Being demisexual and aromantic

It took me a long long time to work out that these words, demisexual and aromantic, described me – far longer than my bisexuality/queerness, longer even than my non-binary gender. But when I finally did, so many things about my sexual and romantic history made so much more sense.

Why I’m not all that into sex as an activity, why I just don’t get this whole “love at first sight” thing, why I generally find romantic fiction boring, it all suddenly clicked.

I think it was a certain type of lack of imagination that caused it to take so long: that, and a lack of role models. I mean, everywhere you look there is romance and sex. No wonder I, like so many of us, assumed that that’s what I should be doing. I thought it was something weird about me, and I suppose it is, but now I know I’m not the only one who feels this way. And that there’s nothing wrong with feeling like this.

For a long time, I thought I had crushes on people, but now I realise they were squishes, which I mentally framed as crushes because I didn’t have any other terminology or way of relating to those feelings. Looking back, when I’ve had what I thought of as a crush, it’s never been about sex; it’s always been about intimacy, about getting to know that person and spending time with them.

And I’ve never been that into sex. I mean, it can feel really good, but I don’t miss it if I’m not having it. And it’s generally always been more about giving my partner pleasure than anything else.

Mostly (as with all my other non-normative identities) I feel a deep sense of relief: I am not, in fact, emotionless or frigid; I’m just different.

And I’m used to that. I mean, if I had to use just one word to describe myself, it would probably be”different”. Or maybe weird. But in either case, I’m just happy to have identified a bit more of myself.

© bardofupton 2019

the box (poem)

This is a new poem.

I have locked myself in a box
it’s a small box
too-small box
gender box
sexuality box
race box
I have locked myself in a box
or was it you?
did you build this box, and stuff me in it?
before I was even born, did you make this box for me?
without asking
without knowing me
you made a box and called it girl
called it straight
called it black
but none of those boxes quite fit me

I have been cramped for years
joints folded tight tight
face pressed into my chest
I have locked myself in a box that you made
I was locked in the box that you made
it was cramped and uncomfortable
I couldn’t breathe
I tried to cut parts of myself off to fit
but they grew back
they wouldn’t go away
eventually I broke the box
I couldn’t fit at all
all the parts I tried to remove are too big for the box
it’s a small box
too-small box
you made me small in the box

sometimes I try to climb back in
it’s not comfortable but some days it feels safe
just my head pokes out
I almost fit
some days I want to fit
it’s easier if you fit in the box
easier if you have the right parts
right face
right brain
right heart
I’m not right
all wrong in fact
that’s why I don’t fit in the box
the small box
the too-small box

I locked myself in a box
as a child
I grew up in a box
a small box
a too-small box
to break the box
I had to learn to see it
I had to feel it crush me as I grew
to feel my breathing constricted
my limbs twisted and bent
I had to let the box damage me
before I could break free

I was locked in a box for years
a small box
a too-small box
and it takes years to break free of the box
it’s always there in the corner of the room
somehow I can never throw it away
the box
the small box
the too-small box
I’d like to throw away the box
but I’m afraid you’ll force me back in it
if you find it lying around outside
so I keep it safe

the too-small box smells of fear
and despair and denial
it smells like where hope goes to die
it smells like where I used to live
but I don’t live there any more
I live outside the box
but I carry it with me
all the time

© bardofupton 2019

Not courage, but survival

When I told my therapist I was non-binary, she called me brave. I told her it wasn’t courage, it was survival. I don’t think she really got what I meant, and I don’t think I was quite able to fully articulate it at the time. So I’m going to work through it here. I did mention it briefly in a previous post, but I want to unpack it a bit more.

When you have a minority identity, especially around gender or sexuality, you’re often accused of “shoving it in people’s faces” – that is, being queer/trans/non-binary/black/etc in public. Any attempt to say “hey, I live here too and I also have needs, wants and preferences” can be met with hostility or even violence. So why do we persist in expressing our identities when it might seem easier and safer not to?

I can’t answer for anyone else, but for me, there came a point where I was doing more violence to myself (by remaining closeted) than I was avoiding. I simply could not pretend any longer. The fear of losing friends or family, of violence or harassment from others – that was outweighed by the damage I was doing to myself. I had tried pretending to be like everyone else, and it had just made me miserable. So, I simply stopped.

And the relief of it! To be able to say “this is me” and for it to be 100% true, to be able to go outside feeling as though I was showing my true self to the world for possibly the first time, that may have been the most free I have ever felt.

Of course, this makes it sound simple. It wasn’t quite as easy as that, but the core realisation was that trying to be something I’m not not only wouldn’t work but was actually hurting me. It might be more comfortable for other people for me to pretend I was like them, but I’m not. And pretending is exhausting. So much energy spent on trying not to mention certain things to certain people, trying to remember who knows what about you, trying to decide if certain topics give too much away about you, trying to act in the ways I thought I was supposed to.

I don’t think I’m brave; in some ways I am quite lucky. Nobody I’ve told has reacted badly. But I always think of courage as being a positive decision, and this was not that. This was more like despair, more of a desperate last-ditch attempt, fuelled partly by my cancer diagnosis and treatment. This was giving up and letting go of the cliff edge, and then realising that you were only a few inches above the ground. And I am fully aware that it is not that easy for many of us.

I’m not offering advice, just a perspective. For me, it was better to come out; for someone else, the calculation might be different. But remaining closeted isn’t an easy choice either.

© bardofupton 2018

Some thoughts on identity

I went to see a play today (April 11, 2018) called Scene about an interracial queer couple, and it got me thinking about identity.

About how long it took to start identifying as black/mixed race: because I grew up in a country where black and brown people were in the majority and were in positions of power, I had precisely the white Western experience that “people like me” are normal. Not that I didn’t know any white people – I did. I had white friends and family, but I was not aware of their race (or my own) as a thing. I just thought of them as people with different hair/skin to me, but not fundamentally different in any way. I certainly didn’t feel less than them, or that they thought of me as lesser. I had to move to the UK to have that particular experience. I’ve had to train myself to be aware of race, in a way that black people born in the UK probably don’t.

I identified as bisexual (these days I call myself queer) way before I started thinking of myself as black – and in fact I never did think of myself as black. I identify as mixed race, and I’m aware that other people think of me as black.  For me, black is something imposed on me from outside – much like I thought of my gender, back when I (sorta, kinda, well-if-you-push-me-then-I-guess-I’m-female?) identified as female. It was never how I felt, more how I knew other people saw me. Which is weird in its own way – I knew it wasn’t me, exactly, but I tried so hard to fit into the boxes that other people put me in.

Now I don’t care – or rather, I do care, I just know that being myself is more important than trying to conform. One of the few positives I can say about having had cancer is that it really makes you think about what matters to you. And what matters to me is being myself, and not trying to fit into other people’s boxes. My therapist called me brave, for (finally) realising my gender identity and acting on that, and I told her that it’s not bravery, it’s survival. I can’t pretend any longer. I can’t spend the rest of my life trying to meet other people’s expectations, because I have become suddenly strongly aware that the rest of my life might not be all that long.

And identifying as non-binary has been an amazingly freeing experience. I mean, there are a bunch of downsides, like legally my gender does not exist in the UK. But for the first time in my life, I have stopped worrying about whether I’m enough – do I meet the expectations for my gender. Because there really aren’t any. I get to decide what I look like, rather than having to try and look how someone else thinks I should. I don’t have to worry about being feminine enough – because that’s not me. It has been so relaxing.

© bardofupton 2018

Musings on gender and identity

An excerpt from an essay I wrote for a gender course. Some background for this:

This draws on various ideas about L’Écriture Féminine (Hélene Cixous) and also for certain stylistic aspects on an essay by Rachel Blau du Plessis called “For the Etruscans”.

And now… the essay! This is not a continuous excerpt from the essay, but more like the highlights. (In some ways this is a bit dated, but I feel still relevant.)

In writing bisexuality, we/you/I need a language that is more/other than oppositional….

I’m not defined by what I’m not, not defined against a norm (not as much), not defined against another way of being (I won’t let myself be). I want to be defined in combination, as this and this and this, not as this but not that. I want to remove binary opposition, at least in the language with which I describe myself (sexuality), because what I’m not (and there are things I’m not) doesn’t even have a name (monosexual?)…..

To be bisexual is linked (for me) to race, to a refusal to be either black or white  (why only ever two choices?) but to embrace all my parts. If I had not made this decision, did not know of my other selves (black, white, Asian), I would still be forcing myself to choose (gay/straight, black/white). Not cowardice, not denial, nor is it ignorance of the issues (although mostly they are theoretical/distant for me (and I realize again my privilege) but still real).

I am constantly qualifying myself (amplifying, negating, commenting upon) – everything I say is questionable (by me and by others). The language I use tempts me to say certain things, think, feel, do certain things, and I must query what I produce, a double consciousness (Du Bois) imperative for survival of (my) meaning. Nothing I say is simple (cannot be) – language conceals (I can only say words others have conceived) and I find I can write myself out of existence (following the mistakes of others) because I’m taught these things  (race/class/gender/sexuality) don’t exist (aren’t important) and I write myself as straight white man (I am not, must not be) ignoring my (true, real) self (selves). Following the myth of the universal (the simple). All my examples (models) were of someone else. Only now am I writing myself (in all its complexity) back into my work (I am beyond binary).

© bardofupton 2018