A few years ago, I wrote a piece about not being a mum. About the pain of not being a mum. At the time I was stunned by the reaction to it. Some saw it as an attack on mothers, whereas I saw it as a raw, bruised plea to appreciate what you’ve got. I’ve been surprised since, too. Not at any still-angry comments or my continued grief (I’ve always known time has been mis-sold on the healing front) but that my no-baby agony could almost be equalled. But it has been – by the realisation of what not having children really means. Not having kids means I mean nothing in our society. And I really never saw that devastating PS coming.

This is what I and other unhappy non-parents (a clumsy word but I can’t go with “childfree”. The forced “yay!” there is kidding no one) deal with. Every. Single. Day. The dismissive, demeaning language and sentiments thrown at the childless are relentless.

A conversation I had at a funeral recently:

A woman I’d apparently met years ago (breezily): “Did you ever marry?”

Me: “No.”

Her: “Did you ever have kids?”

Me: “No.”

Her (less breezy now): “Oh well. Well done anyway. It’s not for everyone.”

A conversation I had with an Oxbridge-educated comedian who you’d hope would have a broader take on life.

Him: “How are you? It’s been years. How have you been? You got kids?”

Me: “No.”

Him (looking at the floor): “Oh.”

And then he left. Come back, funny guy. The insignificance ain’t catching.

A moment with an old friend, talking about his niece who had struggled to conceive.

Him: “Oh, we thought she would never have a baby. Thought she’d end up with nothing. She’d already bought two cats.”

Another moment with another friend – about her midwife.

Her: “She was OK. She’s one of those women, though. A midwife who doesn’t even have her own kids.”

Andrea Leadsom, now environment secretary, said being a mother gave her more of a stake in the future. Photograph: James Gourley/Rex/Shutterstock

I’m sometimes shocked into silence but usually I come back with some prickly reply. And my response is inevitably met with the “Jesus, could you let this go?” eye-roll.

Well, no, I can’t let this go. I feel rage about this. I hear this talk every day and it shouldn’t go unchallenged. I don’t want to be infuriated every day. I don’t want to experience this feeling every day. I don’t want to be reminded of my “situation” every day. But seeing as I am, every day, I’m now going to say something. Every time. Isn’t this bigotry? Why is it wholly accepted? Why isn’t everyone furious about this?

Let’s talk about the “hardworking families” rhetoric that excludes me and non-parents everywhere. Yes I work, yes I pay tax, yes I contribute to that big old child-benefit pot, no I don’t benefit from family tax breaks. But your under-voting-age child is more important than me. And, of course, according to secretary of state for environment, food and rural affairs Andrea Leadsom, no-forward-lineage me doesn’t have a “tangible stake” in our country’s future. Should we all club together and buy me a gun now? Or just take the money from the maternity leave I never needed.

I wonder if you can imagine what this feels like. To find the energy needed not only to soothe oneself and live with infinite grief but also to fight such extraordinary ignorance and cruelty. It’s exhausting and crushing. I wrote a feature – years ago – about being scared I wouldn’t have a baby (as a friend says, “Well done on having a life so shit you made money out of it”) and someone at the magazine added the words “I feel like such a failure” to my copy. I was livid. I hadn’t written that; I didn’t feel that. Except now, in my weakest moments, I do. But fuck that. You, copy-fiddler, wouldn’t last a minute in my shoes. I’m no failure. I’m a fucking great survivor. All unhappily childless people are.

But so many don’t think that. So many like Leadsom don’t think that. Yes, she got hers – good – but the world isn’t (sometimes) clever Twitter and (some bits) clever media. We still live among people like the Daily Mail reader who commented, “If you haven’t had a child, you can’t put ‘woman’ on your passport.”

Even amazingly supportive people on Twitter didn’t really understand how awful Leadsom’s #asamother comments were. One lovely friend summed up Leadsom’s words with “insult”. No. An insult is telling someone their jeans look like they come from M&S. This was “I have to go to bed for two days” distressing. It felt like a punch in the womb.

But why would people with children get it? White me would never fully understand how racism feels. I can think it’s disgusting but I won’t feel it. So those with children can be angry on my behalf – but they won’t be stopped short with surging, burning sadness and fury.

Maybe I can help here, though. Let me tell you about the woman who hysterically told me to give up my reserved seat on a train – four seats around a table – so she could sit there with her family. “I have children!”, she yelled. So loud, it was as if she was giving birth to them all over again. Well if you care about your family so much, love, why not reserve your own seats? I offered her the three empty spaces but that wasn’t enough. (Did I give up my seat? No. But I did tweet Mumsnet to tell them one of their members needed a stick removing from her arse.)

Oh, and I should also tell you about the mind-boggling introduction to an item on the Victoria Derbyshire show on BBC2. Introducing an interview with the aunt of Alan Kurdi, the Syrian toddler who drowned in the Mediterranean, Victoria Derbyshire said, “If you’re a parent you might find this upsetting.” Because, yes, as a non-parent that poor child’s tragic death was the highlight of my week. Even toyed with bunting. You don’t have kids so you don’t care? Really?

So why are the childless at best ignored and, at worst, maligned? Is it simply fear of the “other”? Do we, inadvertently, offer an alternative life that makes you question yours and your happiness within? I don’t know. But I do know the mum PR machine is out of this world. This quote from Doctor Who:

Some bloke: “You’re a mother, aren’t you?”

Amy: “How did you know?”

Some bloke: “There’s kindness in your eyes.”

Jesus Christ.

Do I really have to prove my validity? Seriously? OK. I’m kind, I’m funny, I don’t lie, I look after people, I’m stupidly unselfish, I’m generous, I’m caring, I’m a supportive sister, aunt and friend.

I just didn’t give birth.

And those who did? That’s all they did. They didn’t have personality transplants. They didn’t become deities. It’s the same them but with a mini-them that they have to love and look after. Some do it beautifully and brilliantly, and some unhappily. (And some non-mothers – in fact, many non-mothers – mother others, too, such as Kim Cattrall.)

Being a mum doesn’t naturally mean anything. You’re not suddenly this; you’re not now that. Leadsom came across as dim, giddy and disingenuous (let’s not touch on the CV or opportunism). Just because she has children, she’s worth more than me? The Tory MP Nadine Dorries believes Leadsom and mothers are “holistic”. Rose West … Nyomi Fee … Do I have to finish this crass point? A man ejaculating in you does not make you kinder or wiser or more valid than me. It simply makes you the owner of no condoms.