Labeling Our Sexuality

First, I’m going to observe that in writing or saying anything resembling an opinion, one is bound to upset, piss off, or offend someone. This is not my intention. Nor is it my intention to start a big heated debate. Writing is my way of thinking, and if my pondering and figuring things out can help someone else figure something out in their life or make them feel a little less lonely, a little less misunderstood, or a little less sad — then that’s why I share. So that’s my disclaimer. (And to clarify, I believe gender is not bipolar, but closer to a color palette or a color wheel, and I believe those who identify as LGTBQIA+ should have equal rights.)

I’m an organizer. I think categories and labels have their places in certain areas — like when I want to cook a certain food, I go to my filing cabinet, to my cookbook drawer, and I have file folders organized into types of foods. Soups, pastas, hot side dishes, ground meat, muffins, what’s your pleasure? What I’m looking for depends on the folder I pull out. Putting recipes in categories here is very helpful.

On the other hand — defining mental illness? That’s in the grey area for me. Yeah, I have a differently wired brain, and putting a fancy name on it might help a doctor get me medication to treat it, but putting me completely into one mental illness bucket just doesn’t cut it — not one person’s brain is wired the same. It just doesn’t work.

So when my daughter and I started tackling the definitions in the LGBTQIA+ alphabet, things got a little hazy for me there, too, and I started wondering why we were so focused on having a label for everyone’s sexuality. I’ve been reading up on these definitions, and I can’t tell if I’m heterosexual, bisexual, asexual, demisexual, or just plain damaged from my past experiences. Again, I don’t fit neatly into one bucket — and I’ve heard it’s where you choose to put yourself — but I’m not sure where that would be. I’m not even sure I want a label, thank you very much. I don’t know what good it would do.

Let me explain.

I have the gender “girl” or “female” assigned to me. Like it or not, I was a pink in the pink/blue world, even though I am more of an orange. (See my blog “Orange in a Pink World” for more on gender identity. I won’t go into it here). Growing up, it was assumed I liked boys. And yes, I had crushes on boys. I appreciated physique. But I was never one to want a sculpted man on a poster in my bedroom. All that muscle frankly creeped me out. I seemed to be attracted to boys by what they did, not what they looked like at the time. And yes, I got caught up in the wanting to be in the popular crowd trap — but rarely made it there.

In college, I chose a major that was dominated by men — I seemed to get along with them better. I would help my guy friends find girlfriends by checking women out — and rather enjoyed it. I liked looking at women, too; it never dawned on me that I could like women AND men or people in general; it just wasn’t done. Girls were supposed to like boys — unless you were a lesbian. Either/or — no other choice here — it was black and white, right? So I went on my merry little heterosexual way.

Fast forward 25 years. Being a naturally shy person, the only sexual encounters I had were the very few when I was manic (according to the DSM bucket system I have bipolar I with psychotic features, thank you very much), or married/in a committed relationship, and I can honestly say I’ve never had a truly wonderful lover. First, they’ve all been men. Second, the ones I hooked up with while manic were all drunk, and you know how graceful a drunk is. Not love-making nights, we’ll just put it that way. The three committed relationships I’ve been in? The first one ended up stalking and raping me, and the last two were narcissists (one a compulsive liar and one who contributed to my PTSD), so you can imagine who they were all out to please.

Right now I’m in a period of abstinence by choice. But I can honestly tell you, even the idea of kissing a man has me queasy, much less getting in the sack with one. Do I just not like sex that much? Is that the PTSD talking? I don’t know. Is it the part of me that’s wondered what the “other side” would be like? Is it because I’m too damaged? Is it because I have to build a trusting relationship with someone in order to be sexually attracted to them? Is it because I was forced to be a heterosexual being when I’m really not? I honestly don’t know. All of these questions are an attempt to place me in a “bucket” — to label me — asexual, bisexual, demisexual, homosexual, pansexual. Why do we even need labels at all? Are they truly helpful? Why can’t we just love who we love?

Do I need to be “fixed”, or am I okay as I am? Would I need extensive therapy to deal with some deep-seated issues to heal myself? Or am I given permission to be who I am as I am — sexually, mentally, abstinent or not, broken or not — just as I am?

Maybe that’s the point of the LGBTQIA+ movement: that we’re all okay as we are, where we are right now — no matter what that may look like, as long as we’re not hurting each other. And instead of adding letters to make it look like the alphabet soup, maybe we all need to just adopt the concept of general acceptance towards everyone as they are so we don’t have to have a movement at all.

Once someone asked me what my favorite color was. I don’t have a favorite color; my house is decorated in a medley of colors all together. So I said, “A rainbow!” Do you know what they said? “That’s so gay”. No, it’s not gay — it’s inclusive, like we all should be. But if it is “gay”, so what? Gay is just another word for happy, after all, which is a good way to be.

November 11, 2020

Tansy Julie Soaring Eagle Paschold