It took me awhile to come out as an asexual. Couple a Christian, conservative upbringing where the options really are only gay or straight, and gay=bad and a chronic illness.
As my health started to improve, I started to do some deeper questioning, research and I found AVEN. After several days of perusing the website here and there, claiming the label asexual just felt right to me. It made sense and I felt a little more at ease.
I told a few individual people about my asexuality and that was helpful, but in general I was not open about it because in general I am straight-passing, and with that comes a lot of assumptions can just be maintained. I had to recognize how deeply I identify with the privilege that straightness provides. I also just wasn’t ready yet.
Yet, as I started the New Year as delved more deeply into breath work and writing, as well as new friendships and healing practices emerging in my life, I knew that I was hiding a deep, vital part of myself that ultimately wasn’t that healthy for me.
That for me, for speak more freely about being an asexual would lead to greater wholeness. That to write about asexuality would allow me to reveal a huge aspect of my life, and speak to a part of my identity that could easily be overlooked or misunderstood.
Again my illness, asexuality, and spirituality intersect and inform one another in beautiful ways.
Without my chronic illness, I would not have slowed down. Most likely, I would have kept pressing harder and harder, without much reflection, conforming to gain others’ acceptance. I probably would have been successful, yet extremely hollow inside. I would have traded in substance for superficial acceptance.
Slowing down actually was an avenue for exploring, for creating a new normal. Of course sometimes this new life caused so much grief, and I was wondering about what I was missing out on. Yet on some days, I actually adored the silence. During those seasons of unemployment, time would slowly go by, but I would go on a walk, go grocery shopping, make meals, shower, and read. I made it my goal to meaningfully interact with at least one person a day, either in person or on the phone. Yet on some days, I wouldn’t really talk to anyone all day. There was a unique loneliness to that season and yet, I was learning to sink deeply into myself. I could keep myself company; and some days I preferred it.
A new spiritual ground was being laid for me, and I didn’t even know it. I relished rest, gentle exercise, steady friendship, lighting a candle. My prayer life was simple, short phrases like “Help me.” “I’m tired again” or “I hope today is better than yesterday.” I was especially aware that without gratitude, I would shrivel up. My journals from this time highlight a list of 10 things I was grateful for each day, that I would fill out before I went to bed.
I had a new awareness of life; it was like I was becoming a child again. I paid attention to everything: the pace at which people walked, if they made eye contact, if they actually enjoyed the food they were eating. I was grateful for the air, the flannel sheets, being able to stand up in the shower without getting tired. Today, I look at those journals and weep in gladness–for my illness and my re-emerging gratitude for life–absolutely saved my life.
During this time, was also the first time I read Kathleen Norris. I absolutely loved her. I read Acedia & Me during Lent, and I relished her description of the monastic world. I let myself wonder why I resonated so deeply with silence and contemplation. And also during this time I told myself, “I could be single in this life, meet all of my own needs, and be happy.” (I don’t think it’s ironic that I said this when I was deeply sick either…) After Acedia & Me, I read Amazing Grace–and I said, “I don’t want to be a nun–but why do I think that I could be?
Side note: Celibacy & asexuality are not the same thing! Asexuality simply means that the experience of sexual attraction does not exist, where celibacy is a choice.
Yet, my longings were surfacing for a deep liturgy, a spiritual experience marked by contemplation in community. As I started reading some of the white female contemplatives of the medieval church, I noticed a correlation between their spiritual practice and most of them had chronic illnesses. Their work deeply resonated with me. I had found some companions on this inner journey of solitude, and reckoning with what my longings actually were.