By Charlie Roberts
Dear You,
Larger than life, you were raw and unapologetic. Your presence inspired me to be my true self, to live boldly and vibrantly. I admired you so much. It’s a cliché, really. I put you on an undeserved pedestal, and you lapped up the praise, like the performer that you are.
I would hear you talk about the gigs, the parties, the people. A wild life I wanted to be a part of. I would not understand what it means to be bisexual, and thus to be myself, if it weren’t for you. You gave me the permission to be one of those queers—the person I’d convinced myself would be ostracized from everyone I knew. The reality is that it allowed me to have much more meaningful connections with my friends and family. Thank you.
In some ways, you were my longest relationship. Seven years. Seven years of trying to convince my family that you were a caring friend, there for me when I needed: A Good Person. Even when my mum said, there’s something “not quite right” about the dynamic between us, or about you. What did she know? I’d think. She doesn’t know the power and intensity of queer platonics.
And it was intense. During our time together, you showed me queer community, how to be proudly bi+, to live for the shits and giggles. Everything with you was so uncompromising, unapologetic, and exceptionally queer. Nothing was complete until I’d either done it with you, or at least told you every word, every movement, every sensation.
You were a tough act to follow, so I curbed my friendships, questioning if the people I wanted to bring into my life would meet with your approval, all because you had to take center stage, especially in my life. The worst part is that you never told me to do this, I imposed this on myself. Because I made you the main character in my life. Even now—when I go out of my way to avoid uttering even your name—when I meet someone new, I instinctively ask myself, what will you think of this person?
Your final words cut me deeply. A way that only someone I’d whispered my deepest fears to could. I had to send screenshots to friends, “Is this who I really am?”
They said, “You are many things, but not this.”
The show must go on, but every performer must take their final bow. And I was no longer willing to feed your ego.
I wanted so much to be like you.
Maybe that’s where it started. The root of infection. Patient zero. Unable to see the illness in the early stages.
I hope I never become as vindictive and dominating as you.
Charlie Roberts is an amateur writer living between the country of Luxembourg and the region of Yorkshire, U.K.