Am I Broken? — coming to terms with my asexuality

Svea Nadia Fritsch 15 June 2021

The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of InQuire Media

Image courtesy of Ahmet Sali on Unsplash

Looking back on my life now that I know I am asexual, I wonder sometimes how it took me so long to figure it out. I mean, the signs were absolutely everywhere. I never spoke or thought about boys or girls in sexual ways, all I ever wanted was someone’s hand to hold, someone’s hair to play with, someone’s heartbeat to listen to, and feel safe, grounded, and accepted. I never really wanted to kiss anyone, insofar as dreading my first kiss, which ended up taking place on my sixteenth birthday and was better than expected. But I didn’t really feel the thing I’d heard everybody describe. That wild desire to keep going, to explore, to touch and feel and be touched and be felt. I tried. Lord help me, did I try. But it never once worked.

It took being in a relationship for over a year for me to fully confront that, whether I liked it or not (and at that point it was definitely a not), I was different. My partner would always be more into making out than I was. I got bored of it so quickly and I never wanted to keep going. Sure, it felt nice, but did it feel as good as going on a long walk and talking about everything and nothing, holding hands, laughing together, and knowing I was being seen, loved, appreciated for all my weird thoughts and emotions? Hell no. Not even close.

I remember lying in bed one night and remembering a word. With shaking hands I picked up my phone in my dark room and googled what it meant. Asexual. Google told me: “Asexuality is the lack of sexual attraction to others, or low or absent interest in or desire for sexual activity.” Instantly I knew in the core of my being that that was me. But I pushed it away. I closed the tab, locked my phone, and tried to go to sleep, tried to ignore the voice in my head getting louder with every heartbeat chanting you’re asexual, you’re asexual, you’re asexual. No, I thought, I don’t want to be that. It means I’m different, and I feel alien enough already. I’ll just try harder. It’s just a phase.

Once more, I tried. I would push myself to keep kissing my partner, when it felt so wrong. I would force myself not to turn away when there were innuendos in conversation, or when people spoke about sex openly, but to actively engage, to at the very least seem interested.

Again, nothing worked.

So, one day I decided I needed to tell someone. The first person I came out to was my (now ex) partner. It did not go well. I imagine a lot of people have experienced gaslighting, taking someone’s vulnerability and making them feel guilty for it. I didn’t know at the time that it was happening, but I look back now and see it with different eyes. I internalized the reaction I got, which screamed at me one thing: there is something wrong with you. I was made to feel as though it was my fault for not feeling sexually attracted, like it meant something inside of me was broken. I was missing something that most of the world’s general population had. What was wrong with me?

For the next month I hated myself, hated this brokenness in me, hated my lack of attraction like never before.

And then I watched the show Sex Education with my university housemates. I hadn’t even gotten to the episode where someone discovers their asexuality yet, when I felt deeply seen. In the kitchen of our Canterbury house I told two of my best friends, unable to look them in the eyes: “So I think I might be asexual, but I’m not sure yet.” They smiled and nodded, said “alright” and “exciting” and “well feel free to let us know of any developments”. Conversation moved on as my heart pounded in my chest and my throat burned. Could it be that there was nothing wrong with me after all?

That was in January of 2020. Over the next year I opened up about it with my housemates more and more. They would ask me questions and I would answer truthfully, with the deep knowledge that these two would never judge me, would never see me as any less worthy of love. So I started coming out to more of my close friends. A few times when I came out to a lifelong friend, they came out to me, too. As gay, bi, lesbian, demi, whatever else they identified as. We rejoiced together in acknowledging and accepting ourselves and recognizing that we were no lesser for it. We were just us. And we were beautiful.

It’s not surprising when people don’t understand.

But kissing never seemed like a problem for you?

Isn’t physical touch like your top love language?

Don’t you make comments on how beautiful people are all the time?

No, kissing isn’t inherently a problem most of the time, I just tire of it quite quickly and am generally not in the mood too often.

Yes, but not in a sexual way.

I do, people are beautiful. That doesn’t necessarily mean I want to climb into their bed.

Sometimes the questions are bad; sometimes they question me as a person. Like being asexual is a decision I’ve made. Sometimes you get comments like you never know ´til you’ve tried or maybe you’ve just not found the right person. But sometimes the questions are just people trying to understand. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell the difference.

I still hear the voice in my head whispering you’re different, which sounds a lot like you’re worse. The voice that accuses me for not thinking or feeling certain things. For not being able to relate. For cringing away from sex scenes in films, shows, books. For not understanding the concept of lust. But by now I know better than to listen to that voice. And if I can’t drown out that voice, I have people around me that will.

So really, what I want to achieve with sharing my story is this: whether you are attracted to boys, girls, both, or neither, whether you’re attracted to them all the time or you still don’t quite know what “being (sexually) attracted to someone” means, you are not any less whole for it. You are not broken. You are enough and you are worthy.