I am really proud of who I am today. I’m an openly queer woman in a long-term relationship with another woman and I wouldn’t change it for the world. If I had the choice to be straight, I wouldn’t accept it. But that doesn’t mean being queer came without its challenges.
Navigating the world as a queer person has affected my mental health in ways I never expected.
I knew coming out would be difficult at times, and I knew queerphobia would always be something I would have to deal with, but I didn’t realize how much being queer would affect my mental health. Or, more precisely, how society’s reaction and unpreparedness for queerness would affect my mental health. And, in turn, my sex life…
At first, I didn’t make the connection, but in hindsight, it’s obvious. Society’s perception of my queerness has a direct impact on how I see myself, my body, and what I do with it.
Growing up in a world that assumes everyone is straight made me feel different.
Heteronormativity was everywhere, on television, in books, in schools, in casual conversation. It wasn’t even that people outright said that being queer was wrong (actually…some did). it was the fact that queerness wasn’t even considered. This led to some deeply internalized queerphobia. I tried to ignore my feelings but I couldn’t deny the fact that I loved girls and I felt like people were telling me it was wrong.
I was ashamed of who I was and carried it over into everything I did: how I approached relationships, how I viewed my body, and how I dealt with intimacy. I would even go so far as to say that it hindered the depth of some of my friendships. My friends were crazy and always talking about kissing boys and going on dates, and I was sitting there wondering what was wrong with me. Why can’t I do this? How do they have the confidence to do this and I don’t? Now I look back and realize that all that shame and confusion had made me hate myself. The mental impact of this self-hatred is something that is still with me. Even though I now love my weirdness, I find myself being overly critical of everything I do. It was hard to unlearn that feeling of not being ‘normal’ and always feeling like who you are is ‘wrong’.
The lack of queer inclusion in my sex classes didn’t help that feeling either. I remember sitting in media class, learning about STDs and contraception, but absolutely nothing about what sex could be like for someone like me. I thought Well, if the school thinks it’s wrong, then so be it.
No one was teaching me how to navigate my sexual health or my own relationships. The result? I was afraid of sex. With no real guidance, I turned to the only source I could find: porn. Now at 27, I want to scream at younger Cassie and say, “This is not going to help! PORN IS FOR ENTERTAINMENT, NOT EDUCATION!”. but we live and learn i guess…
I was less afraid of my sexuality at this point and felt like I had to prepare myself for sex with a woman, but watching porn only made it worse. I saw these perfect bodies and over-the-top performances, and it made me feel insecure about sex, my body, and my queerness. Bad body representations and unrealistic portrayal of intimacy affected my mental health and made me feel unworthy and isolated.
In my late teens, I somehow managed to find other queer people who helped me overcome my self-hatred and internalized queerphobia. But it’s no wonder I felt the way I did. nothing was made for us! Education didn’t include us, movies didn’t tell our stories, even porn didn’t accurately represent us. they even fetishized us!
Fortunately, I gradually learned to love my body and love sex, but it took time and a lot of patience.
However, society’s view of queerness can still affect me and my sex life today. Dealing with queerphobia on a regular basis and the constant fear of being a hate crime victim is terrifying. The mental battle with harmful myths like “lesbian bed death” is exhausting. The pressure to constantly “prove” my sexuality is frustrating, and feeling like queer love is always under control or needs to be justified has real costs. All of this has affected my mental health, leading to times where my libido is extremely high or almost non-existent. This can be hard, but I’m lucky to be surrounded by other queer people who understand me and who will support me whenever I need it.
I wish I had found my people sooner, but I am thankful that I finally did. I’m not sure where I’d be without them. With their support, I was able to heal parts of myself that I didn’t even realize were hurting. And without all that self-loathing, it turns out I’m actually quite a sexual person. I am grateful to be that person in spite of everything.
I don’t have all the answers and probably never will. But one thing I’m sure of: my weirdness was never a ‘wrong’. It was society that was wrong.
