A Lack of Labels
Loving yourself even when you don’t have the language.
Lately, I’ve been on a quest to boldly and tenderly embrace every little part of myself. Even the parts that feel sticky or wild or unknown. Even the parts that have felt, for lack of a better word, bad.
“Bad” is a word we use when we can’t find the right one. When we don’t have the language. “Bad” is a word we choose when we know something isn’t right, but can’t exactly explain why.
Having parts of myself that turns out were gay never felt necessarily “bad,” but for a long time, I didn’t know they were “good,” and so… what else did I have? What did I call it?
What word do you use to describe something that’s both a part of you and completely foreign and seemingly unknowable? How do you acknowledge a part of yourself that’s always been with you, but which you’ve — intentionally or not — essentially ignored for most of your life? How do you even start?
For me, as perhaps with others, my liberation began with crippling depression.
By the end of 2020, I was in the most mental, emotional, and spiritual pain I’d ever been. Every day, I was exhausted, drained, and bitter, and every day, I cried. I had an ache in my chest that wouldn’t go away — no matter how many breaths I took and no matter how deep. I also wasn’t sleeping, and my anxiety was spiking because of it.
I remember distinctly walking up the stairs one day, and then stopping to lean against the wall as a voice cried unbidden from the back of my mind, “Somebody, help.”
I finally started working with a therapist, someone who specializes in “The Work” of Byron Katie. One day, upon my describing how utterly overwhelmed I was, but how I “didn’t have a choice,” my therapist told me this:
“Byron Katie says that our emotions are like our children. We have to listen to them, not shut them away. Every time you feel angry or tired, but you keep doing the same thing over and over again, it’s like slamming a door in that child’s face. You’re telling them you don’t care about them. They’re a part of you, and yet every time you ignore them, you’re essentially telling them to shut up; that they don’t matter.”
I knew I would never talk to my best friends that way — let alone a child — so why was I okay treating myself in a way that didn’t so much as acknowledge the pain I was feeling?
And so I began to exchange letters with different versions of my past self as a form of processing and acknowledging what I’ve been through; as a way of actually listening to myself so as to unlearn a lifetime’s worth of trauma-induced self-denial.
And so it was that I discovered the following:
I’m attracted to men.
I’m also attracted to women.
For most of my life, I’ve thought I was straight, but only because exploring anything otherwise was complicated and confusing and there were a lot of barriers in my life (including my own misconceptions) that kept me from going down that road.
Looking back, I know I’ve been attracted to women for a long time, but because I grew up in a “being gay is a sin” household, I just sort of… didn’t think about it. I didn’t know how to.
I remember never actually believing that gay people went to hell. It never resonated with me, and I would later discard the entire notion of hell to begin with. The God I knew was (still is) Love, and She could never send someone to eternal damnation just because of who that person was attracted to. Who they cared for. Who they themselves loved.
Of course, that didn’t stop the messages from ringing in my ears whenever I’d go to church, or have conversations with people who did believe in eternal damnation for those attracted to the same sex. And so… I continued not to think about it.
My attractions to women compared to men were infrequent, and for a long time, I didn’t know that being “bi” was really even an option. At first, I thought it was you’re either gay or straight. And I was definitely attracted to guys, so… straight, right?
Of course, looking back now, my older self smiles knowingly at my younger selves, who just… didn’t know what to call what they were feeling.
I would call the crushes I had on female celebrities “girl crushes” instead of just “crushes.”
When I was around 13, one of my girl friends asked me if I wanted to practice making out. I immediately said “What?! No!” and then spent the next hour with my heart pounding out my chest trying to get up the gumption to take it back and go for it, because I was afraid of what it would mean if I actually *wanted* to try making out with a girl.
I was young, and I had 0 role models in my life to explain to me that just because you make out with a girl doesn’t mean you’re gay, nor does not doing so make you straight. I didn’t have anyone to tell me that it doesn’t matter either way — what matters is that you get to know yourself, and that it’s ok to be confused and it’s ok to not know. I also didn’t have anyone to tell me that you can literally not think about kissing a girl for years and then find yourself attracted to one, and that labels are stupid and you don’t have to place one on yourself in order to discover who you are.
In college, I remember very clearly sitting in a women’s lit class watching this one particular student who sat a few chairs away from me, and absolutely being very attracted to her, and then thinking to myself, “Huh.” And exploring no more.
For a long time, for me, being bi meant you have to be equally attracted to guys and girls; you have to want to date both guys and girls; and you have to know you want to date both guys and girls. It was a 50/50 thing. By and large, I’m more generally attracted to men than I am women — plus I’ve only ever dated men — and therefore, I couldn’t be bi.
…Right?
Wrong.
These days, for me, being bi means deconstructing the misperceptions of my own sexuality in order to give myself permission to accept this whole other part of me that is beautiful and pure and always has been. It means reveling in the fact that sexuality is on a spectrum, and I don’t actually have to put a label on myself whatsoever if I don’t want to — including the label of “bi.” It means sitting in the Power of my identity as someone who knows who she is and is comfortable enough to say it without needing to explain myself to those who may disagree. It also means I get to appreciate the beauty and wonder and strength of women (myself included) in a way I’ve never allowed myself to before — and I’ll tell ya… it feels good.
Actually, it feels incredible — to be able to sit here typing this and have the entire world of my soul open for exploration, and to actually feel excited to pursue this new journey of self-discovery. To know that I don’t have to turn away from any part of myself anymore, but can take the hands of all my younger selves and walk forward in confidence and grace in who I am.
This is how I see it:
Imagine you’re walking down a hallway. You come upon a door to your right that’s slightly ajar. Light is pouring out of the crack in the door, but you can’t tell what’s actually inside that room — could be anything; maybe scary things! — so you quickly close the door and keep walking.
There’s another door on your left. Again, it’s slightly ajar. This time, you see splashes of color. It’s intriguing, and feels warm, but you can’t see enough of what’s in there, so you leave the door be and decide to keep walking.
The next door you pass is wide open. Inside is a brilliant world of dazzling lights and open sky and it feels… free. But it also feels big. Maybe too big? Maybe you’re not ready. So, again, you walk on.
At last, you reach the end of the hallway. Just ahead of you is the final door. It’s closed, but you already know what will be in there, and you know that if you want this other world — this world that feels like freedom — all you have to do is turn the handle and walk in. But it has to be your choice. The door won’t open itself for you. So you stand there for a bit, sitting in the knowledge of what’s on the other side, and knowing that it’s just as much a part of you as any other room of your soul you’ve already willingly explored. And you wonder to yourself, if this, too, is a part of you… isn’t it worthy of pursuit? Of intimate acknowledgment, attention, and acceptance? Isn’t it worthy of love?
Sometime in the last few years, I placed my hand on that door handle and slowly began to turn it. I allowed my curiosity to be stronger than my fear; my self-compassion more wild and fierce than the false dichotomies that too often force people into boxes that are not meant for them. And then I opened the door and went inside.
So here I am now, excited and a little surprised I’m sitting here writing this, but also feeling an immense amount of relief. I know who I am, I believe in who I am, and I’m so proud of myself for finally choosing to see her: this girl that’s always been worthy of love and belonging. Even when she didn’t know how to see it. Even when she didn’t have the language.
