An ‘At What Point do I Qualify? My Queer Experience’ Post
By Louise Clare Dalton
“‘Bisexual’ once fit perfectly – like an old shirt I could button myself into and show to the world. But now, the shirt doesn’t fit anymore – it just doesn’t feel right. So, why does it scare me to talk about that?”
Writing a blog about my sexuality so soon after coming out has been a really interesting journey for me. It’s given me space to find things, to interrogate my subconscious and to explore some very personal parts of my life with the support of an amazing queer community. Having a chance to say the things I want to say and to connect with other folk who’ve had similar experiences feels … well, pretty special. But it can also be exposing and somewhat vulnerable at times. Offering any piece of yourself to the world, especially when parts of that same world taught you to feel shame in the first place can be… scary.
And one thing in particular is scaring me at the moment. So, let me stare down the barrel of the gun and have a chat about it right here, in the blog. Today we discuss, under a slightly different title (props for noticing, if you did), what happens when the label you so proudly assigned yourself, that you wrote a blog about, doesn’t quite fit anymore. And why, for some of us, changing a label (or letting go of labels altogether, perhaps)feels like such a scary concept.
Well for me, giving myself and my sexuality a label was as much an act of resistance as it was an act of self acceptance. Labelling myself was my way of giving shame the finger, of saying, ‘Fuck the time I’ve spent being sorry for this and fuck anyone who has a problem with it.’ ‘Coming out’ and saying ‘here I am, hons’ was a completely necessary step for me as I learned to love myself.
At that time (about 18 months ago) ‘bisexual’ fit perfectly – like an old shirt I could button myself into and show to the world. But now, the shirt doesn’t fit anymore – it just doesn’t feel right. So, why does it scare me to talk about that?
Now, I’ll be the first to say ‘fuck what people think’. But maybe, without even realising, there are parts of me that still do care about the way I’m seen. Maybe on some level, I fear that if I do change my label, I’ll align more with misinformed, ignorant ideas about how bi people are confused and indecisive. I know – it sounds mad, to still care in this way and to be influenced by these ideas. But if I don’t take the time to unpick these fears (that have been informed by our queer-phobic society) they could play a part in my decision making, and maybe even my life, without me even knowing it.
When people say things like ‘you shouldn’t need to come out’ or ‘we shouldn’t need labels’, I think damn. I really, truly agree. But sadly, most of us did need to come out, not just once but repeatedly. We’re pressured to categorise ourselves in order to gain some kind of acceptance and understanding from the people around us.
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So perhaps this need to categorise sexuality is also a part of why it feels so genuinely scary to say, ‘I know I really stuck myself inside this box but, hey. I reckon… maybe this other one fits best. Or really none of them quite fit; can I just play with the cardboard instead?’
I do believe, for now at least, that ‘coming out’ and ‘labels’ still have to exist. While we do not have equality, we still need this language in order to continue our fight for it. We are not able to simply be, but I hope one day we will be.
What I can say for sure is that falling in love has made things clearer for me – experiencing first hand that love is just love, and sex is just sex, no matter your gender or anyone else’s. The cuddles on the sofa feel the same, the morning coffee brought to the bedside table feels the same, the farts left lingering under the covers smell just as spicy. We’re taught that same-sex relationships are this huge thing that holds so much weight, and if we’re not careful, we can end up believing that. But really, it’s just fucking love, hons! And I always thought I knew that, but now it feels concrete enough for me to say, I am who I am, I love who I love, and I don’t need to put myself in any boxes to be sure of anything.
So lemme round off, hons, let me introduce myself as who I am right now. I am Louise Clare Dalton, and I am queer. I also love cozy socks, my GF and wild water swimming. I drink too much coffee and Diet Coke. I believe wholeheartedly in the goodness of humanity but also that people can be fucking shite at times. I am straightforward and indecisive, happy and sad, right and wrong all at once. I am sure of myself and I am finding myself. All of these things are parts of who I am, but none of them define me. If ‘bisexual’ doesn’t feel right anymore, I don’t have to label myself with that. It’s cool, hon. Relax.
Peace and rainbow love,
Louise Clare Dalton is a feminist, queer writer and poet interested in sharing her personal experience. She aims to open up the dialogue about common misconceptions and the queer-phobic narratives they perpetuate. Louise writes her own blog at www.louiseclaredalton.com, which focuses on ethical consumerism and healthy life hacks. Finalist in the Roundhouse Poetry Slam 19, her spoken-word poetry focuses on introspection and understanding how societal pressure affects human behaviour.
Lou was our featured poet in September 2020. Check out her performance of What They Told You
Read all of Lou’s At What Point Do I Qualify? posts
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Louise Clare Dalton. “Let’s talk about shame baby, let’s talk about it and me, let’s talk about all the good things and the … oh wait. Hon, let’s not kid ourselves, there isn’t much ‘good’ to speak of when it comes to the shame surrounding sexuality and queerness.
By Hayley Sherman: “Picture the scene. It’s 1991. I’m thirteen, she’s twenty-six. I’m an iffy-looking, greasy-faced, stalkerish teenager and she’s a respectable, married foreign languages teacher. Let’s face it, it was never going to work.”
Janine Norris on the pain of coming out to a homophobic family and the explosive impact many years later.