Society calls me gay

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But was it my sexuality that put their backs up — or the autism I am still coming to terms with? M y earliest memory is of feeling different. My gayness was obvious in the way I walked and talked. I experienced physical violence, too. I was shoved, kicked, my head was slammed against the wall. I was punched in the face more than once.

I had a rigid attachment to routine and was terribly shy, sometimes freezing in social situations. I was obsessive, channelling this at first into the Star Wars films, then the Narnia novels and, as I got older, Madonna.

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If anyone criticised her, I took it as a personal attack and would be distraught. I was easily upset in other ways. I was sensitive to touch and hated being cuddled, I burst into tears at the sound of fireworks. I found a few activities soothing. And I found comfort in repeating words or phrases, over and over again. When I was nine, I was sent away on a camp with the Cub Scouts. When I realised I had to share a tent with some of the boys who bullied me, I started being violently sick.

I shivered and sweated so badly that my sleeping bag became soaking wet. The Scout leaders removed me from the tent and took me to sleep in their hut. In the working-class north of the 80s, nobody discussed mental health, let alone neurodivergence.

There was no way that, as well as being gay, I could entertain the thought that there might be something different about my brain. So I tried to camouflage my weirdness. I n , I got into Cambridge University. Here, it was OK to be studious and gay. But I was now different for another reason: as a working-class kid from a comprehensive school, I was in a minority. The other students, mostly from private schools, did impressions of my northern accent.

Sometimes, it was affectionate but often it was cruel. One of my tutors used to make me read out my work and encouraged the other students to laugh at me. I was often blunt with people, which was put down to my being from the north. But I was also incredibly anxious. For one entire term at Cambridge — in my second year, when I was sharing a room — I woke up every morning and vomited into the sink.

In the late 90s, I started working in the media, an industry I knew would be welcoming to gay men. But work pressures seemed to have an impact on me more than others. In the open-plan office I was surrounded by TVs and radios blasting and colleagues tapping and talking. The noise felt like an assault; but it only seemed to affect me.