#i also think being “straight passing” and not obviously neurodivergent does lead to an odd outside observer feeling that is present in both

[bgbrry]

i wish there was a way to mute "jonathan sims in a skirt" as a concept but alas i apparently remain the only hater here.

[shakespeareintellectualbadass]

http://andthenshesaid.co.uk/expertsofourownexperience/queer

Feels weird to advertise a blog on a blog, but I'm writing a series called Experts of Our Own Experience around pieces of my personal experience of life - being neurodivergent, dealing with depression and anxiety and an eating disorder, and most recently, being visibly queer for the first time in my life. I've learned more about myself from hearing others talk about their experiences, and I'm a big believer in learning about experiences other than your own, so whether any of these things apply to you or not, maybe you'll find something connective.

If you're interested, check it out, lmk if you have thoughts ✌

I’ve known I’m not straight since I was seventeen.

I went to all-girls school for fourteen years, from age four to eighteen. All my friends were female until I got to college. For most of my youth I was more consumed by the romantic stories my imagination conjured up, and generally those stories starred princes rather than princesses. I never spent any time overanalyzing it because it never felt wrong, to imagine either but focus more on boys.

And yeah, I’m definitely attracted to men. I obsessed over the boys we met at parties in high school like my friends did. I enjoy flirting with and dating men (most of the time…). I have a longstanding, embarrassingly strong celebrity crush on Jensen Ackles (like full blush, swooping in my stomach listening to him sing or when he winks at the camera). I remember one particular boy who my best friend and I fought over for about an hour at a friend’s quinceañera freshman year (that might be the most heated fight we’ve ever had and we’d only met him at that party, which is ridiculous). I also had really intense female friendships I didn’t think anything of. With the benefit of hindsight, I can see how those friendships with girls I liked and admired - the really earnest ones where I’d go out of my way to do things for them and be around them because I just really want her to want to be my friend - were actually crushes. I’m a people pleaser (with people I care about anyway), but I recognize that higher intensity now that I’ve been through more serious relationships. Definitely bisexual.

It clicked in the autumn of senior year, when I fell for one of my friends from school. We spent a few months pining and then dated for about half a year (though we were both dealing with shitty mental health struggles at the time and were overall not very good for each other) and broke up right before I graduated. All our friends knew we were together, as did my family and probably hers and probably quite a few more people than we knew. What can I say, I’ve never been known for my subtlety, especially when romantic interest is involved.

But right now is the first time I’ve been obviously queer. Visibly, aesthetically queer in how I choose to present myself.

I’ve easily passed for straight all my life. I’ve had long hair and lengthened my eyelashes with coats of mascara, worn low cut tops and tall heels and tight jeans. I’ve flirted with men more than women and leaned into my soft, feminine energy more than my assertive, masculine energy.

But I’ve never had to adjust to being bisexual, to accept that about myself. I never worried about what my parents would think. I know I’m enormously lucky because of that. That said, there’s a difference between coming to terms with being bisexual and being comfortable presenting as queer. My parents are both artists; they both went to college for performance (acting for mum, singing for dad) and are wonderfully open minded and raised me with that same open-mindedness. I don’t think I ever actually came out to them. I could tell they knew about my interest in my high school girlfriend, so I just started talking about it, and that was that. My whole extended family is very accepting, and there are other LGBTQ+ members of the family. One of my cousins is trans and bi; we make a lot of jokes about being the gay cousin (“every family has a gay cousin; if yours doesn’t, you’re the gay cousin” “but if I’m the gay cousin, and you’re the gay cousin, who’s flying the plane?”). My dad’s mom and her partner have been affectionately dubbed The Grandmas for my whole life. Grandma Natalie is as much my grandparent as Grandma Gayle, though we’re not related by blood. I don’t know how many members of my family know I’m queer - I’ve never specifically come out to any of them either - but I don’t worry about it. It’ll become obvious at some point, or I’ll drop it in conversation like I do so often now.

It does vary, how out I am - in high school I was comfortable with it in my personal life, but I never considered joining the LGBTQ+ club - and it’s been different when I’m in a relationship. Both my long term boyfriends were queer/on the bisexuality spectrum, but we presented like a heterosexual couple so never had to worry about coming out. While my high school girlfriend and I weren’t subtle, we also weren’t fully out as a couple. Her family was religious and she was worried about their reaction. On top of that, we were both fairly femme, and in Catholic school the general assumption is that everyone is straight. When I got to college, I only dated men. Part of that was residual fear left over from how badly that high school relationship ended. Part of it was I went to a Catholic university (seriously, how did I spend eighteen years in Catholic institutions when I’ve never been Catholic). A lot of it was compulsive heterosexuality - something queer women fall into a lot because our society is set up with men as the be all and end all (“how could anyone not be attracted to men?” “Of course the ultimate happy ending is settling down with a man...”). A lot of it was how much more I was around men. For the first time, there was a lot of choice, which was an exciting prospect. Even when I wasn’t in a serious relationship, I tended to only focus on men as romantic prospects.

Again, with the benefit of hindsight, I can see how much I’ve been and still am guided by that ingrained need for male attention and validation. It’s also easier to pick up men than women - there’s no is she flirting or is she just friendly to deal with – because men and women are socialized so differently that men don’t usually gush and compliment women they’ve just met in the same way that women do. Maybe it’s just easier to assume men are flirting because of the stereotype that men always want to get laid. Maybe it’s scarier to flirt with women. Maybe both. It’s certainly possible that’s my own projection rather than fact. That said, I did once have a two hour conversation with a lady in a shop during which we effusively complimented each other multiple times, and I have no idea if she was flirting with me or if she was just nice. Girls in bar bathrooms consistently hype each other up without ever exchanging names. It’s wonderful, but it does make things a little foggy when one is trying to flirt with a lady.

Anyway - I was talking about being obviously queer for the first time. It’s odd because I’m very comfortable talking about being bisexual. I bring it up in conversation easily. I post about it for pride. I talk about it a lot on my podcast. I’ve been comfortable with it since I recognized it - I have a wonderfully supportive family, and accepting that part of myself came easily. Presenting it to the world aesthetically is different - more personal, more vulnerable. Even writing about it here, thinking of you reading this, I feel more shy than I would were we face to face. While I didn’t spend any time reassessing my personality when I realized I’m bi, I’m just now recognizing that I do have internalized biphobia and compulsive heterosexuality I need to work through. I think the difference right now is about presentation, that I’ve never felt like I looked bisexual. Which is silly, right? As much as we talk about gaydar and queer trends (bisexuals cuff their jeans, etc), both within the LGBTQ+ community and out, you can’t actually tell anyone’s sexual orientation from their appearance. Queer people just tend to be more adventurous with their self-expression, perhaps because they’ve spent time at one point or another repressing who they are. Perhaps there’s just a joy in exploring something different, that makes you stand out. I don’t know - that’s true for me, though I’m only just starting to experiment myself, and I’m sure it’s different for everyone. I certainly don’t know if I would experiment with my style in the same way if I was straight, having never been straight.

My style has slid less feminine during this year of lockdown. Part of it is that I’m rarely going anywhere, and when I am, I’m walking a lot, so sneakers are a must. I exercise a lot more now, so often when I leave the house, it’s for a workout in a park and I’m dressed in leggings and a sweatshirt. I’ve gravitated toward looser trousers for the last year and a half or so; after years of skinny jeans, I’m obsessed with how comfortable they are. Now that it’s winter, I’m more focused on being warm and comfy than being fashionable. Also, I sort of feel like any moment an apocalypse movie is going to start and I need to be dressed to live in the woods. This added up into a vibe more butch than I’m used to, but with my hair longer than it had been in years, I didn’t really notice.

And then I chopped all my hair off. Like actually all off. A full pixie cut, shorter than I’ve ever gone.

Leading up to it, I guessed I was going to want to lean more into feminine fashion again to balance the cropped cut. I like being feminine and I’m in no hurry to give it up. I planned to pull out my comfy knit pencil skirts and my heeled ankle boots. I expected to forget about my new habit of dressing like I live in the woods. That hasn’t really happened. I’ve still been dressing for comfort, and my style choices have gravitated more toward sweater vests and flare trousers. Both Harry Styles and Phoebe Waller-Bridge in the “Golden” music video. The other day I caught sight of myself in a window and needed a moment to recognize myself: the combination of loose jeans, sweatshirt, raincoat, sneakers, and short hair just didn’t feel like the me I remembered. I looked at myself and didn’t see the femme, straight passing person I’ve looked like for most of my adult life. Let me be clear - I am by no means saying that looking obviously queer is a bad thing. It’s new to me, but I’m rediscovering myself.  I still saw me - and that’s key, that this haircut has always felt like me - but a different me than I’m used to seeing in the mirror.

I have a lot of affection for this new aesthetically masculine and feminine mix, and the other day, stuck in the house at the beginning of lockdown no.3, I felt the urge to dress up a little. I put on lipstick for the first time since May, pulled out a plunge bodysuit and a pair of one-of-a-kind flare jeans I found in a vintage shop on Brick Lane the other week (looser jeans are a masculine leaning I’m embracing wholeheartedly). I decked out my fingers in rings and pulled out my wire-rimmed blue light glasses (my eyesight is so bad that my actual glasses look like something from the wardrobe of a nerd from a 1980s movie, so I stick with contacts). I snapped this photo, just to see the full effect as I no longer have a full-length mirror, and - bam.

I love how I look. I’m obsessed with my hair, with the bright red lines of the bodysuit (and isn’t me in a bright color shocking enough!). I love the jeans, love that they’re a little too big in the waist and just keep flowing out from there, a feminine line in a masculine fabric. I love the wire rim glasses (even if I do look like my dad in the 80s). I love the muscle I can see in my arms from months of pushups and calisthenics. I love how much space I take up, both physically and just in my presence. I am feminine and masculine. I am impossible to miss. Once, even a year ago, that would’ve been stressful. Now, I feel like shouting from the rooftops. This is me.

It’s gone up on Instagram. It’s my new profile picture on various apps. The only caption has been a peace sign emoji - a joke within the LGBTQ+ community about how bisexual people never know what to do with our hands (“point a camera at a bisexual and see how long it takes them to flash a peace sign or finger guns”). It’s a very different vibe from my last profile photo - almost two years ago I smiled at my friend behind the camera from a flowering yellow bush as I watched my last relationship coming to an end.

I keep coming back to how much it is different. This is a change - not of who I am, but of how I reflect it to the world. Proud and excited as I am, and as much as I want to care only for what I think, the fear of rejection lingers. The fear that my friends’ love isn’t malleable and won’t fit this new me anymore. The yearning for the people I love and admire to be proud of me. And on top of that, I wonder how I am different, how my change in appearance reflects an inner shift. How it necessitates it. I’ve always felt the inner shone through to the outer - now that I’m changing the outer, does that come from a shift I’ve already made or is there one still to make? Do I have to act more queer because I look it? What do I feel I need to prove?

Maybe I’ve spoken so much and so easily about my sexuality because I knew it wasn’t visible. Now it’s far more clear, and I feel both more confident and shy. Who is this woman who wears red and casually takes up space? I know her, have seen her in flashes, but this is the first time she is stepping out so boldly. That’s it: I am bold in a way I haven’t felt before. I know, logically, that I have been (again, I’ve never been known for subtlety), but not so consciously. Not with so much intention behind my choice. Some boldness comes so easily I never think of it, but this - this was like bursting out of water for that first breath of air. Natural, intuitive, but not easy.

All this comes in the middle of a period of great change in my life. I’m moving back to my home country after living in London for almost three years, back to my parents’ house after living alone for a year during this pandemic. I’m reconsidering everything I want to spend the next few years doing, much less the rest of my life. I’m trying to figure out how to fund seeing the world and how to organize running a podcast with guests from everywhere I go. I’m consciously focusing on myself and what I want rather than delaying or sacrificing my goals for anybody else. I’m putting off putting down roots for a bit and relying on the knowledge my family is there to come back to. My future see-saws between the safety of family and the unquestionable boldness of adventure.

There is an apprehension that comes with change, an acknowledgment that I am growing and becoming something new, something that is always myself though I did not know it was there. It is freeing and exhilarating and terrifying, growing. Like jumping off a cliff, I have to squeeze my hands into fists and tighten my core and rely on the knowledge that the water below will catch me, that I will catch me, so that I can enjoy the fleeting moment of flying into something new.