence.  The lines on each hand were unique to that person.  Every movement they made with their hand, wasn't random, It was the mind popping another clue to that person's existence down, for someone like me to read.  The mind is indeed a powerful thing.  We use it every day, to process thoughts and feelings. As human beings we suffer stress and as a reflexologist uses points on a persons body to heal ailments, so the mind copies thoughts onto a persons hand.   If one thinks of this logically, one can actually see this in other areas of the body. You can see pain in a persons face, you can see a blue tinge under the finger nails of a patient with cardiac problems and you can of course see mental disabilities in physical form.  

    Hand study can be traced back to Ancient Greece.  Many Greek Philosophers used the hand to form opinions and ideas, and even today Medical Practitioners use the hand to diagnose health problems.  We use our hands every day.  They bear the scars of our life and the endless thoughts that process through our mind daily.  There are lines that appear on our non-active hand that change every six years or so.  The lines on our active hand change, probably every six months and there are even lines in the ball of the thumb, that change every day.  It is important to note that any line formed, is only a line you want someone else to see.  You can quite easily stop lines forming, if you wish them to remain a secret within yourself.  There are also lines that show previous lives, how well or not we used that life, as well as your present birth, genetic lines, lines of stress and inability and important health related marks.

    The physical shape of one's hand can show much also. The hand consists of Mounts, and the importance of that mount can be seen clearly through its size, structure and the markings on it. The way one holds one hands are also important. Are we welcoming and extrovert with wide spaced fingers or closed an introvert with a closed hand and in all probability a closed mind?  Other factors such as finger length, condition and type of nails and also fingerprint markings also offer a valuable insight into that person.

    I have written much on Palmistry, for various websites, even dating websites and I have always been amazed by the reactions of others.  Their initial reaction is the same as mine, eleven years ago.  I haven't had so much time in recent years to carry on, what is an essentially a time-consuming hobby, but you never forget how to do it, it always amazes me and above all it is something all of us can do, to help us through tough times and help us rebuild ourselves when all else fails.
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    Family

    My relationship with my family has always been difficult.  Many of the reasons, I have described in earlier Blog entries briefly.  Let me first say, that presently, I have no contact with my parental family, or my family on my Mothers side.  The choice for having no contact was mine and is something I am happy with.

    I really don't know where to start, where my family are concerned.  They are so different from other peoples, that I have become very depressed about this subject alone, on a regular basis, all the time in fact.  It is a great source of anguish that the people I grew up with as a child, should act so terribly towards myself and my partner!

    As a child, I loved my Grandmother, on my Mothers side, deeply.  I probably still do, despite her passing away recently.  I hadn't seen her, or that side of my family, for maybe 15 - 20 years.  I felt unable to be in the company of people who had damaged my mental health in the past.  

    It is difficult to describe how I felt as a kid, but I will try.  My Grandmother and Grandfather were typically old-fashioned, judgemental and hurtful, without necessarily knowing it.  I knew my sexuality was different at about the age of eleven. At that time I spent a lot of time with my Grandparents and realised how anti 'everything' they were. My Grandfather was extremely racist and anti-gay.  He was an old Tory in every sense of the word.  He went shooting and hunting, watched wrestling and was very opinionated  on every subject.  To be honest, he was everything I wasn't.  At that early age, I knew they were going to end up, not liking who I was.  I had a lot of fear and I suppose, it was then I first remember feeling depressed.  My Grandmother, really had no voice on such matters, and just followed by example.

    I remember going to their house on a Saturday.  I would go shopping with Mother and Father in the morning and would descend on my Grandparents home afterwards. Every Saturday, the same thing would happen.  All the family would be there - Uncles, Aunts, Cousins and even my Great Aunt, who lived next door.  They were family people and there was always someone with a new baby, or a Marriage on the cards.  They were a large, traditional family.  I remember my Mother showing me a newspaper clipping as a child.  It was describing how we were the largest family in Hampshire at the time.  The family was vast.

    The Armed Services were also running throughout this side of the family. My Mothers Sister had married a member of the SAS, her other sister had married a member of The Royal Navy, and my Mother had married a Socialist.  There was trouble there straight away,  Saturday afternoons would often turn into a time for arguments, due to my Fathers lack of Tory values.  Politics was always a difficult subject; during those afternoons, the conversations could be terribly anti-gay and always racist, in a way I found difficult to reconcile with my own thoughts and feelings as a young teenager, growing up with homosexual thoughts.  I felt alienated, ashamed and disgusted with myself.  Those feelings have always remained with me, even today, that is how much effect they had over my mental well-being!

    I stopped talking to this side of my family after my Father had a AVM, about fifteen years ago. It happened on the day they were moving home and moving in with my Grandparents for a while, while arrangements for their new home were being finalised. He was recovering in a house, with people he really did not like.  They even said the AVM was probably his own fault.  It was the excuse I needed to move away from them and their bigoted views.  It only takes a trigger as they say, that was the one that pulled me away finally.

    So what of my Fathers parents.  Well they were completely different people.  My Grandad Eric was in The Merchant Navy.  He had worked with homosexuals all his life. He wasn't bigoted and of course travelling around the World all his life, had opened his eyes to different people and cultures.  He loved a drink and enjoyed every aspect of life and I truly loved him.  When he died of Parkinson's  disease, probably about twelve years ago now, I spoke at his funeral and broke down in tears, whilst trying to get my words out!  My Grandmother had some of those words put on his headstone.  That meant a lot.

    My Nanny Violet, Eric's wife died not so long ago,  she was 90 when she passed away. She also died from Parkinson's disease. She was glamorous, loved to party and always completely young at heart.  
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    Sadly when she died, she only left something to one Grandchild, despite having six. My Nan, just like me, could be vengeful.  If you were not close to her, you would know it. She was quite vocal about her feelings and always made them clear.  Despite loving her dearly, there will always be something inside me, wondering why she did what she did in her will.  That will be the enduring stigma on my memories of her.

    Finally, my Mother and Father.  Two people who have devoted their lives to one another.  People who show very little emotion.  Two people who rarely invited me and my partner to their home, two people who turned a Christmas invitation down from me, because they would rather spend EVERY Christmas with my Brother, and didn't have the guts to tell me.  Two people who when I was in Hospital through suicide and Doctors were expecting the worse, rejected me to my partners face. Two people who have watched me struggle with mental illness, without understanding.  Two people who watched Darrell and I struggle all our life, without offering any support.  Two people who I can't forgive for being at least in part, responsible for my current state of health!  Strict, overbearing, obsessive and unable to show the love I needed.  That's my Mum and Dad!!!

    My Brother is everything I am not.  A successful Teacher, partnered with Children, sporty, wealthy and probably everything they desired.  I was always compared to him and it damn well hurt.  He is also arrogant, nasty and vicious and I never want to see him, ever again.  

    So there you have it, my messed up family and me.  What a great bunch eah!  At least now, the only family I have and need is Darrell.  There rest of them pale into insignificance, compared to someone who has shown me nothing but unconditional love and who is as hurt as me, where the support of my family is concerned!  No you can't choose your family, sadly, but Darrell and I chose each other and my friends will always remain my family.  
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    Friendships

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    I have always had a difficult and fractious relationship with friends. As a child I grew up with parents who met each other at School, formed a relationship and devoted their lives to one another, as they still do now.  Like them I believe strongly in partnership and dedication. They were very insular people, had very few friends and as such did not like or desire me having friends in their home.  Their Politics were very modern and progressive, yet their own personalities were old-fashioned and regressive.  I had a few close friends at School, not many, but I was never able to forge the close bonds, that successful friendships demand in order to sustain longevity!

    When I left home and went to University, initially one followed by example.  After all we are the sum of our own experiences. The first few months living in a large shared house was difficult.  I had never lived in such circumstances, so initially shut myself away, adopting those insular traits, so popular with my parents.  All the time, I desired the company of others, but due to my awkward personality, I preferred to 'do nothing'

    This situation changed rapidly.  You can't live in a shared house and not forge friendships.  After six months my true self had come out.  I was outgoing, forward, inquisitive and in every respect an extrovert.  I discovered university life to its fullest. To be perfectly honest, at a time when I should have been working hard and studying, I was concentrating on forging friendships.  It was more important to me, since I spent my whole childhood in the main without them.  When I look back now I realise how much better I could have done at University, if only my childhood experiences had been different.  I laid a lot of blame on my parents and sadly that still remains the case.  I do not forgive easily.

    My view of friendships is very different to those of other people.  Immediately there is a clash of interests and that really sets the scene for the rest of my life, up until now.

    If I asked you to define friendship, what would you say?  Mutual understanding? Someone to go drinking with?  Someone you say Hi to now and again? Or something else?  Let me tell you my view:

    'Friends should have a common bond, listen to everyone's opinions, questions each other, offer advice, argue and forgive, accepts each other's faults and expects loyalty in times of adversity and grows stronger every day.'

    I am a person who likes to give, I always have been.  It's not about buying friendships, it's about seeing joy in others, when you take just a little time to insure happiness for someone else.  In all honesty I have very little to give.  I don't have much money and until recently not a lot of time, but what I have I will always give without condition.  I have lent money to friends in the past, for obvious reasons, this caused many arguments and loss.  I no longer lend, I give, I do not expect money back. If one takes the expectation of return away, then closer bonds will be formed and ultimately it rubs off on them.  Now in reality that isn't what happens at all.  Sometimes I live in this 'flowers and hearts' kind of world, where everyone is good, love is perfect and friends have the same thoughts and feelings as me.  

    I still make the same mistakes and invite people into my life without condition. I do the complete opposite to my parents.  My door is open, and I am welcoming and giving.  I expect nothing, deep down expect something and get hurt very easily.  It's an ongoing cause of anguish that people are not what I expected, in fact nothing could be further from the truth.  Here lies the story of my life!

    I am going to use the last year as an example, as this is the period causing the most problems in my life now and really is an example I should use, look back to and remember in order to change, progress and heal.

    My parental family rejected me, without reservation, bluntly and clearly when I was in Hospital during a suicide attempt. The bonds between these people and me had grown further apart for many years.  I went through therapy  in order to find possible causes, episodes and triggers that may have been responsible for my current mental health state.  Apart from the obvious  genetic implications, it was obvious that my family were the main cause for my current position.  For that reason I chose to distance myself, but was always afraid of closure.  When they issued their final rejection, loud and clear, it became easy to forget and move on.  At this point friends really became my family and probably my expectations became even higher, without even knowing it.

    The people I was mixing with over the last year were very clever people.  I have never known such a group of manipulative, grotesque and hurtful people in all my life. During my early years on The Southampton gay scene, the word 'FAMILY' was used often, we were a community of people with the same interests and outlook.  Many of us had no family, mainly through rejection, and we really did look out for one another. It was a fantastic time to be gay, even if the discrimination was huge.  The fact we suffered such prejudice bought us closer together, forming lasting bonds and friendships through adversity and common interest.  The last crop of gays to use the 'FAMILY' word were nothing but.  The only reason they aspired to use a word, that for me is so important was to gain from people; It is my vulnerability, and they knew it;  after all we had spent a lot of time together.  They knew my weaknesses more than me and preyed on them, like a petulant child cries to receive chocolate.  I had money removed from my bank account when I was ill, I FORGAVE!  I was put in intolerable positions with dubious characters, I FORGAVE!  I offered free board and lodging, I WAS USED!  I was attacked verbally and physically, online and in person! I ACCEPTED! I was made to believe the low lives were really victims, I BELIEVED! Most of all, I was told I was to blame for all of these things, I DOUBTED MYSELF!

    The last year was the worst of my life, In living memory.  The only reason I am here writing this now and not six foot under is because I had that Bipolar relapse.  Without it, I feel things would be very different.  Ultimately these people were removed from my life, because they had to be.  Not through choice,  I had no choice.  That scares me, because, I still haven't learnt from that.  Something that is forced is never ideal, it is a sticking plaster.  The only cure for my failures is to meet genuinely real and caring people.

    I have hope that I am now beginning to see who the good guys are.  When I had the relapse, I lost most people in my life. Those I thought would be there, were not, but as a chink of light breaks through closed curtains, that is changing.  I have received some of the most heart-warming messages, from people who I would have never expected it from.

    I want to include this last message of support I received from a friend, who I only know from a close friendship I had with her brother.  It did make me cry last night, just because she did not have to send it, she was not from my close circle of mates and that is what made it special and gives me the strength to keep battling on.  There are people that care, and that warms my heart, especially now!
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    I have had other messages of support, equally relevant, from some people who have really amazed me.

    Finally, I would like to mention Natalee.  I have only known this girl for a few months; She is a true battler in every sense of the word.  She has paid her way through University, held down four jobs and has a heart of gold.  She has been there throughout my relapse, without exception, cooked when I hadn't eaten, saw the Mania at its worse, stayed and chatted for days and most importantly she has told me how it is; no patronising, no false hope, no crap, just the truth.  Natalee has this ability, at such a young age to help others at desperate times.  Everyone needs someone like Natalee, I was just lucky to be introduced to her.

    So it's not all doom and gloom, there is hope.  Friendships come and go, I will do anything for those I love.  I need to put my guard up more, but above all I am not shallow.  I will not give up on friendships because of stupid arguments or misunderstood actions.  I am also not afraid to offload those who are bad for me.  A lesson learnt and a very important message for the future!

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    A Passion For Writing

    I have  always had a passion for writing, ever since I was a kid.  From an early age I would write my thoughts down on paper. I would always write my dreams down and had a pad by the side of my bed.  Generally I would wake up after dreaming, like clock work, pre-programmed if you will and scribble away into the early hours, writing thoughts and visions down.  I was a firm believer in the power of dreams and still believe they have great meaning for those who receive them!

    I have always written. As a child I kept a diary and wrote everything down religiously.  I would always refer back to it,  trying to find answers to problems, plans for the future, thoughts and ideas.  It helped tremendously as a child and It has also helped me today, come to terms with life and my current condition.  When I look back at diaries from the 1980s I can see the signs of illness and discover the reasons behind my abilities, inabilities and my future direction.  It is great therapy and a great source of comfort.

    I began writing short stories in my early teens.  This was a difficult time for me, both sexually and socially. I found comfort in writing and was able to express myself in a way, that I hadn't before. Stories with characters based on those I went to school with. A fantasy world, where I was someone completely different, not the person I was becoming.  The stories were funny, engaging, aspirational and helped me enjoy the worst years, confusing times, inappropriate weeks and upsetting periods of my life.

    I continued to write, even at the worst times; rather than stories I wrote poetry.  They were shorter, more expressive, took less time and allowed me to express life differently.  I could write a poem off the top of my head and still have grammatically correct punctuation.  That was just the start - when I entered a different world I could write in a way that I had never written before.  The words flowed from my fingers easily and without hesitation.  My imagination ran wild with ideas, comedy, reality and truth, as never before. I suppose drinking or medication and mania also opens ones mind to new concepts and thoughts never before explored and I like it.

    I had my first piece of poetry published in the 1980s.  It was called 'Grandma and me.' It was a deeply personal portrait of a special time with a Grandmother, who  I loved deeply. She sadly died recently, without having seen me, her first grandchild, for fifteen years.  I loved her immensely, but felt unable to be a part of her life after a lifetime suffering with mental illness and the awkwardness surrounding my sexuality. I miss her every day.  I miss her purple rinse, her fantastic conversation, snowballs, my first cigarette and fish and chips at lunchtime, from school.  That poem will remain my everlasting memory of a true lady, who I believe now was also Bipolar.  She was the life and soul, perfectly manicured and the only completely loving woman in my life.  In reality my direction, as different as it was, got in the way of a final chapter of our life together as Grandmother and Grandson.  I often cry about this. I am just glad I have the fond memories!

    In the late 1990s I was asked to write an article for a newspaper, in support for lowering the age of consent, to equal that of straight people.  This was a subject close to my heart.  I didn't have to think twice.  I spent a lifetime fighting for recognition of my sexuality and this meant so much to me.  It would allow me to put right all the wrongs I had suffered, through the legalities of Government, prejudice of others and above all Section 28.  That awful law that made it impossible for me to talk about my sexuality and ask for advice at a time when I was struggling to come to terms with being gay!
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    The response from members of the public was tremendous.  Of the feedback I received, around eighty percent was positive.  It vindicated me as a gay man, my relationship and the right that everyone should be equal.  For me it was a big achievement, a dream fulfilled, that gay people would finally be seen as normal, ordinary and not people to be avoided or abused.  If you were gay during that 'Section 28' time, you will fully understand the anguish and helplessness many of us felt.  They were terrible years, but I could make my voice heard.  People would listen and change would finally happen.

    Social networking offered the biggest change for me.  I am an avid Social Networker. Finally, a medium that would appreciate someone who loves to write and express oneself.  Fantastic, I could promote myself to a wider audience and get my message across, both about  Bipolar, sexuality and a passion for writing.  Well that's not exactly how it works.  People don't like reality hitting them in the face.  They don't want to hear about the harshness of life.  They would rather hear about banal trivialities, what Ben had for dinner or what the weather is like.  I was always ridiculed for writing the truth and people refused to accept my writing and the feelings behind it.  A few did. I wrote some small pieces for Gay Times, a dating site and work related publications, but sadly as a rule people found the things I wrote as hard and upsetting!

    I make no apologies for the truths I write, the words I use and the language promoted. All these things are an expression of oneself, and they remain an important part of who I am.  Being prevented from putting pen to paper, keyboard to screen or hand to phone, in a truthful, expressive and personal way, would return us to the days of repression and discrimination.  As a person, one should be allowed to write whatever one likes, without reservation or fear of persecution.  The only people who should judge a writer are those who read what is written.  

    So here I am today  writing a blog about Bipolar, because I was hounded off facebook for my constant updates, colourful writing and honesty.  Social networking has become another insignificant way of writing uninteresting, boring tripe, that no one is really interested in.  I want to hear about the harsh realities, hilarious situations, broken promises and controversial statements that relate to all of us.  Not drivel, forgotten at the breakfast table!

    If you write, be honest and true to yourself.  Ignore those who complain and above all keep writing no matter what.  You never know who's reading.  It may well be the answer to all your problems!
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    Our Failing NHS

    It's only when you become ill, that you notice the state of The National Health Service, today in Britain; boy, what a state this National Institution is in!  Mental Health seems to be the poor relation, when it comes to allocation of resources. It is the biggest health problem today and yet the funds to provide even a basic service don't exist. While our taxes still pay for cosmetic surgery to remove tattoo's for example, Mental Health Care budgets have been slashed; this is not acceptable. The Government need to seriously, radically and properly rethink The NHS, from administration, waiting lists and especially the standard of care offered!

    As I am frequently told, Bipolar is a chronic illness, requiring constant monitoring and a lifetime of care, support and medication.  The most crucial aspect is time.  If a quick diagnosis is not given, it can literally mean a choice between life and death.

    Eight months ago I gave up medication.  It had been failing for sometime.  I tried to take my own life, because the powers that be  offered no immediate help.  Another waiting list for someone who did not have the luxury of waiting.  The mental anguish and yes the physical pain involved in failing drugs was intense.  Many people with Manic Depression consider taking their own life and a high percentage succeed. Fast, effective diagnosis and a new, more suitable medication regime is crucial in preventing a relapse, harm and much, much worse.   Lives are lost every day because of inadequate services, unacceptable diagnosis, unskilled staff and incompetence!

    Over Easter, I had a complete relapse.  Once again I attempted to kill myself.  My partner phoned The Police, who turned up immediately.  I was arrested for my own safety and that of my partners.  Thank God he phoned, or I would not be here today. He feels guilty every day, which is wrong.  With no secure Hospital accommodation available, lack of beds and ignorance, I was put in a cell.  The Police were truly marvellous.  The Duty Officer admitted I should not be there, but they were picking up the pieces of a broken system, that regards Police Cells as a suitable alternative to a Hospital bed.  I just about understood the seriousness of the situation and was just grateful they had taken me in.  Mania is dangerous, life is precious.

    I was led from the cells in the morning to a room, where four Mental Health professionals were waiting. After assessment, they could not section me under the Mental Health Act, because there were no beds.  I tried to section myself, to no avail. Quite simply I agreed a plan with them in writing.  Darrell picked me up and was charged with my care and the administration of medication, and we were taken to the local GP surgery.  At that stage I was dangerously manic; my Doctor recognised how serious the situation was.  I was in severe physical pain, and he tried to get me into a psychiatric centre that day.  It wasn't quite that straight forward,  I was told to go home and wait for a call to admit me.  I was left in the care of my partner and a friend, Natalee.  I'm not sure how bad I was, but I believe it was upsetting for those who were there.  After three hours of calls, no psychiatric appointment was given due to a shortage of staff.  Darrell rushed back to the surgery to obtain sedatives as a temporary measure to prevent any further harm over the Easter period.

    They prescribed a high dosage of the very pills that failed me eight months ago.  I don't really remember Easter.  Darrell physically cried when I took that first dosage again.  It was something I had fought against, battled to avoid and just could not face. Within half an hour I was gone.

    Long after Easter I eventually managed to see a consultant.  She believed I also had undiagnosed ADD.  She would send a fax to the surgery to obtain another diagnosis. Yet another GP appointment and my notes had gone missing.  How the hell can they mislay a fax.  You have to bear in mind that this was three weeks later.  My temporary sedation was becoming permanent.  Darrell lost his temper.  By this time the meds were failing, I was, as I am today sinking into frightening lows and all they could offer was more of the same.  Officially now Darrell is my carer.  A bit power crazed, he demanded an immediate referral, which she agreed to do there and then.  About an hour after we left I received a call.  There would be an appointment letter in the post, but waiting times are long.

    This is an extremely disturbing time.  My health is at risk, I need to get back to work and my depression is getting darker and darker.  I can't wait.  I will be dead if I don't.

    We have taken the decision to go private.  My work, insurance and commitment from others, not the NHS, will pay for a private assessment.  I don't care how much it costs, I have no option.

    What a sorry state our bloody NHS is in.  I can afford to pay, I shouldn't have too, but my future is important.  I see no future without this course of action.  Yes I am desperate for answers, without them I can not move forward; here's hoping!
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    Relationship Part II

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    Australia 1995


    Flying to Perth, Australia was an experience.  The flight itself was ok, long but ok! Flying British Airways was a bonus and for me, it was an expensive experience.  I had flown in the past, but never this long.  I remember when we landed at Perth International, the feeling of complete freedom on leaving the plane, into the strange new Country.  It immediately felt different.  The sounds and scenery were a joy, compared to the Urban sprawl of Southampton!

    I had many expectations about Australia, having many preconceived views, thoughts and hopes that were at stake.  I knew very little about the place, least of all Perth.  I guess Perth is one of the least known City's in Australia, so in reality, I didn't know what to expect!

    We literally arrived homeless.  The last  Darrell's friends and family knew, he was going out with a completely different person.  Someone who was and still is a great source of support.  I didn't know anyone, but was welcomed with open arms, by his friend Beth.  She took us both in at a crucial time for our relationship.  She picked us up from the Airport, and we drove to her home, though empty highways, stunning views and streets with hardly any people.  This was certainly different!

    The road she lived on was literally just like the cul-de-sac in 'Neighbours'.  So different from The UK.  There was space, perfectly manicured gardens, all detached, just stunning.  The house was also large, no narrow corridors or  hall ways, just open and space.  I felt happy to be there!

    During those first few weeks we made plans.  'mad plans' as I call them.  We planned to fake my death, in order for me to stay in the Country.  Best laid plans of mice and men and manic Queens!  It all seemed perfectly reasonable, of course.  No reason it wouldn't work, right?  I met many of Darrell's friends, most of whom were amazing people.  There were one or two who were typically Australian, arrogant and stand-offish, even telling me, I should leave and let Darrell live his life.  Not the most welcoming of people, but I just got on with it!

    We decided to get our own flat.  I was on a short term Visa, but we were making long term plans.  I don't think at that stage we knew exactly the implications of staying together on an inappropriate visa and really were just hoping for the best, blocking it out or thinking positively.  Anyway we chose an apartment on Canning Highway, in Fremantle.  I loved Freo.  It was more colonial than Perth, situated on The Indian Ocean, friendly and in many respects quite British.  The flat was large and spacious, with lime green carpets throughout.  Not my choice, but I didn't really care, I was in love after all!  The kitchen was small and functional, built up on stilts.  I later found out this was to keep the cockroaches out of the cupboards.  Also, the place was infested with fleas, which we 'flea bombed' immediately.  We had an old TV and couch and crate for a table and very little else.

    For me, a collector of everything, the minimalist look was horrifying.  However, it was our first home together and has a special place in both our hearts.  I also became quite ill there, probably the first time, I remember real pain.  A sign of things to come perhaps!

    I had spent the year prior to our time in Australia involved in a fast, tiring, party lifestyle.  It had taken its toll.  I had severe neck and back pain and could barely move. My muscles had seized up, and I was taken to Fremantle Hospital, where I was prescribed medication for the pain.  Clearly a year of constant partying and abuse had taken its course!

    I spent the next few weeks laid up in bed watching Australian TV, which was a cross between old British telly, American rubbish and Kerri-Anne  Kennerely.... I loved Kerri- Anne.  A posh Australian with a talk show.  Perfectly coiffured hair and that upper class ozzie accent I so loved.  I watched SBS, all the foreign programmes and interestingly a British programme called 'Band of Gold'.  Great fond memories at a difficult time!

    We moved out of the apartment after about a month and moved in with a friend of Darrell's called Graham.  We lived in a suburb called Belmont in a modern Duplex unit; I loved living there.  Graham was also gay, and we were living with someone who I was at least very comfortable with.  We were broke, had no money but bloody happy.  In fact, I think we were at our happiest there.  I do remember getting ready to go out to Perth's Gay Club, The Court Hotel; apparently, Boy George went there once.  I had to use horse clippers to do my hair and was wearing hand me down clothes.  So different from the designer stuff I had back home.  I could not give a damn and remained happy until the end!

    As time passed, I became more and more homesick.  God knows why!  The lifestyle I had left was calling me back day after day, and I was missing the people I thought were friends!

    Then came the phone call.  That f*cking phone call from my ex partner.  I spoke to him on the phone, there was something wrong, then he came out with it.  He had been diagnosed with HIV, and I was responsible.  What a bombshell. What the f*ck was I supposed to do? Well I did what I had to do.  I rearranged my flight to leave Australia as soon as possible, without Darrell.  I felt empty, destroyed and scared, but I did the honourable thing.  

    Even the flight home was an omen.  I got on the plane to leave Australia and whilst  on route to take off, one of the engines caught fire.  I couldn't believe what I was witnessing.  We were removed, and taken back through customs, having left and returned to Oz twice in a day.  A replacement was found and I left later that evening.  I didn't know if Darrell would follow, I didn't know what to expect, I was homeless and sh*tting a brick.  Our relationship could have so easily ended at that point. Thank god it didn't!