I've ruined my life...

I have always loved kids. I love being around them, listening to them and reading stories with them. I love to take care of them and how funny they are. My fiancee Davina has ten nieces and nephews who I absolutely love being around. They make me laugh so much and bring so much joy into my life. I've adopted them as my own. I always wanted to be a mum from quite a young age but obviously at a time that I knew was going to be right for both me and my child. I was the nurturing type of kid and always wanted to help people. I never imagined I'd find myself in such a terrible situation. I was rebellious as a teenager. I smoked and drank alcohol at every opportunity I got, I did things with boys that made me feel dirty. I did it all to fit in and because I wanted to be loved. Acknowledged. Appreciated even. I never thought it would land me in trouble.
My first real sexual experience was with a boy I met on holiday when I was fourteen. My Aunt had a caravan on a holiday site in Yorkshire so my grandparents had taken me away for a break. I was smoking by this age and had already managed to blag cigarettes off the local shop keeper by swearing that I was old enough to get them. I used to run down to the beach which was only a few yards from the park and sit on the beach and smoke one after the other. I figured the more I smoked in this short space of time the less likely I was going to crave later on as there was only so many opportunities to sneak away. Of course, it made me as sick as a dog. Throwing up and coughing all over the beach because I'd just smoked ten cigarettes in one go.
One morning, I managed to sneak off for a walk and as I marched my way across the beach to my usual smoking spot, a boy approached me. He was taller than me. Striking blue eyes, Soft dark hair. There was a cold wind in the air yet he stood in front of me only in a t.shirt and shorts. His skin covered in goosebumps. I remember asking him why he didn't have a jumper on. "I don't feel the cold" was his answer. He walked me along the beach. I could feel him looking at me. I looked into his eyes and gave a cocky smile. I took his hand and led him to a quite spot on the beach surrounded my rocks. I don't know why I did this. I knew what was going to happen and I wasn't scared. I wanted it. I wanted to have sex with the boy and now. I kissed him and before I knew it I was butt naked on the sand having sex with some guy I didn't even know. I barely caught his name. It was over pretty fast. Was nothing particularly special. I basically got up, put my clothes on and lit a cigarette. He walked me back down the beach to the road up to the park. We never said a word. I went my way and he went his and I never saw him again.
seven weeks after I came home, I felt wrong. I didn't feel myself and Id missed a period. My periods were a little erratic at this age. I hadn't long started my periods, only the year before so I put the missed period down to that. The thought of being pregnant couldn't have been further from my mind. "It must be stresses too", I thought. I put it down to prelim exam stress and mum being in hospital only a few months before. It was only when I started throwing up all over the place, at all times of the day did I realize something was desperately wrong. What if I'm pregnant? It was only the once I kept saying. I would have been perfectly happy to have a baby if it weren't for the horrific thought of telling my parents their daughter is knocked up. That she's had sex. I put myself out my misery and made an appointment at the local family planning clinic to get a pregnancy test. I never had any money and I was hardly going to ask my mum to fund it. I remember waiting nervously in the waiting room, terrified of the results that awaited me. Could I be pregnant? But it was only one time, I kept repeating. I was called into the tiny white room and was told the news I was dreading "Your pregnancy test was positive, Louise. You're pregnant". I felt the floor fall beneath me. I felt woozy. What the fuck was I going to do? This was going to destroy my mum.
 I was too scared to tell my mum or anyone close to me so I confided in my Guidance teacher at School. I remember the day I was going to tell her, knowing full well of the aftermath that lay ahead. I put on my school uniform and put my hair in a ponytail and I stood in front of my mirror and held my stomach in my hands. I was terrified. I'd made the mistake of having sex without protection and now I was paying for it. I knew I wanted to keep it. Nothing was going to keep me away from my baby now that I'd got used to the idea. I could feel it growing inside me. It needed me and I knew I could provide for it. Love was surely enough to get us through.
I made my way to my guidance teachers room to tell her the awful secret I'd been harbouring. We sat in chairs facing each other and I told her I had something I had to tell her but I was too scared to speak it. I asked if I could write it down for her to read and she left me alone for a moment. I grabbed the paper and pencil and scribbled "I'm pregnant". She came back in, quickly looked at it and sighed. She had already thought this was perhaps what she would hear. She took me straight round to my head of year who sat with myself and my guidance teacher asking me all kinds of questions. Does your mother know? How far along are you? When was this? Who with?
They called my mum and told her over the phone that I was pregnant and that they were driving me home to speak with her. I wanted to run away. I wanted to run straight out the office door and live in the run or something. Find a new family. My family were never going to accept this.
The car journey home was awful. I felt so guilty and ashamed. My dad was going to kill me. It was the worst possible thing that could happen to me. When we walked in my mum's front door she was crying. Saying over and over, "How could you do this? You're pregnant? Great! You're fourteen years old Louise! What's your dad going to say?!"  I sat on our ancient dusty sofa with my head hung low. I couldn't look at her. I had shamed her. How would she tell my grandparents? They'd surely disown us.
I begged my mum not to tell my dad. I knew she would have to eventually but I needed time for it to sink in and for me to grasp the concept of my dad beating me to within an inch of my life.
"He's your dad, Louise. I have to tell him". As I lay in bed that night, I prayed to god that I wouldn't hear the shouting and arguing as my mum broke the news of my pregnancy. I asked my mum the next morning if she told him. She had. I ran up to my room and burst in to tears. What was I going to do? I'll have to leave home and life somewhere else. Foster care. My baby will be taken off me and Ill end up on the streets. I'd always had a vivid imagination but I couldn't help but fear the worst. I lay on my bed, holding my stomach and watched the clock strike 5pm. He would be home any minute.
I could hear the car drive into the street. It was a Volvo, the only car he'll ever drive because he says "They are the safest cars on the road by none". My stomach lurched. I closed my eyes as I heard the key in the door. I knew he would be coming up to scream and ball at his slut of a daughter. Who got herself pregnant at fourteen.
Sure enough, I heard the footsteps on the stairs. I jumped up from the bed and pulled the covers back and dived back in. I pulled them tightly around my face and turned to look at the wall. I didn't want to look at him. See the anger and shame in his eyes. I just prayed for peace.
He opened my door and there was silence. "Who is he?" He asked. "I don't know" I said "No one you know".
"You are fourteen years old, Louise. I don't want this under my roof". He exclaimed.
"Well, I want to keep it. It's mine. I'm sorry Dad". I began to sob. He left my room. I knew he was angry and he didn't want me in the house. I hoped my mum would fight for me and look after me. I didn't want to leave my home.  I heard my parents argue that night. My dad screaming that I was disgusting and my mum screaming back that I was her daughter and she was going to protect me. I've never felt so truly awful than when I did that night. Hearing your so called parent say the nastiest things about you. I don't think my relationship with my dad has completely recovered from that.
My mum told me the following morning that she had calmed him down and that they would just deal with things as they come. I took at deep breath as though this was the very beginning of my decent into motherhood. I could get on with my pregnancy without worrying about my parents. I could start thinking about what to do with my room and how to accommodate a baby. I would rub my belly every night and talk to my unborn baby. A week or so later I was in to see the doctor who examined me, in front of my mum which was the most humiliating thing ever. She felt around my abdomen and asked me if I knew the date of my last period which I told her.
She told me to sit back down on the chair and she brought out a calendar to determine my due date.
"I'd say you are around nine to ten weeks pregnant and I'm putting your date of delivery at around May 18th". I was ecstatic. It felt so real. I was going to be a mum. So what if I'll only be fifteen when it's born? I'm going to be the best mum in the world and nothing would get in my way.
At the same time as finding out about this joyous news, My Aunt was over from Australia. My mum kept asking me to tell her but I would beg her not to. I feel so common around the rest of my family. They have all got good jobs, went to university, got married before they had kids and here I was. Their fifteen year old niece has screwed some random bloke and got herself pregnant. With no money and no prospects. I couldn't have more people looking down on me, snubbing me. Disowning me. I was so terrified of them finding out and I knew they would sooner or later.
A week or so later I finally got my appointment through the post for my hospital scan at the maternity day assessment unit at the local hospital. I kept imagining to myself what it would be like to see my tiny little baby up on the screen. It's little heart beating. Would I be able to make out a baby on the screen or something that looked like a baked bean. I kept busy for the few days leading up to the appointment. I was going to school, something I hardly ever did, and was keeping up with chores and homework. I was getting a little bit of pain in my stomach but put it down to eating too much or really needing to fart. When I woke up the next morning I noticed blood spots in my underwear. My heart skipped a beat. I knew what blood in your pants meant when you were pregnant. I tried to stay calm and went to the bathroom to get a pad. I spotted a little more after that but after a day it all stopped. I thought maybe it was some kind of period. I'd heard somewhere that women sometimes get periods when they were pregnant. I stopped worrying and looked forward to the impending scan.
My mum came with me. I didn't really want her to though. I was going to feel so uncomfortable with my disapproving mother looking on. I was already worrying about what the Sonographer was thinking. "Another lazy teen mum. Poor kid". We sat in the waiting room for a few minutes, waiting to be called. The place was empty. Hardly a soul there. It made me feel uneasy. I don't quite know why. When my name was called I asked mum to wait outside. She demanded she was coming in.
"You are my daughter and I want to be here!". She said under her breath. I sat up on the bed and a very nice  woman introduced herself. "Hi, Louise. I'm Sandra. Could you pull your top up to just under your bra and pull your trousers down to your pubic bone for me please?". I was feeling nervous. Like butterflies floating around in my stomach. Mum was watching. I wanted the ground to swallow me up. It had finally hit me across the face that I was a teenage mother. I was having a baby.
"Now, I'm just going to put some gel on your stomach. It's quite cold." Sandra said. With that, she squirted a giant dollop of clear gel onto my belly and began working the scanner across it. I lay back with my arm under my head, staring at the screen, waiting for that devine moment when I see my child for the first time.
"I'm having trouble locating a heartbeat. I can't see the foetus." She said worryingly. "Have you had any type of pain, bleeding. Anything unusual?". I thought back to the pains in my stomach that I'd mistaken for gas or eating too much. The blood. Why didn't it click with the blood!? I should have known to tell someone, my mum, that I was bleeding. Have I killed my baby?

So you're getting married?....

Telling my Gran I was getting married to a woman was going to be the biggest mountain I'd ever conquered. My grandparents are strong Irish Catholics, and this wasn't going to go down too well but in saying that, My gran has been remarkable in the way she's handled my sexuality. My Grandad would never know the truth though. He's too set in his ways and at the age of 92 and completely blind, I think he still thinks he's living in the 1950's, with it's strict morals and typical masculine domination. He would never understand or accept it. ever. I was a sinner committing a terrible sin. My Nan has always been the more compassionate one. She's my rock. Always understanding, so I knew I had to tell her I was Gay. She wasn't best pleased at first. I can't blame her. I told her on Easter Sunday 2010. We were all incredibly drunk and I pulled my gran into the dining room and told her I was gay. I told her how I hated men and the thought of intimacy with them made my skin crawl and the fact that I'd fell in love with an amazing woman. Who made me feel special, loved and cared for. She gave me a disapproving look and told me she could never accept it. I was hurt but I had to understand where she was coming from. I respected her beliefs and her religion for she was brought up with it. Nothing would change her mind.
The day after that conversation, I rang my Nan. The tone of her voice said it all. She was disgusted. She hardly said two words to me. We usually have a very close relationship but this phone call made everything change. It was different. I felt sick and nervous. The last thing I wanted was for us not to be talking. I couldn't handle that. I loved her so much and she had a huge part in my growing up. A second mother really. I put it to the back of my mind and swore to myself I was going to behave as normal, laughing and joking and prove to her that although my sexuality is somewhat different to what she would expect, I am still the same sill, funny girl that loves to be around her grandparents. It took a long time for her to fully accept me for who I am and to respect my partner. It's taken time and gentle conversations to help her to feel more comfortable about it. It was only been in the last two years that she has fully understood how much I need Davina. My Nan understands the support and love she brings to me, that she is my best friend and someone I want to share everything with. When my Nan took a bad fall in March 2012, I think it made her realize how short life is. That you could face it tomorrow or the day after and never have the chance to make amends with someone. She now talks to me and Davina as a couple. She laughs about the silly things we do at home or if she says something like "Do the cats sleep in with you's?", meaning together (with you both) not realizing that my Grandad is sitting at the other side of the room. She'd laugh so hard then change it to "In with youuuu, Louise"! My Nan is finally happy for me and she knows I have a loving person by my side each day.
She has grown to love Davina and appreciates the fact we don't rub our sexuality in her face. She respects us now for entirely what we are. Two loving people who care about each other very much and who only want the best for each other. It's now got to the point that she laughs about the fact my surname will be changed and who I'm inviting to the wedding! As much as my Nan loves me, She has a strong catholic belief that she has lived with for 92 years. She will never come to our wedding, but gives us her blessing. That is enough for me. I respect my Gran far too much and I am so thankful that she respects me for who I am. Even if my Grandad is completely in the dark! I have never ever mentioned a boyfriend to my Grandad. He has never known me to "Court" anyone in my whole adult life. He must think I'm some kind of celibate spinster. If only he knew the truth. Part of me deep down thinks that he does already...

Check the state of her...

I was brought up in a very loving household. Yes, we had our ups and downs but my mum insured that we were given a balance of culture and creativity and expressed ourselves artistically and musically. She also made sure that we knew the difference between right and wrong and to accept people for who they were, whether they were rich, poor, of different race or disability. We never judged anyone.

I loved primary school. I loved everything about it. I had loads of friends, went to heaps of sleepovers and revelled in my childhood. I was nervous about starting Secondary School as I knew that kids were crueler there but it never bothered me overall. I was heading to Secondary school with all the kids I had grew up with, shared birthdays and stories with. I'll be safe and happy and I'll get on with my education. I couldn't have been more wrong.

My parents didn't have alot of money so for the majority of the time, we had to make do with second hand clothes or cheaper clothes and shoes from budget shops, which was fine in primary school but moving onto Secondary school where everyone wore Ben Sherman shirts and Adidas trainers, girls with their perfectly straightened hair and delicately applied make up, There was no way I was going to get away with my fashion faux pas unnoticed. Everything went well in my first two years. I made new friends and enjoyed my new classes. I occasionally got the odd disgusted look or sneer but I rose above it. I was unfortunate to have both frizzy hair and multicoloured glasses, making me look like a complete nutter but I was happy and I respected my parents for trying their best.
As I progressed into third year, things started to change. I began to notice my peers more. How they behaved, how they dressed and what cool accessories they adorned. The more I came to school in my noticeably cheap clothing, the more sneery remarks I got. The comments grew uglier and I began shying away even more. I would get called things like "specky", "Fatty" and constantly be told nobody would ever "ride" me or "get off" with me. I begged my mum to help me fit in more.

By the time I was fourteen, my mum had put herself through her highers as a mature student and gained herself an HNC in Social Sciences, of which, I was immensely proud of. My mum had suppressed her disability enough to add more substance to her life and do something just for her. Although she wasn't working and still in receipt of benefits, my dad was working and things were a lot brighter. The very first thing I asked my mum to get me was a Ben Sherman school shirt. All the popular girls in school where wearing them. Perfectly fitting, perfectly ironed, crisp white shirts. Compared to my "budget" shirts at £3.99 for two, A Ben Sherman shirt was the height of luxury with a price tag to go with it. Mums face looked ashen when I told her. She knew money was still tight but she weighed up the options and would rather her child escaped the dispair of bullying than worry about money. She ordered me two shirts. At twenty pounds each.

Soon I was slapping mum with a whole list of things I desperately needed. Hair straighteners being a must to tame my frizzy mop and designer trainers as that was what most people kicked about in. 
Although I was trying to alter my appearance to fit in with my peers, I was still the victim of bullying. One year in science class, a boy I had went to school with tried to set fire to my hair. He pulled out a lighter and put the flame to the end of ponytail. Luckly one of the girls in my class has extinguished it and all I was left with was singed ends. My head of year had taken me aside and basically gave me the option of expelling him permenently or suspending him for two weeks. I though extremely hard about the decision. I had the power to get rid of a bully, who gets off on causing misery to others. I felt something of importance for a split second. I had the power and I felt like a King.
 I asked for him to be suspended. I'd get bullied even more if I got one of "their" friends expelled and I couldn't risk that.
The moment I felt completely at my worst was when I got picked on by some girls I went to primary school with. I'd grown up with these girls. Shared parties with them, days out, sleepovers. I was being betrayed all because they thought it was cool to be a bully. It started out as the odd name calling and threatening behaviour but soon escalated into following me home from school, pinning me up against walls and waiting for me after classes. I was teased in class, spat on and even had someone spit in my cola can. My depression spiralled out of control to the point that I was begging my mum to keep me off school and she had no option but to let me stay at home. She didn't want some thugs hurting her baby. I never left the house when I wasn't at school. I was petrified of bumping into one of them. On the rare occasion when I went to the shopping centre, I would constantly be looking over my shoulder and would do whatever it was I was doing as quickly as possible so I could get back to the safe and secure place I called my bedroom. On one occasion I was beaten up outside the shopping centre. A girl I barely knew came up behind me and announced that I had been saying things behind her back and spreading rumours about her. I, of course, denied all knowledge of these rediculous claims. She smacked me across the face, pulling my hair so hard I was left with a small patch of hairless scalp, but the thing that hurt me more than the punches and slaps was my new top that she ripped. My mum had bought it for me the day before.
 Soom my self harming had reared its ugly head again and I began drinking in the streets and messing about with drugs to deal with the pain.
My best friend has just left school, having turned sixteen, and I was still stuck in the obscure, Intimidating confinement which made the whole situation ten times worse. The only thing the School could do for me was let me leave my classes ten minutes earlier in order to get to my next class without any confrontation. I was constantly on an attendance card, was always bumping off school and social workers were called in. By the time I was fifteen I was missing school for weeks at a time until the School came up with a solution. Having attended a local nursery for my work experience placement, they had arrange with the nursery to turn my work experience into a type of placement, two days a week and three days in school. To begin with, I was delighted. The school had came to a compromise with me and I could enjoy the experiences of working with children, something I'd always wanted to do.
Unfortunetly it didn't solve the problem of me being victimised. The bullies were still there on those three days and I was still being emotionally distroyed. After two months I'd had enough and I left school and my placement for good, two months before I turned sixteen.
I never wanted to be leave education but I was physically forced out of it. Nobody could help me and I resorted to the only option I had left before it permenently damaged me. I planned on staying on for the rest of my fifth year and sit my highers and advanced highers and I still to this day suffer with what happened all those years ago. I'm having to go back into education as an adult.
These people destroyed my life. They stole my education away from me. They took every ounce of self worth and confidence I had and robbed me of it. I didn't believe in myself anymore. I barely wanted to be me anymore. It's taken alot of courage and determination to overcome what happened to me. I am so luckly to be surrounded by good, honest people who have helped me on my road to recovery. Without all that, I could have easily taken my own life.

What's that on your arm?...

That one little question has a big impact on me every time I hear it ringing in my ears. What do I say? How would they react if they knew the truth? "I got scratched by the cat" was a common answer.

From the age of twelve I have self harmed. I can remember the first time I did it and what I used but not exactly why. All I know was that I was angry and upset and I made a few light scratches at the top of my knee. I still have the very faint scars to this day. My mum has suffered with Bi Polar Disorder since she was eighteen and from the day I was born until I was fourteen, She ended up in hospital every two years.
 I remember my parents had been arguing and I had obviously had enough of it. I went to the bathroom and grabbed a razor off the shelf and when to my room. I remember feeling a sense of calm when I'd finished, like everything was all better again. It took the pain of my mum being ill and my parents shouting away. I must have seen something on television that gave me the idea to do it but I have no idea what it was. I wasn't scared of doing it, but dying for a release from it all.

Anytime I found myself angry or depressed, I would always reach for that sharp object to take all the pain and discomfort away. I spent most of my teenage years being severely depressed and I quite often, at least once a day, take it out on myself. I would try my best to hide it under long sleeved shirts and tops and covering the scabs with make up. I didn't want anyone to know my little secret. I had a fear that nobody would understand. I'd be judged as a freak or an attention seeker and I couldn't cope with being even more of an outsider that I already was.
When I was involved in my first serious relationship with a woman in America, I continued it. I'd moved to Florida to be with her and I couldn't cope with the thought that I would have to go back to Scotland. I knew that our relationship was doomed from the start due to the problems we faced with visas and citizenship but I let my heart rule my head and put it on the back burner. Towards the end of my stays I'd quite often stay up late getting drunk and cutting myself because I wanted to numb the pain of facing up to losing her. The next day I would lie to her about how it happened, saying I brushed against the coffee table. I didn't want her to see I was breaking down and becoming a shadow of my former self. I loved her and wanted to do everything I could to protect her from it.

I would always regret what I had done. I'd quite often cry at the fact that my arm looked like a butchered piece of meat but I couldn't stop doing it. It wasn't a cry for help. Far from it. I had lost the ability to control my emotions and express my anger in a more productive way.

One previous girlfriend in particular took real offence to my scars. She looked at me like I was a nut job and I felt like one too. She said If I ever did it again, She wouldn't want to know me. I didn't understand how someone couldn't love me for who I was. It made my self confidence plummet and in the end I don't think she could handle it and our relationship dissolved. It took me a while to get over the fact that someone so close to me had judged me on the most sacred and intimate part of my life. I never thought I'd find someone who would see my scars as part of my life.

When I met my partner Davina in 2009, I was absolutely petrified of bringing my truth to light. After all the heartache I'd went through, I had to lay myself on the line and hope to god she accepted me for who I was. She did, thank god, and we've spent three glorious years together so far.
These days I'm not ashamed of my scars. I accept that people have questions and I will always answer honestly. They have became part of me like my tattoos are part of me. They're the story of my life and I haven't harmed myself in over three years. It's my biggest accomplishment.

Liberated...

It took me two years to really appreciate myself as a gay woman. In the space on two months I'd came out to my parents and travelled for 22 hours to live with my partner in Florida. Even though I was living my life as a gay woman in a same sex relationship, I couldn't help but feel left out of the "gay community". I wasn't associating or socialising with others, I wasn't spending my time surrounded by the people that felt most connected to, that I had the most in common with. It was only after my relationship broke up and I moved back to Scotland was I greeted by the true lifestyle I wished to lead. I started going out to gay bars and clubs, making new friends and discussing my thoughts and opinions with others. I am a proud feminist also and i actively discuss my thoughts on gay liberation and gay rights.

2009 has been an interesting year, a year of mistakes and learning and year for new adventures. I am fairly active in the gay community and 90% of my friends are gay. I felt Truly liberated when i came back home because it meant I was given an opportunity to be who i really am. I am very much a people person and I enjoy socialising on a regular basis, both with heterosexual and homosexual individuals. I am more stimulated in a gay environment because that's who i am. I live my life as a lesbian. I like to be surrounded my lesbians because that's what I know. I like discussing my life with my partner Davina, because we are a gay couple.

It's hard to broach the subject of gay marriage with heterosexuals. Their reactions differ and it can go 50/50. They could tell you to f**k off or they could be deeply interested in yours. You just don't know how they're going to react, pure and simple.

I look at it this way. A brain surgeon is invited to two different parties. One is for brain surgeons only the other is for people who work as bin men. What party is the brain surgeon most likely to go to? The party for Brain Surgeons of course. I am most likely to surround myself in homosexual company as that is who I am. I have nothing against heterosexuals, I like to talk about what I know best, what I practise and who i am.

Having met the people I now call my friends, I've been surrounded by their emotional tales, the stories of their lives. The heartache and the joys. A friend of mine is trying to adopt with her partner and that's the what life is all about. It shouldn't matter what your sexual orientation is. We are entitled to the same rights as everyone else: Marriage, children and a normal and happy life. It's time the world changed its views and let us live. To be honest, I don't care what everyone else's views are. I am truly liberated as a person and proud of who I am. I am proud to be a woman, a lesbian and I'm proud of the kind of person I am and the people who surround me. I am truly liberated.

Good girl gone bad...

I've never once doubted my sexuality. I think I knew from a very young age that I was different from all my friends. Especially when i started secondary school. While girls with lusting after the school "hotties", young, hot blooded boys, I couldn't stop thinking about how gorgeous Kate Winslet was and what it would be like to kiss her. Sure I liked boys, but only in the platonic sense. My room was decorated with pictures of Take That and Leonardo DiCaprio but i only lusted after them for their talents, singing and acting. Mainly my walls were full of pictures of Kate, her beautiful, full, wavy hair, her passionate lips. That's what took my fancy but i never dare tell anyone.
When you're a 14 year old girl, especially coming from Glasgow, the world and all your peers have expectations of you. Boy meets girl, girl loses her virginity down the local park, girl has baby and boy is never seen again. Something like that anyway. I had tried time after time to be like everyone else, kissing boys and having fun but deep down I knew it wasn't right for me. I didn't like boys and I was a bit unsure of why I felt this way and the more I thought of this, the more different I thought I was.

My first sexual experience with a girl was at a relatively young age. I guess curiosity got the better of us and we decided to experiment, only for me, my feelings towards her were very different from hers. She was my best friend, ever since we were three so who better to experiment with. It lasted 10 months and eventually fizzled out when she didn't want to do it anymore. I, of course was heartbroken. No more cuddles, no more affection...How was I to deal with this? Was it my first real love? A crush? Well, mum gave me some chocolate and that was the end of all that.

Girls, more often than not, or pressured into forming relationships with the opposite sex. There's too much pressure nowadays for young girls to have intercourse. I was no different. I'm not a "gold star" lesbian (a lesbian who has never had sex with a man). I felt the same pressures as an adolescent and eventually succumbed to the inevitable. I slept with boys. Not because I wanted to but because it was the "thing" to do. You get someone to jump in for alcohol and cigarettes, go down to the railway bridge, get messed up and have drunken sex. On the outside I'd be smiling, trying to make out that this was all great fun but inside I was screaming. I wanted to run away, cry, scrub myself clean. I felt dirty, ashamed and most of all, I didn't feel like me. No matter how much I felt this way, I continued to behave in this way until I was about 17.

I got into a lot of trouble when I was a teenager. I was caught shop lifting and cautioned by the police. I was constantly skipping school, getting drunk and wasted on whatever I could get my hands on. Taking cannabis, cocaine and Ecstasy on a Friday night was a regular weekly occurrence. I just didn't care. I'd abused myself by letting men touch me and on top of other family issues, I'd spiralled out of control.

The thought of coming out scared me. How am I going to deal with other people was the first thing that crossed my mind. People can be cruel. Name calling doesn't just happen in the playground. I was scared of being so different to everyone else and at the age of 19, That was my main concern. I was very naive and didn't know much about being gay, what it mean to be gay and I certainly didn't have any gay friends. I felt completely alone and no idea how i was going to handle this. It took me 2 years to find out.....

Exiting the wardrobe...

"Dad, Im in love with a woman and I'm moving to Florida". Those were the very words I used. I always thought of my dad being a bit judgmental. Stuck in his old ways with traditional opinions and values so telling my dad that I was gay seemed to be a daunting thing. The reaction I got took me very much by surprise. "What did you say?" He said. I repeated what I had first told him. "I'm in love with a woman and Im moving to Florida".

My dad looked at me and smiled. "This definite then?" He said. "Yes" I said as I calmly poured water from the kettle all over my toast.

"You're my daughter Louise. I'll love you no matter what decisions you make." Bob wasn't my real dad. He'd stepped in when I was three years old and got together with my mum. He was step dad to my brother Daniel and I and treated us like we were his own. "So you're gay then?" he said. "Yes dad. I like women, not men". He gave me a hug and said he was with me all the way if i needed him. And that was pretty much that. I thought that if anyone would be against this it would be him but i was delighted with how he reacted. It made my life feel alot less stressful.

Mum was easy. "As long as you're happy. It makes no difference to me babe". And that was that. I've been treated no differently by parents and have their full support and love. I am one of the lucky ones. I've met and known young people from across the UK that have had top deal with the traumatic aftermath of "Coming out". Young people being thrown out onto the streets, abandoned by their loved ones for loving the "wrong" gender. Women and men with no one to turn to as their lives turn into turmoil. In this day and age, the 21st century and with all the controversy that already exists in the world we live in, we are still being judged. What happen to the quote Live and let live"?