Pride in Who I Truly Am
Growing up, I remember feeling confused when, in fourth grade, everyone would obsess over how hot the new guy was because his hair reminded them of Justin Bieber’s. Time and time again, friends would turn to me and ask, “Isn’t he hot?” I’d lie and say “Yeah” or flatly reply, “He’s okay,” and they’d return a look of confusion right back at me. I wouldn’t know what to say when people asked me about the celebrity crushes I had, either. I was never really relationship-forward, never had my first kiss yet or been in a relationship, and I didn’t understand when people got into relationships for the sake of being in one. Over my teenage years, I grew a distaste in hookup culture. I didn’t understand why someone would want to do something that seemed so intimate and private with someone they barely knew. Learning that there was a name for my feelings felt refreshing, because it meant I wasn’t weird for feeling this way, that a lot of other people do, too.
I knew I was demisexual since around the start of freshman year. Being demisexual means being halfway in the asexual spectrum. It’s someone who doesn’t experience sexual attraction until after forming an emotional bond. It isn’t a choice, we’re not choosing to abstain. We simply lack attraction until we become emotionally close to someone.
Only a couple of months ago, after questioning for more than a year, I also started to label myself as bisexual. Questioning and not knowing who I was impacted my mental health immensely. Before questioning, I was already dealing with a lot of anxiety and depression that stemmed from a buildup of my insecurities and low self-esteem. I felt lost, occupied by a flurry of emotions ricocheting inside my head. I didn’t know how to talk about it or bring it up casually without the fear of being judged in the back of my mind. It scared me when I usually shared almost everything with my parents, but I couldn’t talk to them about how confused I felt. I hid behind words like “I don’t want a relationship” and hurt in silence when my parents would talk about their disdain for the gay couple on TV, or their disapproval of me applying to a women’s college.
In the fall semester of my senior year, I participated in a LGBTQ+ tech mentorship program called Out in Tech. I lied to my parents, telling them that it was just a regular tech mentorship and glossed over the details of the mission of the program, so they could focus on other things, like where my mentor worked and getting invited to events. A defining moment of the program was during the graduation when I was in a room full of other queer people like me. The rest of the mentees and I got into a deep and vulnerable conversation about our shared experiences and struggles: coming out, awkward situations where someone would assume our sexualities, and stereotypes and erasure in the community. For the first time, I felt like I belonged somewhere, and it felt liberating. And when I told them I was still questioning about who I was, they reassured me that that was totally okay, and that I would figure it out.
The truth was that I already felt like I was bi through the various hints that kept on occurring, but I didn’t feel comfortable with putting that label on myself yet. I hadn’t been with anyone. Not a boy, not a girl, nor any other gender. Being demisexual made it harder for me to know for sure, since I rarely felt attracted to people anyways. I wasn’t 100% sure of who I liked, and it was important for me to learn that that was okay. It was okay to try on labels. People who are straight don’t need to have experience to know that they’re attracted to the opposite sex. So why did I think that I needed one? After mulling over about it in my head for what felt like a century, I decided to come out to myself. Internally, I repeated “I’m bisexual”, and with each time, I felt a surge of acceptance and freedom. It felt right, I felt happier, and I started accepting myself for it.
After awhile I started coming out to my queer friends and felt a lot closer with them. As for my friends who weren’t queer, even though I knew they would be accepting, it still terrified me to bring up the topic casually in conversation. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it or for people to see me differently. The presence of LGBTQ+ in the media such as Hayley Kiyoko’s, King Princess’s and Halsey’s music, movies like “Love, Simon,” and youtubers like Dodie, Shane Dawson, Ash Hardell, Jessie Paege, and FlawlessKevin inspired me to come out. I so desperately wanted to be like them--proud, open, and confident in myself. So, I made it a goal for me to come out to my friends before the school year ended since I wouldn’t see them again for a long time once we went to different colleges. After pushing myself mentally, I did, and the support warmed my heart. I got to attend Buzzfeed’s Queer Prom on the first day of pride month with a friend. I teared up to a girl’s cover of “Same Love” by Macklemore & Ryan Lewis. I watched a stunning and electrifying drag queen performance. But most of all, I had fun. The experience was both breathtaking and helped shape me to become prouder of who I was.
The journey isn’t linear, unfortunately. Of course, there are still days where I want to implode inside with self-hatred and burst into flames because I still have not fully accepted and loved myself wholeheartedly. I want to hide in my own shame and in my own internalized homophobia that I can’t quite shake: there’s still something wrong with me, it’s no big deal, why do I care so much about it then? That I’m not truly bisexual. That being demisexual and using that label means trying to be a special snowflake.
But I’m beginning to love myself more, and I hope to be more open about my sexuality in the future, especially in college. Moving forward and experimenting, I need to remember that I can personally label myself however I want to, or not put any labels on myself if I don’t want to. I don’t need to stress too much about it. I learned that it’s okay to try on a specific label and see how it feels. If I like it, that’s great. If I don’t like it, I can always change it. Even if people change how they identify in the future, it’s important for others to respect what people identify as in the present, no matter what happens later.
It still hurts me to have to lie to my parents about attending LGBTQ+ events, but I hope to one day come out to them. I also want to attend Pride (I wasn’t able to go this year). I still have the pink shirt with a huge rainbow across it and “PRIDE” written in big, black bold letters I bought from the H&M pride collection, hiding and tucked away in the corners of my closet. (Haha... In the closet, get it?) But someday, I hope to wear it proudly and boldly, while marching in the Pride Parade, feeling right at home in my own identity.
