"I don't know why they do shit like ice. Fucking junkies."

Piece published with Overland Journal, on the 27th of November 2017, available here.

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I’ve never resonated with how Australia depicts the addict.

To news media crews, I’m a disturbing outburst on a suburban street by a shark-toothed ex-con. More sensitively, I’m a parent clutching their children as authorities threaten to take them away – if only I’d clean up. I’m that word that hangs on the air like an echo whenever it’s uttered – ‘junkie’.

As a gay man, I can’t see myself in any of those images. I never met crystal meth through hard-knock times on the block with some sort of larrikin crew, nor through a friend-of-a-friend in a shady-looking rental home.

No. I met her as Tina – the party girl.

When you’re doing your Sunday morning shop, she’s in the apartment just overhead, being passed around by a group of gay men in various states of undress. She’s in every rainbow neighbourhood of every big city, everywhere. She’ll make your sex better and your fun wilder; make you want to fuck for days and days. And maybe, if you need it, she’ll make your shame go away.

The people Tina touches are like no ‘junkie’ I’ve ever seen or met. That’s because of how she snakes into their lives: through sex parties and the promise of fun, bringing relief from difficult decades of turmoil, gay bashings and the AIDS crisis. The people she touches are professionals and worldly figures; artists, teachers and industry leaders, who hide leather harnesses under dress shirts and get weird on the weekends – not ‘junkies’.

And yet those Australian-made images – those shark teeth, that blind rage, the screaming disenfranchised – penetrate my community even still.

The other night I was on Scruff – one of our gay ‘dating’ apps – talking to a man with a body so nice it would make even I – a sentient blob – want to go to the gym. The conversation turned to gay sex and drugs.

‘I don’t know why they do shit like ice. Fucking junkies’ he ranted of his own ‘Won’t ever touch the stuff. I’m a critical care nurse, so I’ve seen what it does to people.’

I didn’t have the heart to tell him one of the people I’ve spent the most time partying with – and had the most intense experiences with on ice – was also,  a nurse.

A nurse with a playroom in the basement. Mirror on the ceiling,  giant leather sling and cabinets filled with the necessary materials for safe drug use; needles, sterile water and alcohol swabs. He was one of the nicest people I’ve ever met, spending his life caring for others.

And he sure as hell was no junkie.

Having the same media-fostered cultural awareness, you’d be forgiven for thinking exactly like Mr. Goodbody. He’s been struck by the scandal of it all – the current affair post-six o’clock news – bitten by the shark teeth.

The depictions on our screens are so often sensationalist.  They imbue addicts with violent caricature so outrageous that sometimes we forget we’re looking at real-life human beings. Even addicts like myself, when met with any one of these broadcast examples, can be heard whispering aloud, ‘I never want to be like that’.

It’s not uncommon for gay men on Tina to deny the notion that they’ll ever be an addict, let alone an addict ‘like that’. ‘It’s for pleasure’, taken ‘recreationally’, declared, even as liquored nights out lose their allure to after-parties spent twirling with Tina. They stand their ground and claim total control, as café brunches start to pale next to weekends spent indoors.

All the while raging against concern from loved ones, looking upon tired eyes in a bathroom mirror come Monday or Tuesday morning. They shut themselves inside a bathroom stall, reach into the bag, and think; ‘Just a little bit… Just to get my energy up.’

The patterns of addiction and substance misuse might not look the same for gay people as they do for straights. Where ice binges lead to violence, our ‘party-and-play’ leads to ‘tweaked-out twinks’. Where ice users are perceived as belligerent no-hopers, our own recreational, pleasurable use, comes defended by the community as part of how we’ve grappled with societal pain. To point out the risks in any meaningful way sees you accused of trying to ‘break the community'; of belittling coping mechanisms.

And yet for every battler who weathered homophobic violence, shame and stigma, who freed his pain with pills popped and through dancing the night away, there’s another out there, buried under Tina’s thumb. He’s trudging through desperate Sundays, between uniform apartment buildings seeking chemical frisson. He’s telling himself that he’s there for the sex, when really he’s eyeing off the drugs.

If you don’t look like a ‘junkie’ – if you aren’t shark-toothed and agitated like those terrors on the television – you might not recognise the patterns of your pain and if your media shows you nothing but ‘junkie’ violence in the dismal outer suburbs, your friends and family sneering at the screen, you might not want to identify them, either.

Which is why this problem goes so unheard of – community anguish well-hidden – and it’s why the medical response in this country is as thin as it is ignorant.

I spent a weekend in bed with a pretty boy, in the sparsely furnished walls of his apartment. We were talking about the drugs we were just about to do – our relationship with Tina.

‘I earn probably two thousand dollars a week’ he said. ‘And honestly? Most of it goes on Tina. God! I’m such a junkie.’

And then he laughed. He laughed and laughed and laughed.

But it wasn’t the laughter of the truly amused.

It was the pained cackle of someone trying to convince you of their distance from a devil that they refuse to face. It was a laugh that said, ‘I’ll never be like that.’

Yet despite its best efforts, it murmured: ‘I am. I truly fucking am.’

I loved him raw for those tens of hours, two fogged-up miscreants dancing with Tina. Then I left down his flights of stairs, taking off for the homestead, passers-by none the wiser. I might do so again next weekend.

And when I get home in the end, bleary-eyed and days sleepless, I will turn on my television. I will see those shark-toothed howlers – and sigh. Because my own are shaped a bit differently, my edges sharp in different ways.

Yet they still bite and my screams still hurt my throat.

"I like photography, craft beer, ogling boys – and sadly, crystal meth"

This piece was originally published on BodyAndSoul.com.au, on September 14th 2017. Available here.

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Picture: Supplied. Brandon Cook.

You know that feeling when you’re watching television, and there’s a news segment broadcasting something so insufferably inaccurate that all you can do is stare?

Here’s your old-school uncle bemoaning those bloody millennials or the gal down the road talking marriage equality – and how she’s terrified of homosexuals forcing her to divorce. This is Middle Australia. They wear cargoes and muddied singlets, and live off diets of Lean Cuisine, the fear of Islam, and aggressive suburban tension. They’re also you.

Quite frankly: Who are these people, and who insisted they pretend to represent you?

I get that a lot. Only I don’t cry when I see a Bintang, nor when I spot Kath & Kim come to life. I get it when I hear people talk about addicts. Sorry, I mean “junkies”.

I’m Brandon Cook: twenty-four. I like photography, craft beer, ogling boys on transit – and sadly, crystal meth. And yes, I do want to stop.

I’m one of your “junkies”. Nobody abused me and I didn’t fall into it after hard times. I got hooked when a hot guy asked me to try it, and I didn’t say no because he was just that hot. Go ahead and call me stupid; I’m getting it tattooed on my lower back anyway.

Public figures have a habit of perpetuating seriously bad ideas about addicts. Even people in recovery and rehab tend to be shown as barely-reformed hoodlums.

So call it a lesson from someone in recovery, or tragic advice from Dolly Doctor for deviants – because I’m here to correct some myths around addiction. If stigma kills, then these notions twist the knife.

Not all addicts recover the same way

Many see the only way to live as in complete abstinence. But in most cases, it’s unrealistic. Some people can manage it – but many will use again. Abstinence can tint the world in nightmarish potential for slipping up.

I tried abstinence for two years. And I slipped up a lot. It made me hate myself because it reminded me of what I was: a “junkie”. Then I went to rehab, where I forgave my mistakes, and accepted any future failures.

Some addicts take years to quit, and slip-ups are part of the journey. But some addicts see society shaking their heads, and in their shame, go on to overdose and die.

Picture: Supplied. Brandon Cook.Source:BodyAndSoul

Addiction isn’t selfish

Claiming otherwise ignores that there are biological factors at play that assist in strengthening it, no matter someone’s resistance.

You can argue that nobody put the pipe in my hand; that I did it to myself. And I’d have the strength of character to say you were right.

And yet you’d be pretending that you yourself have never felt the effects of peer pressure, or haven’t been curious about pleasure in all its insidious forms.

The difference between my curiosity and yours is that someone put the object in my hand, and I caved. That’s it. Everything that happened afterwards is neurochemistry. Not a selfish act that I, or anyone, deserves.

We’re not all violent felons

If I had a dollar every time someone didn’t believe I’m “one of those”, since I’m clearly cute as a button and wouldn’t hurt a fly, I could afford the cost of private rehab.

Australia depicts addicts as violent and impoverished. These people exist and are worthy of support. But they’re also not my truth. They’re just one of many.

If I told you that I knew addicts who ran prominent NGOs; who were politicians and figures in media; whose day job was to maintain human life, would your perception of addiction change? I hope so. Which brings me to my last point...

Anyone can be an addict

This is the part where you hold your children closer, and it’s also where I’ll finish up.

The week after I first tried ice, I went to my doctor to ask for help, because already I foresaw problems. Yet even that anxious foresight couldn’t prevent my future.

Addiction doesn’t know class. It isn’t concerned with race or prestige. It just grips onto something in your life – hardship, mental health, or my self-image – and grows and grows. Then, before you have time to react, it’s a problem all its own. It can break your doctor or your neighbour, and even your son.

Untangling addiction means seeing it as the disease it is, not as a symbol of socioeconomic status. Helping addicts means seeing complex humans and not shock-news. It might be offering them realistic aid, no matter how debated.

When we can nail that, maybe I’ll be able to watch the news without cringing. Because I’ll finally feel represented – as a person suffering an illness that unites just as it harms. Not a “junkie”. That’ll be a good day.

If you or someone you know is struggling with addiction, mental ill health or needs help, call Lifelineon 131 114, Beyondblue on 1300 22 4636 or Kids Helpline on 1800 55 1800. In an emergency, call 000. For a correct treatment plan, book an appointment with your GP.

For more information on mental health and treatment options, visit Beyond Blue, Black Dog Institute, Lifeline, RUOK or Headspace.

"Stop talking about drug addicts like we're not here"

This piece was originally published on News.com.au, on the 5th of August 2017. Available here.

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EVERY day I sit down at my laptop, go online — and see another slew of salacious articles written … about me.

I’m not talking about the perils of being a student shackled with HECS-debt, housing prices or, heaven forbid, avocados. I’m not even talking about my homosexual orientation and how it forbids me from rights that so many straights take for granted.

I am talking about article after article on the topic of addiction. Editorials, reviews, and the endless screaming from the Opinion sections, on matters these writers know little about.

I click a link, and see video content about people going through addiction. The footage is laced with a gasping voyeurism. It’s as if the tales depicted were woven from the nightmares of mothers everywhere.

And even our very own government, it seems, wants to perpetuate the notion that drug addicts are welfare bludgers by penalising them for using.

I sit back in my chair, breathless at the careless whimsy of it all.

And I want to scream. I want to shout at the producers who vouched for takes that have addiction described as “disturbing”. I want to rally against the editors with their essay-endings that read like haunting chords of uncertainty for the future of those humans.

I want to, but I don’t.

Instead, I’m going to tell you a little bit about me.

Consider this my “coming out” — and my most sincere declaration.

My name is Brandon Cook. I am twenty-four years old from the city of Melbourne. Here are some details from my life.

When I was nine, I wanted to be a writer and a photographer. Both of those goals persist to this day.

I love fashion and portraiture the most. Part of my business involves shooting sex workers for their advertising. This is apparently quite controversial, but all I know is I’m on a perpetual quest to find the best Club Sandwich at a hotel in Melbourne.

When I was young, I had a crush on a boy that made me afraid. So I did what so many teenage lovers do, and jumped the backyard fence to steal late-night kisses. It would have made for wondrous romantic trysts — if I didn’t leave evidence of a possible break-in scattered around the backyard one night for my dad to find.

At eighteen, I took a job as a night-life photographer, which I did freelance, for six years. I drank beers and shot babes in bands.

Brandon Cook with a fellow photographer in Melbourne.Source:Supplied

One night on the job, I fell in love with a pack of musicians whose first ever Melbourne show contained an audience of me, two drunk girls and a bartender. You may know them as Sticky Fingers, as they later went on to become Australian music royalty.

It wasn’t an Almost Famous-groupie kind of love — but friendship. The kind where the band detours to your house, collecting you on one of your darkest days.

The kind where you’re whisked backstage to a dreamy music festival on New Year’s Eve, where they’re playing the countdown set, and you remember to cherish these moments for the rest of your life.

Brandon Cook (front of frame) with the band Sticky Fingers.Source:Supplied

And here are some other details of my life.

The night I first had a bad reaction to crystal meth, I laid in hospital expecting death for a total of eight hours. My heart raced and head pounded, mind screaming with anxiety — but there was nothing they could do. You can’t reverse the effects of ice; you can only soothe their symptoms. My only company for that horrible night was a fellow drug user, still under the influence, who stayed by my side until he was sure I’d be safe.

I knew I was becoming a crystal meth addict when my attempts to ignore the voices telling me to lapse, failed spectacularly. At first, meth made me feel sexy like I’ve never known — but then it made me suicidal. Weeks went by and I quaked under the fear of relapse. Mighty earthquakes make for great holes to fall through, because despite that fear, I would go on to lapse so intensely that I was hospitalised. This happened more than 12 times.

I was the boy who, at 22, feared becoming a “junkie” to my doctor, one wandering the streets looking for his next hit. At 23, I found myself staring down with moon-pupils at my dirtied hands, as I heaved from one apartment to the next and realised: I had fallen through the looking glass, and become him.

Larry Clark once wrote on the topic of injecting drug use, in the foreword to his first photobook, Tulsa said, “Once the needle goes in, it never comes out”.

Truer words have never been said. Only for me, they’re words I wish I’d never learned the meaning of.

He was the worst human I had ever met. Not a “monster” like those the journalists describe — but a man. A man who gave me my first meth injection; the most potent route of administration.

The amount he gave me was too much, or maybe it was something else entirely. Because all I could say before I drifted into incoherence and dissociation — eyes rolling into their sockets while I felt his body crushing me, all licking, spittle and grunts — was, “What the fuck did you just do to me?”

In the blips of clarity I had during those moments, I thought, “This is how I die.”

But I didn’t. I lived.

In February of this year, I went to rehab. I spent several weeks enduring daily turmoil, constant struggle, and endless epiphanies. I was broken down, rebuilt, then made whole again. And it was the best decision I’ve ever made in my life.

Brandon Cook outside a rehab clinic with David Stuart, the head of substance misuse at Europe’s busiest sexual health clinic (he was touring Australia and paid a visit to Brandon)Source:Supplied

Now, months later, I’ve written about lessons learned during my rehab stint. I’ve gone on radio to talk smack about crack, and contributed to the blogs of internationally renowned health organisations with my lived experience of addiction.

I’ve met addicts who run successful NGOs, whose briefcases are only accessible by their thumbprint scan. I’ve met addicts with Harvard MBAs, psychology degrees, top jobs at law firms, and astounding cred as critical care nurses.

I’ve met addicts who whimper into rags at how their lives have gone wrong — and addicts who have become better, more passionate people as a result of their disease.

In early June I came out to defend the addicts being punished by our government for daring to lapse in the drug-testing trials, by showing them who they would harm should these laws come to pass — people like me. I wanted my vulnerability to spark empathy, to challenge their preconceptions about the people who would fail those tests.

Brandon Cook pictured in hospital, post-overdose.Source:Supplied

Instead, I was met with a monsoon of hateful comments. On an article where the header image is one of me, post-overdose, in hospital, people told me I was nothing but a fabrication formed to stoke sympathy.

I had become the horror story and the monster at the same time.

In our cultural narratives, we ignore the voices of the addict. We block them out, as we fear they can’t speak for themselves, and create content that reflects our childlike perception. At best, we fill discussion panels with counsellors rather than recovering addicts ready to speak their truths. At worst, we typecast these addicts as lost causes, essentially muting what voice they might have. And then scrawl their names onto news articles in bold, like the brandings of an obituary.

What these journalists, politicians and producers don’t realise, as they broadcast their own takes on addiction, is that these algebraic narratives make it harder for addicts to speak out — because then they become the horror story.

I write here as one of those horror stories.

I am the nine-year-old chasing a boyhood dream — and I am your monster.

I am the documentarian capturing ascents to fame — and your sordid, tragic tale.

I am the son, the lover, and the ne’er-do-well dancing with the devil.

I am the nightmare your mother dreads for your future; your scandalous addict-in-recovery.

Like Larry Clark’s photographs of his sick-junkie-friends in Tulsa; addicts exist to be sorrowfully observed, and never can they speak up about their mistreatment. But I won’t be made into a caricature as you wail ignorantly on behalf of us poor lost, souls.

So. Now you know a little about who I am. You know my name and my face. You know my ambitions, some of my brightest moments, and the deep sin of my pitch-black darkest. And you know that I am an addict. For some strange reason, I am apparently one of very few addicts around brave enough to publicly admit to it. My sincerest declaration is that I will not apologise.

So go ahead and ignore me. Pass your laws and write your pieces.

Talk about me like I’m not here.

I dare you.

"Welfare Drug Testing Will Ruin Recovering Addicts Like Me"

This piece was originally published on VICE Australia, on the 13th of June 2017. Available here.

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Me in hospital after a misuse admission

Scott Morrison unleashed the 2017 Budget in May and, unless you're a political journalist, it wasn't anything exciting. $6 billion in extra taxes for the big banks here, a cool $600 million for the Bureau Of Meteorology there. Oh, and the announcement that thousands of people on Newstart and Youth Allowance will soon be drug tested.

The decision was met with an immediate, furious uproar that neared "break #auspol" levels. Coming out in support of the scheme, Malcolm Turnbull offered, "The lesson is: Don't do drugs"—a sentiment with all the persuasive power of Frances McDormand's character in Almost Famous.

But what's been lacking in this debate—and in the decision-making process of Australian politics generally—is input from literally anybody in the health sector, or from those whose lives have been affected by substance abuse.

I fall into the second category. Over the past two years, the effects of crystal methamphetamine have wreaked absolute havoc on my life. It started when I was 22, and a beautiful man invited me back to his place after a night on the town. We got down to business, and then he offered me the pipe. I just remember drunkenly thinking, "This man is so good looking. I can't say no." My experience after that moment only serves to affirm my longstanding belief that hot people are the worst.

See, ordinary people might have taken this incident as a one-off, and carried on with their lives. For me though, my first time began a reckoning that took years to get under control. I knew it was a terrible drug, I'd heard all the nightmare stories. But within a week of that first experience, I heard a voice in my head gently whisper, "You could definitely do that again."

And so I did. Again, and again, and again. Repeating ad infinitum through the months, until monthly use became fortnightly, and fortnightly became weekly. At the start of this year, two years into my addiction, I'd upped my game to several times a week. It was that that point I decided to get myself to rehab.

Me in rehab

Only it wasn't as simple as taking myself there. With waitlists for public rehab impossibly long and private health cover too expensive, I had to turn to crowdfunding to get help. The response was overwhelming, and through the generosity of friends and strangers, I was able to afford a place at a private inner-Melbourne rehabilitation clinic.

What followed was weeks of intense withdrawals under strict psychiatric care. A simple text message while in rehab from someone I used to "use" with would send me into fits of inexplicable desire. It was hell. And it was one of the best decisions of my life.

I am someone who's lived through drug addiction, I've seen firsthand how it can come so close to destroying your life, which is why I think our government is making a huge mistake. I'd go as far as to say welfare drug testing will be destructive to Australian society. All of the evidence suggests this—from addiction research, to the results of welfare drug testing in other countries.

This is because as addicts, we're taught that slip ups happen. We're told lapses can, and do, occur. Recovering from addiction should never be viewed as a situation of "abstinence or death." It can only work if it's built on a foundation of sobriety "as best we can."

And there's a difference between a lapse and a relapse: A relapse is to take drugs again after a period of sobriety, and to fall back into old habits. It's collapsing under the weight of our own mistakes, until we believe that we're no longer worth the effort.

A lapse, or a slip-up, on the other hand, is to take drugs after a period of sobriety—and to know that it was a mistake, but that we can go on. It's not restarting the clock, and knowing that we haven't fallen off the proverbial horse. It's a long-game mentality, and a whole-hearted awareness that addiction is an ongoing struggle. It's me, lying in my bed after an error on the town, knowing that although today might fucking suck and I've made a mistake, tomorrow will be better. And the day after that. And after that.

I worry what would've happened to me if I tested positive to a welfare drug test during one of these lapses. If I got cut off from Centrelink entirely in one of the most vulnerable periods of my life. Even the proposed welfare alternatives seem problematic—imagine heading to the supermarket after a lapse and having to hand one of those Cashless Debit Cards over to the cashier. This symbol that your government feels you can't be trusted. What do you think could mute this guilt?

I know it seems small, but it matters.

Because these inevitable lapse periods can be incredibly vulnerable. There have been times I've tried to hide the problem from my family and been dishonest with my friends. Times I've hidden scorched track marks under long sleeves. There have been moments where I've lapsed, and the line between lapse and relapse has become so incredibly thin. Times of self doubt, as I lay in the midst of a comedown—or worse, a hospital visit from overuse—wondering, is this really going to be the rest of my life? Am I doomed to repeat this cycle, again and again, until it kills me? Or am I worth the struggle? Does my life have meaning enough to continue the fight?

When I heard Scott Morrison's announcement, I thought,Well, that's welfare done. I guess I'll be avoiding it altogether. And I know that others like me, too, will feel that burn. Maybe that's what some people hope will happen—for "dole bludging drug addicts" to be punished. But a welfare system that penalises addicts for lapsing is one that fundamentally misunderstands addiction.

I am someone who's actively trying to overcome my addiction. But even at the best of times, in the periods of success in my sobriety, I've been inexplicably met with that same whispering voice which doesn't belong to me—"You could definitely do that again." I've fallen off the wagon since getting out of rehab. More than once. I've caved to desire and failed at what I adamantly set out to achieve—sobriety.

But recovery doesn't always look like complete and total abstinence. Sometimes it looks like reducing your use, or developing strategies for change, or accepting your slip ups as being momentary hiccups. Just minor bumps in the road that's the rest of your life.

With government initiatives like drug testing welfare recipients; however, all of those psychiatrist-sponsored mantras go out the window. All that's left is the cold, steely gaze of poverty, staring in the face of those who need aid the most.

"I know what bullying looks like. It's not what anti-equality activists say it is."

This piece was originally published on Guardian Australia, on the 19th of May 2017. Available here.

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 ‘The event was a vigil to mourn the deaths of the gay and bisexual men in Chechnya, who are, to this day, being detained and murdered by their governments and families, simply for being gay.’

The same-sex marriage debate continues to rage in Australia, despite the public shame of recently being labelled a second-tier nation by the International Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Trans & Intersex Association.

The ongoing storm of useless argument was displayed once more on Tuesday night, when Network Ten’s The Project aired a segment discussing an incident in which an anti-equality activist smashed a pie in the face of Alan Joyce to protest the Qantas CEO’s support for marriage equality.

In the segment, the Australian Christian Lobby’s Lyle Shelton argued that opponents of same-sex marriage were being forced to endure bullying for their views.

As a gay person living in Australia, I continue to be amazed and endlessly frustrated by the so-called “debates” we’re forced to endure on our screens – particularly when words such as “bullying” are tossed around exclusively by members of the heterosexual mainstream.

More than that, I’m baffled by the assertions of Lyle Shelton – and others in the anti-equality movement – that they’re somehow under constant fire from a violent tempest of harassment.

Because frankly, these people have no idea what real bullying looks like.

I’ll never forget my 13th birthday. Not for the presents or the cake, but for the fact that I was beaten so badly in the schoolyard that I was taken to first aid, all for being a little bit different. As I wiped my bloodied chin in front of the nurse while recounting the story, it took all of my strength not to burst into tears – because I knew exactly why they’d targeted me.

My adolescence was littered with these experiences: being shouted at in the street by boys much older than me, approached in the schoolyard by packs of lads, sinisterly being asked “So, I heard you’re a faggot”, and cornered in dark laneways by people who’d somehow heard of me, of my left-of-centre orientation, and took it as an opportunity to aggress.

Even now, in my mid-20s, I am left with at best a lingering anxiety, and at worst a crippling fear, about stepping onto a train, or a bus, because I don’t know who might be aboard. I count every face instinctively; fearing one might carry markers of my high school abusers. I sit up the front, making myself as small as possible, because I never know if I might be “spotted” – identified as a homosexual and subsequently bashed, all for being too visible.

On Tuesday night – at the same time The Project segment aired – I was walking home from a trip to inner-city Melbourne, when a group of lads proceeded to aggressively shout and holler at me, commenting on my “poofter shirt” and rainbow brooch. I ignored them and hustled away, knowing any reaction could trigger violence.

What they didn’t know was that I had come from an event in the city centre. My pink shirt was worn in solidarity, my brooch a symbol of gay pride. The event was a vigil to mourn the deaths of the gay and bisexual men in Chechnya, who are, to this day, being detained and murdered by their governments and families, simply for being gay. Simply for being just like me; the very me those street louts were snarling at, and the one Shelton wants to deny rights.

That’s what bullying looks like. That’s harassment. That’s a level of contempt that borders on criminal.

These aren’t my experiences alone. They are those echoed by the larger LGBTI community. Some are lesser, and some disastrously worse but all need be reiterated, so that the mainstream – and the Sheltons of the world – can understand why granting marriage equality not only allows us the right to marry, but further proves to our children that gay people are equal, and that difference is not alien.

If Shelton wishes to complain about the censure of his views and opinions, which only serve to further marginalise those already in strife, he best choose his words more carefully. Because his attitudes, as Guardian columnist Van Badham said to him on The Project, are retrograde and reprehensible, and the criticism he receives for these views looks nothing like the bullying I’ve endured my entire life.