Where Babies Come From: A Lesson For All Tories, Whether Blue, Yellow or Red

Contains: multiple references to sex, pregnancy, birth control,brief description of birth

I’m writing you all this lesson because you recently voted for, abstained on or were absent from a Bill that will limit Child Tax Credits to two children per family from 2017 and in doing so have shown that you clearly don’t understand how children happen.

Children are small people who are not yet adults. They require adults called “parents” (or guardians) to look after them, feed them, clothe them and love them until they reach adulthood. Adults are people over the age of 18, they are generally fully grown and somewhat capable of looking after themselves. As MPs, you are all adults, whether you can behave like adults or not. When people are very, very young, they are called “babies”. Babies rely on their parents for everything and cannot look after themselves even a little bit. Neither babies nor children can work and much time and money must be spent by the parents to ensure the survival and development of their children. Before you complain that all these non-working babies and children are clearly “scrounging” of their parents and the state, I must remind you that ALL adults were once babies and unless there are new babies there will be no adult workforce in the future. So even Tories like you should love babies and children because even if you can’t see the point of them now, they have the potential to grow up to be “hard-working tax-payers” and you love those.

Right, okay, here’s how babies happen: Adults have sex with each other.

If they don’t use birth control methods or those methods fail and one of the adults has a working uterus and another of those adults produces sperm, the adult with a uterus can become pregnant. Pregnancy is when a new baby begins growing inside a person’s uterus. The baby grows inside there for many months and is then pushed out of the person’s vagina or cut out of the person’s uterus by doctors. Once this has happened, the new baby has human rights, including a right to life. The person/people who take the baby home and name them and care for them and love them is/are the baby’s parent/s.

An arrangement of one or more adults living with one or more children and babies they love and care for is called a “family”. Usually, the family will contain at least one of the adults who had the sex that made the baby begin; sometimes it doesn’t. So: babies come from sex. I’m assuming you all know what sex is? It’s when adults play with each other’s genitals together because it feels good. Got it?

Sex is pleasureable, it’s fun and it’s free. Any collection of consenting adults can play, it’s cooperative, it can fill whole days or fit into a lunch break… It’s something that lots of people do in their spare time. (Spare time, in case you’re unfamiliar with the concept, is time not spent working, sleeping or travelling). People like sex. People are going to have sex – especially if they can’t afford other forms of leisure, like TV, cinema, sports, arts and crafts, tourist attractions, computer games, shopping, the internet, going to cafes and restaurants… When you’re poor, sex is one of the few pleasures that’s still affordable. And sex can make babies.

There are ways to have sex without making babies. And I believe completely that people are using them. But none are perfect. All take time to find and get hold of, many cost money. All require knowing where you can find accurate information on how to use them and where to go to get them for free or low costs. It’s no surprise that people sometimes end up with an unexpected pregnancy. Pregnancies tend to lead to babies.

And babies need love and care (which is free) and milk and clothes and bottles and cots and nappies and toys and prams (which cost money). Until the baby is 5, a parent will have to stay with the baby almost constantly and will thus not be able to work. If/when the parent does go into work, the baby will need to be left with childminders – who need to be paid. The baby needs what they need regardless of whether their parent has enough money saved to provide for those needs or not. This is why Child Tax Credits are paid to families in the first place – so that all babies and children have a decent quality of life, with their needs met, no matter who their parents are or how much money they saved, no matter whether someone had sex with the intention of causing them or they came about without anyone intending them.

Child tax credits were for every child regardless of how many siblings they had too. Because a first child and a third or fifth or twelfth all deserve the same dignity and the same shot at a half-decent life. They all equally deserve enough food to eat, clothes to wear, warm beds, school equipment and, YES, toys to play with and books to read. Because they all have human rights and not one of them asked to be born or played any part in bringing themselves about.

So, when I hear your “reasoning” for what is essentially a cap on two children per family is to “encourage responsible behaviour”, what I hear is: “We want to punish poor children for their parents having sex”.

Make no mistake, this doesn’t reward or encourage anyone, this cap is a punishment. And it punishes innocent children because some adults had sex – which is not itself illegal, immoral, harmful or wrong. So why punish anyone for it?

And why leave middle class and upper class people unpunished for the same actions you deem so irresponsible from people like me? While they won’t get the Tax Credits for their third and fourth children either, they will still be able to feed and clothe them even if not to the standard their first child enjoyed. No millionaire will be over-worried by an unexpected new member of the family while every poor family will be terrified of broken condoms and accidentally missed pills.

You might as well admit it. This was never about the money – children start paying tax from shortly after birth through parents and family buying things for them – this is about keeping us poors from having sex as often as you imagine we do. And it’s about keeping us thinking always about whether we are affordable, thinking of ourselves and our families as “burdens” on a state once designed to support us, a state that would grind to a halt without our labour and our purchases. A state that wants us thinking about our bank balances instead of enjoying ourselves while we have sex.

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Where’ve I been? Getting ATOS-ed, that’s where

I realise I’ve not written here in about a month, quite possibly the longest pause in my blogging since YetAnotherLefty came into being a little over two years ago. I (perhaps vainly) imagine that my readers have been asking themselves where I am and when I’m going to get round to writing something again and while I don’t really owe you guys anything, I feel an explanation is due.

Quite entirely simply, the explanation is “I got Atos-ed”. Again. And it was humiliating and triggering and awful and it harmed my mental and physical health. Again.

I want to try to go into that and expose what it’s like to claim PIP and/or ESA (the two kinds of social security / benefits payments offered to disabled people in the UK). Every person I’ve described the process to in real life has been horrified. Sometimes I wonder if people just don’t know or just don’t WANT to know how their friends, family, neighbours who are disabled are being treated. I know people don’t want to think that it could happen to them – when the various changes to disability benefits in the UK started, I was CONVINCED that they were not relevant to me or to anyone I knew. I was very, very wrong. The illnesses that cause me constant pain and fatigue had already begun. The disabilities I’d lived with from infancy should have got me DLA/PIP if anyone had thought to apply.

For both PIP (a benefit that most disabled people qualify for and that is for people who can work as well as people who can’t) and ESA (basically a replacement income for those too ill or disabled to *seek employment*) you first have to obtain and fill in a paper form. On that form, you will be presented with lists of tasks and the option to tick that you either can or cannot do those tasks. And then you’re expected to write in minute detail exactly WHY you can’t do the things you can’t do and how much help you need and why you need that help and exactly which symptoms of exactly which condition(s) prevent you from doing the thing. For EVERY. SINGLE. THING that you can’t do. There’s about thirty pages to the form, and four or more tasks on each page, many of which have subheadings.
It’s a lot of writing, especially if this is your first such form. Oh, and the space to write in is tiny and they don’t actually tell you that you need to detail the whys and hows of every last thing you can’t do without help.

And then they make you back everything up with letters from doctors and carers and social workers and anyone with a title regardless of whether or not they’ve ever seen you at home.

And then they usually still insist on a face to face assessment. Which amounts to meeting a stranger who’s been given a Cliff Notes (think literal bullet points) version of what you wrote on the form in the first place and then questions you in detail about all your conditions and all the things you can’t do and precisely WHY you can’t do them, give examples of times you couldn’t do this, what would happen if you didn’t have the help you have, but WHY does X condition mean you can’t do Y task? how come you can do P but not Q?… the form all over again but with another person asking the questions and not especially caring about being sensitive or kind (in my last PIP assessment, I think we spent a whole ten minutes talking about my bowel and bladder problems and at least 20 on “But WHHHY does severe anxiety prevent you from mixing with people and going to new places on your own?”).
And then based on a report about the face-to-face (including, no joke, comments on whether or not you “looked anxious” in the waiting room) your medical evidence and the damn form, a complete stranger who you have never met, who has never observed you in person, decides whether or not you’re disabled/ill enough to be given a small but often life changing sum of money.

And I think readers of this blog are probably vaguely familiar with all of the above. I needed to spell out the background because what upsets me most about this whole charade, what explains why I become hazy and distant and slightly more mentally ill immediately before and a short while after a face-to-face assessment or a frantic couple of weeks writing the damn forms (every three to six months I have to do one or the other as I get both PIP and ESA)… is the effect this has on my (and likely others’) sense of self, my identity.
The forms and the system reduce me to a list of “I can’t x without y help because of p,q,r symptoms of z condition”. I experience my life – and my self – as a series of events caused or explained by my inability to do things. My brain processes experiences as potential examples for the damn forms and assessments. I feel like a fraud if I decide to take the pain and the consequences of doing something I really really ought not to do. I feel guilty about spending money because at any moment a brown envelope and a few strangers could take all my money away. I worry about that one picture of me on Instagram where I appear to be standing unaided with a baby in each arm – I know the reality is that I’m seated on a stool and there are two people just out of shot ready and waiting to take one or both babies from me as soon as the photo is done – I still worry about what it looks like.
The logic of the form – that one should be able to work and if you aren’t you better have a detailed explanation of precisely why – permeates my brain. I over-explain why I can’t or won’t do things to friends and strangers who would happily have accepted “I can’t” as its own reason. My depression latches onto things that I can’t do that someone my age “should” be able to do. I feel ashamed and scared to admit that I am “on benefits” and likely will be for the rest of my life.
On my “good days”, my depression and anxiety still interject to make me question if I even “deserve” to get paid to not-work (because anything even remotely like full time work would seriously harm me) and if my more expensive or frivolous purchases are justified given I don’t “earn” my money. On my bad days, lying in bed, my brain idly writes new paragraphs for the damn forms.
The system for getting these payments leaves me constantly thinking about what I CAN’T do and why. That can’t be good for me but I can’t stop it. A few more years of this and I imagine it will become a permanent subroutine in my brain, figuring out what I can’t do, what help I need, why I need help, how seriously I’d be harmed without help.. a huge portion of my brain forever ruminating on something that doesn’t help *me* at all. When I could be thinking about my writing or learning or having fun or…

So that’s where I’ve been and where I’m at. The DWP are basically inside my head and critiquing my every action. And it hurts.

And yet… until the system is fixed, I still advise disabled friends to consider putting themselves through it. Because the money maybe a modest sum but it’s LIFE-CHANGING. It means I don’t have to worry about affording a meal in a cafe or a takeaway when I can’t figure out all the steps to making my own lunch. It means I can get a taxi if I need to. It means I can pay bus fare for a friend to accompany me to a scary new place. It means I can afford food that isn’t beans. It helps but making it happen hurts. Possibly permanently. It’s a bind and I respect the choices people make about whether or not applying for PIP, ESA or both will be “worth it” for them.

Who are we?

Below I will describe a group of people who are marginalised and live in Europe, America, Canada and Australia. Who are we?

We are part of a tradition stretching back centuries.
We can and do live in every part of the world.
We are sometimes considered to be a race or a nation yet we are of many races and have no particular leader, government or land.

We have no leader yet each of us is held responsible for the actions of others like us.
We are each made to explain over and over that we are peaceful and acts of violence committed in our names were wrong.

We suffer violence daily in the so-called “Western World”.
Our children hear racist taunts.
We are harassed by strangers in the streets.
Our religious clothing is openly mocked and derided.
We are attacked and even killed.
Our places of worship are frequently graffiti-ed and desecrated.
We are stereotyped, mocked or invisible on TV and in films.
Our symbols and art are appropriated.
We are pressured to conform to white christian national norms.
If we manage this, we are mocked. If we fail, we are still mocked.
We form communities of our own and are accused of not trying to integrate.
We try to integrate and find ourselves isolated.
We can feel the target on our backs whenever we are out of home.

People who even “look” like the racist stereotype of how we “look” face the same slurs, the same exclusion, the same violence.
We try not to “look” like ourselves.
We are told we are ugly.
We can never do enough to “fit in”. Our names, our clothes, our food, our bodies will betray us.
The target never quite disappears.

We make ourselves small.
We make ourselves quiet.
We try to be “moderate”.

We are told we “take over” spaces; we take too much space.
We are accused of having too much influence; we “control” too much.
And we are called radical even if all we ask is to live our lives in peace.

Our loyalties are always suspect.
We cannot claim loud enough to love the country we live in,
Sending money abroad is a sin if we do it.
If we cannot love this country, we are told repeatedly to “Go home” –
No matter how many generations it’s been since “home” meant anywhere else.

Who are we?

The answer isn’t: “Jews”
And it’s not “Muslims” either.

It’s “Muslims AND Jews”.

Islamophobia and Anti-semitism are two sides of one very racist coin.

And that constant feeling of being a target, being unwanted, being impermissible because we can’t or won’t live within white christian cultures? That pressure is hurting Muslims and Jews across Europe and I suspect across the US, Canada and Australia as well.

Write to YOUR MP about Gender Recognition

Here on YetAnotherLefty, I’ve written about the current state of gender recognition for trans people in the UK, it’s effects on Marriage and contrasts with other countries before. These posts have been widely shared as people came to learn, often for the first time, quite how awful, humiliating and blatantly transphobic the current set up is. People have contacted me to tell me how upset and angry this makes them as cis people and how terrified and overwhelmed they feel as trans people. After another case of someone apparently being denied recognition of her gender by the Gender Recognition Panel *because a magazine reported that she had got her wife pregnant within the last two years*, the messages I’ve been getting have changed from just “This is so wrong!” to “This is so wrong! WHAT CAN WE DO?”

Here is the start of my contribution towards doing something about this awful situation: A Guide for individuals and organisations on the how and why of writing to your MP to stop this awful situation continuing.

You read that right, I’m an anarchist asking you to write letters to MPs. It’s not the only tactic but I think for once it may be a useful place to start.

So: before we go any further, here is WHAT WE WANT
In quiet discussion with a large number of trans people and trans organisations, the following goals seem to be more or less agreed upon.

FIRST: The Gender Recognition Panel should be *immediately* instructed to APPROVE gender recognition for all those currently on its waiting list and to approve Gender Recognition for ALL SUBSEQUENT APPLICATIONS until…
SECOND: The Gender Recognition Panel is disbanded and replaced with a simple method of updating one’s gender based on self-definition rather than medical or social “evidence” of transition. A similar system to that already in place for updating one’s address or name or a single Statutory Declaration would be much preferable to the current system.

How to Write To An MP
1. Find your MP’s contact details here
2. Send a physical letter rather than an email if you can or email through something like Write To Them
3. Be polite! We want to get them onside so if you’re angry be angry but polite with it.
4. If you are going to publish a copy of your letter and/or their reply (such as on your blog) remember to say so in your letter.
5. If you have twitter / facebook / etc tell people when you have sent the letter.

Your letter should include:
– a brief description of the problem,
– how it affects / how it makes you feel and/or how it affects your MP’s constituents,
– what you want your MP in specific to do about it,
– your hopes of a swift but considered reply.

Below I’ll write some stuff to help you write each section. Try to use your own words as much as you can – MPs tend to ignore form letters.

What is the problem?

Problem 1: transphobic and patronising law
The Gender Recognition Act has been fundamentally flawed for the entire decade of its existence. It is built on the transphobic assumption that doctors and lawyers who have never even met a person are better placed than that (ADULT!) person to decide what that person’s gender is.
The process for getting your gender recognised in the UK if you are trans is lengthy, costly, invasive and humiliating. (Consider briefly describing the process in case your MP is not familiar with it).

Problem 2: Coercive sterilisation / invasive focus on medical treatment
There is also increasing evidence that, while no medical procedure, treatment or surgery is required per se, in actual fact the Panel is systematically biased *against* trans people (and especially trans women) who do not have genital surgeries and those who delay or forgo treatment in order to preserve their ability to procreate. This has led to an ongoing situation where people feel that they *must* undertake treatments and surgeries that they might otherwise have not had for several years or even might not have had at all out of fear of the Panel denying them Gender Recognition if they do not. The current situation is one of coerced medical treatment – especially medical treatment that results in irreversible sterilisation. The UN, the World Health Organisation and others condemn forced or coerced sterilisation and the UN Special Rapporteur on torture and other cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment or punishment, Juan E. Méndez recognised forced or coerced medical treatment for trans people as torture. His report is here and a very detailed reflection on his report from The Anti-Torture Initiative is here. As both of these reports are on torture in health care settings, please read with caution and take breaks if you are triggered or otherwise harmed by reading about the actions mentioned in the reports.

If nothing else, the form’s insistence on knowing intimate details of all treatments for Gender Identity Disorder that an applicant has undergone or will undergo needs to be immediately removed from the form as this information is private and irrelevant.

Problem 3: Unnecessary and Unhelpful pathologization
A further problem with the current system is that it unfairly allows only those who have a medical diagnosis of “Gender Identity Disorder” or “Transsexulism” to have their gender recognised – despite the fact that being trans (ie considering oneself to belong to a gender other than that assigned at birth) is not in itself a medical problem or diagnosis. It is quite possible to be trans yet not be able to get that diagnosis if a person is not greatly distressed by being trans or if the person is intersex. The Liberal Democrats have active policy to remove this requirement – if your MP is a Lib Dem, ask them what the Lib Dems are doing towards this, if they aren’t ask them what their party’s policy on this issue is.

Problem 4: No gender recognition for under-18s or for people of nonbinary genders
The current system also denies gender recognition to children who may need it and provides no recognition at all for anyone who has a gender other than “man” or “woman”. Many people are neither men nor women and they have just as much right as anyone to have their identity legally validated and recorded correctly on any documentation including birth certificates.

Problem 5: No one can work out whether or not I can legally marry *anyone* as myself
Under the current system, it is unclear whether or not a trans person *without* a gender recognition certificate can legally marry any other person without committing perjury by gendering themself correctly during their wedding ceremony. (I’ve talked to several lawyers on this, they couldn’t agree). This essentially leaves every trans person in the UK with at least two years of their life in which they may neither marry nor reproduce and no certainty that those two years so constricted in their right to a family life will yield a usable birth certificate and recognised identity. It’s a high price to pay and thousands of trans people are being left with no option but to pay it.

Problem 6: the Spousal Veto
Another HUGE problem with the Gender Recognition Act as it is currently, is something UK trans people have named “the Spousal Veto”. I find it hard to explain but it essentially allows any person married to a trans person to delay their legal gender recognition *potentially indefinitely* by refusing to either consent to remaining married to the same person under their new gender or consent to a divorce. Sarah Brown explains the situation much better than I could and also goes into a fair amount of the social and legal history that led to UK-based trans people having such a bizarre and draconian set of legal hoops to jump through for basic recognition of who we are. Incidentally, the Lib Dems also have policy against the Veto.

Problem 7: Monetary Cost to individual trans people
The current process requires sums of money that many will simply not have access to (due to discrimination in the work place, trans people are disproportionately under- and un-employed). Two doctors notes (for which NHS doctors may charge up to £200) and a notarised statutory declaration (costing between £5 and £50) are needed in the case of a single trans person (two stat decs would be needed in the case of a married trans person), in addition to the (means-tested) admin costs and the costs of any treatment the trans person has been unable to get on the NHS… It’s an amount of money many will be completely unable to spare yet the cost of going without gender recognition is also high. Being unable to marry, unable to provide a birth certificate as ID and knowing that somewhere the wrong name and the wrong gender are recorded as your identity has a huge psychological and social impact on trans people both as individuals and as a community.

Problem 8: Cost to the state
The existence of the Gender Recognition Panel – a group of people literally employed by the UK government to judge and decide the gender of British and UK-residing trans people – is also costly and inefficient to the state. Trans people can and do legally update their gender details on absolutely everything else, including passports, medical records, the census, work records, school records, exam certificates, bank records etc etc perfectly well without a panel to decide whether or not they can. The panel is simply not necessary and needlessly adds distress and delay to the lives of trans people and their families.

Updating one’s name has always been straightforward in the UK, requiring no court or lawyer or external body to approve or disapprove. The UK trusts its citizens to choose their own names, why not also their own genders?

How it affects you / your friends / other people
Talk about the distress, the delays (at least two years before you can apply, under 18s cannot apply even with parent’s permission, exploding queue situation with applications) monetary costs and the rights to family and private life that trans people cannot exercise with a Gender Recognition Certificate.

Words I’ve heard used to describe the present system include: absurd, ridiculous, kafka-esque, draconian, evil, wrong, repugnant, invasive, degrading, dehumanising, pathologizing, transphobic and inhumane. It shows a complete lack of trust in trans people’s ability to know themselves (ourselves) and what they (we) need. Talk about how it does or would make you feel to have to submit to a Government panel to decide for you who you are. Perhaps ask your MP how they would feel if they had to go through this process.

Even by the most conservative of estimates, something like 1 in 100 people is some kind of trans. There will be dozens, even hundreds, of children in your MP’s constituency who are trans – what kind of gender recognition system would your MP like them to encounter if they ever need one? One based on the assumption that they are wrong about their identity until and unless several doctors and lawyers *most of whom they will never meet* decide it for them? Or one which assumes autonomy and gives them control over their own identities?

If you have gone through the Gender Recognition process, you might like to write about how distressing it was. If, like me, you haven’t gone through it because it would be terribly distressing, invasive and/or costly it is then consider writing to your MP about that. If you are cis (i.e. you are not any kind of trans and consider the gender assigned to you about birth to be more or less correct) please say so in this section and write about why this issue still matters to you because it is e.g. distressing to think of anyone and potentially friends, partners or family feeling forced to go through this awful system.
Mention that there is a general consensus among many trans people and organisations that the Gender Recognition Panel MUST GO – this includes people who have gone through the Gender Recognition Process and people who campaigned FOR the Gender recognition Act.

Mention that Argentina and Denmark now have Gender Recognition on demand and that this has been widely welcomed and celebrated by trans people and their communities.

Perhaps point out that the UK doesn’t tell people what name, race, sexuality or religion is theirs: why should gender be any different?

What Do You Want Your MP To DO About This
There are several things you might ask your MP to do.
-You could ask them to ask in Prime Minister’s Questions what the Government intends to do to solve the many, many problems with the Gender Recognition Act or even to ask specifically if the Prime Minister will agree that Gender is a personal matter that should be decided on by individual people rather than by the State.
-You could ask them to draft an Early Day Motion or (if someone already has) to support an existing EDM.
-You could ask them to arrange to meet with trans people to discuss these concerns.
-You could ask them to do all in their power to lobby for the Gender Recognition Panel to be abolished and replaced with a simpler system based on self-definition and to approve all applications in the mean time.
-You could ask them to publically acknowledge and support trans people’s rights to autonomy over our bodies and our identities.
-You can ask them what THEY plan to do to make sure this awful coercive dehumanising system does not continue as it is. Or what their party plans to do.

Conclusion

Use the concluding paragraph to wish them well, say you hope they will consider your letter carefully and reply within two to three weeks. Remind them again that this issue is very important to a lot of people and you hope they can agree to help in some way. Add a method or two for them to contact you if they need anything clarifying or explaining before they reply. And remember to state clearly whether or not you intend to publish your letter and/or any reply online. If you feel like it, you may want to remind them that the elections aren’t all that long off now and trans people and their (our) supporters will be watching what the various parties do to support trans rights between now and then.

World AIDS Day 2014

It’s World AIDS Day and I’m struggling to find the words to describe quite what that means.

What it means that I left compulsory schooling without learning about the AIDS crisis.
What it means that I was 20 before I understood how to protect myself from HIV if I had sex with other men.
What it means that the LGBT community is still at high risk of contracting HIV.
What it means that so many of my LGBT ancestors died of AIDS.
What it means knowing as many as 50% of trans women of colour will get HIV.
What it means knowing some of my friends are HIV positive and facing discrimination daily.
What it means that I have sat with terrified people in clinics and held their hands as they wait for the test result.
What it means that I have learnt all my sex ed as an adult and learnt it all from community resources.
What it means to know my own HIV status and know that most people have no idea what theirs is.
What it means to know enough history to know that the wider community didn’t care about HIV AIDS until it started killing straight cis people too.
What it means that the LGBT community was brought together by the tragedy of the AIDS crisis and yet LGBT people my age and younger barely even know it happened.
What it means that bisexual men like myself are stigmatised by many because they blame us for spreading HIV.
What it means that even CHILDREN with HIV are discriminated against because the world still thinks HIV only happens to people who have lots of sex.
What it means to know that others believe God created AIDS as a punishment to my community for daring to exist out of the shadows.

What it means to know all that and also know that HIV is no longer a sentence of certain death. With appropriate medical care, HIV positive people can live just as long as anyone else.

Today is World AIDS Day. And I don’t have the words to explain quite what that means.

Social Care Update!

In my last really personal post, I talked about how reablement services can be (are) really abusive and gaslight-y and how I was told that my care needs had been found to be “moderate” rather than “substantial” or “critical” so I was to be left with no care and no support to find any… Well, I was very brave and I complained to the council. I was prepared to fight, to take it right to the top and get the press or my MP or the Care Quality Commission involved if need be. The council saw that my complaint was very serious. They reinstated my reablement care and appointed me a different and more senior assessor who listened to me and took my (quite severe) mental health problems into account.

Quite a lot more was written onto my new assessment form. A support worker came to my assessment to help me talk about the very difficult and distressing details of what care I need and why. My new assessment, full of details about my mental and physical ill health, was taken back to the council and I was (finally) awarded long term care.

From the beginning of next week, I will have people making sure I eat and wash and look after myself. I’ll even have someone to come round and help me keep my bedroom tidy. With the assurance that I will be prevented from neglecting myself with regard to these basic needs, I feel like I have a foundation upon which to base myself as I try to build a life in my new city. Knowing each day that I definitely will eat an evening meal and when that will be, keeping myself and my surroundings reasonably clean, with these things taken care of I can do anything – write a novel, get a voluntary job, survive the therapy waiting list, go to social events… maybe even get on a bus to somewhere I’ve never been. Without support, those basic needs quickly stop getting met and I have no foundation on which to build a life of new experiences, of practising and learning old and new skills, a life in which happiness is not a fleeting dream but a real possibility.

Less than a hour’s support a day makes that much of a difference to me. Without it, just surviving is incredibly difficult; with it, a life full of wonders becomes possible.

When your council next cuts support for adult social care, as councils regularly do, think about me. Less than £10 a day of council money is for me and many others like me, literally a world of difference.

No Regrets

This is a short story I wrote a couple of years ago. I’ll say now that it’s not a happy story so if you’re not in a great mood right now, please read it another time.

This is another story about people choosing not to be heroes, so once again there’s not much detail about exactly what the main character has opted out of fighting against because the story focusses on his reasons for opting out. The setting is Europe, most likely the UK or Ireland sometime in the next 50 years.

 

Content notes for homophobia (one slur), pregnancy and birth, implied death, parents splitting up, toxic activism.


 

To: jack.reynolds@hemail.co.uk

From: gareth.reynolds@hemail.co.uk

Subject: Please read this, especially if you’re Jack but even if you aren’t

 

 

I don’t regret it. I know you think I do. If you’re still alive that is. And if you are dead, then I know that you died thinking of how much I must wish that I was by your side, how keenly I must feel that I should have chosen differently all those years ago, how it must hurt me to know that you and I became so far apart.

 

Yet even on that last count, I’ve no regrets my long-lost lover. We were good for each other once but you found out where your loyalties lay and I found mine too. I no longer miss you all that much and neither does the son you barely acknowledged. You left him and I alone for your cause.

 

You were probably right to do so, you know. I think I can acknowledge that now. And still look deep inside myself and know that I made the right choice when I refused to go with you.

 

It’s not that I don’t believe you. It was never that, though you often accused me of it. It isn’t even that I don’t believe, as you do and as you would often say, that some things are so important that everything and anything can be sacrificed for them. No, I do believe that. With all my heart. We simply have different priorities.

 

I remember a long time ago, before you knew what you know, before things changed. I remember the love and the sex, the joys of young married life. I remember walking through the park in the sunshine holding hands and being genuinely surprised when that old homeless man called us faggots. I can see his face now, with the distaste and anger we’d never learnt to expect and hear my own voice telling him “Yes, we are gay and we’re happily married and just trying to enjoy the park”. I remember handing him a five pound note and a sandwich because whatever he thought about gay people he looked like he needed it more than we did. But that was a long time ago before you started risking your life saving the world from enemies it daren’t believe it has. That was during our honeymoon, all those year ago, back when we were young and in love and nothing, not a shower of rain, not a homophobe, not a global recession, nothing could take away our happiness. I suspect such happiness is only for people who are young and in love and on their honeymoons because I’ve never felt like it since.

 

You met them at University, of course. The people who changed everything for us. We called them friends and I guess that’s what they were. One of them, a woman, Sophia? She held my hand when I told you that I’d been stupid and forgotten some shots and now I was pregnant. She was sure you’d take it well and you did. You handled it better than I did which I reckoned showed just how brave you were. It’s not every day a man learns his husband is accidentally pregnant. Some of our friends were there when I told you I wanted to keep our baby, they saw you agree, heard you talk about how blessed and loved this baby would be, how you would be the best of fathers, second only to me. They knew what they were doing when they told you.

 

When my son… when our son was little, I used to tell him those old, old stories about the Sight. The really scary ones about the ointment that you put on your eyes that makes you see things as they really are. The one about the girl who doesn’t know she’s baby-sitting for the fey until she gets some of the baby’s eye medicine into her eye by accident and she can See and how she spends the rest of her life wearing an eye-patch in order not to go mad. Really quite scary for a little one but he had to learn somehow. He had to know what happened to you. What happened to us both.

 

When they told you, when they opened your eyes to the truth of this earth and invited you to join their fight, they knew I was pregnant. They knew that I needed you, that our child would need you. They told you anyway. Those friends of yours, they thought they needed you more than I did. I wonder now whether they were right.

 

They told you about good and evil and forces at work that most people never know of. They told you about a war much greater than any war between mere humans and how events much more important than our tiny lives were going on around us as we groped blindly along trying to make sense of the disasters and wars and famines and droughts that were mere side effects of the truth. They gave you proof, showed you things and made your world the world of bigger events, the world of things that were more important.

 

Things that were worth sacrificing everything for.

 

You can’t pretend you didn’t know that’s what they were asking. They needed people. People who couldn’t pretend to forget, who wouldn’t. People who could place an ideal above their own life. People who could see their place in a grand scheme and take it willingly even if that meant losing dreams, losing love, losing life. People like you. People like me. They needed us.

 

I can say it. I was just the sort of person they needed. And if I wasn’t eight months pregnant when they finally asked us to join them, I still can’t say what would have happened. I believed as you believed, I had seen what you had seen. And we both knew that some things are so important that nothing else can ever be allowed to get in their way.

 

I was going to be a dad. I had a living human being growing inside me, soon to be outside and cold and helpless and in need of love. And I knew with every neuron in my brain that nothing could ever ever be more important than the life I carried inside of me. I was a dad.

 

And they still tried to recruit me into their war. They didn’t understand. They’d left people behind, those friends of ours. Parents, siblings, friends, lovers and, yes, even children. They’d given up everything, their livelihoods, their homes, sometimes even their names to fight for all humanity’s right not to be killed off by the actions of a few angry gods. They thought I’d be one of them. And you thought so too.

 

You suggested that we leave the baby with my mother. That we leave him with friends. That we get him adopted. You casually suggested to my face that we just toss away our baby as soon as he was born and you didn’t even understand why I was angry with you. I wanted not to love you any more when you said that. I wanted to hate you and the fact I loved you anyway hurt like anything. I knew you’d decided what you thought was worth sacrificing everything for. I knew I’d found the one thing I would sacrifice anything for.

 

You left before our son arrived. I delivered him alone in a strange hospital where they’d not yet had a man give birth and people still weren’t all that used to trans people insisting on being fertile. I told our newborn child that we didn’t need you and when I next saw you four days later I told you that I wasn’t fighting anybody’s war. And that if you still were, you had to get the fuck out of my baby’s life.

 

You left. So did all those friends. They used to drop by from time to time, to check up on me and my boy and to talk about their experiences with someone who would listen and might understand and believe them. As their visits became less frequent I knew they no longer needed someone to believe them or even to understand, they just wanted someone to listen.

 

When he was old enough to talk and walk, we moved to a new town and I was just a single dad with his kid and everything was fine and I had no regrets.

 

And my son went to school and he made friends and he liked drawing and he didn’t like maths but he got a prize when he was twelve for a maths project and then he liked maths too. He speaks three languages and once they published a bilingual poem he wrote in the paper. He’s made two Father’s Day cards every year just in case and he keeps all yours in his bedside drawer and I pretend I don’t know it. He’s a great kid and I’m proud to be his father.

 

And he had a boyfriend for a bit and then he didn’t and now they’re back together but perhaps that doesn’t matter because right now he’s fifteen and we’re hiding in our cellar because outside the world is ending. The sky is on fire and people are dying and at least down here we can’t hear the screams.

 

And I am writing you this email not because I think you will get it, I really doubt that anyone will but to say to whoever does get it, assuming anyone is alive tomorrow, to say to them that I made the right choice.

 

Because my son is fifteen and he’s terrified and I’m pretty sure he’s going to die tonight. But he’s had fifteen years of being happy and fifteen years of knowing his dad loves him. Not fifteen years of wondering why his dads left him or whether they’re still alive. Not fifteen years of not being loved.

 

I have always known that some things are worth sacrificing everything else for. Giving my child a life worth living, however short, is my one of those. You, my long-ago love, chose to fight a war and I chose to devote my life to a person I love. Who is the hero?

 

My son has been reading this over my shoulder and he asks me to say to you, whether you are his other dad or some other stranger, that he says I am a hero and he loves me no matter what. We have no regrets.