I cannot say I grew up in a place where it was unsafe to be anything but heterosexual; I grew up in a place where I did not know being anything but straight was a viable option. Since I was a little girl, the only life I saw for myself was one in which I married a man. I would go to college where I would meet my future husband. He would get a steady job and we would get married. We would buy a house in the suburbs, have two kids, and get a dog. My kids would have half of my genes (God, help that kid), and half of my husband's. It was very simple. However, as those who have known me for much of my life know, my life has always been anything but simple.
When I really began to grapple with my sexuality, the first and scariest question I had to face was, well, "What Am I?" I felt this immense pressure from myself to commit to a definitive labelÂ. I felt a compelling need to define my sexuality in one, simple, word. However, I quickly learned that this pressure I presumed to be coming from within myself was not coming from within myself at all. Our society has an inherent need for tangibility, rigidity, and the black-and-white. There is not nearly enough tolerance for any concept that cannot easily be explained or defined in concrete terms.
"Coming out" is arguably the most challenging part of being a member of the LGBTQIA+ community. As someone who wanted to share this part of myself with my loved ones but did not know "what" I was coming out as, I had an extremely difficult time. How was I to explain to anyone that I'm attracted to women without giving them a label which they could use to define me? I tried out a bunch of them in my head. Lesbian? Gay? Queer? Bisexual? Pansexual? None of them felt right. I could not, for the life of me, understand why it was not socially acceptable to like who I like, date or who I date, and sleep with who I sleep with, without putting myself in a box. So, I decided I wouldn't. I would not succumb to the pressure society was placing on me to confine myself to an identity I did not feel comfortable in. With that decision made, I began to tell people about my sexuality. As I expected, there was a lot of confusion, a lot of questions, and the persistent attempt of those I love to give me a label I was not providing. The main question: "Why won't you just put a label on it?".
First off, I whole-heartedly love and support anyone and everyone in my community– those who adopt labels and those who don't; those who are out and proud, and those who are in the closet; those who think I'm any less valid a member of the LGBTQIA+ community for my decision, and those who think it's totally cool. I love you all, regardless of the choices you make along your journey. You are brave and you are awesome. I am also eternally grateful for those who have taken on a label and fought for equality so that I can walk down the street holding hands with the woman I love. I am not here to discount the role labels have played in giving me my freedom to love. I am here to explain the reasoning for my own personal choice to live a life un-labeled, argue the validity of my decision, and make others who might share my views feel a little less scared and alone.
I am attracted to women, I will date women, and I will most likely marry and raise my family with a woman. Yet, still, I do not identify as a lesbian. I do not identify as gay. I do not identify as bisexual. I do not identify at all.
I find comfort and even excitement in the freedom to be who I am without the fear of defying an identity. If one day I were to fall in love with a man and pursue that relationship, I would love the opportunity to explore that without facing the internal turmoil and external judgement of breaking the "rules" of a box I once put myself in. Once you categorize yourself, there are certain expectations people have in the ways you should behave, the ways you should dress, the things you should say, the people you should be with, etc. To an anxious gal like me, that is terrifying. It's limiting. However, I don't just fear others; I fear myself. I fear that if I were to put a label on my sexuality, I might miss out on life-changing opportunities and the could-have-beens. I am a firm believer that sexuality is a spectrum. People like labels because they make things easy, but not everyone's sexuality can fit in a box. Yes, labels make things clear-cut, and far less abstract. They make the theoretical more comprehensible. For some, they are empowering and give people a sense of community. I know I might be choosing the harder route by not adopting a label to define my sexuality. I know that there will be people who think I'm ashamed of who I am, or people who think my sexuality is invalid. But day by day, I grow a little more confident in my choice, care a little less about what other people think, and become a lot more proud.
Labels are not for everyone, and they definitely are not for me.
P.S. Ya'll who know me best know this anxious lil thing probably won't be making it to pride. But, you bet your ass I'll be in my bed, in my sexy rainbow underwear, re-watching last season of Orange is the New Black in preparation for the soon-to-be-released final season (RIP).
P.P.S. I hope you enjoy the irony in the accompanying picture as much as I do.
