In 2003, a young and ready 23 years old, I was on my first operational tour of Northern Ireland, a job and environment I had grown up seeing. I had been in “province” for less than 72 hours and was on my first patrol. It was distinctly surreal! I was dressed in full combat clothing, body armour under my uniform, helmet to hand and carrying a rifle, walking past the same shop brands I had walked past the week before back in England. It was no different to walking down your local high street anywhere.

As we passed across the car park of a large Tesco (UK supermarket chain) something drew the attention of our multiple commanders and a message came over the radios to “go firm” or stop and find somewhere out of the way and make ourselves as small as possible. Unfortunately for me I was right outside the main entrance and too far from anything less discreet, my only choice was to crouch down in the corner right next to the sliding doors of the main entrance with everyone and their trolleys walking past. I’m not the smallest person and have never been good at hide and seek. I was safe and confident I was partially achieving my aim; I wasn’t a tall and hulking target for any potential shooters, and with the number of civilians walking past, I would have been the less obvious choice to target.

What I hadn’t taken into account in my fresh knowledge of this environment was the mixture of reaction from the locals trying to navigate a common shopping trip, some so used to the shenanigans of the British Army over the years, they steadfastly refused to acknowledge me. Some less used to, or more sympathetic to, the situation gave a small nod or smile to acknowledge my work, or the ones that made no effort in hiding their deep seated hatred of the whole situation, culminating in a young boy, no older than 10 years old walking up to me with a snarl on his face. I heard the guttural reaction in his throat before I worked out his intentions (goaded on by his mother, basket and purse in hand), and before I could move or even speak, a large lump or pale green phlegm was leaving his mouth and arcing through the air before landing on the side of my face….

Before I could stop the million and one reactions running through my head and make up my mind what I wanted to do, the boy had gone, mum’s cackling echoing out the closing door and my radio was bringing me back to reality with words about moving on. I wiped my face with my sleeve and off we went.

Getting back that evening and chatting with everyone else about our experiences on the patrol, I suddenly remembered the whole Tesco incident and added it to the pot of stories. It wasn’t until later I realised that almost as soon as it had happened, I had moved on, and put it to the back of my mind. It wasn’t personal, it wasn’t an attack on me as an individual, it was an attack on the uniform and what that had stood for and the history behind that. All that mum and son had seen was a history of drama and trouble. I wasn’t dwelling on it, I wasn’t hurt or offended, I was tough and resilient and moved on.

Maybe its age, maybe, like a rock dripped on over time, I have been worn down, eroded, and left lesser than I was. Less robust, less resilient, more prone to dwell…

I fully understand social media algorithms, and I also understand the human psyche and its ability to notice the previous unnoticed when it is fresh in the mind. Its because of this I am inundated with LGBT+ News, stories, studies, opinions, and comments. What I have also noticed over time how the balance between positive and negative stories has shifted, and more so the confidence and front of the people who comment and input their opinion.

Growing up I remember the only LGBT+ representation visible was either comedic or stereotyped to the campest and most flamboyant of portrayals. The news was littered with horror stories of attacks and murders and that absolutely terrifying aids commercial! As I grew older, the stories and information was starting to become more positive and more representational of the person I saw myself as. Adulthood gave me the ability to read and follow the things that interested me. Social media saw the rise of the modern day open all access ability to then find more information that the reader targeted, and as social media boomed, so did all the positivity. However, in the last ten years or so, we have shifted back to the negative, less positive stories of coming out and being the best you can be, more on attacks, more on discrimination and more on persecution. This is the price we pay for the ability to access every piece of information, and algorithms will pick pertinent points of interest and influence what is presented to the eye of the beholder. Then comes the “keyboard warriors” the anonymous, pictureless profiles with the ability to present their opinions and the misguided self-belief that everything they say is right, and with the loss of the ability to debate, comes the attacks, verbal and emotional. Shortly after the anonymous keyboard warrior phase we then saw the rise of the misguided, misinformed, and uneducated. People who would feel the need to provide their comment without a care of who saw it.

As pride month unfolds, more and more people feel empowered to celebrate the true meaning of pride and be proud of themselves and the journeys they have taken, but that comes with a price; for every one post of celebration comes tens, if not hundreds of comments, and a majority of them are not supportive. Some are critical, some are blunt, and most are downright abusive. Oh, and that’s not even before we look at any post or message about being trans…. Those living their best life, finally facing their true selves, and no longer living in the shadow of a life and a body they don’t fit in or feel comfortable with, now able to celebrate and be proud… until they are called every name under the sun and being attacked, verbally and physically.

I am tired! I have fought for years for equality and faced some of the biggest and strongest organisations known to man, the Ministry of Defence, and the British government, but now, I feel lost, tired, weak and am not able to bounce back to where I was.

Pride is as it says on the tin, a time to be proud of who you are, of where you have come and the battles you have fought, however, how can we win those battles when the war is not over. The vitriol and abuse we face in a month when we should be able to celebrate, a month when we should be able to be our true selves, we suffer the pitfalls of the modern age, the pitfall of coming out in the open only to face the attacks. The pitfall is that the more we show ourselves, the more we open ourselves up in order to be happy and accepted, the more we see how much further we have to go.

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