By J. (she/her)
I was 13 years old when I first discovered the term asexuality. Instantly, it clicked.
Looking back on the experience, I still can’t identify why asexuality had stuck out to me, or how the label seemed to fit me so well despite the fact that my relationship with asexuality has changed drastically since then. Sometimes I wonder if it had been a coincidence. I was barely a teenager, too young to really understand sex or its significance. But is this really true? Sex and romance are deeply ingrained in our society and impact our daily lives from the moment puberty begins—perhaps even sooner. At 13, I knew that I was different, and, for a brief period, the label of asexuality brought me comfort.
The most confusing part about attraction is that there is no universal way to define it. Trying to navigate a world governed by attraction can be frustrating as an aspec person because the concept of attraction is so abstract. Anyone, regardless of sexuality, who thinks deeply about attraction is likely to be confused by it. If there’s no solid way to define attraction, then how are people supposed to know if they experience it? In interacting with aspec communities now, I have learned that many aspecs chose to, rather than focus on attraction, describe their experiences with attraction as disconnected from it. From a young age I had felt disconnected from my peers in the way they discussed attraction and desire, and this feeling has only grown as I have become more confident in my identity.
Like many others, my questioning was not an easy path. Coming out as lesbian was a complete and utter failure and the experience terrified me. Coming out as biromantic several years after this was traumatizing. Throughout the years, I became more and more scared of what I knew I would soon have to accept. Considering myself a part of the LGBTQ+ community other than in regards to asexuality (which is a sexuality that very much does belong in the community) was no longer something that I felt comfortable with.
Somehow, asexuality was never something that I was afraid of—until my first real romantic encounter. My asexuality remained in the back of my mind as a fact. Despite my conflicted feelings about my identity, and my increasingly conflicted feelings about romance, asexuality was comfortable to me. But even though I had instinctually known that I was asexual since I first learned of the term, it had become difficult for me to be honest with myself.
When I was 13, I read that asexuals often feel “broken” in romantic and sexual relationships because they feel disconnected from their partners. For the first time in my life, I understood this feeling, and it sent me into a spiral of self-loathing that was only remedied when I was able to take a step away from the situation and reflect upon myself. I had felt entirely disconnected from my partner and what I had assumed to be romantic attraction, although I was entirely repulsed by the thought that I could have been sexually attracted to them.
Nothing is wrong with asexuality. Asexuals aren’t broken. Asexuality is a valid, real identity. Aspec communities aren’t (as I find it hard to believe, on my worst days) a figment of the imagination.
When I was 13, I was, for some reason, vehemently opposed to the idea of aromanticism. Asexuality came easily to me—maybe too easily—but aromanticism did not. Years after I first called myself asexual, and almost an entire year after I truly began becoming comfortable with the idea of myself being asexual, I first considered the idea that I might not actually be heteroromantic or biromantic.
At this point in time, my relationship with asexuality had become unrecognizable from the time I was 13. I had learned how to feel confident in expressing my aspec identity in writing, and I had begun to dabble in online aspec communities. In this, I learned more about myself than I thought possible. I found resources that not only told me that I wasn’t broken, but taught me how to understand how whole asexuality makes me.
Aromanticism crossed my mind on an ordinary day, and this time, I thought of aromanticism with a sense of cautious curiosity instead of defiance. I reached out and talked to a very kind fellow aromantic who gave me the most important advice I ever received in relation to my sexuality: labels aren’t rigid or stagnant. What may have described your experiences at one point in your life might not describe them perfectly now. Labels don’t ever need to describe you perfectly. There might be an exception, or a few exceptions. Just because I could no longer remember my past crushes clearly enough to define them as queerplatonic or aesthetic or romantic did not make my aromanticism any less valid.
While aromanticism, just like asexuality, started off as intimidating, calling myself aromantic for the first time felt like taking a breath of fresh air. I tried out the label for a day, and I liked it. A day turned into a week. A week turned into a month. Now it has been over six months since I began identifying as aromantic, and I finally feel free in my identity. Knowing that I never have, and potentially never will, experience romantic attraction has opened more doors for me than experiencing romantic attraction ever could.
Labels don’t make a person who they are. Labels are a tool to help people belong, but labels they aren’t what define how someone interacts with the communities they belong in. Labels are fluid. They aren’t meant to restrict you.
Life is too abstract to be bound by labels. The concept of a label in itself is abstract, but they exist to help us make sense of the world around us. Life is too short to sweat the details, but it is worth taking the time to allow for self-exploration at your own pace.
It’s up to you to do what you think is right, and treat yourself in a way that feels comfortable. You’re free to try new labels until they feel right, or to forego labels altogether. You might find comfort in labels, and it’s okay to lean on them—or you might want, and that's okay, too. But it’s also your right and responsibility to be kind to yourself if, one day, you find a label that makes you feel just a bit safer, just a bit more comfortable, and just a bit more confident. You deserve it!
You can find J. on twitter here.
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