A wife’s perspective:“Please be kind, especially to my family”.

I also spoke about this on BBC World Service (skip to 9.44) https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/w172wrw0rb90mhw

 It’s this line from Philip Schofield’s statement to the press, which hit me like a battering ram to the gut. For in 2017, I myself was faced with the revelation that my husband of 8 years was in fact gay. Usually when a marriage ends it’s either a case of having simply grown a part and no blame is apportioned, or one of the parties has done something which all outsiders will meet with “what a bastard”. But with this, whilst the one who has come out is met with congratulations and admiration for bravery, being true to themselves, ‘now you can live the live you’ve always wanted’, their partner is met with the sad realisation that not only is much of their past ‘tainted’ (in as much as so many of those happy ‘romantic’ moments you remember, were not necessarily happy or romantic to your partner but a daily need to hide), the life they had wanted, and believed was theirs has gone.

While stories of coming out are often described like tales of re-birth, for those of us left behind it’s more akin to grief. If your partner leaves or dies, folk are quick to offer sympathy and usually you’ll know folk it’s happened to that can empathise and offer encouragement. Whilst, relationships ending due to one of the partners having hidden their sexuality and then revealing it, are a lot more common than the average person realises, it’s rarely spoken of so even if you do know someone else it’s happened to, it’s unlikely you’ll know about it. And if you are brave enough to talk about it, you’re greeted with a mixture of uncomfortable silence or commendation for your partner’s latter truthfulness.

Initially when I was told by my husband he was attracted to men (it was some month’s later he revealed he was gay rather than bi-sexual) I was relieved. For the past few months it had become clear that something was wrong, and when he said we needed to talk, his demeanour led me to believe I was about to be told he’d committed adultery. To my knowledge at that point, he hadn’t. I even thanked him for confiding in me. He looked me square in the eye and swore blind he still loved me and wanted very much for me to still be his wife. For the next four months life continued, I was confused and at times scared, but I’d reason with myself that despite being married I was still attracted to other people, so what did it matter. I would never act on it and he had promised me he wouldn’t either

Almost exactly, 4 months after my husband’s first revelation, (he told me) he was going out for a drink with a few friends from work and wouldn’t be too late back. I decided to give him a call. No reply. I checked Whatsapp and could see he hadn’t looked at it since finishing work. Having had to borrow his keys after losing mine that morning, I decided to watch a film partly so he could let himself in and partly because I always preferred to be awake when he came in. Mistakenly at this point I believed what you see on TV shows about not being able to report people missing for 24 hours. My mind was racing and I was exhausted. I took a sleeping tablet and brought my duvet downstairs so he’d still be able to get in. 3 hours and a second sleeping tablet later I was still wide awake. I rang him again and left a message imploring him to contact me, I just wanted to know he was ok. I then googled ‘missing persons’ and discovered that you very definitely do not need to wait 24 hours. I then rang the police, my heart pounding through my chest, terrified and alone. The mutual  friends I had messaged had all either not seen or heard from him, or were asleep and had not replied.

As the police kept me on the line checking hospital admissions, my mobile finally rang. “I’ll come back when I’m ready”. That was it. No apology, no explanation of where he was, who he was with or why the radio silence. After apologising to the police for wasting their time, a follow up text simply said he was staying at a friend’s house and we’d talk later that day. By 10am I could take it no more, left the keys under a pot by the back door and headed out to meet a friend for her birthday picnic. Thankfully the friends I met are the sort of folk that despite my having been flaky and unresponsive at best for the past few months, were understanding, patient, listened and I am so thankful that by then having realised what was likely to be coming enabled me to face up to it and set plans in motion should I need a place to stay.

                I headed home and pulled up to the house realising that by then he had indeed returned home. I sat in the car for what seemed an eternity (though in reality was likely only a couple of minutes). I was scared but angry. I just wanted him to know that allowing me to believe he might be dead, knowing how terrified I was that something terrible had happened to him or that he’d done something to himself, was beyond cruel. It was that, that was the ultimate betrayal. If he wasn’t sexually attracted to me, fine. If he didn’t love me as a wife, fine. To not even care whether I thought he was dead, I wouldn’t even put someone I hated through that.

                When I finally headed in and found him lying in the spare room the entire conversation lasted no more than 30 seconds. He simply said “I’m gay. I’m leaving”. My response that I didn’t care if he was gay, what I cared about was the cruelty he’d inflicted on me in the last 24 hours was met with emotionless silence. I walked downstairs grabbed a few things from the laundry and headed straight to my friend’s house. I never slept in that house again. 24 hours later, I learnt that despite his initial instance he wasn’t going to go out and meet anyone, he had in fact done just that and had entered into a relationship. For how long, I don’t know and I don’t care. Whilst our relationship from beginning to end lasted 9 years, and he later revealed he’d known he was gay since the age of 16, much as I am at a loss to explain why it is that he chose to pursue me, to propose, get married; it is the events of the four months after he revealed being attracted to men that really stings. Had he left there and then, it still would have hurt, a lot but it would have saved so much uncertainty, fear, dread and yet more lies. The nonchalant response I received anytime I even dared to suggest that as the one who had entered our marriage blissfully unaware and had been faithful throughout, I might be the injured party, whereas from Phillip Schofield’s statement, it appears that his wife Stephanie has been aware of the situation for some time before he’s ‘gone public’ and though I’ve no doubt this has led to feelings of grief and despair, he admits that he feels ‘the hurt I am causing to my family’ , ‘heartbreak’ and implores us all to “Please be kind, especially to my family”.

This leads me on to two things I would request folk do in response to Phil’s statement. First, if you are single and struggling with your sexuality, do not enter in to a relationship. It is your choice how, when and if you make your sexual preferences known but nobody else deserves to have their choices taken away as a result of yours. If you are already in a relationship, be honest. Don’t put it off. The longer you drag it out for, the more protracted the agony for all. And secondly, spare a moment to remember those who through no fault of their own have had their lives turned immeasurably upside down. Don’t judge them, ask stupid questions like ‘you must have known’, clearly not. Let them talk about it or not talk about it. Allow them to speak about memories that involve their ex without making it weird. If you’ve been with someone for years, then naturally a lot of your memories from that time are going to involve your ex. You can’t erase the past.

I am blessed that my family, friends and church have supported me every step of the way and in a strange way the experience has done me a lot of good. I now know just how strong I really am, a lot more than I would have thought. In those months before, I thought a break-up would be the worst thing that ever happened to me, when it finally happened it was like a weight had been lifted of my shoulders. It made me indestructible, brave. Five weeks after walking out the door with that laundry bag I signed up for improv classes. Afraid but knowing the answer to ‘what’s the worst that could ever happen?’ was that it already had and I’d survived. Less than a year after that first revelation, I began doing stand-up. Something I’d always dreamt of, but been too terrified to truly contemplate. It made me not fearless, but determined to face my fears. The events could very easily have broken me but I refused to let that happen. Now I’m no longer consumed by worrying about my marriage or my husband’s mental health, my only responsibilities are to myself and ensuring that I also get to live my dream.