When I turned 19 I realised that self-hatred had become a personality trait of mine.
I was taught that strong independent women were successful, heterosexual ones. When I would study for hours and never hang out with boys that was seen as ‘will power’. I grew toxic affirmations like ‘I’m a sh*t person if I’m not productive” and shrunk any questions about my identity. ‘I didn’t look queer…?’ I didn’t even know what ‘queer’ was.
High school PDHPE classes taught me sexual intercourse leads to pregnancy, pregnancy leads to failure, condoms don’t work, women can’t masturbate and watching a consensual tea drinking video, is a quirky way of making the syllabus “fun”. The internet became my dictionary of discovery, but I still found that most of the information on queer sexual health was about queer men.
I still found that most of the information on queer sexual health was about queer men.
Even if I was ready to accept then that I was queer (in my context, a lesbian), queer people didn’t exist in my education. I really believed if I ignored everything about myself except success, that external validation would turn into self-love. Successful. Heterosexual. Woman. When this didn’t work, I cycled in a feeling of emptiness and lost all purpose. I let others take advantage of me because I didn’t even understand what heterosexual sex was.
I was 18 and a virgin. I thought sleeping with men might “fix” this feeling of emptiness I was experiencing. I people-pleased to the MAX and risked my own safety because no one told me otherwise. When my desires were met, they were used against me when I “didn’t want to return the favour”. Sex was a dirty word and I felt dirty for doing it. As per usual, my internal feelings didn’t match my bravado. I experienced hypersexuality to cope with my inner turmoil. I wanted to appear like I was enjoying heteronormative sex to impress my partners. I was admired for my eagerness and willingness to do anything and again, I cycled. The more I had sex, the emptier I felt.
I don’t blame these men entirely. I blame an education that lacked communication because sex is just too taboo to talk about. Some of the men I was with felt too embarrassed to ask about my needs because if they were a ‘real’ man they’d already know them. Sex education isn’t explicit, and that stops us from having open conversations about it. It was only when I was 19 that I opened up to my current same sex partner, that I felt my sexual shame alleviated. I was with someone who had a literal understanding of my anatomy and wanted to openly communicate about it. My shame around sex became liberation. If I could ask questions about sex, I could ask anything.
I was with someone who had a literal understanding of my anatomy and wanted to openly communicate about it.
For the first time it was normal to talk about my needs.
And yes we did the typical lesbian thing; moved in together after two weeks with a cat but I get why queer women do that. There’s a yearning to know all sides of your partner to feel loved by them. If I didn’t talk about my needs and feelings, my partner wouldn’t know how to support me. If I continued to invalidate myself, I would invalidate her. I had to find myself to gain queer love.
I’m not saying you have to be queer to start your self-love journey. All I can speak for is the drastic difference in communication between my hetero and queer experiences. I learned how to define personal boundaries and I got told that even a strong independent woman takes breaks. My purpose is not my work, (well it is my work) but it’s also my identity and those I love.
Laneikka Denne in her play DEAD SKIN. Source: Roger Stonehouse
When I used to meet someone, my introduction would be a manically quirky recital of my CV and accomplishments. When I meet someone now, I ask “how are you?” I receive the dreaded “good” and I reply “no, really, how are you?” This person is usually confused or thinks I’m on some sort of cliché mental health Instagram page. But after all of that, they usually tell me something they need to get off their chest.
I found self-love by accepting that I was queer and realising everyone else is weird. Talking about your needs in a relationship can be seen as taboo. That’s weird. Some schools still ignore the existence of queer relationships. That’s really weird.
I truly believe if we all spoke a little more and allowed ourselves to be vulnerable with our partners. We would have more emotionally satisfying intimate relationships in and out of the bedroom.
Period.
This story has been published in partnership with The Writing Zone, a mentoring program for young writers from Western Sydney, hosted by Western Sydney University’s Writing & Society Research Centre.
