Boy, that identity thing, huh?
First up, this isn’t going to be a post complaining about labels and identity politics and pronouns. I’m not here for that. Use whatever labels and pronouns work for you and don’t be a dick about what people want to be called, please.
That said: boy howdy is my identity a big old mess.
I’ve talked before, although possibly not on this blog, about how so much of my gender identity and sexuality is tied up in my disability, and that’s been true for a long time. I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes at 10. There have been a lot of studies done about the impact of diabetes on adolescence, particularly around sexual development and around mental health, and while my experience is only anecdotal, it matches a lot of the studies: I had severe struggles with depression for most of my teens, and my sexual development kind of… never really happened. Physically, sure, I got the boobs and hips and unpleasant bleeding and everything (although still not consistently; thanks, PCOS!) but when other people were having awkward teenage crushes I was just… not. And not in a not-like-the-other-girls sort of way.
That never really changed. I got older, I got sicker, I got used to people not seeing me romantically anyway because I was a fat girl and then I started using a cane because my ankle pain and balance issues really kicked in and when you use a visible mobility aid you become functionally asexual as far as society is concerned, because society still thinks disabled people are incapable of living fully realised lives that involve things like sex with other people. So I was used to not receiving any interest; any interest I had was fleeting at best and usually more emotional than physical. I went through a “maybe lesbian?” period when most of my close friends were women and I was having trouble differentiating my emotions because at that point my borderline was both undiagnosed and untreated; once I had a better handle on things, I started thinking “maybe asexual?” because, you know, no sex drive. Asexual, right?
But the thing is this: while I am sex-repulsed, I don’t know if it’s because of my mental illness or if I’d still be sex-repulsed if I didn’t have BPD and anxiety and severe misophonia (sounds. I hate sounds. I hate watching people kiss on TV. They always turn the kiss track up way too loud and it is awful). I’ve never had a sex drive, but that’s not uncommon in diabetics, or people with depression, or people on the medication I’m on, or people with the chronically critically low hormone levels I have. (My doctor, upon seeing my oestrogen levels when I was twenty, asked if I was sure I wasn’t in premature menopause.) So am I “really” asexual or am I just, well, broken?
Because that’s the thing. I am broken. My body does not work the way it’s supposed to. By definition, it’s broken. But asexuals aren’t broken. People with dysphoria aren’t broken. Do I have dysphoria because I’m non-binary, or does my body make me viscerally uncomfortable to the point of self-harm ideation because it’s just so messed-up and out of my control? (Why not both?)
And that’s the thing about intersectionality: it’s complicated. And the more axes you introduce into the equation, the more complicated it gets. I have the privileges inherent to being a white English-speaking person in a majority white Western country, and while I’m not of the majority religion, I’m not of a minority one either. On the other hand, I’m female, disabled, and… probably queer?
And that’s where the *shrug emoji* of my identity comes in. Because I’ve been sick-and/or-queer for so long that I can’t untangle the two, and sometimes it feels disingenuous to talk about the latter in case I’m not really queer. Never mind that I’ve been in a queer relationship for thirteen years now; no, clearly I’m just confused, right?
(In case it hadn’t been made clear before now, my brain hates me and actively gaslights me. I have tools I learned through a lot of therapy to deal with it. Borderline is rubbish.)
And I know I talk a lot about being disabled, and about being sick. I know a lot of people are all “Don’t make it your identity!” But the thing is, it’s kind of a major part of my life, especially right now. This mysterious whatever that’s making me so sick has destroyed my ability to do anything except be in bed, play computer games, and write blog posts in the wee hours of the morning when my evening cortisol makes me unable to sleep; should I pretend it isn’t a driving force in my life? I think it’s east for people who don’t have to deal with this sort of thing to say those platitudes. Don’t think about it and you’ll feel better! (True only to a very certain extent, like “money doesnt buy happiness”. No, but it buys security and comfort, which certainly helps.) Don’t let your illness define you! I’m sorry, but it does. It defines me by not letting me use stairs. Or the shower. Or make my own tea. It’s like not thinking about the pink elephant.
So I guess this is me. Medical snowflake (my latest diagnosis has been diagnosed over 100 times since 1962! So many!) who is Complicated. Sometimes being complicated is fine. Sometimes it sucks. But it is what it is and I’m dealing with it, albeit with a lot of frustrated crying and swearing these days.
The Medical Snowflake Diaries 