She Is Not Your Doll (Patreon)

"I am not yours."

Yesterday I learned that the little voice in my head was not my own. 

It might sound like mine. It might coo and curl like mine. But it is not. It is someone else’s. 

When I found a comic about being asexual, I was terrified. The idea of not being straight scared me more than anything else had. I remember it clearly, sitting on the couch next to my mother, looking at this comic and realizing it encapsulated my entire feeling towards other people. I remember going to AVEN, researching more, understanding. And I remember the voice in my head telling me this was wrong. 

I was straight. I had to grow up and get married. I had to have a child, have a family, see grandkids blossom into adults. Marriage was fulfillment. Marriage was the peak of all relationships. The words I had heard so often came back to crowd my thoughts, enough that I excused myself from the couch and slipped into the bathroom. 

Being gay is a sin.  They’re going to hell.   They’ll take the kids.

Gay people are morally corrupt. They have an agenda.  They’ll corrupt us.

     They’re sexually perverted. Gay christians don’t exist. Something’s wrong with them.

I told myself these labels didn’t apply to me. I was thinking I was asexual. I wouldn’t be involved in any sort of sex. Any sort of anything. I remembered being a child and told I wasn’t gay. They were right, weren’t they? I wasn’t gay. I was something different. 

I started consuming asexual content for the next year. Testing myself, watching adult videos to see if it sparked anything in me. Gay, straight, lesbian. I recoiled each time. I wanted nothing to do with it. There was no arousal. There was no enjoyment. I was bored and somewhat uncomfortable. It felt as if I was intruding on an intimate, private moment, and I turned it off after less than a minute.

You’re sick.  Lust is a sin. You’re sinning.

Normal people don’t watch porn.  God would hate you.

I started searching for people that I would like on the street. Did anyone do anything for me? Could I look at them, think of us having sex, and be comfortable with that? 

These are people. You’re being disgusting. You’re still young. You don’t know yet.

 It’s good you don’t lust. That’s a good thing.    You’ll be fine with your husband.

None of them made me comfortable. I could hear the pastors in my head, the voices of my parents, the homophobic jokes, the remarks at disgusting behaviors of other people, the words of the one teacher who attempted to teach me compassion. They’re loving people. There’s nothing wrong with them. I can’t condemn love.

I held onto that ideal. I wasn’t straight. I was something else. I was definitely something else.

And then I came out. I had my car ready to go outside, already started, bag in the car, lunch in the passenger seat. I was dressed. I made my breakfast so I could eat it on the road if need be. I had posted a question on Facebok the night before, and my mom had seen it that morning. She asked me what asexual was. I told her. She replied with a confused, questioning sound, but left it as it was. 

It didn’t stop the unease in my stomach. As I left for class, I had a sinking feeling. Her response wasn’t bad. It was good. Wasn’t it? Wasn’t it good?

A week later, I was on the couch. And my entire family came into the room. They said they were worried for me. That they felt a spirit of evil in the house ever since I came out. That I was denying God’s plan for my life. That my condition was a medical disease.

And then congratulated my brother after he told me my place as a woman was to get married and be a mother. That saying I wouldn’t do that was defying God. They said he handled himself well. That he did a great job talking to me about his concerns.

Today, I wonder if I’m an asexual lesbian. The process of questioning is a terrifying one, and I hear the pastors, my parents, my family’s voices in my head whenever I seek out material that might help me. And occasionally, there is a bite of anger. A bite of fury.

If only my younger self had gotten the chance to explore. The chance to question. If only she had been given the right--her right--to learn who she was.

So now I fight for what the girl I used to be. I fight to regain the rights stripped of me, the right to learn about myself, the right to hear my own voice. I am not sick. I am not wrong.

And I am not going to hell.