Identity

In light of the recent decision by Australian parliament to legislate in favour of same-sex marriage, I’ve had a bit of a think about my own situation.

Here are my thoughts.

I have long held a sneaking suspicion I rarely ever “dressed up” when I was a kid because I had deep-rooted difficulties with identity.

A normal, healthy kid develops a sense of self from an early age, and through middle childhood forms concepts of identity in myriad ways. When adolescence kicks in, those ideas get turned on their head, and the fraught years of early to mid teens tend to revolve around experimentation, exploration, and establishing a sense of independent, real self. This happens as part of establishing adulthood, usually at a distance from parents and traditional role models. Some teens maintain their attachment to identities experimented with in childhood as a place of safety amidst conflicted environments. Others leave all that behind and progress to form new identities for themselves as adults who don’t rely on anything more than the wisdom developed during their younger years. Thus society celebrates a diverse spectrum of personality types.

Young kids constantly experiment with ideas of identity. For little guys, this can manifest itself as character costumes, face painting, clothing, physical activities (e.g. organised sport) and numerous other activities where forms of self-expression and mask-wearing (and inner mask development) become particularly focused. Identifying with characters in games, movies, literature and so on takes observation of role models to the point of emulation. At a point short of early adolescence, those experiments tend to give way to more practical applications—fantasy gives way to enactment, e.g. the superhero costume becomes sports gear; listening to music becomes playing guitar in the garage, and so on. The mask becomes reality, the identity becomes codified and life patterns become established norms adhered to well into middle adulthood.

From my own perspective, even when very young, I struggled with identity. I didn’t connect with other kids, and my aloof, frequently negligent parents provided no role models there. Family friends? There were none. TV? It tended to be too fantastical for me. Books? Too diverse. The near obsession some of my school peers had with popular culture references I found off-putting, to the point where—at the risk of being labelled a snob—I chose to distance myself. I came to dislike superhero comic books and eventually comics in general. This was not because I found anything intrinsically bad in them, it’s just the fawning and slavering by said peers acted as a deterrent. This extended to other facets too—music, books, movies, TV shows, even fashion. If they raved about it, I hated it. Popular culture became my antithesis.

One major phenomenon spared that indignity was Star Wars, which I saw before any of my peers. I liked it a great deal, which meant my peers became suspicious. A little later, I found myself drawn to the Superman phenomenon when the 1978 movie was released with great fanfare, but unlike some of my colleagues, I didn’t race around the neighbourhood in blue tights with red undies over the top and a red cape tied around my neck to express my appreciation. I never wore costumes. Not even for Star Wars. Indeed, my enduring interest tended to gravitate to how they made the movie itself, and an appreciation for John William’s brilliant score, created hot on the heels of Star Wars, Close Encounters and Jaws. I thought he was such a genius, but his efforts were largely ignored by my peers.

When my school conducted concerts and plays and all the students were required to perform, I ended up in roles requiring little to no fantasy role-playing. I did not require much of a mask. While others strutted the stage as woodland animals or animated toys or rats or knights in shining silver-painted-cardboard armour, I wore regular street clothes or perhaps something a little formal. Not for me the life of cap-and-bells under the proscenium arch, not for me face paint or makeup or funny costumes. Indeed, one year I was the only boy on stage who wasn’t in a pair of tights (to this day I’ve never worn tights on stage). My final year of primary school didn’t even hold a play, much to my relief. In high school, I worked behind the scenes for the stage, and was happy with that.

I had identity issues from early on. Being ‘different’ and not knowing why meant traditional or even meaningful role models weren’t there for me. I couldn’t find anything or anyone who resonated. I wasn’t to know until many years later I had Asperger’s, which is now acknowledged as one of many states on the autism spectrum. Asperger’s wasn’t even recognised until the late 1980s, towards the end of my teen years, and my own situation didn’t get formally diagnosed until my early 30s. It went deeper than just that, though.

From an early age I also had gender identity issues.

I started “noticing” people differently when I was about nine, and it only intensified as I got older. I say “people” instead of “girls” or “boys” because I was paying attention to both. Confused and increasingly frightened by playground (and even mainstream media) innuendo at the time, I withdrew from engaging in discussion with anyone. I became immensely embarrassed by it all, and preferred to pretend it didn’t exist for me. The 1970s and 80s were a particularly cruel time for individuals on the LGBTIQ spectrum, and I wanted nothing to do with any of it. I denied my own feelings and maintained an aloofness which became interpreted as snobbery. To add to the already potent mix, my father decided not to bother with the birds-and-bees father-son “chat”, which I think at the age of eleven, twelve or even thirteen might have really helped. The reality was I loved everyone. I wanted to be with everyone, with anyone, but with such cruel and torturous judgement (and often outright hatred) from many of the more vocal of my peers for anything outside a very narrowly defined norm, combined with my then undiagnosed Asperger’s, I went into denial and ended up with no one.

I was alone. Worse still, I was lonely.

My crushes (even the “appropriate” ones) went unexpressed and unrequited. Poetry became an outlet, yet rapidly found its way into the bin alongside my short stories, novels and the like to make way for more important things on the bookshelf, as far as parents were concerned. Aged eleven, a girl who wanted to whisper something in my ear became distressed when I ran away. After that, she expressed outright hatred for me and even did cruel things to my schoolbag on more than one occasion as revenge. Not long after, I was invited to a “camp” in the backyard of a popular boy from my class. I found myself in a tent with another boy I barely knew, who privately asked if I would like to be his boyfriend. He later told his mother I smacked his leg (then colloquially referred to as a “horsebite”) in an unprovoked act of malice. He was wrong. I did it out of fear and a deliberate attempt to have him not like me, which worked. I hated being physically abusive, especially as I had been the subject of physical violence from bullies on more than my fair share of occasions, but I was dwelling in a perpetual state of confusion and fear, and lashed out. I maintained my silence as to why I smacked the boy and was appropriately punished.

In high school, I developed a crush on a girl which stayed with me for a long time. I confided in a “friend” who promptly told everyone—except the girl herself. We became the object of public teasing, scorn and derision for a good while after that. I withdrew into my shell. Some time later, a boy I knew at a youth group I attended made a pass at me, but at the time I failed to understand his language. Frustrated, and perhaps interpreting my response as something else, he moved his attention elsewhere.

My “attraction” barometer sloshed from one end of the spectrum to the other, as if my in-built Kinsey scale tipped and tumbled in random fashion. To this day, I haven’t a stable orientation. Sometimes I like women. Other times, I like men. I can’t think of a time when I’ve liked both together. Much of the time, I don’t have a preference either way, and in my tumbling, confused world of identity, that suits me just fine. As an adult, I’ve been with folks from both genders at one time or another, but I’ve tended to be awkward, befuddled and frankly useless with either. None of my attempts at emotional or physical intimacy ended with any measure of satisfaction for either party, and I’ve known it’s always been my fault. As part of my Asperger’s, I don’t instinctively read body-language. I have to intellectualise it, which takes more time than instinctive interpretation, by which time, others have moved on. In that respect, I am slow. In the quick, sharp flow of my mental river, there are more than a few jagged rocks to be wary of.

I’ve been told I need to “find someone” if I’m going to achieve any semblance of a meaningful life and even a token measure of happiness. My problem is I find it difficult to imagine there would be anyone out there with the patience to put up with an individual who—in terms of sexual attraction—might be interested (for a given value) for an unknown period of time, and then disinterested for the remainder, only to swing back at some random time down the line. I’ve often felt to make such demands of any potential partner would be grossly unfair to them. I’m still friendly, still connective and connected. My Social Anxiety Disorder precludes rushing out somewhere to meet people, but that doesn’t mean I can’t conduct myself in an appropriate fashion in the presence of a person or small group of people.

I’ve often said I don’t know what planet I belong on, but it sure as hell ain’t this one.

I suspect in the great scheme of things, nearing fifty years old, I have settled on a form of identity. It might not have the substance most folks prefer, but it is something. I understand my mental health difficulties now, better than I have at any time in my past. I’ve made incredible headway with treatment for a panoply of issues, and now feel many of my challenges are manageable. Yet, I must also reconcile that perfect storm of circumstances in my youth have led me to a future of loneliness and isolation which I may never escape. Am I gay? I don’t feel I am. Am I straight? I don’t identify as such. Am I bisexual? Perhaps. Pansexual? Possibly. At this point, all I can say with any measure of certainty is I am celibate, which renders such lines of questioning and others moot. Am I ruling out having a connected life in the future? All I can say to that is I’m leaving my options open.

To give all this cloud cover its silver lining, I would like to believe my uncommon perspective has been broadened by my situation. I’ve always been a very positive and supportive equal rights kind of person. I’m unsure whether or not I should call myself a feminist. I certainly don’t discriminate based on gender. Or race. Just competence … and maybe a bit on intelligence (I find my patience wears thin when it comes to stupid people … it’s a failing of mine, sorry). I’ve had problems with empathy, but I think much of that has to do with dwelling in my own shell so much. These days, I have all the empathy under the sun. It’s just sometimes it gets so overwhelming, I become affected enough to want to withdraw. I still strive to connect. I love to share. I feel I have so much to offer, the ability to help others even though I struggle to help myself. Like I was in my youth, I still have deep and abiding affection for everyone.

I guess that’s why I create art and write so much.

Which is something … I guess.

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