Themes: Racism, Homophobia, Childhood Trauma, Religion, Ethnicity, Drug Addiction
Growing up in a strict Muslim household with a father who was deeply religious and a mother who was Indian and Christian, I constantly struggled with my identity. From a young age, I knew I was gay, but my home environment wasn’t a healthy place to express or explore that.
Born in 1974, I was a child of the '80s, and I witnessed the AIDS epidemic begin. I saw how homosexuals were treated like animals, vilified and ostracized by society. My family and I were the only Asian family on our council estate, which made us targets for horrific racial abuse.
The abuse started as far back as I can remember. We moved to the house in 1974, the year I was born. I remember being racially abused when I walked down the street with my mom and dad—we were spat on, beaten. They would put fireworks and animal excrement through our letterbox, which would explode all over the walls. They smashed our windows and front door and spray-painted "APL" (Anti-Paki League) on our house. This went on for years.
As we got older, some of these racists became my brother’s friends. I never made friends with any of them, and as I got older, I sought revenge on a few. But we were treated so badly— so badly that my dad was even stabbed at one point. Racism was so ingrained where we lived that we just had to accept it as a way of life. And honestly, that’s still how I feel, even 40 years later.
I was raised with the constant message that Allah would punish me if I did anything against the Qur’an
I always knew I was gay. I always knew my identity. When I was at college in Birmingham, a Black guy who knew I was gay and knew my family blackmailed me into having sex with him. I felt like I had no choice, so I went along with it until I finally stood up to him, and then it stopped. I knew I had to get away.
I felt so much guilt leaving my mom because she was my world, and I adored her. That guilt only added more pressure and anxiety. My dad was also physically and psychologically abusive to me, my brother, and my mom, and that weighed on my mind when I made the decision to leave. But in the end, I had to look after myself.
Adding to the childhood trauma, I was raised with the constant message that Allah would punish me if I did anything against the Qur’an. I went to a regular secondary school where I was bullied, not just for being Muslim, but also for being "camp." The abuse wasn’t limited to school; at the mosque, teachers were equally hostile, enforcing religious teachings that didn’t resonate with me. I eventually lost my temper and attacked a teacher, which was the last straw. Thankfully, I never had to go back, though my father continued to impose Muslim traditions on me at home.
I found solace by sneaking out of the house to visit gay clubs in Birmingham
By the time I was 10, I had already started experimenting with my sexuality. I had experiences with the boys who lived across the street, and this continued for years. My father, of course, had his own ideas about my future—he wanted me to become a doctor, dentist, accountant, or solicitor. I wanted none of that.
I found solace by sneaking out of the house to visit gay clubs in Birmingham. I knew exactly who I was, but the religious beliefs my father had drilled into me left me with a deep-rooted fear. I was convinced that if I didn’t pray daily or follow my father’s strict guidelines, something terrible would happen to my parents. They were always in and out of hospitals, and I blamed myself for it, thinking my being gay, and not a “good” Muslim, was somehow responsible. This constant guilt and anxiety weighed heavily on me.
I felt so much freedom that day — it was life-changing
In 1991, my best friend and I attended our first Gay Pride in London. It was a dream come true. We had always thought we were the only gays in the world, but suddenly, there was an entire city celebrating us. The march at Brockwell Park, Heaven, even Victoria Coach Station—it all felt magical. I decided that weekend that I wanted to move to London.
I felt so much freedom that day—it was life-changing. I realized I wasn’t the only gay person in the world. Growing up, I would always watch the news and TV (since I wasn’t allowed out of the house), so television and music became my lifeline. That’s why the TV shows and music of the '80s had such a huge impact on me; they helped me get through some really tough times. Of course, every now and then, I’d catch glimpses of homosexuality in the news or on a program, and I’d be glued to the screen.
Getting to London and attending Gay Pride in 1991 changed everything. I felt accepted.
I saw every type of gay person—camp, butch, skinny, muscled, drag queens, hookers, escorts, trans people, lesbians. It was the moment that triggered something in my head and helped me make my decision.
Even though I knew it would hurt the people I loved, I had to leave Birmingham and move to London. The guilt and shame lingered, but it was the right thing to do, even though it tore me apart for years.
In 1993, at 19, I lied to my father, telling him I had been accepted to a drama program at a university in London. He was disappointed, but I went anyway. In reality, I was moving to London to live with my best friend and his boyfriend. From then on, my life was a whirlwind of meeting other gay men, going to clubs, and embracing my freedom.
On a trip to Manchester, I tried my first pill, then cocaine, then ketamine - the high erased my guilt and made me feel happy
Though I went back to Birmingham to visit my parents monthly, guilt and anxiety overwhelmed me. My life became a cycle of going to gay clubs to escape these feelings. Even though I drank alcohol, I stayed away from drugs at first.
That changed in 2000. On a trip to Manchester, I tried my first pill, then cocaine, then ketamine. The high erased my guilt and made me feel happy. The gay clubs during this time were wild, hedonistic, and full of life. I made incredible friends, many of whom are still in my life today.
However, as my parents’ health worsened, so did my anxiety. I feared that if one of them died, I’d have to return to Birmingham and look after them, and my life in London would be over. This anxiety consumed me, and when GHB entered the gay scene, I found a new escape. The euphoria and loss of anxiety that GHB gave me became irresistible, and it quickly became my drug of choice.
By 2007, I was dosing every 1–2 hours, using it to sleep and get through work
At first, I bought 250ml a week, using it only on weekends while clubbing. But soon, I was using G at home every few hours to manage my mood. I would even take it before speaking to my parents to relax. It became part of my everyday life, to the point where I had to always have G with me, hiding it in bins and bushes around my home so I could always have a shot available.
By 2007, I was dosing every 1–2 hours, using it to sleep and get through work. The lack of sleep led to hallucinations, but I managed to keep it hidden. I was working at a German investment bank, and despite my deteriorating mental and physical state, I somehow kept my job.
By early 2008, I was lost, completely dependent on G, as well as cocaine and pills. I engaged in risky behavior, trying to numb myself. It got so bad that I attempted suicide three times by overdosing on G. Each time, I survived, and my life became a relentless pursuit of my next dose. I felt ashamed and isolated—everyone knew me as "loud Ateeqe," the confident party animal, but inside, I was dying.
I finally sought help by seeing a psychiatrist at work. Initially, I didn’t tell him about my G addiction, only mentioning my anxiety over my parents. After a few sessions, following my last suicide attempt, I broke down and told him everything. He immediately referred me to rehab.
Going to rehab was the best decision I’ve ever made
I was terrified — rehab felt like the end of my life, and I thought I’d lose everything, including my job. But the psychiatrist reassured me that I would receive the help I needed. I expected a few days away, but he insisted on a 28-day addiction program at a well-known rehab facility.
Going to rehab was the best decision I’ve ever made. The treatment and therapy I received were life changing. It tore me apart, making me confront my relationships with drugs, religion, and family. It was tough love, but I am forever grateful. I accepted who I am. I love who I am, flaws and all. I no longer need to impress or please my family, and religion no longer controls me.
Both of my parents have passed away, and none of the bad things my father predicted ever came true. I’ve come to terms with their deaths and no longer live in fear.
The version of Islam I was raised with was cruel and suffocating, and I blame my dad for that. Most families only have children so the parents can be looked after financially, and everyone can live together until they die. They don’t have kids because they love them. That’s how I felt my dad treated me and my brother.
He wanted to control every aspect of my life, to the point where I was terrified of losing my parents. I spent my time begging Allah to make me straight, just to please my dad and fulfil his wishes. I prayed every night, asking Allah to look after my mom and dad. If my parents were ever late coming home, I would get anxious and pray until they walked through the door. It consumed my life.
When my mom passed away in 2012, at the age of 59, that was the day I gave up on religion and any belief in God. She died in such a horrific way, and I couldn’t understand how any god could let that happen. At her funeral, I told my dad that I was no longer Muslim and denounced any religious belief. Of course, he disowned me (again), and our relationship, which had always been strained, remained that way until his death in 2016 at 95 years old.
My mom’s funeral triggered my drug addiction. I remember doing coke and G all day just to get through it. The grief, the pain, the loss, and the sheer awfulness of it all tipped me over the edge. But two days later, when I returned to London, I stopped using. I’ll never fully get over my mom’s death, but in a strange way, it helped me let go of the shame and guilt I had carried for 35 years. I learned to live with it, and though I think about her every day, I cope.
When my dad passed away four years later, I was better equipped to handle the loss and grief. But my love for him was never the same as the love I had for my mom. I didn’t use drugs or get triggered — I just got on with the funeral and everything that came after.
Though I still have moments where I slip up, I now have the tools and therapy to bring myself back. I am not ashamed to share my story, and if anyone needs to talk, I am here and ready to help in any way I can.
It’s now 2024, and "chemsex" has become a widely known term. It’s an epidemic. Social media, gay clubs, and dating apps have normalized chemsex in some ways, but we all know it’s dangerous. Despite bans, the drugs are still available, and rather than trying to outlaw them, we need guidance on safe use and support for those who feel out of control.
Remember — you are not alone. YOU ARE LOVED.
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