Exile and longings

I’m reading another of the novels from Ursula Le Guin’s collection of “Hainish Novels & Stories”. 

I’m not going to go into all the reasons I like, really admire, her works. There is one central reason, or theme, that speaks to me: that of exile and longing. In all of her “Hainish Novels” that I have read so far, there are two or more different societies (in her works, often even different races or species, since it’s peoples from different planets or even solar systems) that interact, meet, clash; but usually, there’s one individual from one of these societies, or worlds, who, alone, tries to face, understand, live in, adapt to, discover the “other world”. Hence the perpetual sense of exile and longing in her stories: her main characters are exiles. Most of the time, they are exiles by choice, but they are exiles nonetheless, and thus have a longing for “home” that can never be fully satisfied (in her books due mostly to the huge interstellar distances). 

While of course not being as dramatic as interstellar spaces, I can relate to this sense of exile. I am an exile by choice, and have always felt like an “exile” in some way. I never felt wholly at home wherever I lived in Europe, being such a mix myself, raised in a multi-cultural, multi-lingual family. I always felt the desire to move to the U.S., where my mother had grown up. 

I have lived in the U.S. — in regions of the U.S. that I chose, not where my mother grew up — for almost a decade now and in all this time never gone back to visit Europe, where I mostly grew up. I feel “at home” in Colorado more than I ever felt anywhere else. But I don’t feel wholly at home here, nor do I think I ever will be able to feel wholly at home anywhere. And while I believe that I will never go back to actually live and work in Europe, and while I’m very conscious of the differences among/within European countries, I often do feel a certain longing for Europe. Which often shows in my choice of relationships or instinctive attachments here in the U.S.

Since moving out here almost a decade ago, I have often made friends quickly and deeply, almost instinctively, with people who either are, like me, “half European” or who have some other mixed, non-U.S. background, or who have at least had some significant contact with or knowledge of countries and experience outside of the U.S. And I am aware that a great part of the depth of the love and attachment that I felt a couple of years ago for my “European queer ex-lover” was precisely because they were European. That was one of the reasons they felt like “home” to me. And now I find myself, still two years later, instinctively seeking them in other people, in other relationships. I often find myself attracted or strongly drawn to strangers or acquaintances just because they remind me of my “European queer ex-lover”. 

This happened most recently yesterday. I went to do a trail race with some friends. Before the race, in the bib-pickup area, my attention was drawn to a tall, slim man, instinctively, irresistibly. One reason was that his build made him seem to me, possibly, as a professional runner, so I was simply curious. But the other, deeper reason was that he reminded me strongly, vividly of my “European queer ex-lover”. I don’t know if I stared, but we definitely exchanged glances and he noticed me almost as much as I had noticed him. Later, after the race, he came up to me and made a comment on my running shorts, which was effectively a compliment or at least a very explicit, appreciative comment on my butt. It wasn’t creepy or inappropriate but it definitely surprised me — now that I look like a guy, cis-het men, at least strangers, don’t pay me compliments anymore on how I look or what I’m wearing. I was caught by surprise, baffled, and honestly flattered. 

But the comment stayed with me longer and deeper than it would have from a random stranger, and this isn’t only due to the fact that I’m not used to compliments from cis-men anymore. 

The reason his comment — his “compliment” — stuck is because I had also noticed him earlier, before the race, and the reason I had noticed him was that he reminded me of my “European queer ex-lover”: he reminded me of something familiar, someone familiar, someone I loved and liked, someone I still, somewhere deep inside me, long for. 

Flow-of-consciousness thoughts & feelings on my unmet relational needs

My mind likes to have something to focus on. Or something to obsess about. And periodically, it obsesses about “having a boyfriend” (whatever that may mean for someone who is aro-ace).

I often – more and more often – think that the importance my buddies have for me or the affection I feel for them are much stronger than the importance I have for them or the affection they might feel for me. And that’s because they have romantic/sexual/nesting partners whereas I don’t. 

This summer I’ve often found myself thinking how lucky their wives or girlfriends are. Almost feeling envious – not jealous – of their wives or girlfriends. Not because of the sex or romance they share but because of the shared life they lead. With me, they go out for a few hours, maybe a day, of climbing or trail running or hiking. We have a wonderful time together: it’s fun and wild and physically tiring and satisfying. And there’s bonding, for sure. But then, at the end of the day, they go home to their spouses and that’s the highlight of their day, or their week, really: their time with their romantic partners, with whom they share daily experiences and long-term plans. 

At the end of the day out with them, I go home to nobody. Being out in nature bonding in the camaraderie from a shared adventure and physical effort is the highlight of the day – or the week – for me. I have nothing “better”, no one “closer” to go home to. 

This realization, the realization of this imbalance in our relationships and probably even in our feelings, is painful. But the imbalance is real, and I need to accept it and deal with it. 

This imbalance is one of the causes of my “almost envy” towards their wives or girlfriends: I wish I could have those deeper shared connections with my buddies, not sexually or romantically, but at a level of life-commitment. 

The other reason for my “almost envy” is that my buddies are really nice guys, really nice people. I.e., if I were ever to find some type of “life-partner(s)”, I’d choose, or hope to find, person(s) similar to my buddies in their character, sensitivity, intelligence, world view, values. 

I don’t feel sexually attracted to any of my cis-het buddies. Fortunately, I should say, because otherwise it would get very messy because they would certainly not feel any sexual attraction towards me. To me they really feel like brothers, and I know I do to them, too. But I wish I could find someone like them, with whom I could have similar camaraderie and intimacy on the level of feeling like soulmates, but with the additional aspect of mutual sexual attraction. Because at the end of the day, I miss that level, or that type, of connection in my life. 

I find myself thinking, or writing this, and I feel like I’m being totally honest and open. On the other hand, though, I’m not sure what I want. What do I really mean when I say, “I’d like that level, or that type, of connection in my life”? Do I mean that I’d just like to live with someone who is a close, dear friend rather than a random, albeit nice, housemate? Or do I mean that I’d actually like to have a “life-partner” of some type, even though I’m against the institution of marriage and “life-partner” for me wouldn’t necessarily be the same as sexual partner? Or do I mean, instead, that I’d like some friend(s) with benefits? 

What is it that I need, that I feel the lack of in my life right now (& periodically)? Is it sex? Is it tenderness? Is it deeper camaraderie or more long-term, more explicit commitment? Is it more sustained, long-term emotional connection? Is it just a little more touch, like some hugs or snuggles, but not sex? 

I’m not sure, I’m confused.  (And yet, those yearnings, those unmet relational needs are real and intense.)

It’s probably a mix of the above. Which, of course, would mean that I would need more than one person to get those needs fulfilled. 

What scares me when I’m feeling this type of neediness is the risk, or vulnerable position, in which it puts me. When I get to the point that I’m actually writing about it like this, that my mind is “obsessing” about it, it means that I’ve gotten to the point where I’m like a thirsty person who’s been walking through a desert for days and suddenly sees an oasis: is it real or is it a mirage? Is the water in the well clean or poisonous? Will I quench my thirst if I drink from that source, or will I get myself sick? 

When I get to this point of neediness, relationally, I’m vulnerable to walking right into the “wrong” relationship. Or a relationship with the “wrong person”. It can be very unhealthy for me. 

Was it this level of neediness that led me to hook up with one of the guys in the chorus less than three months after joining? And am I so worried or scared about this now because chorus rehearsals start again in less than three weeks and going back to such a group of people feels potentially risky to me? 

The break from the chorus in the past five months was good for me, and necessary. I had so many expectations – emotional and relational expectations – from that group of people that I was often very disappointed, inevitably disappointed. The break was good for me as it allowed me, among other things, to go and “find myself again”, i.e. to give space, to dedicate time, and to rediscover confidence in areas of my life that are such a strong and important part of my identity: being an athlete, a scientist, an adventurer. Interacting again briefly with a few of the chorus members during the Pride weekend, specifically at the Pride 5k race, allowed me to be with them in a position of “less neediness” on my part; on the contrary, of showing up in a position of strength and confidence: it was a run, a race, I was wholly in my element, radiating confidence in a way that I never do at chorus rehearsal. 

These months of spring and summer travels and adventures and physical activity and training toward specific athletic goals have helped me find a focus again that is deeply my own, a type of focus and a type of goals that I know well and know how to handle. (Once again, my mind focusing on something very specific.) 

I’ve been compartmentalizing. I compartmentalize. It’s a defense mechanism. I set up very clear boundaries within each relationship and make sure the Venn diagrams of different relationships have hardly any overlap. But there are areas of those Venn diagrams that seem to remain forever empty for me: blank, unpopulated. 

Am I really going to go back to the chorus in less than three weeks full of athletic confidence shielding me from wishes of deeper connection? 

And am I really, eventually, going to make peace with the fact that at the end of a wonderful day climbing my buddies go home to someone they love and care about more than me? 

Probably not.

Realistically, I’m probably going to continue being in these vulnerable positions with respect to the chorus or my buddies, unless I get those other – as yet still only vaguely defined – needs of mine met. Even though neither the chorus nor my buddies are the people to fulfill those needs – and this is very clear to me, these are boundaries that I don’t doubt – my longings remain.

And precisely because neither the chorus nor my buddies are the people to fulfill those needs for me, those longings remain unsatisfied and painful. 

Shooting stars

On Tuesday night, I stayed up later than usual after dinner, wrapped up in a big blue blanket, lying on the picnic table at my campsite and looking up at the sky, watching for shooting stars. I saw four, then tiredness got the better of me and I headed into my little tent, to cozy up in my sleeping bag on the dirt ground. 

At 3 AM my alarm went off. I got my big blue blanket and again wrapped myself in it and lay on the picnic table to watch for meteors. This time, I saw eight or nine of them before eventually forcing myself to go back to sleep. 

The delight I felt in seeing the shooting stars was as pure and addictive as it was when I watched for shooting stars as a child or young adult back in Europe. It used to be ritual for us, for me, almost every year back then. Each and every meteor used to bring me that delight, maybe a dopamine rush, when I was younger: and it did just the same a couple days ago, the night between August 12th & 13th. 

It was wonderful, lovely, to feel that delight again. Another moment of joy that, hopefully, I will remember and treasure and that might brighten up the dark moments that will inevitably present themselves again. 

I wonder if I’d learn to take life — the experiences, the people, the events, the relationships that have punctuated my journey — just as a special night with shooting stars, if that could alleviate my pain for all my losses. 

Maybe a few people in my life can really be like the moon or the sun or the stars that are always there, sometimes more visible, sometimes less, but nevertheless always present. But probably most people and most experiences, relationships or events are just like shooting stars, meteors, comets at most: present, bright and shiny and exciting for an instant, for a few seconds, and then gone. 

Could I learn to just hold onto that delight of seeing, experiencing, and enjoying the brightness for an instant instead of trying to hold onto something that cannot stay?

Finding myself again

A quarter of a century ago, the summer after I had finished high school, I met a boy who was nearly three years younger than I and who quickly became one of my closest friends and biggest loves. 

We were sailing partners, buddies, lovers, siblings. We’re still in touch to this day — in fact, yesterday, his older daughter turned 5 — despite our paths having diverged. 

During the years that we were together, we were inseparable and went on hundreds of adventures together (mostly sailing) — exploration and rebellion being among the corrnstones of our deep bonding. We’d go on sailing trips, in old rickety boats, setting anchor at moorings that were free in small bays — we were young and couldn’t afford anything more, anything fancy. Our trips were rustic, our boats trustworthy but basic. We’d go off for days, weeks, eventually a full month on end, with our cell-phones turned off, no computer, a few good books to read, and the boat’s radio for the weather forecast. It was wild and refreshing and liberating. Our trips put us face to face with the elements: heat, cold, wind, storms, stunning sunsets and breath-taking sunrises, endless starry skies, and beautiful moons. And shooting stars, that we’d lie awake to watch for in August and make wishes upon. 

When the “romance” part of our relationship ended, one of the things I missed the most was our adventures together. I missed the adventures with him but I also missed that part of me that went on those adventures and that didn’t have that outlet anymore. I had lost a piece of my identity and it was heart-breaking for me. 

I eventually found it again, especially on my solo trips on my motorcycle after moving to California in 2016. 

With my move out to Colorado in 2022, I somehow lost it again. Another big move (after the one from Europe to California), with another job change, trouble finding a place to live (I’ve moved half a dozen times since moving out to Colorado), and in many ways starting my life over and making changes that felt even bigger than those due to my move from Europe to California. Indeed, the medicalization and legalization of my gender journey, which became a practical reality only once I moved to Colorado, has taken so much of my time and energy, and it has influenced my daily life, my emotional state, my mental capacity, and my relationships so heavily that it’s been hard for me to just be, to just live a life. 

These pst three days, I felt like I finally got to just be, to just live my life again. 

Last week, I really needed to get away. I couldn’t wait for the trips planned for the end of August or September for a break, I needed a break now. 

At first, the heaviness that I’ve been feeling in the past few years of having to do everything by myself, having to plan and organize and go always all by myself was almost crippling me. And I could definitely feel that sensation that I have come to recognize so easily over the past few years: anxiety stemming from loneliness. Nevertheless, I knew I had to do this for myself, I knew I needed a little getaway, to go do something that I’ve wanted to do for years: go somewhere with a dark sky to see the Perseids meteor shower. 

So I did it. I just got back now from three days of camping & hiking in the Rocky Mountain National Park. 

I’m tired but I’m happy (& tearing up from emotion). Happy because I found myself again. I found that little child who’d go out in the dark street in the little town in Austria where we’d spend lots of our summer to count shooting stars with my parents. I found that young adult who lay on a small mooring on the Croatian island of Olib to watch for shooting stars with my sailing buddy/boyfriend. I found that simplicity of having only the few things I really needed in that moment: some food, water, shelter from the elements, a good book to read while relaxing. 

I just found me again, regardless of my gender or sex or age or sexual orientation. I just felt like a human, a person, an adventurous human who likes to do things outdoors in Nature. As I interacted with people on my hikes and at the campground, I didn’t really think or worry about how I looked, how they might perceive me — the way I didn’t when I went on my solo motorcycle trips a few years ago. Of course, this time I used the men’s bathrooms and people addressed me as “he”, “him”, “sir”, “guy”. But they were just words, it didn’t change their behavior towards me or mine towards them. We were kind and friendly or polite with each other; I didn’t worry about “avoiding to look like a creepy guy”. I was just me: a person traveling by themself, just as I did when I looked like a “girl”.

Pinnacle

[Trigger warning: loss, grief.]

This is a very hard week with memories connected to my father unearthing all the grief from that loss along with the loss of my European (gender)queer ex-lover who had supported me through the loss of my father. 

There are moments where I’m just overwhelmed by the grief and tears gush out of me — like during a workout at the gym yesterday when the song Highway Queen by Mt. Joy, that for some reason I connect to my (feelings for my) dad, started playing in my ear buds. 

This morning I had an easy run plus hill strides to do and the hills were feeling really good, I was right there on the line of runner’s high. And then, on my last hill, again the song Highway Queen by Mt. Joy started playing in my ear buds. 

It was the last hill, the last big effort, the last push, so I gave it all I had, going higher than the previous four reps. And when I was done with it, it hit me, the flood of feelings. 

Joy, pain, thrill, grief, pride and satisfaction and sadness — all wrapped up in one big, sharp pinnacle of feelings. 

I wasn’t even there anymore — it was just feelings, intense feelings swirling, flowing, rushing. 

The hills around me, familiar yet somehow unknown, universal. 

A white cloud in the bright blue sky above, changing shape — I could feel no distinction between myself and that cloud, nor any distinction between the joy and the pain. 

For a brief moment, all was one: I dissolved into my surroundings submerged in the feelings, and joy and pain merged into one sharp pinnacle of ice in flames.

Explorations, revelations, validations

Last night I went out dancing with two guys from the chorus who are also newbies: with one of them I connected over the Pride weekend; with the other I had had a few conversations when he had just joined the chorus (3 months after I did) and I had made a point of welcoming him as a newbie, trying to lessen his isolation. The two of them are close friends now and they included me in the night out. Before going out dancing, we met at one of the guys’ place together with another singer who’s been in the chorus much longer, who’s their “Big Sibling”, and who’s always very sweet to me in a genuine way. 

I had a very good time throughout the evening & night. It was interesting and revealing and also validating. 

There is a lot of shit going on in this chorus, and a lot of it is quite on the surface (some of it is deeper and harder to see). Hearing about some of the things that are going on was both revealing and validating for me: on one hard, if I took it simply as an “exploration into the gay world” or “exploration into this chorus”, it was interesting, since it allowed me to discover a lot of new things — behaviors, dynamics, cliques, motives; on the other hand, it was validating because it confirmed my sense that this idea of us being “one big, welcoming, loving family” is, at least partly, a fake, a cover for something that in reality is much more fractioned and dysfunctional and sometimes even straight up nasty. Whether I want to stay in a group that has such dynamics and behaviors, or not, is something I haven’t decided, yet. But it became even more clear to me last night that if I do decide to stay, it is vital for me to pull back from these people and just sing with them and/or to find & stick to “my people” within the larger group. 

The guys from last night might be “my people”, or some of “my people”. I felt safe and comfortable with them, despite not really knowing them all that well. I was able to observe the dynamics between the three of them, see the genuine care they had for each other with no cattiness, no jealousy or envy, and no “alternate motive”, i.e. simply as good friends or buddies. And that was then the dynamics that was established with me, too: as buddies. The three of us who went out dancing together went as a group and as friends, with the explicit agreement to look out for each other, to check on/in with each other during the night, and to not leave each other alone at the club. Of the three of us, one of them is in a monogamous relationship, and thus uninterested/unavailable to pick up/be picked up at clubs; the other is single, demisexual, and partly interested in finding someone at the club but also shy and awkward about it; and I am single but ace and uninterested/unable to pick up/be picked up at clubs. So we stuck together as a unit at the club, occasionally egging on the single, demisexual guy to try and make contact with people he might be interested in. We took a Lyft all together to & back from the club, checked in on each other during bathroom breaks, and texted each other when we each got home to their final destination. At all times I felt safe and cared for like I do with my close queer friends or with my climbing/running buddies. 

I realize that a great part of why I felt so safe and comfortable with them, despite not really knowing them well, is because the dynamics between them and hence with me was familiar to me: it resembled the dynamics I have with my close queer friends and with my cis-het climbing/running buddies. Despite these guys being openly & clearly gay, and specifically and openly “bottoms”, their behaviors and dynamics with each other as sincere (platonic) friends are like the camaraderie I see among my cis-het climbing/running buddies, both between each other and towards me. Apart from being heartwarming, this was also a relief for me because I recognized and understood what was going on, it didn’t all feel like a foreign language to me. Yes, there’s still a lot that I don’t know or understand about what goes on in their “world” from the sexual viewpoint — there’s still a lot for me to learn or discover there, if I want to. But last night was chummy and platonic, and specifically chummy and platonic between cis-men, and that I do know, that I do understand, that is familiar territory for me, territory that feels safe and comfortable to me.

That allowed me to truly relax and fully be my authentic self and thus enjoy myself. 

Fundamentally at odds with these people?

Am I going insane or are other people blind? 

There’s a passage in the book Unmasking Autism by Dr. Devon Price that mentions how autistic people, while often not picking up on neurotypical “social queues”, are actually much more perceptive and better at “reading the room” that neurotypical people. Is that what’s going on for me within the chorus and other social situations? Or am I, instead, the one who’s insane, misunderstanding, at odds with the world? And if so, why? Is it my European background, my multi-culti, partly dysfunctional upbringing, or my “having a chip on my shoulder” (as my mother used to say in a bitchy tone)? 

Once again, I had a nearly sleepless night after a chorus event yesterday. The anger and pain and disappointment in me were so intense that I couldn’t fall asleep for hours and when I finally did, my sleep was fitful and restless. 

There we were, about fifty of us, nearly half the chorus, at an extra/voluntary end-of-season event which included performing a couple of songs for the audience at an outdoor viewing of a movie in a city park and then our end-of-season banquet. And while we sat around in the park waiting for the moment when we’d have to perform, I went over to say Hi to one of the guys with whom I’ve had a few friendly interactions, including at the Pride 5k race ten days ago. And he and another guy from the chorus, both married and with their husbands present at the event, said how lovely it was to be here all together, how we (i.e. the chorus) are a big, loving family, all friends. And I just couldn’t help myself and said, “Do you really think so? I find there’s lots of different cliques and some catty behaviors that I wouldn’t expect from friends”. They both seemed surprised, almost shocked (they’ve both been in the chorus longer than I, for several years). What’s wrong? Are they really not seeing the cliquiness, the cattiness, some chorus members regularly left alone on the sidelines, some of the newbies struggling? Is their own friendship between each other (& the extra cushioning they get from having a steady partner) keeping them from seeing the reality of the chorus? Or am I overseeing things, overreacting to things, misinterpreting things? 

After the little performance, as we walked to the nearby building for the banquet, I caught up with one of the chorus members who’s supposed to be one of my friends, one of the people who has offered to adopt me in his chorus family (he has admitted that there are different “families” within the chorus and that I might not have found “the right one”, yet). We agreed to sit at the same table for the banquet. When we got to the room, many of the tables were already partially or fully occupied, a couple were fully empty, and at one table towards a far end was sitting, by himself, a chorus member who lives in my same town and with whom I’ve carpooled several times (including last night). So I suggested we go and sit with him — it seemed the most obvious thing to me: you don’t leave someone sitting by themself at a dinner table at a group event, that’s just mean. I could tell my “friend” was a little hesitant, and I knew he was waiting for the rest of “his chorus family” (a few of the last people) to arrive for dinner, but we sat down at this table. Then, I rushed off to the bathroom and when I got back, my “friend” was gone, he had gone to sit at another, previously empty, table with “his chorus family”, leaving this other chorus member (& me) by themselves. 

I was furious. Hurt, angry, sad, disappointed. I wouldn’t have been surprised if some other chorus member had behaved this way with me, or with this other singer with whom I’ve carpooled, but for it to be my “friend” to behave that way felt like treason, like the rug being pulled out from underneath me, like a dagger in my back. 

Yes, the singer with whom I carpooled and who’s been in the chorus for several years now is far from being the “popular type”: he’s socially awkward and full of social anxiety (by his own admission) and can rattle on for hours due to their ADHD — but many people in the chorus do that. So, he’s not one of the “cool guys”, but so what? He’s a human being, a person sitting by themself at a dinner table, a member of this group — of this group that everyone insists on calling a “big, loving, accepting, welcoming family”. How can you leave a person alone like that? I was appalled. 

I looked around the room and spotted another table where a few people with whom I feel comfortable/friendly were sitting and noticed there were three seats still available there. So I told my carpooling-fellow-singer that we could join that table. Admittedly, it took quite some convincing because of his social anxiety, but in the end I succeeded and we moved to the other table where we were welcomed not only at our seats but also into the conversation. 

I’m so sick of this behavior. 

But am I overreacting? 

I read a quote the other day about “the six types of courage”, one of them being moral courage, i.e. standing up for what is right and doing the right thing even when it is uncomfortable or unpopular. 

For me, some of the big “right things” include standing by a friend or helping someone in need, which might be as “simple” as keeping a lonely/awkward person company at a social event. Apparently, that’s not something that most people in the chorus see as “the right thing”, since I myself have been left sitting alone at a dinner table at chorus social events. So, I’m at odds with these people on something that is fundamental for me, fundamental to my core beliefs. 

I hear chorus members, even last night, talking about all the love and support (both practical and emotional) they have received from other chorus members in moments of need, and I believe they must be true. So what am I missing here? 

Is something fundamentally wrong with me? Or am I just fundamentally at odds with this group of people, like in those relationships where no matter how hard the partners try they’re just a mismatch?

On Hope (& Trust)

“

Hope is a slighter, tougher thing even than trust, he thought, pacing his room as the soundless, vague lightning flashed overhead. In a good season one trusts life; in a bad season one only hopes. But they are of the same essence: the are the mind’s indispensable relationship with other minds, with the world, and with time. Without trust, a man lives, but not a human life; without hope, he dies. Where there is no relationship, where hands do not touch, emotion atrophies in void and intelligence goes sterile and obsessed. […]

” 

[from City of Illusions by Ursula Le Guin (1967)]

I see my own thoughts, my own feelings in these words written by this wonderful writer, Ursula Le Guin, almost half a century ago. And it was, essentially, one of the key thoughts of Viktor Frankl, as well, a Holocaust survivor and great neurologist, psychologist, and philosopher: the people who survived horrors and atrocities such as concentration camps were not necessarily the strongest or fittest; they were often the people who had hope, who had something to look forward to, something to keep them going.

Living in my mind — Living in my body

For most of my life, at least since middle school, I lived in my head, almost exclusively with my mind. Being trans, although I didn’t have the words for it, I suffered from (gender) dysphoria and so the more my body turned into a “female body”, the more I fought it, hid it, or ignored it. Being smart and autistic and fortunately able to adapt to, and excel in, the traditional schooling system I went through made it even easier and safer and almost “natural” for me to just focus on my intellectual abilities and interests. My body was just this container carrying around a very smart mind — something “neutral”, “ungendered”. And I took care of my body only to the extent to which it could add to my androgynity, mainly through intense or excessive exercise, adventures with my buddies, borderline eating disorders, and sometimes sex. But there was no sensuality, no relaxed pleasure in living in my body or relating to myself or the world physically: I either used it to excel athletically, or starved it to be as “linear” and androgynous as possible, or ignored it, while I focused on earning degrees and certificates, getting a PhD, learning, proving myself intellectually and professionally. 

Now, it’s almost the opposite. 

At last, in my early forties, I have the body I had always wanted, always dreamed of and chased. It’s here, it’s mine, even if for just a couple years before I get old and loose it again. And now all I want to do is live in this body of mine. 

I’m glad I have a job that is interesting, intellectually stimulating, and socially meaningful. But I cannot get myself to really feel motivated in it or in any other intellectual endeavor at the moment. I’m tired of, or uninterested in, using my mind only. I want to use my body, live in my body, enjoy my body. 

Partly, live in my body as an athlete. This, from the outside, may seem the same as how I’ve been living in my body for most of my life with the intense or excessive exercise and all the competitions. But in reality it’s different: because only now can I compete in/with the body that feels comfortably my own and within gender categories (preferably nonbinary, alternatively male) that are aligned to my identity. Winning races now as a nonbinary trans athlete has a completely different, and much more authentic and fulfilling, feeling for me than any of my victories when I had to compete as a “female”. (And the social and political act of me showing up, visibly and loudly and proudly, as a nonbinary trans athlete is also of paramount importance.) 

But partly now I also live in my body with a sensuality and a pleasure that I did not know earlier in life. I love my body, I feel at home in it and I want to enjoy it. That’s it: I don’t think I really knew how to enjoy it — or I didn’t want to because I felt so dissociated from it. Now I want to enjoy it and I want to share the enjoyment, in sensual and/or sexual ways with other people. This is a new feeling for me — only from the past couple of years, since my gender-affirming top surgery. While coming into my aro-ace identity has helped me understand my relation to sexuality and relationships, the physical, sensual cravings have also become stronger and clearer to me as I have finally come home to my body. 

But being aro-ace doesn’t make it sufficient for me to enjoy my body by myself — I crave to share the physical enjoyment.