I hate God.

This is what I remember saying to my mother when I was 11. At approximately the same time I went to her with the worry that maybe I was gay — so perhaps the two were connected in my mind. But what I have come to understand only recently is that my greatest urge of all has always been to blaspheme. I was terrified; my mother was my confidant, my only ally — the only person who I imagined understood me. I confided in her that I couldn’t get that repellent phrase out of my brain. She didn’t understand — but as usual she was very sympathetic and rescued me from terror. What was particularly strange was that I wasn’t sure that I actually hated God, that is, there was no reason for the phrase to be in my head other than the fact that I knew it should not have been there. Am I attracted to heresy? Addicted to the moral obscenity? It seems that as a writer, I am not so much addicted to thinking something as to saying it; after all the thought ‘I hate God’ wasn’t enough for me, my guilt compelled me to say to my mother those terrifying words, and then be blessed, cleansed. (We won’t go into how the whole process of her cleansing me morally was a kind of emotional incest, not now). Well if this is an illness — it does reminds me of the obsessive compulsive disorder I have observed in some of my friends — maybe I become obsessed with various shocking ideas -- even if I don’t believe them -- just because they are so shocking (or perhaps I am being unkind to myself here)? So much of what I have written has offended so many people, and it strikes me that it would be convenient if this was simply an illness. My outspokenness has certainly been connected — by those who hate me — as an affliction; when I stood up to Christina Blizzard so many years ago (a woman who attacked Buddies in Bad Times Theatre) she told people I needed psychiatric help — which indeed I do -- I have been in therapy for years (I don’t deny it). But none of my therapists has ever treated my compulsion to speak what I consider to be shocking truths as an infirmity. But is it? Because, as we suffer week after numbing week of this 'death in life' -- called 'lockdown' -- I feel compelled to tell it like it is. I am drawn to conspiracy theories, I wish I could rest there, could just rant in my head. But for me the truth is so much simpler and more complex than that. I wish I could blame ‘them’ -- whoever they are (George Soros? Bill Gates?) -- but isn’t it rather puffing ourselves up to imagine that we (the little people) are of any importance to ‘them'? Okay. So I am as compelled to speak these words as I was once compelled to say 'I hate God.' Here goes: ‘this epidemic is not real.’  But people will point to the deaths, to the long term survivors on television all the time; 'Believe me,' they say, 'my pain is real, I am truly, truly suffering.’ How many times do I have to tell you that when I challenge the origins of your disease I am not accusing you of ‘not suffering?’ I have no doubt that many have suffered and died, but the question I ask is this. Most of the people who have died are over 80 and/or in nursing homes. Why has nothing been done to protect them? Why were no measures taken to improve their living conditions? Why are they debating whenever or not old people should be the first ones to be vaccinated? If this epidemic was real we would have have spent the last 10 months doing just that. But let’s face it; we don’t care about old people -- we live in a capitalist society and when it comes down to it we are all as transactional as Trump. COVID-19 just gives us a chance to imagine we care, that’s what this whole exercise is about — it's a fantasy feast of a fantabulous altruism that we do not, and will never, possess. And here is my point: there is no truth. This is perhaps the most heretical thing I will ever say; but if you understood it then, honestly, I think things would be so much better for all of us. What does it mean to say 'there is no truth'? It means that we are all living our own fictions, and the sooner we understand that, the easier it will be to live together and love each other. It’s easy enough — isn’t it — when you see the drug addicts on the street (and there are so many of them now -- it’s a kind of party out there -- them and the ones rushing to buy toilet paper, and those scurrying with their heads down, masked, in fear) and we think ‘that guy’s crazy --he’s living in his own world.’ And we kind of respect that. Or we should. And rightly so; because that person is having a hard time. Similarly, I respect those who believe that their 90 year old parents somehow died tragically of COVID-19 even though they were sick for years and were going to die soon anyway. I respect the long term survivors who have been racked with COVID-19 pain for the last year; I respect those who would not sit in a room with me if they knew I slept with 50 men last summer (give or take a few). I love all of you -- for living in the crazy little worlds you have created for yourselves, just as you must love me for living in  mine. And our only hope is that out of this mutual respect can come a dialogue, in which we respectfully try and persuade each other of what might become for a moment or two a ‘shared’ reality. But there is no truth. Science will come up with another COVID-19 mutation before you finish your breakfast; it’s best not to worry about it. Just realise that public health officials are fulfilling some need inside themselves by day after day setting out to perpetually scare you (Theresa Tam is certainly fulfilling something inside her; please respect that!). This is not a doctrine of universal love, as much as a doctrine of universal acceptance of the world’s fantasy and lies. How then are we to live our lives? We find our own truths, and 'do unto others' -- and well Amanda in Noel Coward's Private Lives (when pressed)  put it succinctly: “Oh yes, I believe in being kind to everyone, and giving money to old beggar women, and being as gay as possible.” It is the third part of this modest proposal that may prove the most difficult to realize at the present time. So all I can recommend is that you try -- to the best of your ability -- to live your own lies, but remember this corollary; you must respect the lies of others.