Someone on the forum posted an article about a husband, wife, and their toddler who were involved in a crash and wound up going over a bridge. The wife and child were knocked unconscious. It was impossible for the husband to save them both; he chose his wife. His reasoning was that he couldn’t live without her, and almost all of the commenters on both the article and the forum agreed that he made the right choice, as terrible as it was.

I was horrified, because it made no sense to me. A spouse or partner could be replaced, after all. A child couldn’t. That relationship, to me, was sacred. I couldn’t–and still can’t–imagine any love greater than that of a parent to their child.

The more I thought about it, the more sense all of my previous romantic relationships made. I considered marriage sacred, but I never thought that a partner was irreplaceable. I felt so heartless, because I wanted someone to spend my life with. But I knew, deep down, that I could never love a spouse the way they apparently deserved to be loved. The line between best friend and life partner was blurred for me; paternal love made perfect sense, but romantic love was suddenly more confusing than it had ever been before.

I thought maybe, once I found the right person, it would change. I started dating someone I’d always considered a great friend, a confidante that I’d had since high school. It never meant more than friendship to me–best friends, and I did love him, even though it wasn’t the “right” way.

Once we were engaged, however, it quickly became apparent that I was supposed to change the way I acted around him. Dividing time equally among friends suddenly wasn’t okay. He wanted me to depend on him, on his friendship, then berated me when I didn’t ask friends for help when I needed it. I was constantly confused and bewildered, anxious and scared. Soon enough, I was dependent on him, because he knew how love was supposed to work, or so I thought.

Deep down, I knew something wasn’t right. I married him, anyway.

The more emotionally abusive he became, the less sexually attracted to him I was, but he always made me feel horrible for not wanting to have sex, that I wasn’t taking care of his needs, that I didn’t really love him. And I knew my love wasn’t what it was supposed to be, so I always caved in, even when I didn’t want to. He decided we needed to have a baby, so. Well. He made sure that happened. I didn’t know what to do, because I knew that when I had that child, that my husband was going to immediately take second place in my heart, which is exactly what happened.

He became physically abusive then (though I suppose there’s an argument to be made for spousal rape also being physical abuse). I knew I deserved it, because I was failing him as a wife. (Never mind that, by this point, I’d realized I wasn’t a woman.) When he scared my baby one night, I knew we had to get out. Within a week, we’d escaped. I still haven’t gotten a divorce, but that’s definitely my intention.

So when people say that aromantics don’t experience discrimination, that they don’t suffer “enough” or even at all? I get really fucking pissed off. I tried so, so hard to make myself feel romantic love, and I was hurt irreparably in the process, exposing myself again and again to abusive people and situations, all in the name of trying to be normal. If that isn’t queer trauma, then I don’t fucking know what is.

Long story short, if you don’t feel a difference between friend love and lovefriend love, there’s nothing wrong with you. Not one goddamn thing. Your feelings are valid; your experience is valid; your journey is valid. You are queer, and don’t you dare let anyone tell you otherwise.

I still consider myself bisexual, because I still experience sexual attraction to more than one gender. (Not to all genders, which is why I’m not pan. Also because I’ve identified as bi for so long; I’m kind of fond of the label, not to mention attached.) However, I am celibate, both out of practicality and the metric fuckton of baggage that I bring with me into the bedroom. The asexual experience is never going to be one that I innately “get”, since celibacy and asexuality aren’t the same thing. I like to think that I understand it, though, or that I at least make a definitive effort.

Asexuals are exposed to the same kind of trauma as the rest of us queers. I’m not one to play oppression Olympics; it isn’t my job or business to assign one hurt as more important or greater than another. That being said, I 9000% believe that trans women get the worst kind of phobia and abuse. They’re exposed to the most adversity and danger and violence, especially trans women of color. It is our duty to protect and support trans women in all ways possible and by any means available. We must uplift their voices and make them feel accepted and safe within queer spaces.

But I think asexuals deserve protection, too, and acceptance, and understanding. I don’t think that should be a radical idea. It’s bullshit that people want to gatekeep–and yes, I am going to use the word gatekeep; it may not be the best term to explain community policing, but the concept and rationale behind it is similar. Asexual and aromantic persons are queer enough because they need to be, because they force themselves into the same kinds of molds and masks as other queer persons do to try and belong.

I’m tired of seeing y’all get shit when I understand how fucking hard it is out here, and it’s sickening that the only people who stand up for you are other acespec and arospec individuals. You matter, and I’m never going to stop saying that. You are here, you are queer, and folks need to get used to it.

Anyway. Even with all of the hate I’m getting (which doesn’t bother me, by the by), my inbox is always open to both identified asks and anons. If you need to vent or feel validated, and you don’t want to identify yourselves for painfully obvious reasons, I’ve got you covered. <3