“I have you in me”: How my queer lover saved my life

One humid afternoon in late 2021, I clicked on a YouTube video a friend had posted. It was titled Avalum Avalum Premikkumbol [When She and She Love]. In it, Navya and Ponnu sat on the floor near a window, talking. Both were dressed in casual shirts and pants and had their hair cropped short. They talked unapologetically—about how they’d met, what the town whispered about them, how their parents toggled between denial of their identity and reluctant acceptance. 

Towards the end, Ponnu, soft-voiced and clear-eyed, sang a love ballad. At that point, something clicked behind my ribs. Maybe it was the way Ponnu looked at Navya—unafraid and with certainty—or how easily they said the word “love.” 

Little did I know that that click would change my life. That it would lead to self-discovery, and then love. The kind of love that steps up when family and institutions fail us. The kind of love that looks like someone holding your hand through a panic attack, reminding you to eat, and sitting by your hospital bed because your parents cannot bear to. For those of us who live with mental illness, who come from unstable homes, this isn’t just romance; it is the infrastructure that is necessary for survival. It’s the improvised safety net queer people have always built: love as shelter, love as crisis care, love as the thin line that keeps us alive when everything else collapses.

***

Chapter 1: Unfolding

When the video was done playing, I rewatched it immediately. I posted the link on my WhatsApp status to see who among my conservative classmates might dare react. One friend replied with a red heart. I floated on that heart for days.

I was 17 then, in my final year of higher secondary school in Malappuram, a small town in northern Kerala. I had grown up there, in what I like to call a half-conservative Muslim household—scarf outside, no scarf at home unless men were present. I had figured out two things for myself by then. One: I was going to be a lawyer. I was immersed in preparing for the entrance exam that would open doors to the top law colleges in India. Two: I was a “passionate queer ally”. I devoured every scrap of queer news I could find. I even wrote an open letter celebrating queer existence for my school’s magazine.

One year later, I moved to Hyderabad—I’d gotten into a law school. My new environment was far enough from home that my inner life could finally stretch without hitting the ceiling of family expectations. Given space to breathe for the first time in my life, it didn’t take long before I realised I was pansexual and polyamorous. Gender remained a fog. I would tell friends, “I don’t know what it feels like to be a woman or a man, nor both nor neither.” Only much later, the word genderqueer arrived in my life like a calming hand on my shoulder. But I loved my newfound, constantly evolving understanding of self. 

Moving away from home, coming into myself—it felt like freedom to me. But for many young queer people in India, leaving home is about survival. According to a 2016 study published in the Indian Journal of Psychological Medicine, 31 percent of transgender individuals in India have attempted suicide, with 50 percent of them attempting it at least once before their twentieth birthday. The study cites rejection by family as one of the major risk factors for suicide among trans youth. A 2024 study published in the Journal of the Indian Academy of Applied Psychology, which surveyed 150 trans persons in Kerala, found that 86 percent of them had faced family rejection and 95 percent had poor mental health. 

I, too, had arrived at university carrying baggage that was more than just suitcases: I had big dreams and aspirations, but also a deep inferiority complex and the early signs of what I’d later understand as bipolar disorder. I got excellent grades and held myself together in public. But in private, I wrote obsessive letters to no one and trained myself to be hyper-independent. My queerness and my madness weren’t separate chapters; they were the same syntax. I didn’t just come out. I unfolded—neuroqueer in every way: non-linear, contradictory, uncontainable.

Meanwhile, I never forgot the video. It had become something I returned to periodically—not for answers, but for softness. A little flicker of proof that people like me could exist without crumbling. By 2023, I was closely following both Ponnu and Navya on Instagram. Sometimes, I would draft DMs to Ponnu, who was more active and vocal than Navya—and then panic-delete them, thinking that my voice would be out of place in their inbox. But on 28 February 2023, I didn’t delete the message.

At that point, my depression was spiralling and I had taken to self-harm. In that haze, I messaged Ponnu saying their recent post on depression felt so relatable. “Thank you for writing, I’m so grateful to you,” I said. “It felt like a much-needed hug.”

“I wish you a safe healing,” they replied. “Let me know if I can support you in the journey in any way.” That message became a ray of light that cut through the fog that surrounded me. It gave me something to hold on to as I teetered on the precipice.

We started talking over long voice notes. The conversation flowed. Ponnu was twenty-six, a Malayali, bisexual, non-binary, polyamorous, and unapologetically queer. They were just starting out as a social worker; I was finding my feet in the world of law. The overlaps were endless.  We obsessed over Malayalam literature, queerness, depression, estrangement, and consent. Even our Spotify match was a smug 99 percent. 

Over time, the connection settled in, quiet and certain, like something that was waiting to happen. On 1 October 2023, about seven months after I had sent the first message, we decided to get into a committed relationship. Navya was still Ponnu’s partner, and they were happy with each other. Navya was also seeing other people. All of us agreed to a polyamorous dynamic.

Ponnu felt right for me. We were uncannily similar in how we spoke with pauses and disclaimers, making space for each other’s silences. How we apologised—often with long texts that began with “I’ve been thinking about what you said…” and ended in voice notes that carried our breath between words. How we prioritised care—checking in about meds and meals, reminding each other to sleep. These weren’t grand gestures. Just small, persistent ways of saying: I see you. I love you. They were in Kerala, I in Hyderabad, but the distance didn’t feel like absence. We were polyamorous, but there was never any confusion about what we meant to each other. It was known. It was felt.

We started folding into each other’s lives like memory into muscle. We became privy to parts of each other that no one else had seen—traumas, memories, insecurities. We shared the kind of understanding that doesn’t come from explanation, but from resemblance. We were each other’s home, even while living miles apart. “I have you in me,” we said to each other. 

It wasn’t just love. It was safety. The rare alignment of politics, desire, madness, and tenderness. It was the kind of love I thought I would never get to have. And it saved my life. But that’s getting ahead of the story. 

***

Chapter 2: At War

October arrived. It was the month when Kerala Queer Pride was set to happen in my home district, Malappuram. Ponnu and I had been together for a month by then, but we hadn’t met in person yet. We decided to meet at Pride. They asked if they could stay at my place. I was thrilled, nervous, and desperate to make it work. 

I told my parents two friends were coming to Malappuram and wanted to stay with us. “What are they here for?” my parents asked. The moment I mentioned “queer pride,” they recoiled. Their queerphobia—raw, ugly— came out without disguise. I cannot recall the exact words he used. I have undergone electroconvulsive therapy since, which has made my memory of that phase of my life hazy. But I recall it hitting me harder than I thought it would. 

Kerala may lead the country in literacy and public health statistics, but the stigma around queerness runs deep in Malayali society. A 2019 survey jointly conducted by India Today, the Center for the Study of Developing Societies, and the Azim Premji Foundation found that 58 percent of respondents in Kerala opposed same-sex relationships. The state ranked fourth-highest in the country in its opposition to homosexuality. Additionally, a 2024 study focusing on LGBTQIA+ individuals in northern Kerala reported that 45 percent had undergone conversion therapy, frequently driven by religious and family pressure. 

I wrote a letter to my father that night, laying bare every political disagreement between us. After he had read it, we talked. It was the first time we spoke about politics not as father and daughter, but as two people on opposite sides of an ideological and cultural divide. While I disagreed with him on how he saw queerness, I understood his fear of what people would say if they saw me at Pride. I didn’t want people to judge him by my choices and being. So, I agreed not to attend Pride.

Ponnu showed up at my doorstep anyway. That was the first time we met in person: in the charged silence of my home, with my father’s eyes boring into the back of my head. It felt terrifying. But it was also beautiful, to finally breathe the same air as them—no screens separating us. 

Ponnu had come with Navya. Both of them were visibly, inescapably transmasculine in their appearance. My father’s discomfort hung in the air like smoke—thick and inescapable. The passive aggression was impossible to miss in how he talked to them, coldly, and looked at them. After they left, he said, without looking at me: Never meet them again.

The next day, Ponnu and I met again. I lied to my father—said I was meeting another friend. We met at a restaurant, hands shaking a little, hearts beating louder than the clatter of plates around us. Our first date. In the one hour we spent together, love felt uncomplicated—two people holding warmth in a world that refused to make space for it.

Afterwards, Ponnu went to Pride with Navya, and I went back home—and soon after, back to Hyderabad.

Two months later, I was in Malappuram again for my end-of-semester break. Ponnu decided to visit me. I built up a web of lies to make it happen; I told my parents I was meeting my best friend at a nearby bookstore.

Ponnu and I met at a café next to the bookstore. I got a call from my dad. He was nearby and wanted our house keys, which were with me. When he came to collect them, he saw Ponnu. We had a fight in the middle of the road. After he left, I began to panic. I decided, almost instinctively, that the only way to fix things was for me to leave Ponnu. I was spiralling.

Meanwhile, my phone kept ringing. It was my mother asking me to return home immediately. She said dad was sick. I suspected it was a ruse, but I had no way of calling her bluff. I had to go home. 

My relationship with my parents has always been cordial, but distant. They are the people who know the least about me. My mother, shaped by a lifetime of quiet obedience, is a deeply conservative woman. She expected the same from her three daughters. I have always disappointed her. My father was once mildly progressive, but over the years, he traded ideals for respectability. Neither of them ever really saw me for who I was. And now, all the parts I had kept hidden were beginning to surface, overwhelming them.

Like many queer people, I had grown used to leading a fractured life. One version of me sat at the dining table, polite and neutral. Another marched at Pride, loved loudly, and carved a space for joy in defiance. The divide between those selves wasn’t sustainable. Eventually, the mask slips. The performance cracks.

I was feeling suicidal. I knew a confrontation awaited me at home, and I was sure I wouldn’t survive it. Ponnu suggested that they come home with me and talk to my parents. I agreed, mid-spiral. It was an impulsive decision.

The moment my father saw Ponnu, he erupted, shouting, swinging a sandal, and hurling threats of suicide and murder. A rage I’d never seen before poured out of him. He blamed himself for raising me wrong, for letting me slip away. My mother stood by, silent and seething. They accused me of wrecking their peace, tearing apart the life they’d built. Suicide threats hung in the air like household warnings.

When they ordered me to tell Ponnu to leave, something inside me broke. Or maybe it finally stirred awake. I refused to shrink. For the first time, I spoke up. I spoke about everything I had buried for years: the sexual abuse I endured as a child at the hands of four of my male cousins, my parents’ failure to create a safe environment for me or protect me, even after I told them what had happened, and the silence in which I was forced to raise myself.

In that moment, my personal reckoning collided with a larger, more painful truth. Survivors of sexual abuse are often silenced by the very families that should have kept them safe. In 2007, the Indian government conducted a major survey of child sexual abuse for the first time. Although the study is now dated and its methodology has been questioned, it remains significant because it was one of the largest studies conducted on the subject worldwide—involving 12,500 children across 13 states. The survey found that 53 percent of children have experienced some form of sexual abuse. Multiple studies have noted that the perpetrator is often a neighbour, friend, close relative, or employer. Given the prospect of societal shame, denial is a common response. The emphasis remains on preserving family honour, not healing. Disclosures are met with discomfort, if not outright dismissal. Children, especially daughters, are taught to endure quietly.

Feeling overwhelmed, I came out. I told them I was in a relationship with Ponnu. I begged them to listen.

My mother relented and quietly urged my father to hear us out. Ponnu was allowed in, but nothing shifted. My father said we were trying to humiliate him. That I was beyond repair. Ponnu kept repeating—calmly, gently—that they were there because they feared for my safety. Ponnu, who was keenly aware that I was feeling suicidal, tried to convey to my parents that I would not be able to handle so much mental and emotional pressure. But my parents refused to listen. They began to insist that Ponnu leave.

By then, I could barely stand. I was trembling, breathless, on the edge of collapsing. All I could manage to say was: “Let me be in my room.”

Eventually, my parents gave in. I ran upstairs with Ponnu and locked the door behind us. Only then, in the silence of my room, with Ponnu beside me, did I finally start to breathe.

That night, I received several calls from my siblings and their partners, scolding and threatening Ponnu and me. At some point, I had a panic attack. I slashed myself with a blade. It left the longest scar I have to date. Ponnu didn’t stop me because they knew self-harm was the only coping mechanism that worked for me in moments of extreme distress. They stayed by my side as I did it, and once I was done, they helped me put a bandage on the wound.

Ponnu left early the next morning. The day crawled by in a strained, suffocating silence. My siblings had arrived—from nearby towns. It was the entire family against me. One by one, they took turns to tell me how much I’d hurt them, how selfish I was, how lost I had become. But also, how valuable I still was to them. A cruel paradox—being told your existence is a tragedy, and that you’re still loved.

***

Chapter 3: Survival

The next time my parents met Ponnu was 10 months later, at NIMHANS, Bengaluru. 

It was 6 October 2024—my second suicide attempt that year. I had overdosed on psychiatric pills while at the university. I later learnt that a lot of people were involved in breaking into my room and getting me to a hospital. The university administration told my parents that I needed to get treated. But before they could decide, I knew I didn’t want to go home. I knew what home could do. So, I decided to admit myself to NIMHANS.

At the hospital, my parents and Ponnu encountered each other again. My parents acted like the earlier conflict had never happened, like silence could replace apology. But mercifully, it was quiet. No threats. No shouting. No sandals.

There could only be one person with me in the hospital. I chose Ponnu. My parents stayed in a nearby hotel. They would come in every morning and leave at night. But even when they were around, I kept asking for Ponnu. When my panic attacks came like tides, it was Ponnu who steadied me.

My parents saw that. They never named it, but they saw that when I looked at Ponnu, I looked a little less dead. The acceptance was present in the silences. It was present in how they let us be together.

My parents never said that they accepted Ponnu as my partner. But something was different from how it used to be. By not saying anything about our relationship, they perhaps conveyed that they could now tolerate our relationship. 

I was at NIMHANS for two months. When I was discharged, I went back home with my parents. Largely because they gave me no choice. The peace that had been established in the hospital ward proved to be temporary. Back at home, I was once again dealing with the weight of all the judgement, restrictions, and expectations my parents imposed on me. It got tougher with each passing day, and I started to feel exhausted. Within two months, I had attempted suicide again.

Luckily, Ponnu called right after I had ingested the pills. They guessed what might have happened from the way I was talking. When they asked, I couldn’t lie. They called my dad. My parents rushed me to the hospital. Soon after, Ponnu came. This time, my parents were grateful.

When I woke up, I panicked. Each time I got a panic attack, I said: Please, call Ponnu. Please let them in.

It was like I could only breathe if they were there.

They stayed with me throughout my time in the hospital. And when I was discharged, they came home with me. It was the second night that they were spending in my home. This time, my parents didn’t erupt. I don’t think it was acceptance—they still seemed uncomfortable about Ponnu. But it wasn’t war either. It was strange and new. A quiet ceasefire.

***

Epilogue

Today, my mental health is a little more stable, though suicidal thoughts still visit almost daily. I have been working with a therapist regularly for over a year and a half, and I have been on medication for about three years. 

Ponnu and I aren’t together anymore—the practice of polyamory proved harder than we’d expected. We still love and care for each other very tenderly. In fact, I just got discharged from a mental health hospital yesterday, and they were there with me. We are exploring our new dynamic as ex-partners and figuring out boundaries.

The truth is, I didn’t just share time with them; I lived a life with them. Their presence by my side showed me that love can be a place—a home to return to and find safety and comfort in, no matter how much the world inside or outside me falls apart.

Thank you, edo.