Bryon Fear writes about a homophobic confrontation, and how angry he was with himself when he turned away from it.

Was it something about the way my partner took this photograph? Or perhaps the way in which I looked at him? It’s hard to pinpoint. But this was the moment… This was the moment that the man at the table opposite ours understood what our relationship to each other was and muttered under his breath,

“Fucking queers!”

I froze. Years of empowerment bolstered by marching at Pride rallies fell away all too quickly. A fear gripped me. I was suddenly reminded of my nine year old self who used to take mile long diversions home from school for fear of being met by the bullies who earlier had told me in the playground that they “would be waiting” for me after school.

It is a very specific type of fear. The fear that something bad is going to happen. Something that you are unable to prevent.

Mat sat down, pleased with the photo. He said how nice I looked in it, a comment which I brushed aside quickly sensing the hatred to my left. Like a child hiding under his duvet from the monsters under the bed at night, I buried my face into the menu, as if concentrating on the words in front of me would help make the situation go away.

Mat asked me what I was in the mood for, and my already pathetic resolve had snapped. I looked up and said quietly, “I don’t want to stay here”. Mat looked confused. It was a small comfort that he was oblivious to the situation. A few years ago we had both been put in hospital by a random attack that left me with my jaw snapped in two. These are moments that you never want to have to define your relationship by, and I wasn’t about to invite the possibility of another. “I just don’t want to stay,” I pressed. Mat could see I was in distress and agreed immediately.

I was out of my seat and out of the door before Mat had even got his jacket on. I felt like a coward. As Mat passed between the two tables to join me outside, the man addressed Mat directly,

“Didn’t see anything you fancy?”

Having not heard his original remark, Mat was unaware that this was a parting jibe.

I walked quickly down the road. In a rage. Not at the arsehole in the restaurant, but at myself. Why hadn’t I stood up for myself? For us? Why did I just crumble like that and run away?

That is the thing that upsets me the most. That with two words, this man made me feel like that pathetic kid again, the one who used to get bullied and would run away. The irony is, I was bullied as a child because somehow those other kids knew I was different, just like this guy knew we were different. And despite my friends telling me that to walk away was the right thing to do, I hate the way he made those feelings come to the surface – those feelings that are intrinsically tied to the self-hatred we experience when we first realize that we are actually different to most people. And that’s what I hate him for. For making me doubt those feelings can ever truly go away.