I hated the school bus.

If I close my eyes, I can still see the deep plum-coloured seats – rough to the touch from overuse – and the musky smell of teenage angst built up over god knows how many years.

I used to cry to my mum about not wanting to get the bus because there were a couple of boys who would bully me with grim regularity – the first of these crying sessions was the closest thing I have to my coming out. Blubbering, I explained the names they were calling me.

It wasn’t long before I knew all of the homophobic slurs you can imagine. I remember pretending to know what they all meant only to rush home to the family PC to sheepishly look them up on Urban Dictionary.

They mostly had the same definition.

I was 12 years old.

Some days I could handle it and block the bullying out, but at other times, it was like torture being unable to defend myself.

Such was the life of a gay kid who grew up in a tiny village in Lancashire – but it shouldn’t have to be like that.

It is important that LGBTQ+ people in rural UK are supported because children’s opportunities shouldn’t be limited by where they grew up.

My youth was spent in a world of luscious green fields, endless woodland walks and the overwhelming stench of horse manure every weekend. It’s a beautiful place but it stunk, in more ways than one.

Being singled out and feeling like an alien can be traumatising and it took me years to build back my self confidence and unlearn damaging coping methods.

I suppose I always felt different.

In the last few years of primary school, the boys all had girlfriends, but I hung out with the girls and played clapping games or pretended I had superpowers and ran around the playground.

I was unique – that was for sure – but I didn’t feel unwelcome or out of place.

High school was a changing point. I went from this free, camp little creature to a nervous kid confronted with judgement and disapproval.

That’s when the school bus became my living hell.

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Honestly, I think bullies labelled me gay before I properly knew myself (my mum had known for years, obviously!).

My parents always taught me that I was OK and should accept myself and I knew in my heart that was true but surrounded by bigotry it was easy to wish I was ‘normal’.

School itself was up and down. I was in my element in any creative lessons – art became my escape, a fantasy world of imagination in which I could lose myself and become anything I dreamt of.

I would spend hours with my felt tips doodling all manner of other-worldly things from cats eating telephones with postbox tails to mermaids battling sea monsters made of goo. I did all this while wearing my wizard cloak tied around my head – fantasising it was long flowing hair.

In fact, I would end up spending most of my break times in the art classrooms. It was a much safer option than braving the hostile school yard.

The only experience of gay culture I had in my early teenage years was watching Christian Clarke on EastEnders, so let’s just say it was limited. I particularly remember the feeling of self acceptance that came along with seeing his camp and likeable character on screen.

I ended up searching for a sense of LGBTQ+ community online. I had felt unaccepted for so long in my real life and social media gave me another opportunity to be accepted.

At the time, I had some friends in school, but the huge majority were girls. I recall the feeling of frustration over being friends with the popular girls and their little teenage boyfriends being my bullies.

I still think today if I had grown up somewhere less rural I would have had an easier run, or at least felt more sure of myself. In cities there tends to be much more queer visibility so I imagine I would feel less alone.

One thing I didn’t notice until my bubble burst was how minuscule the multiculturalism was where I grew up. I began to go out to Manchester and Liverpool – which were about an hour’s train ride away from home – when I was around 15 years old and I started to find ‘my people’.

I would go to Facebook meet-ups, full of weirdos like me who had all built up followings online.

We would all go in our crazy fashions – fishnets, neon hair and platform shoes – and hang out in parks up and down the country. Before this, I didn’t personally know anybody who was openly gay. For the first time in forever, I felt less alone.

London always seemed like this magical wonderland, where I would be celebrated and welcomed. I began to visit some internet friends who were studying in London and got a flavour of the city. The hustle and bustle, fast pace and forward thinking – it was refreshing.

Once I had a taste of belonging and queer community I knew where I wanted to be.

More from Platform

Platform is the home of Metro.co.uk’s first-person and opinion pieces, devoted to giving a platform to underheard and underrepresented voices in the media.

Find some of our best reads of the week below:

Entertainment writer Robert Oliver watched Barbenheimer, then exposed how rude some cinema goers are

What’s it like to stay in an unhappy relationship due to financial concerns? Writer Robyn Morris explores what happened to her

Coming out as non-binary at work can be a scary prospect – Sarah Reynolds writes about why it was so important for them to be their authentic self

Columnist Alison Rios McCrone answers one reader’s dilemma hitting all the wrong notes: ‘The DJ ruined my wedding day – what can I do about it?’

Moving to the capital when I was 17 opened my eyes entirely because I saw people who stood out and weren’t afraid. I saw people expressing and embracing their culture and identity. I saw people who were openly and proudly queer. I saw freedom – and I wanted it for myself too.

So ultimately, the big city became my sanctuary – as it has for so many minorities before, and since. I realised I wasn’t alone, people liked my art and encouraged me to do more of it, and I grew long flowing hair of my own without the need of a cloak.

But it shouldn’t have to be like that. Children’s opportunities shouldn’t be limited by where they grew up. They shouldn’t need to move to a big city to fulfil their dreams, let alone to be themselves and feel safe.

We need to ensure all young people can feel proud of who they are and where they live, wherever that is. 

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