Please note: this piece contains content that some readers may find upsetting.
As if things weren’t already awkward enough.
I was being inducted,
Ostensibly into my new role as a trainee solicitor and the workings of the organisation,
But actually getting an insight into pack mentality within a group of cis/straight/nondisabled aspirational types and acquainted with my new role as the token trans/crip/queer.
So far I’d met Steve, who tells me he is gay,
but ‘can’t stand camp guys,’ so we’ll get on like a house on fire,
And been asked about my nail polish by Angela:
Was I allowed to wear it to work?
Was it part of the dress code?
‘Yes but they’re women. Oh, that’s very bold!’
I'd sat resolutely staring at the desk
as Callum asked us, a group of adults ranging in age from our early 20s to at least 50, whether he could
‘have boy and a girl’
to sit either side of the boss for the customary new starters' photo.
It was in this stuffy room full of 19 strangers,
While being subject to death by PowerPoint, delivered by yet another pale, male, and stale associate, that It fell out onto my desk:
A folded piece of lined paper.
I was using an old notebook, though I hadn’t realised quite how old, and it had been shoved in at the back.
26th of February 2006.
Sitting with Steve I-don’t-like-camp-guys on one side and Angela on the other, I started reading a suicide note.
My suicide note.
From ten years ago.
I was 21.
The thing that struck me first was the fact that I’d signed it off Nathaniel
As if I’d thought using my Sunday name leant it the gravitas such a note deserved.
I felt myself cringe at how incredibly immature it now seemed.
And then I discovered I'd included a will, even though I hardly owned anything, and signed it at the bottom of the page.
I had a sudden, vivid memory of being taught that in Scotland a will is valid if it’s signed at the bottom of every page.
I imagined myself, having decided to end my life, putting into practice what I must have just learned at law school.
And I laughed.
Audibly.
I couldn’t stifle it.
As I was being told for the 15th time that criminal gangs might try and recruit me for information, I was sat holding a decade old piece of paper, telling people, people I still love dearly, that they might want to consider playing 'Wicked Little Town,' a song from a musical about a transgender East German rock singer, at my funeral.
I looked at Steve listening intently and Angela underlining 'criminal' 'gangs', and I thought about where I was sitting when I wrote the letter in my hand.
And I thought about where I was sitting in that moment.
I thought about the fact that I’m still exhausted and still not sure if I’ve got the energy to do this.
But I’m here.
And I folded the piece of paper from ten years ago along the crease, stuck it into the back of my notebook, and smiled.
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