The One Relationship Regret That Will Stay With Me

I’m hoping you won’t mind indulging me whilst I continue to ramble along the therapeutic road that is this blog; I’ve found so often since starting AIMLESS, that thoughts clear and ideas crystallise in the process of writing through them.

Recently, I’ve been thinking a lot about my ex - some of you will audibly sigh at that, having already listened to me drone on for the last four and a half years about his jumpers, and how I was the fat one, and how I miss/hate/love/loathe him and all he stands for. But don’t worry: this article isn’t really about him.

Instead, it’s about regret (but not the regret you might assume). We weren’t together long in the scheme of things, and while I have more than a few regrets about that time, one sticks out the most because it transcended our relationship, and is something I think quite a few of you who are reading this (and are part of the LGBT+ community) can relate to.

My most pressing regret in that relationship was the sunny day on which I declined to hold his hand in public.

Don’t get me wrong: in my more brazen university days, I held hands with many a boy. In return, I’ve had people shout things from cars, been stared down with threatening gazes, and felt my heart pound hard in my chest, not for romance, but for fear. Of course, being in the heady world of youth and university, I stumbled about protected by the misplaced courage that we all seem to shed as we age, going from toddlers who scream in restaurants, to anxiety-riddled twenty-somethings trying to memorise their food order to avoid ridicule from the wait staff.

On that day, though, I realised that I was both frightened and tired; my courage had abandoned me, and the front of bravery had worn me thin. He asked, I said no and gave my reasons, and we didn’t hold hands. Simple. Instead, we held hands in secret: walking together in woods and on country hikes, tightly under the table at dinner with his parents whilst cringing at the decor, and with intertwined fingers on the gear stick when he drove us somewhere. In public though? Never. Not on that day nor any other.

Although I’m under no illusion that doing so would’ve saved our relationship or preserved it in amber for a little longer whilst we faced down the world, hand in hand, I am aware that I should’ve. For one, he turned to me once and told me that he felt safe by my side. At the time, he was the most precious thing in the world to me, and I couldn’t have defended us, with or without his belief in me. What if somebody had really taken offence and thought to do something about it? I couldn’t put his life literally in my hands.

Unfortunately, this is a common feeling; it’s not just me. Instead, it feels like an unsavoury echo from our past when homosexuality was illegal and even more terrifying a prospect. It’s essentially PTSD emanating across time, from all the beatings and tortures and murders committed because some individuals disagreed with the definition of love. I loved him, and he loved me, and yet I was too afraid to show that love in the simplest way possible.

There’s also this weird commentary surrounding hand-holding that perpetuates the illusion that things are getting better. For instance, the first openly gay characters on a Disney TV show closed the finale by holding hands in a touching sign of how things have changed. In the real world, however, homophobic and transphobic hate crimes have surged in the UK, and over the Pond, they’ve increased by as much as 226% in areas where Trump held a campaign rally.

The world remains a frightening place for people to show one another love: and at a time when politics has already frayed our relationships with one another, that’s an upsetting thought. There’s nothing to be afraid of in two men or two women holding hands, however, unless they happen to be the creepy little girls from the Shining or a couple of Bond henchmen.

I wish I could end this article with a sweeping and inspirational close, maybe about how we can all change the world hand-in-hand. Or perhaps I’d go with something about how we should all smile in the street when someone bravely steps forward to demonstrate same-sex love in such a simple way. Unfortunately, I can’t. I’m not in the position to do that right now. All I can do is describe the look of momentary heartbreak that flickered across the face of the man I loved and disappointed as he realised that he may have felt safe with me, but I didn’t feel safe with him.

Still, I’ll try to end this on a hopeful note - and let it be this: I hope that by the time my next relationship blossoms (whenever that may be - before or after hell freezes over), either the world will be softer towards me holding my boyfriend’s hand, or I would’ve become harder to the world, holding his hand regardless.

To all those who do hold their partner’s hand, I salute you - and thank you for not making my mistake.