Russell Fleet Alive and kicking
March is a funny old time of year. In January we start out
full of promise. Most of those promises we make on New Year’s Eve, when
we we’re full of the joys of alcohol, merrily kissing strangers and
wishing them well.
We make personal resolutions like stopping smoking; getting fit; cutting back
the booze; sorting out the finances; or we hope that the world will be a better
place and things won’t be so grim. Then, by March, we find things are
pretty much as they always were last year; another criminalisation case, concerns
about patient confidentiality, NHS costs and restructuring, same old same
old - and that’s just the HIV stuff, never mind the wars, the climate
and the economy.
Some of this stuff is so mind-bogglingly big it’s almost too much to
deal with, so I retreat back into myself and look at the things over which
I can have some influence; the personal resolutions.
My first thought was that I don’t need to make any for this year at
least, because last year I managed to make some which were not only achievable,
but enjoyable in the execution. So technically they’re not New Year
resolutions, but I figure that recommitting to them counts too - why fix what
isn’t broken, eh?
And it’s going well; I’m getting fit, better body definition,
drinking less alcohol and have cut out the other, ahem, ‘substances’
that were addling my mind and sapping my motivation.
But to tell the truth, it’s not just a case of making a few changes
to unhelpful behaviours; it’s about finding out why I was doing them
in the first place. And I think I’ve finally worked it out, at least
to some degree.
You see, while I’ve been very good at putting on the front; ‘thriving,
not surviving,’ being the gobby, in-yer-face poz gay guy that won’t
lie down and take it (except in certain intimate circumstances). Much of what
has been going on behind closed doors (and closed eyes) has been all about
fear.
Fear of... well, what, exactly? That’s the really weird part. I don’t
even know what I’m afraid of. I’m pretty sure it’s not dying;
if anything, it’s living. Fear of failure? Or of success? At the moment
I feel like a mass of contradictions. That’s scary too because I thought
I had a better handle on myself than that.
I’ve just changed jobs and have a lot to learn in a challenging environment.
It’s a useful experience because it’s forcing me to become aware
of how the old patterns come up. I find myself doubting my ability to do it,
when I know that I really can; it just seems more familiar to tell myself
that I can’t. 
I’ve also joined a big local theatre group, as I figured being a drama
queen just about qualifies me for membership. I’ve done a few bits and
pieces there already and, unlike the job, I know absolutely that I can do
it. Yet the possibility of being judged - and found wanting - is far greater
and far more immediate there than at work. I suppose it’s just that
the consequences are potentially not so severe. I mean, if I’m a rotten
actor they won’t cast me in anything and I’ll have my evenings
back, but if I’m rotten at my job I could get fired.
I just wish I could bring some of the confidence I have doing my hobby to
other aspects of my life. People who know me may be surprised by this; after
all, one of them once said to me that I have more front than Selfridges. But
there’s not much point in having a great window display if you don’t
have much in stock to satisfy the demand it creates, is there?
I’m aware this may not necessarily be anything to do with being poz
per se; in fact I bet a lot of people feel like this, or something similar.
It’s just that I wasn’t expecting to feel like this at 43, I thought
I’d be a grown-up by now and have it all sorted. Ah well, I guess I’m
still learning that I still have a lot to learn. One thing’s for certain,
if anything interesting comes up, you’ll be the first to know about
it...
