Unloved

I was a little surprised to realize that I hadn't written about this on here, yet.  It's one of those insecurities that's really easy for me to get wrapped up in.  I get a whiff of it, and immediately get stuck playing and replaying everything that feeds into it.  The conversations I've had.  Those moments where an understanding suddenly shifts into sharp focus.

When it comes to insecurities about being loved, many people seem to get wrapped around their worthiness, or lack of worthiness.  But that's an area in which I've always been oddly confident.  While I'm certainly imperfect, I don't for a second doubt the ways in which I'm a compassionate, attentive, caring partner.  I absolutely believe that I am worthy of love.

But it can be hard to believe that I am loved, or will be loved, romantically.  Some of that has been from the experience of dating people who struggle with the reality of a relationship that doesn't include a sexual element.  As it was put so succinctly in the movie (A)Sexual, there's a way in which sexless relationships are simply not to be taken as seriously as those which do include sex.  Even when people think they'll be fine with it, the reality often ends up being that... they're not.  And that's never a pleasant reality to come to grips with.

But well before experiencing how that played out, a series of conversations left me rattled.  They all occurred within the same year or so, as I was just starting to wrap my head around the notion that my sexuality was markedly different than that of most folks.  And multiple people- all of whom were people that I'd been sexually involved with, and who I loved- shared their dubiousness that I would ever find partners who were comfortable with a sexless relationship.  Of course, I was a wonderful person, and sweet and kind and all of that... it's just that it was plain unreasonable to believe that anybody could really love me if I wasn't putting out.  And really, it wasn't very realistic to think that anybody would wait around if I always took so damn long to get around to the good stuff, and even when I did it wasn't the right kinds of sex anyhow, and it certainly wasn't frequent enough, and, and....

Let me emphasize again that these were conversations that I had with people I loved, and in many ways, still love today.  They were conversations that came from a place of genuine concern on my behalf.

And they're conversations which now, years later, I've never been entirely able to shake.

It's a rough insecurity to overcome, because it targets that which is necessarily out of my control.  I can't control others' feelings and emotions.  And really, it's an impossible thing to assure against.  Feelings do shift and evolve and change over time.  Romantic love is never guaranteed.  Even when it is there, it can (and does!) dissipate, for any number of reasons.

It's not an insecurity that dominates my life, by any means.  I am fortunate enough to have a slew of fantastic people in my life, and that does quite a bit to help keep these kinds of worries from the forefront of my mind.

But when this particular insecurity comes up, it really comes out a'swinging.  And I still haven't quite figured out how to block that right hook.

Assault & Trauma

Trigger Warning: This post talks about assault, trauma. Parts of it might be interpreted as rape apology.

There's an idea that I've been turning around in my head for awhile, that perhaps we as a culture partner the ideas of assault and trauma a bit too closely.  There seems to be a notion that assault is the input, and trauma will always be the output.  You can't have the output without the input.  The bigger the input is, the bigger the output is.  It's a 1:1 ratio of assault:trauma, and you simply cannot have one without the other.  And I think that this view misses quite a bit of the range of human experience.

Some of the implications of that have already gotten some discussion, as the idea that everybody processes their experiences differently has become more widely understood.  I think that this article brushes up against it, as it challenges the notion that to be assaulted is to be eternally broken inside.  In recognizing the fact that everybody heals differently, we necessarily recognize that everybody has different responses to their experiences.

The idea that a violation of one's consent or boundaries can be traumatic, regardless of the "severity" of the violation is another way in which this discussion has moved incrementally away from the 1:1 assault: trauma model.  I think that's it's incredibly useful and important to acknowledge that a non-consensual ass-slap, or "gray rape" can be traumatic events with major, lasting consequences.

I would like to see the conversation continue pushing and poking holes in the 1:1 model.  I'd like to see recognition that very real trauma can result from events which are not assault, or even a consent violation of any kind.  I'd like to see recognition that assault- even clear-cut, undeniable assault- may not always be traumatic.

It means accepting that as humans, our experiences and emotions are messy.  It means accepting that sometimes a person's actions can be terribly damaging to another, but it doesn't necessarily mean that those actions were wrong.  It means understanding that sometimes people do genuinely fucked up things, and everybody walks away alright.  It means that while there is a strong correlation between assault and trauma, the relationship is not always one of causation.

I've had sexual experiences that were blurry around the consent edges (and in one case, by-the-book assault), that I feel great about.  I've debated elaborating on those experiences in this blog for quite some time.  Ultimately, the fear that somebody else would use those as a model of appropriate behavior is what keeps me from elaborating on details.

Conversely, I've had sexual experiences that were solidly within acceptable consent guidelines that left deep scars.  There are no special details, or circumstances, from those.  It was normal sex in established relationships, and unremarkable in every way save my own reaction to it.  For a long time, I dipped my toes into the idea that those experiences had been non-consensual.  Because how could they have been this traumatic, done this much damage, if they'd been consensual?  I may have gone through the motions, but he should have known that I didn't want it, right?  Wasn't it clear how detached, how disengaged I was?

My model of sexuality, trauma, consent and assault simply didn't allow for the possibility that something could be so damaging without it having been wrongdoing.  My hurt didn't seem like it could be valid, or legitimate, without the non-consensual framework.  I think I was groping towards the place where I'm at now when I wrote this entry a few years ago.  In truth, I didn't entirely believe my words at the time.

I do now.

This is not to say that sexual trauma is always independent of assault- not at all.  The two clearly have a close and frequent relationship.  But I believe that it is inaccurate to speak as though they are inherently linked.  The current narrative leaves a massive void where I think many experiences may fall.  And that does a disservice to everybody involved.

Snippets

What I need, as a bottom, is somebody who takes pleasure in hurting me.  Not just somebody who's doing it because it's what I'm into, but somebody who really enjoys the process of methodically working me over and seeing me in pain.

I'm not that into BDSM.

You're in my bed.  That says something.

That was the first time I've cried like that- full-out sobbing for an extended period of time?  That was new.  

Really?

Yeah.  It was the sort of catharsis that I needed.  Thank you.

I finally figured out the trick.

Oh?  What's that?

Not feeling remorse.

Villains

Relatively little of my journey into the exciting world of asexuality-ish-ness has happened alone.  Partners, sweeties, lovers, friends, and play partners have all joined me along the way for various lengths of time.  I've learned quite a bit from these experiences, and my time with others has been hugely important in shaping how I identify and relate to sexuality today.

Some of the experiences have been delightful.  Others have been painful, for me and those involved.  Many formative moments have been particularly painful.  But because they were formative, I'm compelled to write about them.  Before doing so, I do feel that it's important for me to put a qualifier out there.

There are no villains in this story.  There have been many people, myself included, who have done the best that they've known how to do.  And sometimes we've hurt each other along the way.  That doesn't make any of us villains.  It just makes us human.

Labels

I cannot overstate how happy I am to have a label for my sexuality.  While revolting against labels is currently en vogue ("You can't box me in!  I'm a snowflake!!"), finding out that I did have a bucket, and therefore was not utterly alone in my experience, was hugely validating for me.

I'm too asexual to claim to be normal in that regard.  This has made itself clear- repeatedly, and painfully.  But I'm not asexual enough to write it off entirely- there ARE contexts in which I really like being sexual, with myself and others.  Before discovering the label "gray-a" I felt like I didn't fit in anywhere I went.  I was my own little island of freak.

So I'm pretty excited about having a label, and I wear it with pride.  It gives me a framework to explain who I am, and a sense of security that my experience is shared by others.