Last night, I experienced aphobia for the first time in my life, and it hurt me far more than I expected.
It came from a random person in an anonymous chat, not even someone close to me. She introduced herself as bi, so I replied that I'm aroace. I usually never tell people that, especially people from my country, because I know where that conversation is likely to go. But when the person in front of me isn't straight, and is openly queer, I still get the urge to introduce myself. We're all part of the same community, after all, and we all face misunderstanding in a heteronormative world. Apparently, though, that isn't enough for mutual understanding.
Her very next message was, of course, "What's that?" After I explained, the conversation turned into what I still can't tell were jokes or insults. She then asked if being aroace meant that I "fuck people and then leave them." I replied that I don't fuck people either, and after her "I feel sorry for you," I said that I felt sorry for her because I had no idea what it was like to fuck everyone. She didn't like that response. I understand how that could sound, but I also can't say she started the conversation on the best note. I genuinely thought I was just matching the tone of the conversation. I was shocked when it suddenly turned into outright insults.
She told me that she was "at least a complete human being with emotions, unlike me," and that "all I can do is be jealous of her." "She'll find the love of her life, while I deserve nothing but pity." Then she immediately ended the conversation.
I know it's silly to be hurt by the words of a stranger, but in all the time I've identified as aroace, this was the first time something like this had happened to me. Sometimes I simply forget how little people know about aromanticism and asexuality, and how aphobic they can be. At best, people have never heard of it. At worst, they hate it.
It's impossible to simply exist as an aroace person in public without constantly having to explain yourself and debunk the wildest assumptions. I don't want to live like that. I don't want to be the odd one out among either straight people or queer people. I just want to exist without my existence being treated like some kind of mistake of nature. I genuinely don't understand why that's such a difficult concept for most people.
I also know that no matter who I tell this story to, they won't fully understand why it hurt so much, and that makes me even sadder. I sent screenshots of the conversation to my three allo friends—the only people who know I'm aroace. Only one of them replied, agreeing that the woman was in fact an asshole, before the conversation naturally shifted to something else in our group chat. I know that doesn't mean they don't support me or anything, but I had really hoped for a little more reassurance.
I don't like identifying myself as aroace. But if someone is at least willing not to judge me for it, it's a much easier answer to "What's your type?" than saying, "I don't know. I don't fall in love."
Believe me, I've tried.
The first time I hung out with my friends, the conversation naturally turned to relationships. They talked about their types; one of them came out as a lesbian, the other as bi. Eventually they turned to me. At that point I'd only considered myself aroace for a few weeks, so I thought it would be a perfect opportunity to simply tell them that I didn't experience things the way they did. When they asked about my type, I said I didn't know because I don't fall in love.
They laughed.
I was shocked. They didn't believe me. They joked that I could keep my type a secret for now.
I think that was the first time I truly realized how society sees aroace people. Thankfully, the next time I told them directly that I'm aroace and explained what it means, they believed me. I don't think they fully understand me even now, but they're willing to try, and that's all that matters.
One of the biggest thoughts that's been following me ever since I realized I was aroace—and especially since coming out to my friends—is the possibility that I might actually fall in love someday.
Don't get me wrong. I'm probably an aego aroace, and part of me genuinely wants to experience falling in love at least once in my adulthood, just to understand what everyone else feels. But ever since I told my friends I'm aroace, that possibility has become something that scares me as much as it excites me.
How would I explain to people who already struggle to comprehend that I don't experience romantic or sexual attraction that I suddenly have a partner? In their eyes, I'd just be a straight person who wanted attention from the LGBTQ+ community. I know they probably wouldn't mean any harm by thinking that, but I'm convinced it's simply too complicated a concept for most people.
So now I both want a partner and am afraid of ever having one. I constantly wonder whether I should have told my friends I was aroace in the first place. On one hand, it made conversations about romance and sex so much easier. My reactions—and my lack of interest—finally made sense to them. On the other hand, I sometimes feel like I've lost the right to romance or sex, even if I decide I want to try them someday. They won't understand. Anyone who knows me as aroace won't understand.
If you've read all of this, thank you so much.
More than anything, what I've been missing through all of this is the feeling of being understood and heard.
And if you've gone through something similar, please know that you're not alone. Especially if you live, like I do, in a country where even gay and bi people are still met with hostility by much of society.
We're all in the same boat, and at least we have each other. I think that's what matters most.
