Do you remember the day like I do?

The piercing chill of the late February winter;the bells high above the chapel ringing weighty and hopeful;the pastel aroma of flowers clouding the wintry air, soft as a whisper;the haphazard dashing of white rice, a spriteful and hearty ritual.

Then the final march down the petal-strewn aisle, each step a jagged heartbeat. The sweat on my hands, the sweat on your brow. The sweat on our bodies the following night.

It’s been so long since then, and, despite what we believed in the weeks after, the time has hardly been perfection-our ‘endless’ bliss receded, and on its heels came a thundercloud of doubt, a hurricane that wreaked uncertainty and ambivelence-but with the storm came sunlight, rays so earnest in their luminescence that they threatened to blind me. Though there were pitfalls and perils, obsidian waves that promised to rock us apart, I still held on, because the darkness was always chased by a light that burned away black feelings, a light that cast you in a glow so pure that I ranked you with the angels. Again and again the shadows came, and again and again, we kept our fire through it. The storm was unbeatable, but so were we.

Until now.

At first, I tried to hide it-the perpetual migraines, sleepless nights, the way my legs buckled like a newborn’s with every quaking step. I covered each bout of staccato speech with a dismissive laugh, attributted every fall to a faulty step or cracked pave, made every spell of nausea seem vapid, fleeting. I concealed all signs as best I could and yet still you saw, and when I finally showed you the truth, your devastation wrought a tempest so hellish I feared it would consume the both of us.

But, like always, bleak days passed and, though there hung above us perennial gloom, a stark brilliance still managed to break through. Between the consultations and the treatments, the hope found and lost, the sighs and the sorrows, was the pleasure, the laughter, the pure and simple happiness, because there you were.

And here you are still, at the end, when my twisted limbs knot beneath me in pain, and my skin is a mishmash of sallow whites and muted grey-blues. The gloom is descending now- I see it in the glass beads of your silent tears, the slight shake of your always steady fingers. Your pain is absolute, a warning of the greater devastation to come-but haven’t we been through storms, my love? Haven’t we thought our end was coming, so many times before? Haven’t we been captured by the night and saved by the sun?

Even now, I don’t see darkness or light at the end of the tunnel, but the infinity of us-the you and me of the before and the now and the meant to be. There is no death for us. We are forever. The vows we made that winter day, long ago ring as true as ever.

-for better or for worse-

-in sickness and in health-

-til death do us part-

-and brings us together again-

-we will shine.

Together.

I like to think that there are a lot of synonyms for homophobia.

Irrationality

Fear

Ignorance

Closed-mindedness

Insensitivity

Blindness

Obtuseness

Then there's always

downright stupidity.

No doubt, they'd be those that'd call it

Sense

Naturalness

Intelligience

Intellect

Good judgement

Reason

Perhaps even

sanity.

Of course

these are the people who would rather see a man

droven to depression than thriving

with his soulmate

the people that balk at the sight

of a woman

waving a rainbow flag.

These were once the people that'd sooner see someone

executed

than wed to their partner

the people that supported and administered

conversion therapy

the people that

set up camps

that told you to be ashamed of who you are.

And so, despite the bountiful variety of words available, I believe there is only one that truly encompasses the meaning of homophobia.

Homophobia is an illness.

It has caused riots

Broken families

Thrown children onto the street

It murdered Matthew Sheperd

and Harvey Milk

and Rebecca Wight

and so

so

many more.

It has battered some

Imprisoned others

It has driven countless to

depression

self harm

suicide.

Like I said

homophobia is an illness

ravaging our society

spread by those

who love to hate

and

hate to love.

Often, during the times when I become slave to a bout of inescapable self pity, I find my mind returning to this age-old mantra:

'illegitimi non carborundum'

-'don't let the bastards grind you down.'

Because the bastards are everywhere, aren't they?

They're in our streets, our schools, shops, homes, towns, cities, and-especially as of late-our government bodies. In short, they're everywhere, blighting our world with a pathogenic (but thankfully, proverbial) darkness, a permanent and lackluster stain on society.

And yet these are the bastards (or wankers, or bellends-really, whatever crude term you'd prefer) that are the ones we need worry about the least. The physical bastards. The bastards

that, no matter our disposition, will always remain somewhat avoidable.

The real, tangible, downright ugly threats, come in the form of our mental bastards-the bastards that wedge themselves into the deepest, darkest crevasses of our minds.

You know them well.

It's the reoccurring thought that perpetually triggers your insomnia. It's the insecurity you carry like an involuntary purse from dawn to dusk. It's the serotonin-sucking belief of your own crippling inadequacy. It's the feeling, like the damned and bloody spot, that we wish we could command out!

The feeling that always manages to

grind

us

down.

A feeling that I am, quite frankly, sick of.

So I've started doing something new.

For every time I feel that niggling sense of inferiority, I say,'illegitimi non carborundum.'

For each thought that darkens my mood I think,'illegitimi non carborundum.'

For all the times when the world is under a dreary grey filter, I repeat it.

Illegitimi non carborundum.

Illegitimi non carborundum.

Illegitimi non carborundum.

It's a cure, a shield, a defense against the maladies that dare try and blacken my sunlit days.

Because, unlikely as it seems, each time I recite it, the thoughts seem to creep further back into those crevasses, until they-momentarily-disappear from my mind altogether.

So go on.

Say it.

Say it again.

Say it slowly.

Say it quickly.

Say it so loudly that your voice rocks the heavens themselves.

Illegitimi non carborundum.

An inspiring phrase, if there ever was one.