Having the Cake (but not eating it)

I told myself I would never publish an update like this, but after publishing the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, I feel like I should explain myself, even if no one ever reads this.

Why have I decided to call myself Asexual?

No one has ever explicitly asked me this. As of yet, I haven’t come out to many people in my life, although I have a whole other identity on the internet. Note that I love having the ability to be anonymous on the internet because it gives me the chance to explore what I really think without worrying that someone is going to be shocked at how I’m ruining my reputation. Or something. Basically, the internet is helpful to me. It’s where I first heard the term “asexual.”

Actually, I guess I’d heard it from a school counselor who asked me what I identified as. We talked about a lot of stuff that day, and he wasn’t very helpful, but I had written on the screening questionnaire that I identified as anti-sexual. When asked to explain that, I said, “I just don’t want sex. I don’t really like the term ‘asexual’ because like moss is asexual, but I just feel uncomfortable about sex and would rather it not happen to me.” A short time later I found the documentary (A)Sexual on hulu, and it resonated with me so strongly that I gave up calling myself antisexual and went with asexual instead, even though I cannot reproduce by budding.

Asexuality, for those that don’t know, is simply the lack of sexual attraction. I personally don’t have experience with much disbelief about it, but when I first realized I might be asexual, in my euphoria, I told a few people, “I think I might be asexual.” They seemed confused and told me, “I used to be like that, but now I have a boyfriend, and the longer we’re together, the harder it is to not have sex.”

To me, this business of desiring sex during a relationship was a novel idea. I had had a boyfriend for about 7 months, and I cannot recall actually wanting to have sex with him a single time. I remember wanting him to hold me. I remember thinking that kissing was about the silliest activity one could spend an hour doing. I remember teasing him to see if he could turn me on. The more I think about it, though, the more I realize I just wanted to be close to him. I wanted someone who would be willing to put his hand on my back and just stroke my hair. That was the extent of what I wanted in our relationship. He informed me some time after we’d broken up that he could feel a lust coming from me, and that it was hard to say no to having sex sometimes, but I never felt that way. I was a bit confused by it, actually, because even though I knew that sexual attraction factored into our relationship somewhere, I had no desire to experience anything involving genitals. (sorry if that’s too much information. Talking about sex is tough when you’re trying to stay PG)

So, the label fits. I’ve thought through it a number of times, and for me, identifying as someone who isn’t interested in sex is a no-brainer. In fact, in the few instances that I’ve talked about my asexuality with people, I usually simply say that I’m not really interested in sex. Most people get that. There seems to be a real hang-up when I go from saying, “I’ve discovered I don’t really want to have sex” to “I’m asexual” though. And this is a mindset that I’m still trying to figure out.

Because of other people‘s confusion with my preference for labeling myself, I’ve grown to appreciate my physical condition of CSS. Because this is not a well-known condition, I shall explain this also. CSS stands for Central Sensitivity Syndrome. It is a condition of unknown cause that makes my nervous system a bit different from other people’s. It’s not life-threatening, by any means, but it results in uncomfortable situations where my skin sometimes believes that clothing is painful, that carrying anything weighing more than a thimble is going to cut me, that there are insects crawling on me, and a number of other things that other people certainly experience, but generally to a lesser extent. I bring this up because it’s a condition I’ve had for a large portion of my life, but it was only diagnosed a year ago. Prior to my diagnosis, I wondered how people could live like strong smells didn’t bother them. When I realized that the difference was that my nervous system exasperated smells to me, it made it easier for me to function in the world.

To me, having CSS and being asexual are similar in one regard. They are both part of who I am. I didn’t choose either, but I have grown up experiencing them, which makes me just a bit different from my peers. Neither is really a problem, but each requires some special provisions on my part, and they request some consideration from people around me. For example, axe body spray? Only use a little. Please.

So, why do I identify as asexual? It’s not a lifestyle choice or a rebellious move, in my mind. Asexuality is simply a word to describe what I was already experiencing. It’s a word that helps me be comfortable as I realize that it’s okay to not be into chick flicks. It’s a word that reminds me that if I don’t want sex, it’s okay. It’s also a word that has helped me find community. Turns out there are a lot of people like me who have half-lives on the internet. These are people who will never tell me, “it’s just a phase. You probably just haven’t met the right person yet. I respect your lifestyle choice.” They’re people who are more like, “so, wanna get some cake?”

I don't honestly expect anyone to argue with me. I guess I could change the phrasing in my last post to reflect that. This concept of “coming out” is sort of weird since most people either don't know or care about asexuality. That's okay I guess. Unless you're dating me or subjecting me to another lecture on the evils of premarital sex. Asexuality is invisible for the most part. No one makes a fuss about asexuality. But no one exactly welcomes it either.

If you've gotten this far, I guess you've done the unexpected. I don't know what that makes you, but it's cool. 

The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

Someone asked me once what it’s like to be me.

I’m kidding. Who asks something like that? I actually read it in a book. In context, it was about how we often jump to conclusions about people without really understanding what they’re going through, and if we would just listen, we might not be so upset about our differences.

I thought this was a novel idea. Why didn’t anyone care about what it’s like to be me? Surely if they did, they would stop labeling me as a weirdo.

I could tell you what it’s like to be me. I could go into the long explanation. I have many labels I associate with now, although none is strictly accurate. The short story, however, is that I think I’m misunderstood. I can only say that though because everyone is misunderstood. According to an image I surreptitiously stole from the internet this morning, Everyone is fighting a battle I know nothing about. That is to say, humans are really bad at understanding each other, even though we all face pretty much the same thing.

“But you couldn’t possibly understand me! You haven’t been through what I’ve been through!”

Seriously. Human beings have a limited range of emotions. Even if I haven’t been through what you’ve been through, I might be able to get how you’re feeling.

But I didn’t come here to demean your feelings. I personally think that feelings are irritating and misleading, but they’re still real. What I did come to talk about is plastic.

Now, plastic, as a substance, is dangerous to the environment. Plastic is not biodegradable, so it fills up our landfills and kills wildlife. It is also tough, so it kills animals and accumulates in the great Pacific garbage patch. It also uses up valuable petroleum, which drives up gas prices. Plastic has its uses, and they are limited. In general, plastic is bad.

Why on earth would we want plastic in our souls then?

See what I did there?

No?

Okay, I’ll explain.

People are plastic. As in, we are fake. Our whole lives are used up pretending to do things we’d rather not do, or pretending we don’t enjoy stuff we actually like, or pretending we like stuff that we actually despise. Sometimes the overall fakeness of it all is overwhelming, and we’re stuck wondering if there’s actually anything real or worthwhile in this world.

But worse than this is that, even if we realize that we are plastic, we are apathetic. We are comfortable and, while not exactly satisfied, justified in our own minds. We have to be what we are to survive. We have to look out for number one. We have to spend our days doing what is expected of us by ourselves and by society. What other meaning is there to life?

Aside from these distinctly negative associations, it is actually necessary for us to pretend to be people we aren’t. For example, most of us are not law-abiding citizens. We’re just pretending to be. We all have the capacity to break the laws, but due to personal and social constraints, we pretend we would never do those bad things. In this case, it’s okay to be plastic and pretend to be something you might not actually be.

In other instances, however, this can cause problems. See, when we pretend that we have it all together even though we don’t, we make ourselves invulnerable to assistance, and in turn, we view those who reveal they need help as illogical, needy, or sinful.

But somehow I can't admit I need help because I have to keep pretending to be strong, smart, and in control while being funny, friendly, and sincere. But this leaves me stuck in a paradox between the identity that I want to have and the identity that I have to have in order to achieve my goals. I don’t know how to be all those things without compromising who I really am. This is in part because I don’t know who I really am. I don’t know if any of us knows who we really are.

I do know that we’re complicated. I’ve seen movies about high school cliques where you can identify most of what a person is by which group they associate with.

I was home schooled. I was never labeled as a part of any particular group. I was never told I couldn’t like something because it didn’t suit my type. I was allowed to like punk rock, ballet, gardening, and video games. It was like being in kindergarten, except I was actually good at the stuff I tried.

I admit, though, that since I’ve never been to an actual high school, there is a distinct possibility that I am misunderstanding the social structure. All I know is that I don’t fit in. People can label me, but I always deviate from the expected. But everyone does that, even if only a little.

Despite this, you won’t hear me say that we’re all the same. We’re not all the same. If we’re all the same, then what’s the point of being a deviant? What I am saying, though, is that we all have similarities in our core. There are core differences as well, and certainly an abundance of shallow differences, but there is something about being human that no one who claims that label can avoid.

That’s why I’m looking into proof that one or both of my parents have supernatural DNA. I was thinking elvish for a time, but perhaps dragon is more my species type.

Similar to a dragon, I am a hoarder, I like to live alone and will guard my privacy with fire when necessary. I’m clever and popular, but everyone’s just a bit afraid of me. Except my mother. Dangit, mother. How am I supposed to create a broad sweeping generalization if you’re a deviant???

I’m also draconic due to the fact that I’ve been accused of not existing.

Not as in, I’m an apparition or a figment of thousands of people’s imagination. More as in, I don’t experience what most people call normal, and people don’t believe that’s possible.

I’m talking about sex. For the record (intense stressful moment as I brace for objections), I label myself as asexual. Not like the plants. Unfortunately, my attempts to reproduce by budding have all ended in failure. As in, I don’t want to have sex. I think sex is stupid. I don’t get why people want it. You can object all you want, but if you don’t believe me, you can stop reading. It’s okay. You are fully entitled to your own opinion. Even if it’s wrong.

I think this is one of the most misunderstood things about me. You might find it easy to see why. Unless, of course, you’ve never seen me flirting, but trust me, that adds a whole level of confusion that most people aren’t prepared to deal with. People ask me, what’s normal? Is it okay to feel like this?

If you were a computer, I’d tell you that there’s nothing in the original installation that can kill you. But humans and dragons are not computers.

I pretend I’m not asexual though. Especially to people who’ve known me all my life. It’s hard to accept that other people change. I used to be an albeit weird teenager with reasonably normal desire for relationships, and since no one expected anything different, hearing that I am something unexpected is hard to accept. So it is with everyone who defies expectations.

Expectations are cruel. They can help uphold standards. They can also be crushing. For me, at least, I hate going back to where I used to live because the expectations of people who knew me are overwhelming. I can’t be everything you were expecting me to be. You know that, but you’re still disappointed. I’m still disappointed. This is because I have just as much plastic in me as everyone else. I’m just as apathetic as everyone else. I hate it, but not enough to change.

Is this what it means to be human?

Are we destined to lose to the plastic?

Will we always just love that which is meaningless and hate what could change us?

Everyone is fighting a battle, but it’s not always a battle against the plastic.

Sometimes the plastic is too much. Sometimes we have the time to battle our own lack of change, our apathy, and our superficiality. Sometimes, however, we battle to survive. We battle to find our identity. We battle to be understood. We battle to be valued. We fight through days and months and years of invisible battles.

She asked me one day if I even really cared. I was rebelling against the plastic, so I said what she had been hoping I wouldn’t admit: I didn’t care. I couldn’t. I was too worn out to even consider fighting the truth anymore. It was a cruel truth, and not one that I wanted her to know. I wanted to care. But sometimes you just can’t fight anymore.

I was dying, but all of a sudden, the plastic seemed stupid. Why do we waste so much time doing that which doesn’t matter?

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” She asked.

Because what can you say in the face of all that brokenness?

“How can you possibly understand?”

“Because I’m that broken too” she whispered.

We’re all that broken. No one can possibly understand how broken we are. Except that

we’re all that broken.

What’s it like to be me?

Well, what’s it like to be you?