It’s nearly 3am and I’m wide awake. I have (and have had for nearly a month now) a dislocated knee. I’ve got hiccups, the ominous signs of an impending period and a whole lot of phlegm; which makes me think that I’m developing a cold.
My life is fucking great. Seriously, it is.
On Saturday I went to see Priscilla Queen of the Desert in Oxford. It was without doubt one of the campest things I have ever witnessed and it made me incredibly happy. Essentially, the show is based on the lives and careers of two drag queens and their transgender friend as they make their way across Australia in a bus. (We all know how much I secretly love buses so this show was bound to be good!)
There was one moment which stood out for me. It was towards the end of the show when nearly everyone in the audience was standing, clapping and singing along to the song. There were a lot of LGBTQ audience members (as I’d expected) but also some people who I hadn’t imagined would be there. Call me narrow minded but I can’t see many straight people over the age of 70 being interested in it. Anyway. Everyone was caught up in the moment and I stopped clapping and singing for a while and looked around me. I was sandwiched between two of my best friends; a straight woman and a gay man. The same straight woman who had, without being prompted, held my arm and helped me walk up some stairs just a couple of hours before. The same gay man who had ordered my Nandos for me because I couldn’t move about a lot or put weight on my knee. These two people had pushed me in a wheelchair to the theatre. They’d physically aided me. And now I was surrounded my people that I’d never met before who were mentally aiding me.
As a lesbian, it’s hard not to think about Orlando. I want to think about it, I do, but it pains me to. I know that it will pain me to and that it should but I can’t find a way to think about it without relating it to me.
When I say I make it relate to me I don’t mean that in a selfish, egotistical way. I mean that I can be out at work and not have to worry that someone will shoot me. I can have a drink in a “gay” bar and not have to worry that someone will shoot me. I can openly post about my sexuality and not have to worry that someone will shoot me. And that’s wrong. I’ve become complacent.
I forget how easy I have it. I forget how lucky I am. I forget that I have amazing family, friends and colleagues. I forget that that isn’t the case for everyone. I forget that it hasn’t always been like this. I forget that people have struggled, and still do struggle, so that I can have such a privileged life.
Right now I feel awful. I’m low; mentally and physically. I can’t drive at the moment (due to my knee injury and the strong pain killers I’m taking), I’m not seeing my friends very much and I’m unable to work. But I need to stop fucking complaining because I am alive. I am incredibly lucky. My thoughts are with those that aren’t and weren’t.