I no longer feel guilty for wanting to leave my hometown

By Jake Yates-Hart 20 August 2021

Image courtesy of Unsplash/Mantas Hesthaven

Leaving my student house at the end of June was a bittersweet moment for me. There was, of course, a sense of relief about returning to my hometown. I was not going to miss the messy kitchen, nor having to constantly cook for myself (I use ‘cook’ very loosely; shoving a pizza into the oven is my specialty), but as soon as I left Canterbury, I instantly felt myself shut down.

I can only describe that process as a sinking feeling. My heart dropped into my stomach, as I approached the sign that marked my return to Bolton. Because like many LGBTQ+ people, our hometowns can remind us of the bullying, stigma, and marginalisation we’ve endured, and the inner demons created by those experiences.

Before we continue, I want to clarify that despite being a gay man, I’m not without my privileges. I am a white, cis-male, and therefore my experiences are not universal. I understand that there are LGBTQ+ people in worse situations than me, but I hope that my article can provide solace for at least a few.

Returning to our hometowns can be difficult for any uni student. University allows us to grow and flourish into more well-rounded individuals, that finally have agency over our actions and emotions without the influence of high school cliques and familial pressure.

Yet, when we do return, sometimes we find ourselves ‘regressing’ into who we once were. This could be due to a number of reasons. An unhealthy home life; broken friendship groups; or maybe your town is just frustratingly dull!

Whatever the reason, that regression into our former selves can be frightening and uncomfortable. It reminds us of who we once were and makes us wonder if we will always be that way.

Personally, returning ‘home’ awakens old memories from my time at school. Ones in which my anxiety was so bad, I would have to fight off a panic attack whilst climbing the steps to my sixth form. The fear that I would never fit in with my (mostly) straight classmates was a visceral one, and I had to jump over a mental hurdle each time I entered the building.

At lunch, I would debate whether I should sit with a tight-knit group of students to which I was the outsider of or sit alone in a classroom and distract myself with work. I eventually began to choose the latter.

Looking back, isolating myself was an unhealthy coping mechanism, but one that I felt I had to do. To me, it was better to feel lonely by myself, than feel lonely surrounded by people.

My high school years were fraught with self-doubt, as I struggled to come to terms with my sexuality, and it caused me to act out in ways I regret now. In sixth form, I did a 180, became shyer, smaller, as penance for acting like - for lack of a better word - a little shit to the few friends I had.

Yet I found my sexuality being weaponised against me. I was made fun of for the crushes I had in ways that went beyond friendly banter and into homophobic harassment. One time, a classmate - aware that I was in the room - warned their friends very loudly, not to touch gay people, as they had AIDS.

The anxiety of being around those people was so overwhelming. I was without a voice. The friends I did have were straight and couldn’t understand that experience. Unsupported and stuck in a suffocating, unhealthy environment, I was desperate for a fresh start, and I moved as far as I possibly could for university. And that’s when everything changed.

Image courtesy of Unsplash/Papaioannou Kostas

I knew the decision to move to Kent, independent for the first time ever, was a difficult one. But it was the best decision I ever made. I found a supportive group of friends, whom I love and call family. I had my first relationship, and first break up. I found a healthy, sometimes fluctuating, balance between the boorish high schooler, and the quiet sixth form student.

I found a level of confidence I never knew existed, one that derived strength from my queerness. Yet every time I return ‘home’, I am reminded of who I once was, and I am unable to remember who I am now. I become sheltered, closed off, unable to open up.

The past few years of counselling, plus having my own space at university, has helped me realise that it’s healthy to set boundaries, especially as a queer person. No one has the right to speak on someone else’s sexuality, gender identity, ability to conform to masculine/feminine ideals, or love life, all of which has happened to me.

It’s also important to remember it’s okay if we forget that message when we return home. No one really knows how much a person changes at university, so if someone oversteps their boundaries without realising, it’s perfectly natural to wince, and stay silent on the issue. There will come a time when you finally let your voice be heard.

This article came about fresh off the heels from my trip to Newcastle, a fantastic weekend away to see a close friend who I met through social media two years ago but had not yet met. We ate, laughed, got drunk, and became even closer. I met his boyfriend, and his friends and I felt even more connected to my queer identity.

As I enter my fourth and final year of university, I know, and have accepted, that I won’t find happiness in my hometown. Some queer people will relate to that, and some won’t. For those who do, it’s possible you may feel guilty for wanting to leave. I know I have.

Ultimately, our mental health should be at the forefront of any decision we make. Setting boundaries is absolutely necessary to form and maintain healthy relationships. And above all, we should look for happiness, wherever we can find it, even if that means leaving ‘home’.