On Being Aromantic

For some time now, I’ve been reading up on aromantics, and what it means to be one. And the more I read, the more I know that I am one too. It’s really the only fit explanation for the struggles with relationships that I’ve always had.

But let me emphasise here what some of the websites I’ve read also stress – that each person’s experience of being aromantic is going to be different. The common core of experience seems to be the feeling of one’s inner nature being somehow incompatible with romantic relationships.

So what does being aromantic mean for me? Firstly, let me tell what it doesn’t mean.

It doesn’t mean that I’ve never had relationships. When I was growing up, ‘everybody’ dated, got married, had kids and ‘settled down’. It was just what you did, unless you were maybe a nun or priest. Popular culture dosed me up with the romantic ideal of The Right One who would sweep off my feet, fulfil me, transform me. As a young undiagnosed autistic with a yearning to be ‘normal’, I swallowed this pretty uncritically, though I do remember saying once that I was never going to get married – because I didn’t fancy becoming a housewife – but I was laughed at by the adults. ‘You’ll change your mind when you get older!’

And in a way, I did. Or rather, I succumbed to societal expectations, and started dating. I also knew that I wanted to explore sex and have children, and a relationship seemed like the price you had to pay for that. (I’m also demi-sexual, so one-night stands don’t really do anything for me. Just to make things complicated.) And if I found my dating experiences awkward, I told myself that I just hadn’t met The Right One yet. I married and had a child, and yes, became for at least a short while a housewife. I loathed it. I finally admitted to myself that I didn’t like sex with men either. I left the marriage and came out, but all I did was switch my search from Mr Right to Ms Right.

The sex was better, but my relationships continued to be awkward failures. And after each one ended, I felt a lot of emotions, but most especially relief. The kind of relief you get when you stop doing something that’s not just inherently wrong for you, but way beyond your capabilities. I spent long periods celibate, trying to ‘sort myself out’, eventually coming to the conclusion that I just couldn’t ‘do’ relationships, and choosing to become permanently single. When I realised that I’m autistic, I thought at first that this was why I struggled with relationships, but then I realised that other autistics were able to do them way better than me. There was Something More.

It also doesn’t mean I’ve never had a ‘crush’/fallen in love. Although looking back, there was a kind of desperation in this. I was always falling for those way out of reach and/or totally unsuitable. (Maybe because they were ‘safe’?) Nor did these feelings - a heady mix of lust and turbulent emotions fueled by my yearning for the promised fulfilment/transformation - ever bring me an ounce of joy. Each time, I was convinced that this time would be ‘The One’, the one who would Change My Life, change me, make me like everyone else. It never happened. In most cases, the feelings didn’t even lead to a relationship. (The ones I did have, tended to happen without that.)

After a while, the crush would die a natural death, leaving me feeling flat and empty, but also relieved. I had myself back. Often, I would realise that the person I’d fallen so hard for was not what I’d thought they were, and become distinctly unenchanted. But I’d still do it again, and again… Eventually however it became so painful that I made a promise to myself to stop. Despite my experiences, letting go of that fantasy of transformation was difficult. I really yearned for ‘normal’. But I did succeed in letting it go, and I’m much happier now. I like my emotional balance intact.

Once I did stop falling for people and idealising them, I realised that there isn’t any magical The One anyway, especially for me, that everyone is simply human, and hence imperfect. Realising that meant that I couldn’t see any point in choosing just one person to put above all others. If they weren’t Perfect and Magical, why bother with the struggle? Ever since, I’ve invested my energies in creating significant non-romantic connections instead. It’s enriched my life whereas attempts at romantic relationships always worsened it.

So - if it’s not the above, what does being aromantic mean for me?

It means that I really don’t ‘get’ romance. I’ve always been bored by the romantic scenes in books and movies, and, in the rare instances they don’t happen, relieved. The whole hearts, flowers, moonlight thing - I mean, they’re pretty and all, but the idea that something special is supposed to happen because of them? …Um, what, exactly? Partners would scold me for being ‘unromantic’, and I tried, I really did, but I invariably just ended up feeling awkward and stupid, a failure on yet another count. I didn’t even like holding hands much. It just meant sweaty palms and being thrown off balance as I walked. Kissing, too, tended to trigger sensory overloads I didn’t understand, and which no-one else seemed to either.

I also couldn’t understand why so many, especially women, seemed prepared to sacrifice everything for a partner, even moving hundreds of miles and abandoning their former lives. I couldn’t imagine giving up my whole life for just one person. When an abusive partner did manipulate me into a degree of distancing from friends and family, I was miserable, and ended up loathing her for it.

Moreover, the older I got, the more I felt that relationships, of all kinds, are formed in the day-to-day caring things, not giving someone a bunch of flowers. It’s always mystified me that others feel this ‘Romance’ thing is so important, that their lives and relationships are lacking something vital without what feels to me like a bunch of nothing. If a romantic type can tell me what the point is, I’d be interested to know. But I still feel that it’s not something that works for me. My problems with relationships, however, go deeper still than this lack of romantic leanings.

I don’t get what others get from relationships. I used to hear people say, “oh, relationships are such hard work”, and I’d wonder, well, why do you do them then? Until the day I finally realised, they do it because they get a reward for all their hard work. They might put in, say, one part hard work, and get back maybe ten or twenty parts reward. And that’s where I differ. For me, relationships are more like ten or twenty parts hard work and one or no parts reward. In fact, I don’t even really know what the rewards are supposed to be.

I don’t need or want someone always at my side. The idea of ‘growing old’ with the same person always around makes me feel faintly nauseous or trapped. Nor do I want anyone in my face 24/7, or even just at night. I don’t like sharing a bed with anyone, let alone a house or a life. I can’t ‘meld’ my living spaces with others, rooms are either mine or someone else’s. I don’t even want a ‘listening ear’ - if I have a problem, that’s what my friends or family are for. I’m perfectly happy with living alone, being my own independent person, going my own way, not beholden to another. It’s simply how I’m built.

And being aromantic means, most of all, that I’m uncomfortable in relationships. This is something I find really hard to put into words. If I say that I was always unhappy, people tend to say ‘you just haven’t found the right person yet’, or ‘just because your past relationships were toxic, doesn’t mean you can’t have a good one’. And there’s no doubt I’ve had some bad ones. But I realised long ago that the problem isn’t bad relationships, but that relationships aren’t right FOR ME. I feel ill at ease, emotionally out of kilter, thrown off my centre, oppressed, even trapped, by them.

Trapped by the ideal of ‘partnership’, of expectations from society or partners as to how I’m supposed to be or behave, by the whole concept of going through my life in lockstep with another person. I would always feel wretchedly miserable, crowded, and suffocated. Inevitably, at some point, I would turn around and look at them and think “…who are you? What are you doing in my face, in my bed, in my house, in my life?” I’d then feel guilty, and suppress those feelings, but they would come back even stronger, and the relationship would sooner or later die.

Now, in no way am I saying that everyone should follow my path. If someone needs a partner to be happy, and they find the right person, I’m happy for them. Why would I want them to take a path that’s going to make them miserable? What good would that do? All I ask is that they accord me, and my fellow aromantics, the same freedom to choose what’s best for us as individuals. Nor am I denying the strength of the bonds they feel with their partners. I only want that non-romantic bonds be recognised as just as important.

Romantic types need to realise that the whole romantic thing just isn’t everyone’s bag. So much of our culture revolves around the unspoken assumption that everyone is either paired or seeking to be, that this is the only ‘healthy’ way to live, an assumption particularly visible right now with Valentine’s Day looming. But not everyone wants or needs a romantic partner, and it’s definitely possible to be happy without one. Some of us are simply made different. And to deny that, to not listen when we try and tell you how it is for us, feels like somewhere between gaslighting and just not getting the message. If you tell us that we ‘just need to find the right partner’, you’re projecting your own need for a romantic relationship onto us, in a manner akin to the heterosexuals who tell gays ‘you just haven’t met the right person of the opposite sex yet’.

You don’t need to understand us, just accept that we’re different. That we’re not heartless or cold, but that we get our needs for closeness and connection met in different ways. Is that really so hard to do?

A final word here for those who think I’m ‘just being trendy’, or who wonder ‘why the need for a label’. I’ve spent most of my life struggling with these feelings, and with relationships. Even when I recognised that romantic relationships were Not My Thing, I still thought I was flawed or wrong in some way for feeling this way. I kept it all to myself out of shame or fear of others not understanding. Finding that there’s a name for what I feel, for what I am, that there are others like me, has been a liberation. It’s also worth noting that I’m in my sixties – this is not just a young people’s thing. We’ve been around forever, but without any way to describe or label it, there wasn’t any way to form a positive identity around it and forge a path to self-acceptance, let alone get others to accept us. The ‘label’ is a path to freedom, not a fashion we’re following. Get used to us, because we’re not going away or changing any time soon.

WHY THE 'LABEL' IS SO IMPORTANT

I’ve written before about identity and labels, eg here. But I think that I haven’t made it quite clear why one becomes the other, and why both are so essential.

To illustrate, let me give two examples from my own life.

The first is the ‘label/identity’ of being autistic. I grew up and spent decades of my adult life knowing I was ‘different’, but having no idea why. From the age of about seven onwards, I knew there was something ‘wrong’ with me, that I wasn’t like others, and much of my life has been dominated by that fact. I spent decades trying to either find out what my ‘problem’ was, or to get rid of it, to forcibly make myself ‘normal’, and just like everyone else. Neither effort was fruitful.

I became convinced that I was just not as good as other people, that I was weak, useless, pathetic, because I couldn’t cope with or do the things that others coped with or were able to do so easily. I was told ‘don’t be so sensitive’ ‘it’s not such a big deal’, ‘what are you worrying about’, ‘you’re making a fuss about nothing’, and so on. I was laughed at for ‘moving funny’, or ‘saying daft things’, or criticised for being ‘insensitive’ or ‘rude’ or ‘selfish’. It often seemed like nothing I did was right, I became scared to do or say almost anything. In the end, I withdrew from much human interaction, because I just couldn’t cope with it.

The result of all this is that I have suffered from low self-esteem, depression, anxiety and self-hatred for most of my life. This self-hatred went so deep, that even now, I haven’t gotten rid of all of it all. But an amazing thing happened, almost by accident. I began to read up on Asperger’s and autism, in order to help a student I was working with, and quickly recognised myself in the descriptions. To say I was surprised is something of an understatement. To say I was relieved, when I finally found that there were others like me, that I wasn’t ‘one of a (weird) kind’, a sort of lemon off the human reproduction line, is even more of an understatement.

What was a label quickly became an identity, as I studied more, read more, listened to my fellow autistics, discussed my ideas with them, shared my thoughts and feelings, asking ‘is this familiar to you? Have you ever felt/done/said this? Had this reaction from others?’ And the response was overwhelmingly YES! Yes, I know what you mean, yes, I’ve done that/been in that situation/felt that, yes, I’m like you.

I’m like you.

I wonder if anyone who’s never felt like they don’t truly belong anywhere can understand how profound that can be, to have people say that to you. To be understood, to finally, finally, FINALLY  know who and what you are. To be validated. To have the right word, the right ‘label’, the right IDENTITY, to describe yourself, a community to fit into, a ‘place’ to call home. To belong.

I don’t think there are words strong enough to describe that feeling.

This autistic identity is one that’s formed over the last ten to fifteen years. But there’s another, more recent, identity that’s been forming, and that’s to do with my sexuality and gender identity.

I always knew I was ‘different’ in this respect as well, and again, I had no labels for it, no words to describe it, I just felt an unease, a sense of ‘not fitting in’ to the prescribed feminine roles. I was designated female at birth, and have a female body. All my life, I’ve been okay with this in the sense that I’ve never felt like I’m male, but... I also always knew something wasn’t quite right (on top of the ‘difference’ I mentioned above, that is). I was called a ‘tomboy’ as a child, and had a sense that I ‘wasn’t like other girls’. Then as a teen and young adult I was totally uninterested in fashion, makeup, long nails, elaborate hairdos, etc. I conformed just enough to avert criticism, but never felt happy doing so. In fact all things ‘womanly’ felt… just not me, somehow. Yet  I didn’t like very ‘masculine’ clothes, or behaviour, either. I found both extremes not just an ill-fit but almost oppressive, like a sensation of being smothered.

Then, when I was in my mid-20s, I came out as a lesbian, and thought ‘oh, this is why!’ I joined the feminist movement and lesbian community, and for years this was my world. It liberated me (or gave me an excuse, take your pick) to chuck out ‘feminine’ clothing, ditch the makeup, and wear mainly jeans, t-shirts and sneakers. But I still felt somehow different to my lesbian ‘sisters’. I never called myself a ‘woman-loving woman’, for instance, as some lesbians did. I told myself it was because it was ‘too much of a mouthful’. I felt uncomfortable with many of their behaviours, and privately ruminated on how so many of the lesbians I knew hadn’t really ‘undone their feminine conditioning’. But I still felt like I was missing something. I groped for the words to describe it, I searched the literature, but there was nothing. Just a blank void that I echoed around in.

I struggled with relationships too – I always wanted to get to know a person first before jumping into bed with them. The result was that I’d often have to choose between being sexual before I was ready to, or missing out. Mostly, I missed out. And when I did get into a relationship, the problems weren’t over then. Some difficulties were due (I see now) to my undiagnosed autism. But there was also something else that yet again I struggled to define, a sense of being trapped by the ‘romantic’ role, or by simply being in a romantic relationship. And when it ended, my biggest feeling was always one of relief - the kind of ‘oh thank god’ relief that comes when you quit doing something that’s truly beyond your capabilities.

After my last relationship ended, I drifted away from the lesbian community, mainly because I just didn’t feel like i fit in. After a while, I found the autistic community, and made new friends. This soon became a new ‘home’, not least because of its higher rate of sexuality/gender variations, and higher rate of acceptance of them. Eventually, however, some deeper, nagging sense of difference reasserted itself.

I avoided (I realised later) describing myself as a ‘woman’, or even as a ‘lesbian’, and would say things like ‘well I’m female but not feminine’. I also developed an interest in reading about trans people, and in fact anyone else who didn’t fit into the gender binary. More recently, I also found myself reading about other different gender/sexuality identities, such as intersex, asexual, aromantic, all the grey and demi-identities, non-binary, etc, without quite realising why. I soon realised that I’m almost certainly ‘demi-sexual’, and probably also ‘aromantic’, though I’m still exploring both of those. It is however a relief to know that I’m not crazy, for feeling the way I do about relationships!

But it wasn’t till a trans woman friend chanced to remark “you’re a woman if you identify as a woman”, that something clicked for me. Because even as some part of me was mentally nodding, going ‘uh huh, yup’, another part of me suddenly said “….But I don’t identify as a woman”.

Well! To say that was a shock is yet another understatement! I reeled, and then it began to click. Of COURSE I’ve never felt like a ‘typical girl’ or a ‘typical woman’, I’m not one! I dived into exploring the whole non-binary thing, and was amazed. ‘You mean, there’s actually a WORD for what I am?’ There’s a reason I don’t feel comfortable with ‘feminine’ clothing, hairstyles, behaviour, etc, but feel almost equally uncomfortable with ‘masculine’ things/behaviour? There’s a neutral territory beyond gender, devoid of extremes, that not only myself but others exist in? Wow, wow, and wow!

Anyway, although many of my friends on Facebook already know, I guess this is my official ‘coming-out’ as non-binary! In case you’re wondering, I’m still fine with female pronouns, and have no plans to change my name or official gender registration, etc. (Please also note, I’m NOT criticising any non-binary who does, everyone makes their own choices according to their inclinations and needs, and this is mine. I’m too old, too cranky, too tired, too used to my current name - which I chose for myself anyway! - to feel any need to do it, even if I had the spoons, which I most emphatically don’t.)

This is my story, but it echoes that of many others too. Discovering that ‘label’ which becomes an ‘identity’ won’t solve all your problems (I still have plenty!), but it will solve one big one – that of your core identity; knowing who and what you are. No more floundering in whatever kind of social/emotional/sexual/gender/neurological wilderness you were in before. These labels I’ve mentioned, and so many others, are providing real clarity, real self-discovery, real comfort, and a real sense of belonging/solid identities for so many now. And no-one has the right to take that away from us, and to attempt to push us back out into that wilderness.

So think on that, before you disparage ‘all this fancy label nonsense’ or talk about how you ‘don’t want your child to be labelled’, or claim ‘it’s just a fad the young are getting into’. (Need I remind people that I’m far from young? And yet here I am, non-binary etc, anyway.) You may be denying someone the chance to find themselves and their true identity, and to finally feel ‘at home’ in their own skin.

So please, just think before you judge. Close your mouth, open your heart and mind, and listen instead. You might be amazed at what you find out about those you thought you knew.