By A. (they/she)
Over the last year, I’ve had (way too much) time alone with my brain.
Results varied widely, and are still relatively inconclusive if the weekly existential crises are any indication of how I’m doing. Introspection felt almost unavoidable and, for better or for worse, that introspection shed light on some parts of myself that I didn’t think about much before 2020.
If I’m being brutally honest, it was months on end of facing things that I previously was able to avoid thinking about - certain thoughts I could fold up and shove away in the bottom drawer of my mind where I could ignore them. They were things that I only ever looked at if I was rummaging around in that drawer for something else. But as the months dragged by, I kept opening the drawer and staring.
I’m aromantic.
Would you believe that those two words above were rattling around in that stupid drawer for god knows how long in the back of my head? It’s almost funny, in a frustrating kind of way. But the punchline is this:
I’m aromantic and I still don’t quite know what that means to me.
The first part, identifying as aro, was what scared me. There are so many assumptions of romantic norms in society that identifying outside those norms felt like it had implications. If I accept that I’m aro, what does that say about me? About the way that I love? About my future? About my past?
The second part then, not really knowing what it means, is what made me take this huge breath of relief. Because I get to decide what aromanticism means to me. I get to decide what that looks like in my life from here on out. I get to decide how to use this understanding of myself to view my past relationships.
One of the things that terrified me over the last year as I stared into this metaphorical drawer and saw inklings of the aro-spectrum in the far back corner was simply the fear of being lonely. Granted, the context of isolating during a pandemic did little to make the loneliness feel like it wasn’t eating me alive in the new normal, but I found myself thinking again and again, “what if this is just how I am? What if this is just who I am?”
Kind of melodramatic, sorry. It’s legitimately what I kept thinking, though, and admittedly what I think sometimes still.
In a world that focuses on romantic partnerships and prioritizes them over other forms of relationships, it’s a pretty valid thing to grapple with. And one that I’ve been grappling with for years, though I kept shoving those feelings away in the mental bottom drawer.
So when I spent the last several months opening this drawer and actually sorting through all the things I’d crammed in there, I was so scared to take on a label that I associated with feeling lonely - with feeling like I’d never be in a relationship that someone prioritizes and values in the same way that I prioritize and value relationships.
There was about a five day gap between the night I accepted the word ‘aromantic’ and the day it hit me that aromantic was and is whatever I make of it.
A story:
When I was fifteen, I got incredibly flustered when this really pretty girl in my drama class sat on my lap and held my hand. When I was nineteen, I realized I had a crush on this brilliant Irish girl who I studied abroad with, and who kissed me one night by the river. When I was twenty, it hit me that I would be happy waking up next to a woman every day for the rest of my life. When I was twenty-two, I went to Pride for the first time and met a woman there who I dated for several months.
The label I use to tell parts of this story is sapphic. Other people who identify as sapphic might see parallels to their own story here, but odds are their experiences are different from mine by virtue of being different people.
I know that sounds obvious. But I say it because a word that I use to describe myself can mean so much for so many, and it can also mean so much for me. It means that I fill in every gap and dip of this word with my own experiences - the joys and the fears and the simple truth of existing as who I am. And every other person who identifies as sapphic gets to do this, too.
That’s why when I say that I’m aromantic and I still don’t quite know what that means to me, I take a huge breath of relief.
I don’t experience romantic attraction. That’s one of the things that I pulled out of that bottom drawer over the last year. It was confusing to parse through. It took countless conversations that included the words “what even is romantic attraction?” and looking with an intimidating amount of honesty at my own past relationships.
But for all of my parsing and digging and rattling around that poor drawer, I haven’t filled out the gaps and dips of what aromanticism looks like for me. It’s not a matter of writing in Sharpie on my forehead and calling it a day.
I’m going to spend years defining aromanticism in my life. It will be what I choose to make of it.
There’s still a small element of fear, sure, but I think that’s pretty normal for everyone. And I think when it comes down to it, we’re all a little afraid of loneliness, too. Yet there’s so much beyond fear to explore. There’s so much just in the bottom drawer of my brain to do some reconnaissance on, but maybe that’s for another global crisis.
Learning about yourself can be scary, but it’s also exciting. It can take time. It’s definitely an ongoing process, and one during which I hope we can be gentle with ourselves.
So wherever you’re at with defining yourself and filling in those words with your experiences and hopes and truths - please know that I’m rooting for you.
And if you start to tackle your own drawer?
I’m rooting for you extra.
Want to submit a piece on your own thoughts and aspec experiences? Fill out our google form here to get started!