On Thin Ice: When Questioning Your Queer Reality

illustration by Beyza Durmuş

She was leaning her head on my shoulder while we sat on the couch and muttered, “I’d treat you so much better than him.”

My closest friend at the time often whispered sweet nothings, and my heart skipped a beat -- then skipped right back into place when I overthought it about twenty million times.

I’d only entertained cishet males as romantic partners, but I knew that my vision of love did not depend on someone’s sex assigned at birth. During my 2013 Tumblr phase, I let myself explore sexuality as much as I felt comfortable. 

There was no authority figure other than the internet to tell me that love is love, however, it presents itself for you. I scoured for resources that corralled every definition of sexual orientation, of gender identity, every possible truth of existence. 

I obsessively read forums and coming out stories with admiration for people who knew exactly what they wanted. 

I noticed others discussing the possibility of teenagers “pretending” they were queer in order to fit in with the cool kids, online, or speculating if they were genuinely convincing themselves they were part of a disadvantaged community just to have one.

During the most difficult periods of my relationship with my parents, I often doubted my reality. 

I didn’t have the tools I needed to validate myself or to ask for support from those around me (without shame or dubiety). So when I felt a little bit of love for someone close to me of the same gender, I didn’t vocalize it for the sheer chance that I might be lying.

I didn’t even feel comfortable letting my parents know of my male love interests, let alone my girl best friend. There’s no telling how they would respond, and I didn’t quite want to be known so closely anyway.

Animosity grew for a number of reasons, and she left for college as I entered my junior year of high school. I had grown comfortable having someone in my corner and didn’t quite understand my feelings until after the fact.

Embarrassment creeps up out of the trenches every so often, but mostly I was ashamed of suppressing myself and failing to practice vulnerability. 

Five years later, I was using Bumble regularly and planning three meet-ups each week. I didn’t think much about the follow-ups, because I didn’t really intend that part to come.

Immediately with any queer person there was a comfortability over messaging. We all would use pet names sooner rather than later, or take extra care to understand how the other person was feeling that day. 

I met the most romantic person that had given me the time of day, and she wasn’t making me feel strange about having less experience with women. I wasn’t nervous, and I didn’t expect to feel any differently about my identity. 

So I followed through with the physical expression of my sexuality, which is seen as some way of “proving” that I wasn’t lying. Saying this is moreso disdain directed at the stigma, and less so how I felt at all. 

And yet, despite the fated expression, I’ve arrived at the fifteen-year-old dilemma once again. I am trying to understand (and doubting myself) if I am in love with a close friend.

Similarly to the comfortable lingo between new femme/nonbinary love interests, I noticed these phrases used between platonic friends. Expressing love for our friends is just as important as in romantic endeavors, and seeing friends hype each other up is ideal -- it’s the acknowledgment we all deserve. 

But when a friend says “you deserve the entire world,” we don’t necessarily get butterflies or assume they want to pursue a romantic relationship. 

So when that same friend says “you deserve the entire world,” but holds eye contact a bit longer or fantasizes about the future, it could mean nothing and everything all at once.

The words we use to express platonic love overlaps directly with romance in the queer dating world. As much as I love joking about kissing all my friends, I know I’m my own worst nightmare of a match when it comes to this.

There’s no rhyme or reason, other than providing an inviting space for those around you, and an even more enticing way of living. One where strangers deserve the same respect and kindness as your known loved ones, and we can be comfortable to say what we feel. 

Love as it exists in the community is indispensable.

For anyone still apprehensive on how to maneuver their sexuality, this overlap is a bit confounding. When embracing your sexuality already feels unfamiliar, decoding others’ intentions takes on next-level uncertainty.

Even though my relationship with my parents is not as intense as it used to be, I am still doubting my reality. More specifically, I am questioning the validity of my identity and avoiding taking these chances altogether. 

The advice I’d offer to anyone else would be to ask. To gently say “I’ve been curious about your intentions, because I’m picking up on certain messages and wanted to better understand your side of things so I don’t misinterpret and negatively affect our relationship.”

There is an opportunity for boundaries, clear communication, and vulnerability. 

And yet, I am unable to heed my own advice. At 20, I’m more vocal about my sexuality, but I still feel suspicious of myself. 

It’s not necessarily that I’m afraid of what they’ll say in response, but again, I’m wondering if it is worth it to speak up in case I’m lying. When my family asks about love interests, they always assume to say, boyfriends. While that doubt can be traced back to patterns from my childhood, it’s also intertwined with the pressure of heterosexual norms elsewhere.

In early 2000s media, any differing sexuality is widely seen as strange. In more recent years, some characters are only introduced or defined by their LGBTQIA2S+ identity. 

I know I am more than my expression of romance as it relates to gender, and I know my happiness should be prioritized over fear.

Genuine visibility in media is increasing, and I’m grateful for shows like Adventure Time and Steven Universe that let young people know it’s wonderful to be exactly who you are.

Still, there is a deep-seated fear of existing only as a stereotype. An endless wondering if I’m unintentionally taking advantage of my position as a friend, and an overall embarrassment that I’ve kept these feelings hidden for so long to begin with.

In a way, it seems like a complex betrayal of trust to have these thoughts.

When we allow ourselves to exist outside of fear, or gently nudge closer to actualization, it creates a safer space for others to do the same. If regularly practicing open communication and unapologetically being ourselves is the norm, well, that reality sounds rather unbeatable. 

What I’ve slowly come to realize is we don’t need to know what we want at every moment in time. The beauty of existence lies within our ability to become ourselves with every waking decision. 

It’s meaningful to maneuver through this world (and through sticky situations where we doubt ourselves) in the ways that best suit us at that moment in time. There’s a sense of peace with knowing you made use of the tools available to you at that interval.

Part of my identity was that I didn't like ketchup, and I had a hard time eating things like tomatoes or onions on their own. I changed my mind when I tried them again one year, and now I know that I like these ingredients as the person I am today.

By no means do I intend to fetishize others, or directly compare discovering the spectrum of sexuality to sandwich ingredients. 

What I do mean is that we have the freedom to explore who we are -- and we don’t need to explain ourselves when something feels right. It is imperative that we allow ourselves the opportunity to understand nuance -- and seek out experiences that can validate our desires internally.

As for my fifteen-year-old-dilemma-revitalized-at-twenty, I’ve decided I’m comfortable with letting it be.