One of the things that kills me about people arguing about my asexuality is that. I spent so long trying not to be. I spent so long looking for a “cute boy,” so long trying to force myself to develop a crush. Ten years or so, and still nothing. I spent so long thinking I was broken. I spent so long looking forward to a surely-dysfunctional marriage because I thought I had to have one. I spent so long hurting, so long afraid.
Then one day, I accepted I was asexual, but went about trying to convince myself that I was at least romantic in some way. I must be, right? But I wasn’t. I wasn’t, and I felt so broken inside, because one of the basic facts of humanity was something I’m doomed to never see. It hurt so much to see that, to think that.
Even now, I’m trying to figure out how my life is going to go. I don’t want to be alone, I don’t want a roommate, I want intimate physical touch and comfort, but not sex. I want what everyone wants, but every time I struggle with my friends, I remember that I don’t want to be alone, and I wonder how much of my foot I’ll have to cut off to stuff it in the glass slipper. Because uncut, I’ll never fit.
My heart aches. My body yearns to be loved, to be hugged and touched. I miss my dad’s hugs. I miss being touched, being loved. I miss it.