The Little Prince and the Fox

We are embodied creatures. At least, I feel this embodiment, the fact of being an embodied creature, very strongly. 

Sometimes I love, I revel in, this body of mine and the connection I have with it. And sometimes it is a profound source of anguish or suffering for me (like when I’m injured or ill and/or forced into inactivity). But while I tend to be very aware of my own self physically, I think I’m not wholly aware of much of my outwards body language and/or of how my physical self is really perceived by the outer world or what it’s communicating to others. 

On Sunday, I finally went climbing again with my closest climbing buddy after nearly five months of not having been able to climb together. I had only climbed a couple times the previous week, doing some very easy top-rope sessions, and I was feeling not only ready but actually really eager to lead climb. Usually when we climb, I’m happy to let my partner(s) climb first and start by being the belayer myself. But on Sunday, after my buddy and I had chosen our first route, as I instinctively reached for my climbing shoes and the climber’s end of the rope, I suddenly stopped, turned to my buddy and said, “Sorry, I didn’t even ask… is it OK if I start by climbing?” And he replied, “Of course, no need to ask — your body language was pretty clear about that!” I wasn’t expecting that — maybe naïvely — I hadn’t realized how strongly my body language was saying, “I’m in charge here now, I’m picking the route for us and I’m going to climb first”… 

Then, my buddy & I went into downtown to get sandwiches sitting outside in the sunshine. We had had a very satisfying climbing session so I was feeling happy and confident. It was warm, so I was wearing shorts and a tank-top. As my buddy & I sat eating and chatting, a group of four very openly queer people went into the shop right in front of us and then, when they came back out, stood there for a few minutes casting very evident glances in my direction and mumbling among each other. They eventually left without a word to me/us, fortunately, but it did leave me wondering (& feeling quite uncomfortable): what was going on? Were they trying to decipher me, to “figure me out”? Had they noticed my three wristbands (queer pride rainbow, nonbinary colors, trans-flag colors)? 

Or the instances at the climbing gym. I present very masculine now so the “default” is that I don’t look at people very much and people don’t look at me very much — the “safe” or “appropriate” or “non-creepy” “male behavior”. But there have been a few times more recently that I’ve noticed guys looking at me. It’s been easier for me to notice because I’ve been forced to cross-train on the stationary bike and/or treadmill due to my injuries: these activities are boring (for me) so I have more occasions to look around myself but I’m also much more “evident” to others because I’m in one spot for a long time. And I cannot avoid training bare-chested on the stationary bike and treadmill because I simply sweat too much to keep a top on. So here I am, “in full display” as it feels to me, in one spot for at least half an hour, almost completely naked. Given the implicit but well known codes of gyms, I would expect guys to not look at me. And yet, I have been looked at by men more often than expected. Why? Once again, are they trying to “figure me out”? To piece together this “weird body” of mine? Is it the scars on my chest that draw the attention? [On the other hand, climbing gym culture is not like gym culture: among climbers, there’s much more ease around naked and/or bare-chested bodies.] Fortunately, though, while these instances or behaviors still confuse me, they don’t upset me like they did last year. There are actually moments, like often at the swimming pool or while I was running on the treadmill yesterday, when I feel so happy and confident and comfortable in my own body that I don’t mind them looking and I can hear a challenging voice inside me that would like to say to them, “Yes, this is a nonbinary trans body and it is beautiful!” 

And then there are the instances in the gay men’s choir (in some ways similar to my experiences at gay bars): gay men ignoring me or almost looking away. Why? Is it my body language saying something like “Stay away from me!” without my even being aware of it? Is it because they can see I’m trans and that puts them off? Or is it their own fear, their own baggage, having to fight the negative clichés of which they’ve so often been accused just because of being gay men, e.g. of being too forward and/or of coming onto people/men too aggressively?  

And maybe tinting all of these instances — underlying my doubts around the perception and performance of gender, around sex-roles, around body language — there are for me the lenses of an autistic brain and aromantic & asexual orientation. I am a very embodied creature — I experience my life and the world around me in a very embodied way — but I am also nonbinary & trans, aro-ace, and have an autistic brain. How do I put all this together?

Today, I had a wonderful day. Long and tiring and also stressful because I’m still having car issues — but my buddies have my back, even with my car issues. 

I finally climbed again with my closest climbing buddy and had a nice afternoon with him — and the climbing session itself was a great ego-boost for me. While keeping it easy and not overdoing things since we’re both coming back from injuries, I was actually able to lead half a dozen routs at the gym, keeping my anxiety due to the second chorus rehearsal tonight in check and focusing on the climbing, almost channeling that anxiety, and finding and expressing my own masculinity with more confidence again. 

Rehearsal was wonderful. It was still difficult at the beginning, I still felt super shy and a little anxious despite my “Big Sibling” being there. But he seems really nice and he brought me a little gift (dark chocolate and pistachios, things I had mentioned that I liked in my intake form), which was really sweet — what a huge difference small things like that can make! It also helped that as I entered the venue I ran into the artistic director with whom I have some familiarity and trust and when he asked how I had felt after last week’s rehearsal, I told him honestly that I had been in pieces and he was genuinely concerned and supportive. I still felt awkward and somehow different during the potluck but it wasn’t as uncomfortable as last week. And I still struggled with the singing at the beginning, but not nearly as much as last week. People introduced themselves to me and many of them asked how I was feeling, how the music felt, and most of them said, “Welcome! We’re so glad you’re here”. I felt much more welcomed, or welcomed in a warmer sense this time. And I felt much less that I didn’t belong — I actually almost felt that I belonged. I was addressed as “man” and “boy” a couple of times, which felt very affirming and validating, and today I didn’t once feel like a “woman” or “girl” nor the weight of my AFAB past. Part of it was the affirmations I got from the outside (e.g. being addressed as “man” and “boy”) but part of it was also my own increased confidence in my own (version of) masculinity, which maybe also came form the inclusive climbing event I organized/led on Tuesday and the climbing session with my buddy earlier today. 

And above all, I was able to sing!!! It was still a little hard during warm-ups, partly also because I ended up sitting next to a man with a booming voice that either drowned my own voice even to myself or made me feel like my voice was “not male enough”. But after the break, we rearranged and, whether my voice had warmed up by then or having other guys at my sides made the difference, it worked: I was able to actually sing, to sing loud, almost confidently, and — mostly importantly — enjoy it. I wanted it to never stop. I enjoyed myself so much that I almost stayed, I almost thought about joining the guys who went to have food&drinks across the street after rehearsal — maybe next time. 

I can still see and feel many differences between myself and many of the cis gay men: but tonight these differences hardly weighed on me and they didn’t stop me from singing or from being able to enjoy myself.

Tonight, I found my voice and let it out. And I felt wholly like a boy — my own version of boy with my own, beautiful, version of “male voice”. 

Yesterday I had a very stressful day. Logistically stressful because of expensive car issues and emotionally taxing because of the exit interview for my current job that ends in two weeks. 

All I wanted by the end of the day was quiet — and to be held. I would have really needed (or wanted?) somebody to just hold me, tell me everything will be alright or simply cook dinner for me, wrap me in a blanket or a hug. But nobody could do that for me last night. So I did it for myself. I’ve learned to do it for myself. I gave myself a warm bath — something that soothes me and helps me to feel held, both figuratively and literally. I cooked myself an easy but good and healthy meal. I watched a movie that would help me “feel good”. And I focused on the instances in which I’ve felt held by the people around me, my friends, recently: my nonbinary friend who came to visit me all the way from Europe and with whom we’ve been keeping in touch almost daily; one of my neighbor running buddies who came over on a Sunday night at nearly 10 o’ clock to check on me when I called fearing I was having a heat stroke this summer; the friend who let me use his car last weekend when mine didn’t feel safe enough to drive; my neighbor running buddy who’s had me over for Saturday night dinner & board-games with him & his family in these weeks that I’ve been injured and unable to run with him (& lonely); the friend for whom I’m house-sitting who’s almost always available for a phone call with me despite being away in Alaska with his wife; my friend & ex-housemate who had me over for dinner on Monday evening after my delayed meltdown from the first rehearsal with the gay men’s chorus; my friend from North Carolina who called me last Monday for a nice chat, too; the three friends who’ve offered me a room to stay in during the three weeks that I’ll be in between places from Sept. 24th to mid-October; my climbing buddy with whom we’ve been adjusting our weekend plans to be able to hang out while still nursing injuries and preparing to plan an autumn climbing trip together — this same buddy has explicitly said to me that I, along with a small handful of other people, am his family here. 

Do I still suffer in a society that has amatonormativity so ingrained into it? Yes. Would I still have liked to have someone hold me last night? Probably so. But I was able to find ways to hold and nurture myself last night and wake up restored enough in my heart/soul to not only see but actually feel the ways in which I am held by my close friends (who for me are my family) and to hold them in turn. 

It feels delicate and fragile but today my heart feels open and full of warmth, full of the capacity to feel the support and to give it back, holding others in turn.

This summer, I’ve often felt sad and disappointed for being unable, because of injuries, to achieve the goals I had set myself: climbing and leading trad routes; bagging fourteeners; preparing to run my first full marathon in October (before I turn 43). In many moments, it’s felt like each goal I was setting myself was being bashed and it’s been hard to bear. 

But this summer of reduced exterior or athletic movement has given space to an incredible amount of inner movement, inner growth within me, which has allowed me to achieve other goals that maybe are more long-lasting than one specific marathon or any given climbing season. 

As for running, with my insistence, I have gotten two of the major associations that organize races in Colorado to officially include a nonbinary category with equal awards from now onwards, as a permanent change moving forward. So I will be able to race in the future, once my body allows me to do so again, and not just me: other nonbinary runners will be allowed to race and be recognized fairly, too. 

As to climbing, I have created an inclusive space that found its form concretely in a climbing event embracing & fostering diverse masculinity last night that will likely be repeated. This event was much more successful than I had expected it to be. Of my many friends or acquaintances who were hoping to join, only three were able to show up. The other six participants were total strangers to me (at least, before the event). Of the total nine participants, six were nonbinary and/or transmasculine and three were cis-men (of which at least one openly queer). Participants swapped climbing partners throughout the evening in a very friendly, spontaneous, and supportive way. Everyone kept thanking me for organizing the event, for creating such a space. One of them said to me, full of awe and joy, “I have never been to an event with so many people like us — this is lovely!” Many of them have texted and/or emailed to thank me again. 

This is so meaningful. It feels like I’ve done something really important, also and mainly because it goes beyond myself: I have created a space that was necessary and that serves many diverse people for different reasons. 

One of the nonbinary participants was a person who uses “she/they” pronouns who was there to accompany/support their nonbinary/transmasc partner; she participated only marginally in the event last night but shared with me that she was trying to find connection with their masculine side again after having given birth to their baby and asked me if she could participate in the event next time. I found this heart-warming and replied to her that as long as they feel comfortable participating, they are totally welcome. I got a similar question from one of the three cis-men last night (& the only non-queer person at the event): at the end, he repeated to me how much he enjoyed the event and hopes it happens again; and then he said, worried to have invaded a space: “But there were hardly any cis-men; my interpretation of the event was that it was OK for me to participate — did I interpret it correctly or should I have not joined?” To which I answered that he (& other cis-men) were totally welcome, too. 

These two incidents touched me for a couple of reasons. On the one hand, the AFAB person could, at least in some ways, have been myself four years ago; I wouldn’t be where I am now f it hadn’t been for wonderful, supportive, affirming people I met along the way, so if I can be one of those persons for someone else now, it’s a beautiful honor. On the other hand, the balance of deciding to whom we open certain inclusive spaces can be a delicate topic and made me think again about similar issues or questions one could have for spaces like the gay men’s chorus: when is it necessary or indicated to keep those spaces dedicated solely to people of that specific community (e.g. gay cis-men) and when is it, instead, appropriate and beneficial to open those spaces up to include, e.g., transmasc people like me? And then there’s one of my deep convictions: the importance of opening up inclusive spaces to help cis men learn, grow, understand by being in touch directly with persons from more marginalized groups. I agree with bell hook’s & others’ viewpoint that the solution is, at least partly, found in communion, because the ultimate goal is to defeat and eradicate patriarchy (not masculinity!) which is the true poison for us all, including for white, straight, cis men. So those men who are ready to turn away from toxic behaviors, to learn from and support marginalized groups as allies need to welcomed. 

So hopefully the event from last night will be repeated and be my contribution — one little gesture, one little step — to reshape or foster masculinity away from patriarchy, by creating another space to be in communion. 

[Trigger warnings: panic responses, meltdown; transphobia.]

I finally dragged myself out of bed past ten thirty this morning. Part of it was simply physical exhaustion: I was unable to get to sleep until almost one in the morning and then woke up to pee shortly before six and couldn’t get back to sleep for a couple hours. But it was more than just physical tiredness or need to sleep: I literally felt the need to stay in bed, under the covers, in a safe, sheltered space to protect myself, to recover. 

Let’s look at the silver lining: I avoided a panic attack or meltdown last night, skimmed the fight/flight/freeze zone, and made it home safely. I held myself together not only for the almost four hours of meeting & rehearsal but also on the 40-mile drive home last night. But it was a tremendous effort and I’m feeling it now. 

To say that I don’t do well in crowds is putting it mildly. And I knew that already — which is probably part of the reason I was so terrified yesterday. My autistic brain and introverted nature make it hard to deal with big groups of people. My COVID trauma and still lingering post-pandemic fears make it worse for me. Put me in a crowded environment that also has some form of allosexual energy (whether implicit or explicit), which now I know triggers my asexual being, and the recipe for meltdown is complete. So the fact that I didn’t actually shut down completely last night is a miracle. I came very close to it, though, several times. Some unlucky practical incidents made it worse: I misunderstood the instructions from the artistic director and only brought about one-third of the sheet music we were going to sing (& had practiced at home only two of the dozen songs); the Big Brother that was assigned to me didn’t make it to rehearsal (all newbies are assigned a “Big Sibling” to help guide them through their first steps and throughout their first year in this chorus). So, I didn’t have my own music to count on, to almost shelter myself into while singing; and I didn’t have someone who was supposed to be literally right by my side, someone to sit with me, answer my questions, maybe chat with me or help me feel more comfortable in a sea of strangers. 

So I did what I usually do in situations like this: I keep to myself as much as I can and then I flee (often going outside) as soon as possible. 

But last night was difficult in a way that was new or different from other times, maybe one of the hardest or scariest experiences. I felt exposed. I felt vulnerable. I felt like a “girl” or a “woman” like I never had before, with a weight and a vulnerability to it that I could barely stand. I felt my female socialization and the “female parts” of my body like one of the biggest burdens and one of the most vulnerable spots that I’ve ever experienced. I felt like I had “trans” written all over me and it was almost unbearable. I literally wished I wasn’t wearing my usual wristbands, one with the trans-flag colors and one with the nonbinary colors. I felt like I was outing myself in an environment that somehow didn’t feel safe for that. 

I can hardly believe how much internalized transphobia I still have — I guess this is what this is… 

While I feel totally comfortable with my masculine/androgynous body, I still feel extremely uncomfortable with my voice and with my female socialization — both aspects that in a gay men’s chorus weigh a lot on me. And the doubts or impostor syndrome coming from my “different” voice and my different (i.e. female) socialization weigh on me so much that in such an environment even the ease I feel with(in) my masculine & muscular upper-body isn’t sufficient. 

The guy sitting on my left did introduce himself to me, which was nice. But I also felt those “sticky vibes” that make me instinctively turn away, or avoid, someone; and I felt him sort of looking at me sideways while singing, I’m not sure whether at me or at my wristbands, but it somehow felt uncomfortable, like I was being examined. I read the music with the guy on my right — or, at least, that’s what I was trying to do. When I realized I didn’t have all the sheet music with me, I asked him if I could read with him (since that’s what the artistic director said we should do) and he acquiesced, and it didn’t seem like a problem at first. But I could barely see the music because he held it right in front of himself, not the way one would hold it to share. He didn’t introduce himself to me — I asked him his name, he answered, asked me mine, and that was the end of it. And it didn’t feel like shyness on his part: instinctively to me the vibes felt hostile. My gut sensed “hostility”. And my instinct (or my internalized transphobia?) said the hostility was due to the trans & nonbinary wristbands I wear. 

I was able to avoid shutting down completely — i.e. I was able to avoid the “complete freeze mode” — but as the rehearsal went on, I felt my throat constricting more and more often, notes unable to come out of my mouth, and my brain going blank repeatedly as I fought back thoughts like “you sound different, your voice isn’t male, you don’t belong here”. 

The fact — the true, real, proven fact — that I was one of the only six baritones who was accepted out of dozens of baritones who auditioned doesn’t sink in, it’s somehow not enough. It’s not even enough that the artistic director actually told us all, the whole chorus, last night that picking the baritones was the hardest part because most of the auditionees were baritones so it came down to an extremely competitive choice. That should probably tell me that I did well, that I actually can sing. But it doesn’t: what I hear in my head is a voice that says that maybe I was picked “just because I’m trans”, as a sort of “reverse discrimination”, sort of a “DEI move” for the chorus to look inclusive (I used to have this kind of thought also when I applied for positions in science/academia as a “woman”). The other voice in my head says that since I was, in fact, picked, now I have to work extra hard to prove that I really deserved it despite my voice “not sounding male”. The transphobic contortionism of these thoughts is clear to me rationally but I still cannot get them out of my head and it was all I could do last night to keep them in check enough to neither go totally mute nor burst into tears. 

And then, on the other hand, the battle to keep my “flight mode” under control. I couldn’t run away, which I would have gladly done within half an hour of when we started singing. I had to stay three more hours. But once rehearsal was over and I had done my due diligence of putting my chair away, I fled with hardly a word to anyone, avoiding the post-rehearsal social time at the food&drink place across the street where almost everyone went and which apparently is a tradition for the chorus members. I fled to the relative safety of my car, sat for nearly twenty minutes to pull myself together to be able to drive safely, and headed home. I also had a couple of “flight mode” moments during rehearsal when we had breaks: during the first ten-minute break, I just headed outside and hung out by myself in the parking-lot; during the second break, I needed to pee so I walked into the men’s room (something I’m quite used to doing at this point) only to find it more crowded than I could handle (I should have expected it, I guess). I instinctively headed for the stall, which usually is free and sort of my “safe haven” in men’s rooms, only to find it occupied by a guy peeing with the door unlocked. So I fled, I literally fled. Without looking around, I rushed downstairs where, according to signs, there were additional bathrooms, and went right into the first one I found (which, ironically, was labeled “Ladies”).  

I expected it to be difficult yesterday but not so difficult, so overwhelming and, in some ways, so crushing.

My climbing buddy & super close friend with whom I hung out before going to choir yesterday made a very insightful remark: “You’re intimidated by gay men”. Yes, I guess I am (not by each one of them individually but, rather, by them as a group). So why am I doing this?

The main feeling I have as a first impression after my first rehearsal with the gay men’s chorus is that I’m not a gay guy after all. 

Gay men seem to be so strongly defined by their sexuality, or sexual orientation — allosexual and gay. 

I, instead, feel more defined by my transmasculinity, i.e. by my transmasculine gender-identity. 

And my sexuality, or sexual orientation, feels more strongly ace now. 

The way I feel is that I am a sex-positive ace transguy who enjoys being around other guys, which is not the same as a gay guy. And my identification as an ace transguy who likes to be around other guys explains why I feel so comfortable and safe around straight men: precisely because they are straight and I’m a guy, so I will be safe in my ace sexuality/identity around them and can have uncomplicated close friendships with them.

I don’t know what it is, I cannot pinpoint it, but my voice is different from that of cis-men. I hit the notes of baritones, I get them right, and I can even go as low as many basses, but something is different: I sing the same notes as cis-male-baritones but it sounds different somehow. 

And probably this is why I still get misgendered by people if the only cue they have is my voice… somehow, it’s not a male voice. 

And probably it will never be.

Today’s the big day: my first rehearsal with the gay men’s chorus! 

And I’m feeling positively terrified. 

These next couple days will be an immersion in masculinity in different, and diverse, ways: this afternoon I’ll be cross-training at the gym with my closest climbing buddy and then we’ll get food together, to have some of our “bro-time” while we’re both nursing injuries; then, this evening I have my first rehearsal with the gay men’s choir; and on Tuesday I’ll be leading an inclusive climbing event centered around healthy & diverse masculinity at my local climbing gym (& to that end I’ve been rereading bell hook’s book on “men, masculinity, and love”, The will to change).

I have been immersing myself in masculinity for months now: it was partly intentional but partly also just happened to be that way, with most of the people I’ve been engaging with over this relatively solitary (& somewhat lonely) summer being men. 

But today and Tuesday feel different — really monumental — maybe because they’re events, or milestones, towards which I worked and put effort into for months and are doors into a broader experience of masculinity for me, not limited to myself with my buddies but opening up in a more visible way to more people, including many strangers. 

Since getting the news of having passed the audition and been accepted in the gay men’s chorus, I have been counting the hours to my first rehearsal with them today. I couldn’t wait to start. I still am feeling impatient to start. But I’m also feeling terrified. I’m not simply nervous: I’m positively scared in a way that I rarely feel. 

Why am I so scared? 

Because it’s a world — that of gay men — that I really don’t know. 

As a nonbinary transguy who is in some way gay but also aro & ace, I feel totally safe and comfortable around my straight cis-male friends: I know exactly where the boundaries are; I know we can get close and intimate with no sexual or romantic implications. But what about in a group of over a hundred gay men? How do they interact with each other? What do those interactions mean? How will they interact with me? How should I respond? What if I don’t look masculine enough? What, especially, if I don’t sound masculine enough? After all, even though my singing voice is officially a baritone, I still get misgendered and called “m’am” on the phone sometimes — the latest incident being just a couple days ago… What if my voice cracks while I’m singing??? 

I’m in such a “teenager panic” mode over my first rehearsal tonight that I don’t even know what to wear…!!! 

I’m telling myself that this is just a group of people with voices in the lower range who enjoy singing together and sharing a community: nothing more and nothing threatening. I will be assigned a “Big Brother” to help me in this initial phase, so I won’t be alone in navigating it all by myself in a sea of strangers. The few people in the choir with whom I’ve already interacted are positively lovely. And I have been practicing some signing most of this week and my voice has been just fine. All that really matters is that I can sing baritone — focus on that!

But still, I wish I had someone holding my hand in this big step I’ll be taking tonight. Because it is a huge step for me. I wish my dad could hold my hand, lead me up to the door of the rehearsal venue, pat me on the shoulder and reassure me, “You’ll be fine, kiddo — You’ll be fine, son”. 

There are three main types of wounds or traumas or causes for pain that are mentioned in relationships: rejection, abandonment, and neglect.  

Rejection and abandonment are often the “two loud siblings” in this trio of poisons: they are usually the ones that are easier to see, easier to detect; they can literally be loud and/or violent, vocal, clear, blatant. They can feel like a slap in the face, or a push away. Very painful, but also easy to detect and therefore easier to name. 

When I was younger, I experienced plenty of the first two, probably rejection being the most recurring and blatant to me. Fortunately, I’m experiencing much less rejection and abandonment in my life now, partly thanks to finding people who accept me and like me and even love me just as I am. 

Neglect is more of a “quiet killer”. But it’s by no means less painful, or less fatal, than rejection or abandonment. 

I have often been able to point to and/or name and/or call out situations in which I’ve felt rejected or abandoned. But it wasn’t until this morning, after a painful night of rumination, that I was actually able to name the neglect that has been pervasive throughout my life and that still causes so much pain for me even in many of my current, closest relationships now. It was hard for me to say it out loud to myself, hard for me even to write here, now: “This is neglect”. Mixed in with the actual pain of being neglected, I’m also feeling the additional “arrows” of guilt and/or shame in naming this. I feel guilty about saying that my friends neglect me, almost as if I were blaming them and shouldn’t do it; and I feel ashamed because if I’m being neglected, then it means I’m not worthy, not lovable. 

But it is the truth. Even once the second or third arrows of pain coming from guilt and/or shame are removed, the painful truth remains: this is neglect. I am still experiencing neglect in my life and I am experiencing it very often. I’ve learned to numb myself to it and/or to put up with it, but the pain is there and it’s a constant trickle and this trickle is devastatingly erosive — “gutta cavat lapidem”. 

When friends disappear from my life for a while or always wait for me to reach out to them, and then apologize for it, my response is usually: “Don’t worry, I understand”. And I mean it: I do understand. I also go incommunicado sometimes (although I am learning to let friends know beforehand); I also get super busy and/or overwhelmed by life and need radio silence or just time off. So I really do understand. And if a friend comes to me after a period of radio silence due to pains/struggles of their own, of course I’m going to offer support to them and not burden them even more with my own pain from not having heard from them for a long time. But that pain of mine is real and it is valid. And this thing has a name: it is neglect. And I hurt because I am, effectively, being neglected. 

Most of us have layers, or circles, of relationships, from closer to less close. When we’re doing well, it’s easier for us to keep them all up. In difficult moments, in periods of reduced bandwidth, our attention shrinks to those closer to us. For most people, the closest persons are romantic/sexual/nesting partners and/or biological family. Even in the hardest moments, most people still keep up some communication and/or connection with romantic/sexual/nesting partners and/or biological family. And I know for a fact that my closest friends do that, even in their periods of busyness and/or stress and/or overwhelm when they’re unable to keep in touch with me. I know that they keep up their regular dates and/or weekends with romantic/sexual/nesting partners or connections to biological family. I.e. I’m the ball they let fall; I’m the one who’s taken off the plate when the plate is too full; I am the one they don’t call, don’t hang out with. I am the one who gets neglected. 

This is neglect. 

I need to say it. It’s maybe one of the most painful things I’ve ever written, to name it so explicitly, but it has to be done. Because this is the truth. This is real. 

There is a handful of people in my life who for me have the importance that usually is given to romantic/sexual/nesting partners and/or biological family. As an aro ace person, I don’t experience romantic feelings or sexual attraction; but I still do feel deeply committed to people and I love intensely. Call them “friends”, call them “buddies”, call them “queerplatonic partners”: the love and commitment I feel for this handful of people is of the same level or depth (although probably not of the same type) as they feel for their romantic/sexual/nesting partners and/or or biological family. But I don’t think it’s mutual. These important people in my life know I’m aro & ace so they know, theoretically, how I feel and/or function in relationships. But I don’t think they really get how I feel, I don’t think they really understand how devastatingly painful the neglect is for me. Part of their lack of understanding is due to the fact that they aren’t aro or ace: so the way I cannot really understand the romantic or sexual feelings they experience, they cannot understand my way of feeling. Part of it is due to the way we’re all socialized to function, conditioned into amatonormativity. But part of it is probably also due to my own lack of saying to this handful of people more clearly, more directly: “For me, my relationship with you has the same level of depth or importance as your relationship with your romantic/sexual/nesting partners and/or biological family. So if we’re out of touch for long periods of time, or if you cannot make time to do things with me, or if I always have to be the one reaching out to you, for me it hurts as much as it would for you if your romantic/sexual/nesting partner(s) behaved that way with you.” 

That’s a hard and possibly awkward conversation to have. But this recurrent trickle of neglect is erosive and devastating for me. I’m tired of being the one who is put on hold. I’m tired of being the one who has to reach out first and ask to be included. I’m tired of not having partners with whom to do fun things (e.g. trips, concerts, adventures) on a more regular, shared, mutual, and almost expected basis. 

I’m tired of being neglected.