It was horrifying to realise I was gay. I was 12 years old, and attending an all-girls school in Cambridge. In the 1970s, “lezza” was the worst thing anyone could say about you, and my mother described homosexuality as “unnatural”. I did everything I could to appear straight, hoping it was just a phase.
By the time I hit 15, that hope was fading. Against my family’s wishes, I became a born-again Christian, thinking it might help. The local church was a warm, kind community. One woman told me not to worry; I was a lesbian but as long as I didn’t act on it, I’d be fine. “God loves everybody, you know? Rapists, serial killers, paedophiles,” she said.
I continued to wrestle with my sexuality, even after I moved to London to study. In my early 20s, in the second year of university, I confessed to the pastor at my church in the city that I had kissed a girl. He told me I had a demon inside me, and that he could arrange a meeting with a fellow pastor who was experienced in exorcisms. I would have to fast for three days and repent my attraction to girls. I didn’t tell anyone about the exorcism; but I put immense weight on it and on the hope that it would help me lead a normal life.
When I arrived at the pastor’s house, there was a sombre atmosphere. The furniture had been pushed back, except for one wooden chair in the middle of the room. My pastor was there, with two male assistants and Sid, the exorcism expert. He was a tiny man who sometimes came to our church to pray for people with all sorts of maladies.
Sid told me they would get the demon out, but this depended on my being repentant. If they failed, I would go to hell. All the men started praying in tongues. They held my shoulders, shaking me and shouting at the demon, commanding it, ironically, to “come out”. I was crying because four men were shouting at me and also because of the years of anxiety, grief and loneliness I had suffered. It seemed to go on for hours. At one point, my pastor’s wife appeared, with a pot of tea. Everything stopped, and I was grateful for the rest and the biscuits. Then Sid told everyone to drink up so they could have another go.
After more of their shouting, I lunged forward and tried to strangle Sid, acting out what I thought they wanted to see. They shouted louder: “It’s coming out, it’s coming out!”
I think the exorcism took about two and a half hours. I asked Sid how it had gone. “Not well,” he said and told me that I had seven demons – and while they were praying, five more had come in. He said that I should get myself a boyfriend and start wearing more ladylike clothes. They looked sad and worried, and I was beyond despair. I decided to leave the church.
In my third year of university, I spent a year abroad in Italy. On a retreat at a Catholic monastery, I resolved to become a nun; I would dedicate myself to God. I flew back to London to finish my degree, intending to return the following year to take my vows.
On the day I was due to go back to Italy, I felt uneasy. I flipped open my Bible and it landed on a verse that said: “He walks in the way of his father David, neither turning to the left nor to the right.” My interpretation was that I had to live in the real world, rather than run away and hide. I unpacked my suitcase.
The fear that the devil was inside me, plus my internalised homophobia, kept me in the closet until I was in my late 40s. I was working as a teacher in London, but for one weekend every month I flew to Los Angeles to study for a master’s in spiritual psychology. For two years I was surrounded by people who didn’t care if I was gay or not; their only religion was authenticity. When the course ended, I thought: I can’t be in the closet any more. It was as if the lid came off. I quit my job and moved to LA, where I wrote a one-woman show based on my experiences called A Very British Lesbian, which I’m taking to this year’s Edinburgh Fringe. I’m no longer religious. I do yoga, I light candles, I have a relationship with a higher power.
I don’t know if I’d call myself an activist, but the show is a rallying cry – not just for gay people, but for anybody who is living a muted life; because we’re only here for a short time.
• As told to Lisa Henderson
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