Aphantasia is a little-known condition that affects the mind’s “inner eye.” While most people are able to close their eyes and have real-feeling sensory experiences (visual, aural, and otherwise), I am without this ability. When I close my eyes, I see only darkness. And while others dream in full color and hear sounds, I only dream in words and feelings.  

I used to think that my experience of darkness was like that of everyone else. We often use the same language to describe our thoughts and feelings, with there being no differentiation indicating our individual experiences like that in the mind’s eye. Once I learned about my difference of perception, I had vivid conversations with others who thought that my experience was foreign. For a while I felt broken and incomplete because I was missing out on something that was so basic for others, but these days, I do not feel so bad about it. It’s hard to miss what I have never had, and the idea of suddenly seeing pictures in my mind actually scares me.

Aphantasia exists on a broad spectrum. Although aphantasiacs experience a lack of sensory imagery in the mind, many with the condition still dream with full sensory imagery. Others experience face-blindness, struggling to recognize the most familiar of people. It is estimated that about 2% of the general populace are on the aphantasia spectrum. For me personally, I am 100% sensory-blind when both awake and asleep, but I do not have problems with recognizing faces.

It is widely accepted that aphantasia is a congenital condition, manifesting from birth onward. According to a study by Joel Pearson at the University of South Wales in Sydney, those without aphantasia have more activity in the prefrontal cortex in the brain. “The visual cortex is like a sketch pad; it’s where you create images,” said Pearson in New Scientist.

Given that the prefrontal cortex controls the visual cortex, this allows for what we call the mind’s eye, an ability to create visual images. Pearson’s same study found that electronic stimulation can enhance activity in the prefrontal cortex with technology called transcranial direct stimulation (tDCS), which can potentially allow for an aphantasiac to experience imagery instead of darkness. He posits that science’s ability to manipulate the mind’s eye—increasing or decreasing its strength—could affect everything from learning new ideas and making “moral decisions” to potentially decreasing image-based trauma or hallucinations among those who are schizophrenic.

I am definitely a sexual person, and desire sex in my life. However, due to my complete mental darkness, I am unable to have any visual sexual fantasies about future and/or possible sex. I always have known that my approach to desire is different from others, but could never put my finger on it until discovering I have aphantasia.

In my teens, while my peers began discovering their own senses of their sexuality, I remained—quite literally—in the dark. I always wondered how people just “knew” they were gay, or “knew” what they liked sexually. When people talked of having fantasies, I could not relate because I had none of my own.

As a teen, I had my own crushes and senses of attraction as well—albeit in a unique way. I focused on intellectual capacity and creativity, and found people attractive in the way one would marvel at an excellent work of art. While I many pined after handsome faces, I fell in love with a British theater actor from “Topsy Turvy,” a film about the collaboration between Gilbert and Sullivan, a Victorian librettist and composer duo who wrote famous operettas such as The Mikado and The Pirates of Penzance. For me, creative expression and artistry are the bedrock of my sense of romance and sexuality.

Due to my complete mental darkness, I am unable to have any visual sexual fantasies about future and/or possible sex.
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Yet as years passed, I still felt extreme anxiety because I had no sexual fantasies. I started to fear that I was gay because I did not fantasize about men, but there were never any thoughts about women either. I felt tremendously insecure in pursuing any sort of serious relationship. What if I choose a person of the wrong gender or gender identity?

Regarding my insecurities with sexuality, I have confided in close friends over the years, trying to gain perspective about what I really am. My friends always reassured me that whatever my sexuality is, it is a beautiful thing to celebrate and express. Yet it did not feel beautiful to me—it felt like a scary, gaping hole.

Beginning in 2015, I began browsing the online forums on the website of the Asexuality Visibility & Education Network (AVEN) to try and find answers for myself. It is a great place for me to visit when I have my questions about sexuality, where people are friendly and able to write without being under the influence of sexual excitement. It was not until 2018, at the age of 33, that someone mentioned that my lack of fantasies may be due to me having aphantasia. After briefly investigating the condition, I immediately realized that this was my experience and reality!

I inquired about aphantasia on AVEN, and some members professed having similar experiences to me. A casual poll in 2017 on AVEN asked members about having aphantasia, and 42.5% of 54 respondents said they were on the spectrum. This is far higher than the purported 2% in the general populace.

I then went on Facebook to join aphantasia groups for additional support, writing about how the condition gives me an experience similar to asexuality. Most people vehemently responded that they are absolutely not asexual, but that they experience sexuality in non-sensory ways. It appears there isn’t a reciprocal correlation—while asexuals may be more likely to have aphantasia, those with aphantasia are not more likely to be asexual.

What if I choose a person of the wrong gender or gender identity?
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After discovering that I have aphantasia, I am now investigating ways for me to adapt and adjust. With my boyfriend—whom I find attractive both aesthetically and intellectually—I now keep my eyes open instead of closing them when we’re intimate. Seeing him visually helps me feel in the mood, and now I realize what my sexuality really is. I’m heterosexual, but also feel like I’m on the asexual spectrum by default. The term “demisexual” seems to suit me—I only experience attraction with someone I am profoundly emotionally connected to.

While my experiences are unusual, I do not believe my aphantasia is any sort of deficiency. Instead, I’ve grown to view it as something that makes me unique, and believe that my experience is just as valid as those of others. I also feel that my aphantasia allows for me to have heightened senses in other areas. I find joy in contemplating life and the people around me as philosophical fodder, all describable with florid language. I journal and write constantly, putting these feelings and observations down on paper. I like to imbibe my words with a rhythm and lilt that feels akin to music. I know that I approach writing in a unique way.

As I talk to people about my aphantasia, many people express intrigue about my condition. It can be a mind-bender for non-aphantasiacs to try and fathom my world of darkness, just as their vivid sensory imaginations are equally as foreign to me. Honest conversations allow for us to share our world views with one another, practice empathy, and celebrate our differences.

Imagine that.

By Dianna Gunn

For a long time, I believed Lai — the main character in my debut YA fantasy novella, Keeper of the Dawn — had no interest in romance. She was too focused on trying to build a life that matched her ideals — to become a Keeper of the Dawn — to think about anyone else.

Somewhere along the way Lai fell in love, and I found myself writing a sweet romance between two women. But she still had no interest in sex. She didn’t feel that kind of attraction.

Keeper of the Dawn sat on my hard drive for three years between drafts, and when I finally returned to Lai’s story, I realized I also had a word for this lack of attraction: asexual.

At the time, everything I knew about asexuality came from the blog of author Amber Skye Forbes. I knew asexuality meant a lack of sexual attraction, and that many asexual people still had a sex drive and enjoyed masturbation, but that was about it.

When I returned to Keeper of the Dawn and realized Lai was asexual, I dove head first into learning more.

I found the Asexuality Archives, home of the book Asexuality: An Introductionand an extensive glossary of terms related to asexuality. I learned the difference between asexuality and aromanticism, the latter term being used to describe someone who isn’t romantically attracted to anyone. I even interviewed a series of asexual authors on my blog, The Dabbler. Those authors taught me that asexuality is a spectrum, and that the asexual community encompasses many more people than I originally imagined.

Including myself.

The realization came about when I watched Sally Le Page’s “Coming Out” video, and she used a term that had come across my radar before but never really clicked: graysexual.

According to the Asexuality Archives, a graysexual (sometimes referred to as gray-asexual) person “may infrequently experience sexual attraction, may be unsure if they have, or may experience low sexual desire, yet will generally identify as being close to asexual.”

The term immediately felt right to me. I’ve never been attracted to many people (I like to joke that it’s about 0.005% of the population), and my sex drive tapered off significantly when I hit my twenties. But, I still love sex with my fiancé, and I am attracted to enough people that “asexual” never felt right either.

On The Beautiful Futility Of Writing

Now I had a new word, one that fit me perfectly, and with that realization came a deeper understanding of my character. I can’t say for sure if Lai’s asexuality was a subconscious expression of my own identity, but I do know that it would have taken me many more years to stumble upon the term “graysexual” without researching her identity.

My story is far from unique. Most of the asexual authors I’ve interviewed had similar experiences; many believed there was something inherently wrong with them for decades before they discovered and embraced the term asexual. Asexuality is so ignored by the media it seems they don’t even know it exists.

Most people have never been exposed to anyone who explicitly identifies as asexual, not even in the fictional media they consume. At best, they’ve read the only well-known list of books featuring asexual main characters — “Five Books With Asexual Protagonists,” at Tor.com — assumed there weren’t any more, and moved on.

But the problem isn’t a lack of asexual characters in fiction. It’s that most of those characters can be found in indie published books, and most readers, even those in the asexual community, don’t know how or where to find them.

So I gathered three of the incredible asexual #ownvoices authors who participated in my original series of interviews — Claudie Arseneault, Sophia Beaumont, and Lynn O’Connacht — and brought them to The Establishment to shed some light on all the wonderful asexual characters already waiting to be discovered.

It’s easy for people to read your bios, but your novels are much more than a series of titles. How would you describe your overall body of work?

Sophia Beaumont: I was just talking to a friend about this, and we decided that if my work had a tagline, it would be “Using rock bottom to build a foundation since 1992.”

I write about people–women, mostly–at their lowest point, and have to find some way to save themselves and often their loved ones and the world.

Lynn O’Connacht: Oooh, that is beautiful, Sophia. Stealing Sophia’s phrasing, I write about relationships, mainly, and the ways that people can (and do!) support one another.

I aim to write stories that, while they may have darkness in them, are about compassion at their core, stories that leave readers feeling good and happy. The first word I associate with my own work is “cozy”.

Claudie Arseneault: I write science fiction-fantasy stories with large queer ensemble casts and stories that lean towards politics and conspiracies. My work often centers non-romantic relationships, whether they are mentors, friends, family, or queerpatonic partners, and as a consequence, the aromantic and asexual characters often lead.

What drives you to tell these particular stories?

Claudie: A lot of the media offered to us presents really narrow definitions of what constitutes a strong, deep bond. Too often, sexual and romantic relationships take the center stage and are presented as the most meaningful relationship you can have — the one that must take precedence. I wanted something else. I wanted to explore other connections and the life-saving ways friends and families can support and care for each other, and I wanted those stories to center people like me.

Sophia: I have anxiety and depression. When I wrote my first book, I was alone in a new city in college. I felt like I should be having the time of my life, but I couldn’t. And like a lot of introverts, I looked at my fave fictional characters for answers, but none of them were like me. The hero was usually male, almost always a confident extrovert, and here I wanted to hide in the closet and give up. I didn’t have anyone to talk to or the vocabulary to express what I felt, so I wrote about it. I made a heroine who is afraid and sad and stillsaves the day.

Too often, sexual and romantic relationships take the center stage and are presented as the most meaningful relationship you can have.
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Lynn: I think I started telling these stories because I really needed to read and see more of them when I was a child. Especially since in the last few years we’ve seen such a rise in grim, dark narratives. We need stories that tell different relationships, that remind us that people aren’t all bad to the core, that things can get better, that everyone can be a main character.

Do you think being self published gives you more freedom to be true to your characters’ asexual (and other queer) identities than you would at a big publisher?

Claudie: Oh, absolutely. I don’t have enough fingers to count the number of friends or fellow writers who had editors tell them friendship wasn’t strong enough to carry a book (meaning, romance was needed) or that characters uninterested in sex were boring. I don’t have to deal with that. My characters don’t need to fit into a pre-ordained format and there are no “good for marketing” checklists I need to hit. I hire editors who understand my vision and help me get there, instead of hindering it.

Lynn: I’d like to think not, but I suspect that it’s really dependent on the story in question. Some are easier to pitch than others to a traditional publisher, definitely, so being able to publish them myself or through small presses is really great. Plus, I can include representation how I want it, without worrying that I’ll have to tone it down.

I made a heroine who is afraid and sad and still saves the day.
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Sophia: I do in some ways — there are a couple of books I have on the docket that I’m not even going to try to query. But for other things, I think the big 5 (the five major corporate publishing houses) have enough connections and opportunities to compensate for the freedom I’d have to give up.

I love books with a good strong friendship. One of the books I’m shopping around now really emphasizes that. The main character isn’t aromantic (aro) or asexual (ace), but she just lost her husband on page one. I had an editor flat out tell me it wouldn’t sell because it’s historical fiction without a romance. That is a book that I really want with a mainstream publisher, because I think it would do really well, but I may end up self publishing it.

Claudie: This is so infuriating. We absolutely need these stories to hit the mainstream, too.

Self publishing is still the most welcoming option for queer stories, but we’re starting to see a lot more queer identities in mainstream fiction, as well. Have you noticed this shift affecting asexual representation in mainstream publishing?

Sophia: I’ve been seeing a lot more rep in general in YA and middle grade books, but I feel like in adult fiction it’s still very lacking. It’s still seen as necessary or normal that if you’re an adult, you’re supposed to be in a sexual relationship.

Claudie: Sophia, I think in adult fiction, it is still very confined to indie books, whereas traditional YA fiction is already putting out canon asexual characters.

Sophia: I feel like one of the reasons it’s more accepted in YA is because it falls under “Oh, you’re experimenting and learning about your sexuality. You’ll grow out of it, eventually.”

It’s still seen as ‘necessary’ or ‘normal’ that if you’re an adult, you’re supposed to be in a sexual relationship.
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And that idea is rooted in the ageist belief that teenagers can’t truly know what they want, which is incredibly harmful. Lynn, any thoughts on recent shifts in mainstream asexual representation?

Lynn: If by “shift” you mean “exist at all,” then yes. I’ve seen it shift. I have mixed feelings about it, because much of what I read seems to be by allosexuals (i.e. not on the asexual spectrum) and they don’t really acknowledge that there’s a lot of ace representation in indie publications. I really hate the sense that this handful of (mainstream) books is the only representation asexual readers have because it’s. Not. True.

(Fair warning: I have a LOT of feels about the way traditionally published authors speaking about ace representation just…ignore or erase our existence.)

My Path To Becoming A Third Parent

I’d love to hear a bit more about your feelings on that, Lynn. How do you think that misrepresentation damages the indie community, and how can we challenge those perceptions?

Lynn: I think that the way it damages indie communities isn’t that different from how any ignoring of indie authors damages us. What it does damage, badly, is the asexual community, because it keeps asexual readers from finding representation they sorely need. I have yet to see a mainstream “ace fiction recommendations” list that doesn’t contain some variant of “This handful is all that’s out there!” when a five-minute google search will net you 20 times the number of books.

But because there’s such a strong sense of “This is all there is,” I imagine that a lot of asexual readers take that at face value and don’t run their own searches.

I’ve definitely seen those lists proclaiming “these are the few books with asexual rep,” but when I put out a call for #ownvoices authors to interview I spoke with dozens of indie authors publishing books with asexual characters. And it’s clear that the asexual community (especially in the Twitter space) is starved for this representation, but there’s a scarcity mindset that keeps them from finding the right authors.

Let’s see if we can break that scarcity mindset. Who are some indie authors you’d like to give a shout out to, and how can readers support them?

Sophia: Confession: I am really bad about reading indie books. I get most of mine from the library, and our library system won’t stock indies. But I should probably give a shout out to my partner in crime, Missouri Dalton, since our books are set in the same world.

And the best way to support indie authors is by spreading the word! I know a lot of indie authors through Twitter and have great relationships with them (they all have books on my TBR — To Be Read — list!). But I know for me, with only one book and some short stories out, it’s really hard to connect with readers.

Claudie: First I’d like to mention Shira Glassman, who writes the Mangoverse — delightful queer Jewish fantasy — and now self-publishes. Next is Kiran Oliver, who wrote Daybreak Rising, which was set to release two weeks after Torquere Publishing went under. He quickly turned around and released it.

Kiran is part of the Kraken Collective, which is a tiny group of indie queer science fiction/fantasy writers Lynn and I both belong to. The others are RoAnna Sylver, B R Sanders, and Lyssa Chiavari. All three are absolutely amazing.

Lynn: Becca Lusher. Becca is a dear friend of mine who writes epic fantasy and historical romance. She’s up there with the best authors I’ve ever read.

A.M. Blaushild is an up-and-coming author. I had the pleasure of working on their latest release, Good Angel, which is a lot of fun and has an ace-spectrum character questioning where exactly she fits. It’s a kind of rep I’ve never seen before and I really, really liked it.

Do you think readers can play a role in pushing larger book blogs and/or magazines to review more indie authors?

Claudie: Yes. Indies that really take off can get traditional book deals and even movie deals. Honestly, the best marketing indies have are their fans. When these fans start recommending indies to book bloggers, requesting them at the library, talking about it to others, that’s when the magic happens.

Sophia: Ask and ye shall receive. Usually just leaving a comment is enough. I actually watch Booktube (YouTube for book reviewers) more than I read book blogs, and they’re usually happy to respond to comments like “Have you read X? What did you think of it?” Some of them also have request forms or do Q&As.

All right. Final question! We’ve already spoken about how people can find and support indie authors in general, but how can they find and support YOU?

Claudie: I am on Twitter @ClH2OArs, and my website is claudiearseneault.com! I would highly encourage people to keep an eye on the Kraken Collective, on Twitter @KrakenColl, and with a newsletter here.

Lynn: All of my books are on Amazon and various other retailer websites. I’m also on Patreon and mirror the public posts to my blog a month later. And, of course, I’m on Twitter @lynnoconnacht.

Sophia: All of my books are on Amazon, and I’ve also got a Wattpad where they can find free reads. The next Evie Cappelli book is coming out next month, and they can find more info on that on my blog. That’s where all of the latest news goes. I can also be found on Twitter and Instagram as @knotmagick.

Want even more asexual fiction? Check out these resources:

Aromantic and Asexual Speculative Fiction Database (maintained by Claudie Arseneault) –

Goodreads Asexual Book Lists

Ace Characters List

By David Jay

Zeke and I count slowly from zero to 10, our deep voices matched in a kind of harmony, while Avary’s face is locked in concentration. He is closer to her, playing the role of the partner, while I am bracing her leg against my shoulder. Ten counts, a deep breath, and 10 more. Three sets of 10, then a few seconds rest, during which Zeke looks Avary in the eyes and says “You’ve got this.”

The phrase becomes a sort of mantra, one that she repeats to baby Octavia hours later as she flails looking for a latch and again over the coming days as she struggles with alien sensations of water and sound. My instinct tells me that it’s not a phrase I should use, that there should remain a small handful of things that are sacred between the three of them, and that this is one of them. I am not short on sacred things.

Earlier, years earlier, Avary, Zeke, and I are walking the hills of San Francisco and the topic of babies comes up. They have been dating for about two years, enough time for safe imagining, and Avary says, “Wouldn’t it be amazing if we could someday raise kids together?” I’d heard this fantasy before and had my heart broken by it.

Growing up asexual I learned that friends who profess fantasies of committed, long term intimacy will often abandon those fantasies when a romantic partner or job offer comes along. To hear these fantasies without the commitment to preserve them has become a painful kind of tease. I say “Yes, it would, but please don’t joke about that. Being a third parent with a couple I deeply love and trust is a very real dream of mine. I’d like to request that we only talk about that possibility if we’re ready to talk about it seriously.” We don’t discuss it again for three years.

I am not short on sacred things.
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We have spent that intervening time building trust, not with a goal in mind but certainly with a possibility. I serve as a counselor leading up to their wedding, helping them reflect on their commitments to one another. They support me through jobs and a new partnership, a move to New York with frequent visits back to stay on their couch. It is during one of these visits, a few months after the wedding, that the topic comes up again.

This time they trade off the sentences. Avary starts: “We’ve been talking about family, we know we want to have a kid, and we know that raising our child in community is important to us.” Now Zeke chimes in, “We’re talking with several friends about the role that they might play in our child’s life, and we wanted to have that discussion most deeply with you.”

How, exactly, to have that discussion is still a mystery to all of us, but we start to stumble our way through. I draw a line in the air. “On this end,” I say, “the baby starts crying and I give her back.” I move my hand two arm lengths over. “And on this end we are equal coparents. I live with you, we equally share expenses, I’m bottle feeding at 4 a.m. Show me the range that you’re interested in discussing.”

Fantasies are good, but possibilities are better. We begin to play with different scenarios, with me moving back from New York, with my partner, who is extremely supportive but does not want kids, eventually moving to join us. What if one of us gets a life-changing job opportunity in another city? What if our child becomes seriously disabled? What if one of us does? Over the course of a year we begin to mark the shape of what, exactly, we are signing up for. But it’s pretty clear that we’re signing up.

If the fantasy was about exploring what I want, the commitment was about knowing that all other wants for the rest of my life would be experienced through the lens of this one. I have wanted a child since, at the age of two, I memorized Mary Poppins so I could read it to my baby sister. Over the years I have been steadily reminded of the power that children have to capture my attention and awaken my compassion, and have struggled to imagine myself aging as anything other than a parent.

I’m deeply wired for parenting, and the process of committing to being one has made me respect all of the reasons that others may not be. My partner lives an incredibly full and active life that makes her happy, and it would be unfair to both her and a child to push that life aside for one that she knows would leave her feeling less fulfilled. For her, my coparenting means that she can keep her relationship with me and form a relationship with a child that balances her other passions.

We work out the logistics. During the second trimester I will move from the Brooklyn apartment that my partner and I share with several friends into Avary and Zeke’s house in San Francisco. About two months before Avary and Zeke start trying, we block out a full weekend to discuss our families of origin. We name the things that we want to reproduce from our childhoods, the things that we vehemently do not, and things that we wish we had.

We do our best to map out the undercurrents of the strong emotions that exist around the decisions of parenting, and we make room for those of us who process out loud and those who need quiet time to write and reflect. We define the values that we will hold as a family. We proactively seek mediation and counseling.

Fantasies are good, but possibilities are better.
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In the state of California, third parent adoption has recently been made legal, the result of decades of fights by queer couples whose sperm and egg donors wanted to contribute more than genetics. We are, as far as we know, the first set of parents to take advantage of this law which includes a straight couple, and definitely the first to include an asexual, but we know that what we are doing is not without legacy.

We researched the Lesbian Mother’s National Defense Fund, which has been fighting custody battles for families who don’t fit the norm since the days when it was commonplace for lesbian moms to have their kids taken away. We lay the groundwork for our court case and we talk to queerspawn, adults raised in queer family, to get a sense of what our child might experience. We wait.

Avary and Zeke learn that they are pregnant on the morning of December 31, 2016, and call me immediately. I am on a snowy farm in the Catskills with my partner, reflecting on the coming year. It will still be a few months before we announce this news to the world, so I have time to work my head around the semantics. Is Avary pregnant? Are Avary and Zeke pregnant? Are “we” pregnant? That inclusive pronoun still feels more theoretical than real, like publicly declaring that the guy you’ve gone on two dates with is your boyfriend. I try it on. I start referring to Zeke as my baby daddy. I start packing.

Reflections From A Five-Time Egg Donor

I land in San Francisco on May 1, four months before our August 31 due date. Four months to figure out how to share chores, and how I could integrate into their marriage while still giving it space to breathe. As an asexual I obviously wasn’t sleeping with either of them, but there are many other forms of intimacy to navigate. Which moments of bonding are important for us to share as a family, and which are needed for them as a couple?

As Avary requires more support throughout the third trimester, the patterns become clearer, and a camaraderie develops between Zeke and I as we trade off housework, build furniture, and research the ins and outs of labor and infant care.

During these months we also seek to solidify the bonds that tie us together. Zeke and Avary have their wedding vows, and it seems like we should create some other encapsulation of the commitment uniting the three of us and the being that, at that point, we’re calling Thumper. On a long car ride to visit her soon-to-be Grannie, we draft up a document that reads a little like a prenup. We list our agreements around financial contribution, accepting or rejecting job opportunities, decision making, and separation with the feel of friends packing food for a disaster kit. We don’t know what’s coming, we can’t know what’s coming, but it is pleasant to imagine ourselves resilient when we get there.

Octavia is born on August 26, 2017, at 8:18 p.m. Since Avary is the last to carry her family name, the last name goes to her, while the two middle names are given to Zeke and me. She passes from mother to father to father in her first hours of life, learning the scent of our skin and the tone of our voices. That first night in the hospital we take shifts, Zeke until 3 a.m., me for the rest of the night working to make sure that Avary can breastfeed while getting as much sleep as possible.

The next day we both get to experience something that few new fathers do: our child’s first day of life with the presence and awareness of a night of rest. Even Avary, still exhausted and recovering, is feeling more rested than she otherwise may have. Like Octavia, our existence together as parents is tasting reality for the first time and, miraculously, showing a spark of life.

As I write this piece Octavia is three weeks old. Baby and mom are both healthy, our nightly shifts are allowing Zeke and I to get a decent amount of sleep and we look forward to extending the privilege to Avary once Octavia starts bottle feeding. We are scheduling an appointment with a social worker, one of the first steps in pursuing third parent adoption, and are juggling the three sets of grandparents eager to fly in for a visit.

There is a great deal to be excited about and a great deal more that remains uncertain, but for the time being we are low on regrets. My partner in Brooklyn sometimes says that when scuba diving or climbing a mountain there is a thrill in moments of jaw-dropping beauty and different kind of thrill in checking one’s gear. Our family, it seems, has an appetite for both.

By Lola Phoenix

Content warning: sexual abuse

Last year, Safe Kids, Thriving Families—a child abuse protection charity—introduced a campaign encouraging parents to not force their children to kiss or hug adults in their lives. The charity posted on Facebook:

“Just to be clear to everyone — WE LOVE HUGS AND KISSES. However, we are VERY MUCH against FORCING kids to kiss and hug. We are a child abuse protection charity who work in our community with victims and families and it is well established in this field that ONE of the ways to protect our children is to change our cultural attitudes towards consent and body autonomy.”

As silly as it may initially sound, I wonder if we could have a similar campaign by adults, for adults. As someone on the autistic spectrum, my life is constantly punctuated by moments where my consent is not prioritized and my personal boundaries are considered too obscure. The irony is that I am the one described as stubborn and unyielding — all while I organize my entire life around meeting the rigid societal norms created by allistic (non-autistic) people. Every day I walk on eggshells to avoid offending others. I make eye contact; I shake hands; I make awkward small talk — all done solely to make allistic people feel better. Meanwhile, my boundaries are considered both too unimportant and too “weird” to be accommodated.

How are autistic people meant to negotiate boundaries and provide consent when they spend the vast majority of their lives having their own boundaries ignored, trampled, or ridiculed?

From an early age, I took things very literally and never enjoyed breaking the rules. The mounting anxiety and the crushing guilt I felt afterwards never seemed to outweigh whatever rewards were promised; I liked doing what I was told. And, especially as a kid on the autistic spectrum, there were some basic rules I understood about life. One of them was that adults were always right and should always be listened to.

I make eye contact; I shake hands; I make awkward small talk —all done solely to make allistic people feel better.

In hindsight, I can’t tell you if being so willing to follow rules made it easier for my babysitter to sexually abuse me, or if being sexually abused — multiple times between the ages of 3 and 9 — made me invest even more in the rules. Maybe I believed that one day the right combination of rules would keep me safe from the sexual aggressors that I, even as a child — as someone society reads as female — held responsibility for defending myself from.

On top of the sexual abuse I experienced, growing up as a disabled child often further underscored that what happened to my body was not something I had control over; doctors and medical professionals had near-complete access to it. And while the intent of my doctors in removing my clothing was very different from those who sexually abused me, the message of both of these experiences congealed: From a very early age, my body just didn’t feel like my own.

Moreover, I was always afraid of the consequences of saying “no,” as there have been myriad situations in my life where saying “no” was simply not safe — or it just never mattered.

What It Means To Be Highly Empathetic, And Autistic

Being blind in one eye, my three half siblings relished doing anything to target my “good” eye, whether it be shining lights into it or throwing things at it. Saying “no” never stopped them; it only seemed to delight and encourage them. I also grew up in the south, where a child saying “no” to a parent is not only unheard of, but could be met with swift punishment. Beyond those cultural norms, though, my family was also textbook abusive. If the wind slammed my door shut accidentally, I used to immediately open it again and apologize profusely. Displays of contradiction were not only unwelcome, but, with the most severe punishment in my childhood home being a belt whipping, extremely unsafe.

In short, whether the retribution was physical, emotional, mental, or all three, there have been many times when “no” was not an option — be it in terms of eye contact, shaking hands, or hugging people. Not doing these things either makes others feel awkward or causes me to stick out, which intensifies my anxiety.

This is the case even in spaces where consent is supposedly “valued” — where people are encouraged to ask before touching. You would think that in such spaces people would be less likely to assume or pressure your consent. But I’ve found that if people are encouraged to ask before touching you, they will then ask way more to hug and touch you, with the presumption you’ll agree due to this wonderful “safe space” exercise — more so than they ever would in a space without these rules.

It’s almost as if the rule of asking before touching is a green signal for people who want to touch. Instead of keeping their distance, people seem to push more for touch, which can make even those spaces unsafe for people in my position. Sure, I can physically say “no” to someone and within those spaces; it’s unlikely they will kick up a fuss. But “no” is more than just a simple word that’s a complete sentence — it’s a sentiment and right I am unused to having and exercising without penalty. It’s a negotiation I don’t always have the energy to have, and don’t need as much in spaces where people are less likely to ask me for hugs.

The reality is — despite self-care-inspired calls to set boundaries — if I were to truly utilize the power of “no” in my life, things would not change positively. I would likely not have very successful relationships at work. I might, as I did in school, be assumed stuck up and rude, and therefore find simple social interchanges more difficult because people would be hostile towards me. Moreover, my anxiety would increase tenfold.

I find understanding what “no” means for me even more difficult as I navigate the murky waters of sexual consent, especially as someone on the asexual spectrum who’s survived sexual abuse. My reasons for wanting to have sex are never as simple as a biological drive or need. Based on what people tell me it is to feel “horny,” I could count the times I have genuinely felt that way on one hand. Most of my desires for physical affection have little to do with the actual, physical reality of those things; it’s much more about what they represent.

My reasons for wanting to have sex are never as simple as a biological drive or need.

Because my brain processes my senses so strongly, physical contact can often come with a lot of anxiety and discomfort. Touching can quickly go from enjoyable to overwhelming, and the prospect of explaining that to a stranger can be daunting. As a childhood sexual abuse survivor and someone who didn’t grow up being touched affectionately — aside from maybe one person — I never really understood the value of touch. As a result, I learned early to do without it. So touch almost always represents something symbolic before I can relax into the physical aspects of it.

This is definitely also the case with kissing. I find the actual physical act bizarre — so much so that I often end up laughing in the middle of making out with someone. It’s the representation of what kissing means that is more enjoyable to me — and the same goes for sex. But there are times when the physical tedium of sexual acts is not something I necessarily look forward to. Included in that tedium can sometimes be consent negotiation.

How do I give enthusiastic consent in such cases? As an asexual person, I appreciate the value sex can add to my relationships — as both a physical act and as a way to bond with someone. But I don’t necessarily feel enthusiastic about it. For me, feeling enthusiastic about sex and being expected to be enthusiastic about it every time is sort of like someone expecting you to be excited every single time you make pancakes. Pancakes are great, aren’t they? (Unless you’re allergic to them for whatever reason.) But you’re not necessarily going to be enthusiastic about making them every single time.

My Inability To Make Eye Contact Does Not Need To Be ‘Fixed’

I feel capable enough with people I know and trust that if I consent to something that I later feel I don’t want to do, I can say “no” without fear. But that trust has to be built with them — and it doesn’t come easy because “no” in my life has never been a complete sentence. And a respected “no” continues to be a power I can never wield in my day-to-day.

Every day I have to negotiate the boundaries of consent with the world as a person on the autistic spectrum, and every day the idea that my “no” is worthless is reinforced. My “no” means nothing next to social conventions that demand I physically act out specific behaviors for the comfort of allistic people — so why would this dynamic not extend to sexual behaviors too? How can I trust that in sexual situations I am not just agreeing to things for the sake of avoiding the awkwardness and tension that comes with vulnerability? Especially when being vulnerable in life has usually come with someone taking advantage of that vulnerability?

Negotiating this every day with myself and the world is tiring. It might be why social situations leave me feeling exhausted, especially with strangers. I can’t let my guard down. I have to continue to perform. On a fundamental level, my desire to be myself is not permitted without an undue amount of stress in my life. I have to sacrifice part of myself for the betterment of the whole in everyday situations. And I am scared that this inner part of me that desires the “peace” of adhering to rules and orders will keep me from saying “no,” even when I should.

Why I Wish I’d Been Diagnosed With Autism As A Child

There are days when I wish sex didn’t exist. Not only as a sexual abuse survivor, but also as an asexual person.

There are days when I wonder if being allistic might mean I could go to more parties and social gatherings, if I might have more friends, if I might feel differently and somehow that might change the frequency of my attraction.

There are days when I wonder if sexuality had been introduced to me in the precocious stumbling method of self-exploration and fun, if a sexual tinge would fill me with desire rather than dread.

Within a discussion of consent there is always a “no” — and even as I’m far away from the storm cloud that shadowed over my world for so long, I am still afraid of the lightning.

On a fundamental level, my desire to be myself is not permitted without an undue amount of stress in my life.

The point of sharing all of this is to encourage a more dynamic understanding of enthusiastic consent. It’s to make people think about what touch and consent mean for disabled people who don’t have the option to consent, or who feel like their boundaries and accommodations are regularly ignored or discounted, who have to sacrifice their bodily autonomy for their own health and survival.

I also want people to think about how living with this dynamic can impact so many other things in people’s lives. When those of us who have felt a backlash to our “nos” say yes to appease others, the ripples of that extend to every area of our lives.

I get a warm feeling when I see the word “asexual” in someone’s bio.

So when, after scrolling on Facebook for entirely too long the other day, I saw an article on graysexuality, I happily clicked the link. (Graysexuality is an asexual-spectrum orientation that describes people who sometimes experience sexual attraction, but usually don’t.)

The article was informative — but the comments sucked. While some readers were excited and relieved to finally discover that terms like “graysexual” and “demisexual” had perfectly described their experiences, others were dismissive. Commenters posted things like, “Did the author just make up a word?” and “Oh look at all the special snowflakes.”

The article was informative — but the comments sucked.
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It wasn’t the first time I’d seen comments like this. Contemptuous comments trend on articles where writers talk about their experiences being brown, disabled, queer, pansexual, aromantic, genderqueer, trans, neurodivergent, and any marginalized identity that the general public isn’t aware of (or comfortable with).

Time and again, the question is raised: Why do people need all of these labels?

My answer to this is simple: Because these labels are our identities. They describe our cultures, communities, genders, sexual and romantic orientations, bodies, and/or our additional experiences with privilege and oppression. They are crucial for anyone whose experience isn’t positioned as the default in our society.

Before I found the label “asexual,” I was struggling to understand why I didn’t have a real interest in sex and didn’t feel sexual attraction. I was confused, afraid something was wrong with me. I worried I’d never have a successful romantic relationship.

Labels are crucial for anyone whose experience isn’t positioned as the default in our society.
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Seeing the word “asexual” while browsing the web one day helped me put the pieces of the puzzle together.

Once I had a word to describe my experience, I had a starting point. I had something Google-able. I did research and found a community of people who were just like me. Other aces (the nickname for asexuals) gave advice on how to navigate a very sexual world as an asexual person. They also provided emotional support. They reminded me that I was not broken or alone. I gained more confidence and began to understand my (a)sexual agency.

How I Learned To Love Being Aromantic

That’s what labels do — they empower marginalized people. Through our identities, we build communities, we learn about ourselves, we tell our own stories, we celebrate ourselves in a society that often tells us we shouldn’t, and we come together to stand up to oppressive systems.

Our identity labels hold power.

It’s time to acknowledge this reality — and to do so, we must start by debunking some myths.

Myth #1: “You’re a special snowflake.”

People use “special snowflake” to disregard the experiences of marginalized groups. They think we’re purposely trying to be different and that we invent these labels so we can feel special.

When you think people with different identities are special snowflakes, you suggest that the only “normal” people are the people who are just like you. There’s a word for that: bigotry.

People with this mindset need to think beyond their own experiences. If you are cishet (cisgender and heterosexual) and grew up surrounded by cishet people, then you might not be familiar with different sexual orientations and gender identities. But just because you only know cishet people doesn’t mean other people of various orientations and genders don’t exist. The world is a lot bigger than your circle of friends, believe it or not.

When you think people with different identities are special snowflakes, you suggest that the only ‘normal’ people are the people who are just like you.
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Think about it this way: There are around 470,000 words in the Merriam-Webster dictionary. If you only know half of them, does that mean the other half aren’t real? Obviously not. And denying their existence doesn’t make them disappear. It just makes you look foolish as hell.

Those who’ve been routinely othered aren’t trying to be “special snowflakes.” We seek a community of people who are like us and we want to be respected in society, despite our differences.

Myth #2: “You’re all mentally ill.”

I’d need an entire book to explain how problematic and wrong this statement is. So I’ll just focus on the main reason: You can’t use your bigotry to make armchair diagnoses, and you can’t call something a mental illness simply because you don’t agree with it. Doing so not only attempts to invalidate people’s experiences, but also perpetuates the stigma surrounding mental illness. This stigma keeps neurodivergent people from seeking out therapy, medication, and other beneficial resources.

Shitting on neurodivergent people and belittling any other group that isn’t exactly like you is straight-up oppressive.

Stop Calling It ‘Identity Politics’  —  It’s Civil Rights

Myth #3: “You can’t go around making up new words.”

Actually, we can. We have been. And we’ll continue to do so.

Where do you think all those words in the dictionary came from? Someone made them up. Over time, people create new words; this is how language evolves. So you may want to loosen your grip on that 1999 edition of the dictionary.

Remember those Earth-like planets NASA recently discovered? Well, they’re currently in the process of naming them — because that’s what often happens when you discover something that you didn’t realize existed. Notice I said “you didn’t realize existed,” not “new.” Many of these identities aren’t new — it’s just that people are only now starting to learn about them and name them.

Many of these identities aren’t new. It’s just that people are only now starting to learn about them and name them.
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I understand that there are tons of identities; I understand that it can feel impossible to keep up with all the terminology. But guess what? That’s okay. That’s why we have Google.

I also understand that these identities can contradict the very things we’ve grown up learning all our lives (like the gender binary), and that they force us to rethink the very social constructs we believed to be 100% truths. For example, in discovering my asexuality, I had to unlearn many myths about human sexuality that I’d previously believed.

But there’s a simple way to deal with these challenges: Embrace diversity in the human experience beyond what you’ve already heard about.

On a daily basis, people are discriminated against for being something other than white, thin, neurotypical, cisgender, heteroromantic, heterosexual, and whatever else is perceived as “normal” in our society. If you fit into any of these categories, then you experience privilege. Some of your identities are more accepted, or at least more widely known. You don’t have to explain yourself everywhere you go. You don’t have to worry about facing discrimination throughout your day.

That’s privilege.

Many people’s identities have little to do with you.
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If you’re privileged — and everyone is in some form or another — recognize it. If you want to, be an ally for those who aren’t privileged in the ways you are. And if you don’t want to, at least stop pretending other people’s identities and experiences are affecting your lifestyle. All they’re actually doing is making you Google a little more often, and getting you to think about our society’s problematic social constructs.

Yes, there’s a huge learning curve when you’re reading about various identities online, which sometimes requires extra digging and parsing through academic language (hint — try blogs and intersectional feminist sites. They tend to use everyday language). But just be willing to try.

And if you aren’t able to do that, at the very least, stop poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.

In short: Mind your business.