A Diary of a Homophobe
25th February 1976
I am watching my son turn into something I never envisaged. I don’t know what to do or what to think. As a parent I know what I should do. I should stand by him. But I can’t, I just can’t. During the past few months I haven’t stopped writing my new book. I have been stuck in my room typing or travelling around the country researching the development of architecture in Renaissance England, and I have realised that I have been missing my son grow up. Simon is now eighteen and I have noticed he has more confidence in himself, he is more self-assured and a smile cracks his beautiful subtly shaped face more readily. I came home yesterday after a month of staying in London and I found a small plain looking box of tablets on the coffee table. Printed in bold black letters on the front of the box was the name ‘citalopram’ or something similar. I asked Susannah and she sat me down and told me that Simon is taking anti-depressants and that my own son asked his mother not to tell his father about it. He was afraid of my reaction towards him, Susannah said, because apparently I have a tendency to over-react and get aggressive. What a joke. We are supposed to be a family. What sort of family is it where news is pushed out of other people’s way? Apparently, he has been seeing a therapist for over a month now. But that isn’t the worst news. While I was in London he told Susannah he was gay. I’m ashamed at how I reacted. But I can’t help it. It’s how I was bought up. Storming out of the house wasn’t the best thing I could have done, but I had a sudden rush of anger that overflowed in me like the froth of boiling milk on the hob. I didn’t expect things to ever turn out in this way.