by Skye Chernobilsky

Skye Chernobilsky (they/them) is a freshman at Rider University, from North Brunswick, New Jersey. They are majoring in Elementary Education and English Literature with a minor in Middle School Education. Skye enjoys photography, playing music with the Rider Pep Band and spending time in nature.  They play trumpet and bass drum with the Rider Pep Band and are a founder of the Rider Jazz Band. Skye enjoys writing poetry and pieces that capture their past experiences.

I haven’t always felt different. At least, not that I can remember. In fact, I always did my best to be the same as everyone else. I got a boyfriend when a lot of the other girls did. And another one. And another one. And, somehow, even another one. I liked the same colors other kids did; blue was my favorite for most of my adolescent years. Looking back, however, there was always a certain something that was different. When a teacher would ask for “a strong boy” to move a desk/chair, my hand would shoot up, knowing that I could help. When the girls in my classes started talking about how they were beginning to “go to the next base” with their partners, it made me cringe and made me incredibly uncomfortable. Now, it’s not that I didn’t want a relationship with someone, it was that physical aspect that made me uncomfortable. And even still, I continued to get in and out of relationships with an uncanny speed, for which I can probably thank the lack of physical presence in my partners (they were long distance). With all that being said, I still didn’t know how to put into words how I felt. I no longer felt attracted to the male species, that much was clear. But society’s expectations and beliefs, along with my family’s, were proving to be too much to bear.

For the second half of high school, I made a point to not get into a relationship with anyone. This, however, did not stop me from having a continuous existential crisis about my identity. I had hoped that by making certain that I wouldn’t have to deal with the burden of a relationship, I simultaneously wouldn’t have to deal with the idea that I wasn’t meant for one. I had chosen to do what so many others have done; avoid and repress. Not only was I unsure of what my sexual identity held, but I also wasn’t certain of who I was as a person and what I identified as. I knew for a fact that I wasn’t a girl. That had been determined basically since I found out that was an option. But I didn’t know who I was. I knew that I didn’t want to be addressed as a boy, but I also knew that I wanted to present myself as a masculine individual and, for the longest time, I thought those had to go hand in hand. Fortunately, through extensive research, therapy, and open and productive conversations, I was able to come to the conclusion that I am a non-binary individual who uses they/them pronouns. Unfortunately, the struggle with defining my sexuality continued. I couldn’t understand how someone who had previously been attracted to their partners was now repulsed at the idea of even holding hands with someone.

Eventually I came to the conclusion that I was probably asexual, which was a difficult realization because I didn’t know how I could develop feelings for people but not be attracted to them. There was this preconceived notion in my head that because I had felt that way before, it meant I would feel it again. But time after time and partner after partner, the feeling didn’t show.

How could it be true that I wasn’t attracted to anyone physically, but I still liked people? What was it about the person that I was attracted to, if not their body? Could it be possible that I was attracted to their personality and not them? Did that mean I could never be in a relationship with someone? What if people started to not like me because of who I am? What if my relationships would end because of my innate disturbance by physical intimacy? What will I tell people? Do I tell anyone? All of these thoughts swirled in my head as I spiraled down into the imposter syndrome abyss.

I felt like because I had been capable of having these feelings before, I wasn’t a true member of the asexual community. I couldn’t possibly be asexual if I didn’t always feel this way. I couldn’t even say the word aloud. I couldn’t bring myself to admit that that was who I was. Because if I admitted it to myself, if I said it aloud, if I told someone, that would mean it was real. That it wasn’t going away. And I wanted, I needed, for it to go away.

I needed it to go away because it meant I wasn’t normal. I would never have a normal life. I would never have a relationship again because who would want to be with someone that won’t physically be with them? I would never have a long-lasting relationship with someone because eventually, they would get tired and leave. I had all of these ideas of what a relationship was supposed to be and was meant to look like, partially thanks to society, media, and my own personal experiences, and someone like me had no place being there.

I had been through so many experiences afterwards where people said that “you just haven’t found the right person.” or “it’s not possible, you’re just picky”. Person after person couldn’t believe that someone could experience no sexual or physical attraction to another being.

Even one of my closest friends at the time was completely baffled when I told her. We were sitting in my room on the floor, talking about her intimate interactions with her boyfriend and she was telling me all the gory and specific details. My hands rubbed the bumpy carpet up and down, trying to calm myself. The anxiety I felt from the discomfort of the situation creeped into my throat and my self-soothing techniques weren’t working. After a while I couldn’t bear it anymore and I looked her dead in the eyes and said, “Please stop talking about this, you’re making me extremely uncomfortable.” She looked at me as if I had just killed her puppy. “But aren’t you interested? Don’t you want to know?” No actually I couldn’t give less of a sh*t about your sex life, I thought to myself. I took a deep breath and, with the most level tone I could muster, said, “Not really. You know I’m gay and I also don’t care to know about what you do in your free time with your boyfriend.” I then went on to tell her that I don’t experience sexual attraction and actually find it all to be kind of repulsive. This time with a my-puppy-just-died look she says, “I’m sorry I didn’t realize.” As if I hadn’t been outwardly cringing for the last twenty minutes of her story.

Another moment that solidified my feelings was when I had mentioned to my mom that I was asexual, and her response was “But sex is such a beautiful thing. You just haven’t found someone you love enough to do it. You will.” “Okay” I responded, feeling my heart shatter into a million pieces as my mom refused to accept me the way I am. In hindsight, she probably was trying to convince herself more than she was trying to convince me but that’s not what it felt like at the moment. The feeling of resentment was overpowered by the lingering question in my mind; a casual and completely non detrimental what if…? What if my mom was right? What if I’m really not asexual? What if, in reality, I just hadn’t met the right person yet?

And because I’m just a teenager with more judgmental thoughts about myself than the antagonist in a coming-of-age 2000s movie, I decided I wouldn’t tell anyone ever again. I was tired of having to explain myself over and over again. I was tired of agreeing with the uneducated and inconsiderate people who voiced their unsolicited opinions. Mostly I was tired of being put in a box, by other people and by myself. I decided I wasn’t going to talk about it anymore. The only people who needed to know were potential partners because it would be only fair to let them know what they’re getting into.

Once I realized that I wasn’t alone in my feelings, both about being asexual and about feeling like I wasn’t “asexual enough”, I started believing that I would be okay. I had first met someone who was also asexual on one of my multiple visits to Rider University. I was attending the Admitted Students day on March 8th and stayed after the event ended to play with the Pep Band. While I didn’t technically meet this person until this last September, we started talking in late April early May. The more we talked, the more personal the conversations became. I soon found out that they were demiromantic and asexual as well and that they also struggled with accepting these labels as truth. I finally felt seen, like I wasn’t the only one in the vast world tothink this way. In reality, I knew that I wasn’t alone but this was different. This wasn’t a hypothetical where the person wasn’t real. This was my friend who, like me, didn’t experience sexual attraction. Who, like me, didn’t find sex appealing. And who, like me, had struggled with figuring out their identity. I realized that my identity was unique but that didn’t mean that I was alone.

I wasn’t going to let anyone tell me who I could or couldn’t be, that was for me to decide. This time, I’m going to live as my personal authentic self. And if that came with stigma or social expectations that didn’t fit me then that’s exactly what they would be; not for me. It’s time to set myownexpectations, follow my own rules, and be my own person. No more living in the shadows. I feel different. I like being different.