I have written a diary  – a sheet of A5 for each page – for just under seven years.

I rarely read it, but the point is, I know that I have a record of my comings and goings, my highs and lows, my emotional journey through what has been a period of intensity in since I came out as a gay man in 2012, living in a heterosexual marriage of 25 years duration at that time.

I have noticed that if I write my diary at the end of each day, the limited space I have to write is filled up with the minutiae of small facts about what I did and where I have been and who I have seen.

If I write my diary a day in arrears, I remember less about the detail, but more about my emotions and feelings and it is these I am more interested in recording whilst encasing them in the who, what and when as background detail.

It is my emotional journey which I am most interested in recording, because as I journey through this period of development to know and love self and to accept my gay sexuality I am looking to see the curve of highs and lows in mood and whether the gaps between the periods in which I display anger and reactive behaviour is lengthening between  episodes.

My journey is not trying to reach some nirvana where my state of emotion is flat or my anger non existent or my mood on a constant mid-high, rather my diary helps me keep a record as a point of interest, a point of reference and a point of fact (albeit my version of the truth).

My wife has open access to this blog, to my journals (longer pieces of writing which explore particularly intense episodes in depth) and to my diaries.

The understanding between us is that I don’t use these forms to direct a message to her and she cannot challenge my version of the truth in direct response to my written word, although I do enjoy noticing her attempts to do this subversively!

So, my diary is my emotional store, it allows me to let go, so that despite its form taking shape a day in arrears, I can live my life today, in the present.

My next blog will be: Picking Up My Underwear With My Feet

William Defoe

In recent years, I have adopted a habit of collecting a few pebbles and shells from my visits to the seaside.

I have a rather lovely water feature in my garden, the water from which, tumbles onto the clean polished pebbles and splashes indiscriminately into the air.

I also have a shell garden, placed on a flat stone by the front door which in my mind’s eye is a beautiful piece of art.

I don’t know, if it is because I consider myself to have collected enough  pebbles and shells, that quite often, I now seem to have acquired a sense of guilt for continuing to take these inanimate stones and empty shells from the seashore.

I have this constant feeling that every time I have picked up a pebble and considered its beauty and then discarded it back into the sea, it has somehow had a lucky escape.

Can it be right?, I ask myself, to take an object from where it belongs and transport it in my luggage to my garden hundreds or thousands of miles away.

Is there a finite number of pebbles and shells?, and is my collection likely to deprive future visitors of their right to see these objects in their natural environment?.

In my garden, I have created art, in the sea or on the shore they are home.

I have been struck, by how I seem to have this innate sense, that belonging and identity are wrapped up in staying close to roots and close to family and close to faith and close to home.

That somehow, to break out of that sphere of the life into which I have been conditioned and nurtured would somehow be a risk or a betrayal or a failure.

I am beginning to see that this logic of staying put is pretty much the same, as thinking that the inanimate object in the sea values its home.

Perhaps the fact, that I have transported that object, and created a work of art which is a thing of beauty, and a wonderful addition to my garden which is appreciated by all who come to visit me, is not a betrayal of it’s origins, but a sign of how the courage to change can be transforming and, yes, beautiful.

My next blog will be: Writing My Diary A Day In Arrears

William Defoe

I have been thinking about how the sea creates waves by pulling in the water from waves which have already reached the shore.

Each new wave draws its energy from the water in front of it.

This phenomenon made me curious as I waded my feet at the edge of the sea one day last week in Spain.

For a moment, my feet were covered in sea-water, and then suddenly this water was pulled back strongly so that my feet were exposed and uncovered on the sand until once again the wave rolled in and covered them.

Of course, I have noticed this before, but I began to think of how each wave, drawn from the energy from the previous wave, is a new experience and unique in its strength, it’s reach, it’s depth, its temperature.

I perceived with a greater clarity, that my own experiences are also drawn in to create new experiences, which although influenced by the past are not bound by it – they can be something new.

I experience from time to time, intensely sad moments in my life, despite being quite good at naming and noticing my emotions, when I anguish over aspects of my life which will never really change.

These feelings are perhaps those moments, like the sea, when the next wave to come along, is perhaps longer than the normal rhythm of the to and fro.

It is in those moments, when my feet are exposed, or perhaps when my feet are are exposed and I happen to notice it, that my emotions entrap me into a mood of despondency and hopelessness in respect of my old fears and isolation.

All too soon, the next wave comes along and refreshes my feet, and I wiggle my toes so that I can sense within me a sense of hopefulness, a sense of letting go, a sense of moving on, in a never ending rhythm, which has drawn into itself a future, which is inspired by the energy from what has been before.

My next blog will be:  Do Pebbles Belong At The Seaside?

William Defoe

When my children were young I used to occasionally enjoy frightening them.

They didn’t like it, but they laughed because deep down they knew that I was being silly.

Whilst on holiday, I was reminded of my past scaremongering by the sight of a young Spanish boy (aged about 5) being frightened in the sea by his father (I presume) saying “Medusa, Medusa” and then laughing whilst the little boy also laughed but recoiled into his mothers arms.

The scene was one of joy.

As I waded about in the sea I thought about the times I had placed my palm vertical to the sea and wiggled it towards my children saying “sea-snakes”

They would scream and laugh and run into my arms.

“Stop it Daddy” they would cry.

My memory was one of joy.

So why then, frighten the children. Certainly not to hurt them. I can’t recall trying to make a point of hardening them to danger through this play, but perhaps deep down I was doing.

I know I enjoyed making them laugh, connecting them with me, and letting them see that I could be silly and childish myself.

If they ran into my arms and hugged me tight, perhaps that was my reward.

I have been pondering over this whole aspect of our development when we begin to see the world has its hidden dangers as well as the ones which are clearly obvious to us e.g. busy roads etc.

This concept of enjoying life, but being aware of potential pitfalls and obstacles under the surface, and learning to understand them, and as far as practical prepare for them.

In my life, for too long, the sense of danger and potential pitfalls and obstacles became the main focus, so that the opportunity to thrive and take risks and live openly and without fear was denied to me by my own intellect.

Thankfully, like a child, I can once again squeal at the risks, shrug my shoulders and continue to splash in the sea – “sea-snakes!”

My next blog will be: Waves Draw On Energy From What Has Been

William Defoe

I have been pondering recently over the origins of what makes me the man I am today.

In the 1960’s when I was born and raised I have very little memory of those early years and I am curious about what I was like as a pre-school child.

Last week, I had a few moments with my elderly parents on a visit to see them and after discussing a variety of topics, I suddenly asked them what I was like as a child.

My mother immediately said you were very caring and loving.

My father said “You was a very a kind little boy”

“How can a three year old be kind?” I asked

My mother said you cared deeply for your younger brother and you took responsibility for him which you wanted to do, but I certainly did not expect you to do.

The conversation turned slightly defensive.

There was one occasion, my mother said, when a man came over to her to say what a lovely little boy I was, after he had observed me looking after my little sister – so I would be aged about five of six at that time.

My mother said, he is a kind little boy, but I must assure you that he is not responsible for his sister, I have been watching them throughout the whole period.

My mother said, I didn’t want him to think you were somehow taking on the responsibilities of a parent, but you just was a very kind a sharing child  – it was just inherent in your nature.

My father said, you liked to run on ahead when you had space to do that – on the promenade or in the park.

On one occasion, he said, you were running aged about four directly towards a lake which I knew you had not seen.

I set off at a pace to catch you, and reached you just as you entered the water to your waist and tugged you back by the shoulders – this was a story I had heard before, and indeed there is photographic evidence of the event which I have seen – an old photo of me wearing my older brothers underwear and my brother looking less than happy with the turn of events at the side of me.

So, I was a very kind little boy, but I seemed to want time out in front alone in my own thoughts when I had the opportunity for that.

Perhaps the man, I have become is not so different in essence from the origins I displayed as a child, but the trials of life and the suppression of my truth in respect of my sexuality caused me to be angry and frustrated for long periods of my adult life.

I am so glad, I asked them, about the boy I used to be because that very kind little boy is the man I strive to be.

My next blog will be: I Was in Need of Rest

William Defoe

Last weekend I took my daughter on a long vigorous walk up a local peak – a hike!

She had told me recently, that she did not like the top of her arms and was reluctant to wear clothing that revealed them.

I felt concerned, but managed to keep my own counsel until I had thought of a way to respond constructively, with care, and with truth.

Later that week, as I started to speak to her about something I wanted to say, she tried to stop me, and said I know what you are going to say.

I told her that I would prefer to say it anyway, and she reluctantly allowed me to do so.

I said, it is not that long ago, perhaps two years at most since you were proud to wear an off the shoulder dress for a big birthday celebration, and as I recall you looked stunning and there was no mention of you not liking the top of your arms – what has changed?.

I just don’t like them anymore, she replied.

I said to her, it fills me with concern that you should place on yourself such a restriction when unless something has happened to them, which has changed their appearance – a tattoo perhaps or an injury – you should restrict yourself to such an extent on an internal belief system which thwarts your life.

I said to her, please don’t build fences around yourself which close down your opportunities to be yourself.

Please don’t be such a harsh judge which fears so much the opinion of others, or is concerned with what other people think – be yourself, be happy, you are young and beautiful and you have life’s full potential ahead of you.

I said to her, I have an idea, let’s go for a long walk up a local peak on Saturday.

She seemed interested, but she supplied me with a whole list of reasons why she could not do the walk – it would be too difficult and she might fail to reach the top and I’d be cross if we had to turn back.

I assured her that she could do the walk, that she would succeed, that it would be difficult in parts of it, but she would reach the top.

After various messages of re-assurance she agreed to come with me.

She had absolutely no difficulty in reaching the top and she loved the experience.

We had a fantastic day of father and daughter time and she could hardly control her excitement as she related her achievement to her mother and her boyfriend.

I said to her, please don’t say you can’t do something you have not tried.

Please don’t fear trying and failing.

Please don’t think yourself into a state of denying yourself opportunities to experience new challenges, especially at such a young age.

Now, I said, you can climb any hill you like, and you can choose not to do so on the basis of experience not of fear.

And also, please translate this learning and this sense of fulfillment into all aspects of your life’s choices and  consider please, if the mood takes you, to wearing a sleeveless top.

My next blog will be: A Kind Little Boy

William Defoe

During the period of time in 2012, since I told my wife that I have a same sex attraction, I have benefited from a period of coaching in which I have been able to come to terms with how I feel.

I have been surprised by my growing capacity to hold within me, conflicting ideals in respect of my gay sexuality and heterosexual marriage.

It seemed to me for many years, that it had to be a choice of one over the other, and I could not imagine a time when the seemingly incompatible complexity of my feelings would ever enable me to feel safe.

A few weeks ago my wife became upset after reading my post on “Infatuation” and it took me a few days to be able to create a space in which we were able to talk and listen.

I picked my moment to start a conversation as we sat together overlooking the sea.

Her fears had been heightened, by reading how my feelings for my own sex manifest themselves in my life and she said it made her feel unsafe.

Gradually, and with much care, I was able to explain that the audience for my posts is not her, it is primarily addressed to those who experience conflict in their lives for which they feel a sense of hopelessness.

I was able to explain with conviction, that to say to me that she accepts that I am gay, and then to say she does not like it when she sees it, or reads it, or thinks about it, is to somehow wish it away, when the fact is, that it will never go away.

My infatuations for me, are not something new, they have been a feature of my life for over thirty years and perhaps even longer.

They are infatuations, not lovers, there is no physical contact and nor will there be, because as far as I can tell, these men are not accessible to me and even if they were, I love her.

My wife explained to me that she needed to feel safe, and when she comes into direct contact with my sexual feelings for men, she does not feel safe.

I then told her that it was not my responsibility to make her feel safe, it was our responsibility together to make sure that we are happy and fulfilled within our marriage.

I pointed to the fact that we have been married for thirty years, we have been married five of those years in the full knowledge that I am gay, I have undertaken intense coaching to manage my anger and to embrace my sexuality as an integral part of my self, I have been faithful to her since our first meeting as teenagers, and we have three children whom we both love with all our hearts.

I explained to her that I craved for years to feel safe, but now I do not do so.

If safety means suppression of the truth, hiding the facts, glossing over the reality of it all, this is not safety, it is the very opposite, because it will lead to the very thing we fear losing.

I explained to her, that the best thing is to shift the focus from wanting to feel safe, to an acceptance of it, which is much more than saying “I accept it”, it is living “I accept it” because ultimately we have a choice over events which follow in the future, over which neither of us has full control.

This reality of individual choice, is at the basis of any marriage.

I choose you, you choose me, and it is a joint enterprise to keep saying “I do” throughout the highs and lows of married life and that never can be a constant bed of flowers without constant tenderness, pruning, cutting back and re-growth.

“Do you feel any better”, I asked

“I do” she says

“I do too”  Do you fancy an ice-cream?

My next blog will be: Hiking

William Defoe

Earlier this week I wrote a post on the effects of Shy Bladder Syndrome on my daily life.

On reflecting on what I had written in that post,  I felt that I had missed a key element of my experience, so here is Paruresis 2!

I am quite sure that my experience of Paruresis is anxiety related, but I am less clear about the origins of that fear.

In my earlier post, I described my anxiety as being an innate element of my own persona which I was not able to overcome as a child.

In my adolescent years, two further factors contributed to my anxiety at perhaps the worst possible time as I transitioned from boy to man.

The first was my own pre-occupation with size. This fear originated in the boisterous exchanges in the male changing rooms which I was unable to deal with.

There is absolutely no problem with the size of my male equipage but I think I believed that there was, and that was an inner belief, coupled with the fear of ridicule which caused me to be anxious on top of my innate anxiety.

Secondly, there was the accusation that men who could not pee in the communal urinals was gay.

I suffered from accusations of being gay at school (an all boys school) from being about aged 13 to 16.

I did not feel at that time that I was gay and in fact I aspired to be married and have children.

There must have been something in my outward disposition and sensitivity which brought me to the attention of the bullies and the result was that:

I failed to thrive;

I failed to explore;

I failed to connect;

and periods of intense anxiety about whether I could succeed in the world were a feature of my life at this time.

As a young adult, now gaining confidence in the company of men in social situations, I would have to feign agreement with the others at the banter that those who could not pee together must be gay.

This banter was a febrile generalization not directed at another, but the effect on me internally was an even greater sense of entrapment within my own anxious state.

I was married with two of my three children before I was able to acknowledge to myself that I was in fact gay. It had taken me nearly thirty years to recognise my truth and it would take a further twenty years for me to confront it and accept it.

I am now equipped with a fuller sense of my identity, I am confident, I successful, I have been able to stay in my marriage, I have three grown up children who are making their way in the world and yet Paruresis persists but I am better able to manage it.

I am quite sure that this condition has nothing to do with being small or gay. It is connected to being anxious and insecure and is a social condition not a sexual one.

It is my hope in relating these insights into my experience that someone, somewhere will be able to be relieved from their own suffering and know that they are not alone.

My next blog will be: I Want You To Make Me Feel Safe

William Defoe

I’ve noticed in recent months how often my foot snags on the hem of my underwear as I get dressed each day after my morning shower.

It can take me three attempts for my foot to find the sock hole or the shoe.

My typing skills have diminished so that I often hit the key to the left or right of the key I am aiming for when, a few years ago, I was a fluent speed typist.

I don’t feel concerned about my motor-neurone health, but the thought has fleetingly crossed my mind.

I think that my lack of precision is a sign of natural aging, perhaps a propensity to rush or perhaps that my underwear is too small!

The interesting thought process resulting from this lack of precision is my frustration with it.

I have a tendency to react inwardly when I begin to lurch to the left as my foot gets stuck in my underpants. I might even exclaim outwardly as I fear hitting the floor if I do not save myself in time.

A sense of angst as the words I form  in my mind, as I write my blog, appear in letters which are out of order or mis-spelled, to the point that I cannot recall what the actual word was that I had intended to type.

When I catch myself reacting negatively to my lack of precision, I have taught myself to smile, an inward smile.

Ah, it’s my friend that I call “slow-down”

Take your time, William;

Be more measured William;

Consider your response;

Be prepared to wait;

Think before you speak;

These are the virtues that my lack of precision has brought to me in my journey of self-development.

To acknowledge my  lack of precision is to be less reactive, to be less presumptuous, to be less judgmental and if my response to it, is an inward smile, then I am acknowledging how things are, rather than how I might want them to be, in this present moment.

My next blog will be: Paruresis 2

William Defoe