There was a hula-hooper, a juggler, a mime and a comic on our 2015 Christmas cabaret tour, and a striptease, too. Mine was known as the “hotdog act”. Each night, in full drag, I’d totter on to a stage in a room full of total strangers with a jar of 10-inch hotdogs, and shove them up my nose, down my throat, into the air, to music. I was apeing the burlesque style, turning what could seem sensual into something totally grotesque. You’ll struggle to believe me, but during this period of my life I took myself – and my work – debilitatingly seriously.

There was a lot of baggage on that tour bus: cases full of costumes, yes, but also the emotional variety. Each of us was going through the wringer – breakups, breakdowns, crises galore. I know, how festive. My mental health was in the pits and it had been six or seven months since I’d spoken to my family. I was in self-destruct mode. Through our collective pain, we bonded as a cast. When you live and work together on the road, there’s no escaping. Pre-show, our dressing room became a group therapy space. And, after a gig, high on adrenaline, we’d sit around sharing problems and too much merlot. One of the other artists was reading a book that argued that being born is traumatic and to heal you must re-enact it. We talked logistics, but I never quite got round to reliving my own delivery.

Christmas can be a tricky time for queers: not all of us are welcomed back to our families or the places we grew up. It can be a reminder of traumatic times. I’m lucky that’s not my story. I’d been raised in a warm, supportive environment in rural County Durham. Running in fields and messing about, I had a loving and straightforward childhood. As a kid, I performed a lot – youth theatre, am-dram, a clowning gig at a nearby theme park. I put on magic shows at the local library and puppet shows from behind the living room sofa, often to an audience of no one. I floated around silly and care-free; dressing up, messing around and playing the fool, unbound by masculinity is what came naturally.

As I grew older, though, I realised I was gay. I had no idea how to deal with it. I didn’t know any other queer people. In the classroom, it was the worst insult you could make. The teacher? The weather? Maths homework? Gay, gay, gay. And mine was a Catholic school where there was never a mention of queer sexualities. The media were no better. On screen, the only gay storylines were those of trauma and pain – there was no positive narrative. Once I understood that was my identity, too, I didn’t tell a soul. I was frightened of what people would think of me if I came out. What might happen if I was discovered. And so, I quickly buried all that silliness. Anything that I’d been taught that might make me less of a man was done away with. I felt unworthy, ashamed of who I was. For years, I stopped engaging with that whole part of myself.

By this 2015 tour, my world had changed. As a student in Newcastle, that guard had started to come down. I came out and even started doing drag. As part of my course, I’d written a straight radio play about the women in the northeast I grew up with. To get it marked, it needed to be recorded. I didn’t know any actresses or have the budget to pay, so I put on a voice and did it myself. Soon I was performing it in front of small live audiences. After graduating, I moved to London with a now ex-boyfriend. He’d chased his dream of becoming a musical theatre star and I’d started out in my drag career proper. I’d found my people, yes, but I still felt embarrassed by who I’d become, even if on stage I oozed confidence and self-acceptance. That queer shame was unshakeable. So I worked hard and partied harder, suppressing all that internalised hatred.

For years, I’d worried that if that silliness trickled into my personal life I’d be perceived as unreliable, unworthy and unprofessional. Inside me was still that child desperate to keep my true self hidden. It’s why, I think, by 2015, I’d cut off contact with my parents and siblings, too. I convinced myself doing so meant I could disconnect from those troubled times. They’re the people who knew me best – disappearing felt easier than trying to find the words to communicate what was happening. The longer it went on, the more distant I felt. Finding a route to getting back in touch slipped further and further out of reach.

That is, until one afternoon in Edinburgh, our tour’s final stop, when something happened. In the dressing room, while we – the cast – all shoved on our slap, we wound up in one of our hugely personal conversations. I bared my soul, forgetting, briefly, where I was. After opening up, I turned back to the mirror and saw myself – one eyebrow, lopsided wig, makeup half-complete. My reflection was so ridiculous that as I looked myself in the eye, I couldn’t help laughing. Why was I, a literal clown, bogged down in misery? My problems had all felt so heavy and vast, but staring at my bonkers reflection, it all just suddenly felt so silly. In wig and heels, I was a professional frankfurter swallower; the previous day, I’d contemplated re-enacting my own bloody birth. It was so preposterous. A deep, rich belly laugh kept on coming.

Through Ginger Johnson, my drag persona, I was no stranger to channelling my rampant ridiculousness. I’ve sung a duet with a talking poo I’d met in a sewer; performed psychic surgery while dressed as a Victorian dowager; made love to a talking custard pie; swallowed swords so far that they’ve appeared at the other end. Offstage, however, I’d kept my inner clown hidden. In the world of academic clowning, there’s a concept called “clown in trouble” syndrome. It’s a term coined by John Wright, teacher, theatre-maker and author of Why Is That So Funny? He writes about how becoming a total idiot can be an exercise in self-improvement. When you find you’re in a difficult situation, taking the most ridiculous, preposterous route out is where humour lies. He meant, I think, this to be a mantra for the stage. There in the dressing room, I realised Wright’s ideas could apply to my own life, too. Not just when I was performing. For years, I’d imagined my life as a tragedy playing out – why not reframe it as a comedy?

Seven years on, this is how I see the world. When you approach each day as a ridiculous endeavour, life feels easier. When things go wrong, I look for the punchline. Most of us are pretending all the time, putting on a mask, trying to appear high-functioning when really, we’re baby-brained idiots. I’ve simply decided to embrace it.

So, I decided to phone my parents – and made the call from the top of Edinburgh’s Arthur’s Seat. Mum picked up. For a while, we just sat on the line in silence. Then we got to work repairing and rebuilding. It couldn’t have gone better. It was light when I got up there, but pitch black by the time – hours later – we’d finally said our goodbyes and see you soons. Right after one of the most important conversations of my life, I had to quickly scramble down a mountain in the dark, because I was late for chucking on a garish frock and throwing saveloys in my face.

I used to have an internal monologue constantly saying, “Oh God, how awful.” I catastrophised. Now, I vocalise those thoughts. It’s easier to realise you’ve lost the plot when you hear yourself actually speaking nonsense. When it feels like things are falling apart, I think of the most ridiculous, disastrous ending to the situation I’m in. It offers some perspective.

I had a festive gig last night. It was a disaster. The tech went wrong from the outset; my backing-track messed up. Then, as I trotted from one side of the room to the other, my stiletto heel got caught in a floorboard and I fell fully over. The old me would have been mortified: I’d have thought my career was over, I’ll never get booked again. But as I lay there flat on the floor – wig skew-whiff, dress in my face and rabbit-shaped shoes flying through the air – I started chuckling. The crowd joined in.

There are lots of reasons I do drag. It’s my creative outlet – how I express my ideas and politics. I perform children’s stories I’ve authored to kids, full of happy LGBTQ+ characters – creating what I didn’t have when I was younger. Mostly, Ginger is my way of spreading the silliness and stupidity that set me free. When I’m the most ridiculous thing in the room, nobody else feels that eyes are on them; it gives audiences a licence to let their guard down and experience the restorative power of the ridiculous. Ginger helped me find a way to exist in the world. Now she also allows others to, too. If that fails, there’s always rebirthing.
As told to Michael Segalov

Ginger Johnson: Ginger All the Way! runs until 6 January at London’s Soho Theatre