I ran for school captain at my high school in 2006, despite being told not to by peers and even a couple of teachers. Apparently our kind don't run for those positions because we aren't “suitable” candidates. By “our kind” I mean fat, closeted-gay, Pokémon-playing, geeky, effeminate weirdos who live in a country town full of machismo and athleticism. I remember telling one of my teachers I wanted to run. They sat me down, looked me dead in the eyes, and told me to reconsider. They didn’t want me to be embarrassed when I didn’t win. They knew how much I had already struggled.

I was 10 when I first realised I wasn’t straight. From there, I grew up an outcast. Bullying was rife. I was spat on and my lunch would get stolen. One day I was hit so hard I begged my mum to let me take up martial arts so I would know how to fight back. She refused. We’ve always been a family of lovers, not fighters, no matter the circumstances. It was during my parents' divorce that this exclusion was at its most intense. I didn’t have a safe space at home or at school, so I isolated myself from everyone. One day I barricaded my bedroom door and, with knife in hand, considered what felt like the only open I had to deal with the pain in my life. I will always be thankful that my mum came home early.

So I questioned whether the shame of losing would be worth the effort, and in the end I submitted my application, gave my speech, and encouraged the schoolyard to engage in some wholesome democracy.

Days of sweatiness and anxiety followed my captain’s application and speech. On the day of the announcement my heart was in my throat. At least, I thought, I could go back to being a boring nobody once I’d lost. What a sweet release!

Turns out I won.

In 2007, my penultimate year of high school, I was a school captain trying to balance studies, two musicals, and undiagnosed depression. And my role models were the fragile and scared men from our English texts who burned relationships around them because they couldn't admit that they were frail for fear of ostracism. I felt that too. I had come a long way but I was still hiding my true self. Little did I know then, coming out was something I would do three times. I would become three different “kinds” and I would struggle with each label.

For many of us in the LGBTQIA+ community/communities, labels aren’t just a matter of feeling included — they can be a matter of survival. It can be comforting to know there is someone else out there dealing with similar struggles to you, who can empathise, who you can build communities with, who is able to celebrate you and your uniqueness. Labels can help us explain our own rich nature to others who aren’t part of these communities. However, they can also be degrading, often restricting. Being spoken about in a reductive manner where sameness overrides individuality doesn’t make you feel good about yourself. Finding the balance can be tricky at best and suffocating at worst.