I’m not dead, so let’s celebrate that!
By: Ross Francis
Tags: Queer, Trauma, LGBTQ, Recovery, Therapy

I’m not dead, so let’s celebrate that!

One week after my 24th birthday, I experienced what I can only compare to a breakdown. I was employed, living in a city I’d longed to move to for years, had wonderful friends, my skin was clear, and I’d just been to actual China (me!) to visit my best friend, yet I felt completely empty. There I was, sobbing in a coffee shop at 9.30am on a Sunday morning, before a shift, telling someone – a brother to me – who I’d just spent two months living with that I had nothing left in me and couldn’t face going on like I was. I felt no strength in my bones and no fight in my heart. I was sad and isolated, despite being surrounded by love and doing my best.

I don’t remember a lot about my childhood or teenage years. I spent the end of my teens slowly learning to love myself, trying to rid myself of the shame I had felt since I was a very small child. I’ve been lying since I was six years old, the age I can first remember being explicitly called out for the way I am. I’ve lied since then to prevent my family from worrying, to preserve the few bubbles in my life where I felt safe, to appear strong, and to live optimistically in hope there would be an end to any misery. It was the only way for me to survive while being made to feel worthless and wrong every single day for eleven years. However, this well-practiced, unflinching guard only made it all too easy for me to suffer in silence again as an adult, after my long-awaited happiness and confidence were swiftly stolen by a man who raped me in 2017.

I believe I turned to writing when I was younger because claiming words was a source of power and manifestation. I stepped into my identity by connecting myself to words I learned, not from being yelled at me but instead, from people like me and our history.

I found myself in words long before I found myself in the world. – Otamere Guobadia

I also write because I have spent a lifetime feeling unable to verbalise my experiences in fear of rejection and mockery. This heavy attachment between words and my person is the reason why I refused to ever type the word rape, never mind uttering its four letters together. I couldn’t bear to let it be a part of my story, to let another attack become part of what defines me and how others perceive me after finally getting to a place where I felt comfortable in myself. So – plot twist! – I never told anyone, and simply pretended nothing had ever happened.

I wasn’t able to ignore this incident for as long as I’d hoped, though. Four moves, six jobs and one Masters in two years was evidently manic (how did I even do that?) but still not enough to make me forget. Instead (and rather funnily) once things eventually calmed and I felt settled, the sweet spell of unresolved trauma cast itself upon my everyday and made sure it wouldn’t be ignored any longer. I waited six months in total for therapy, and watched the entire country go into lockdown two days after my initial assessment, but it was a necessary lifeline in hopeless times even though it sometimes felt the day would never come. Put simply, therapy saved my life. It transformed how I see myself, and allowed me to accept the past 24 years for what they are. Since my first session, I have let the people around me into my life, wrote a letter to my lovely parents (previously on 90210 vibes), and feel more comfortable in my skin.

I have never really seen a future for myself, nor have I appreciated what I have done so far, until this year. I remember reading something about 24 being a transformative age because of some reasons to do with planets I can’t now remember, and hoping I’d either come into money or bump into Kris Jenner, but what’s happened has been much more special. It’s tricky to talk about yourself without appearing dangerously narcissistic (or, in my case here, like a hippy dippy astrology girl) but I am really only sharing this to let go. I am tired of being haunted by my 21-year-old body. I am tired of feeling dirty because of memories nearly two decades old, because – ultimately – I’m the only one who can live this life, y’know?

This year my best friend was told she was living in a coffin. What the person meant by that was she was living for each day without a care in the world for what came next, if anything. We both realised living by the old ‘well I could die tomorrow, so…’ motto was quite indicative of how much we valued ourselves and our lives.

The past six months I have seen what’s possible for me. I’ve been willing to let love in and looked at my reflection with more hope and respect. So, this birthday I am considerably less scared about whatever is coming next… even if my acne has come back to remind me you can’t ever have it all (shoutout to my cystic sisters!). This isn’t a grand statement about trauma or mental illness, nor is it about blame. Truth is, I’ve never been short of love but the shame and embarrassment around ever appearing weak or vulnerable crushed my spirit until it was broken anyway.

If there is any message, it’s only to give yourself the chance you deserve, even if you feel hopeless. You don’t owe anything to anybody but you! I did it for lil’ Ross, who’s living now.

When Adele was 25, she already yearned for her youth, which I do not relate to. When P!nk woke up on her 25th birthday, she wrote the (underrated classic!) song I’m Not Dead, which is much more my vibe. Luckily, though, I feel more grounded than her floating. I don’t know what I’ll write at 25 but I hope it’s something special, soaked in the sun, only looking forward.

💕 Keep it cute, don’t be a dick, wear the skirt, and stream Faster Kill Pussycat by (the queen) Brittany Murphy for my birthday since we’re stuck in tiered life and you can’t order a pint to my table in spoons (pre-boycott) anymore.

🦋 Here’s to the next 25 🦋