Claiming bisexuality has always been a bit weird for me.

I grew up with a lesbian reverend whose partner and daughter attended services faithfully every Sunday, so being attracted to women was something that was permitted (and in some ways felt encouraged). My sister took a girl to prom. It was normal. It is normal.

But as I grew up and my cohort began to hover at the precipice of puberty, I remember feeling confused why my eyes were drawn to other girls. I’d always had crushes on boys for as long as I could remember, but my gaze lingering over barely started curves and strange feelings of envy that I couldn’t explain away as wishing I had them myself undermined my strongly hetero self narrative.

In highschool I started dating, first casually, flipping through boyfriends like a seasoned blackjack dealer tossing cards onto the table, then more seriously as kisses and fumbling in movie theaters became sweaty entanglements in the backseats of cars. This whole time I had a solid, annoyingly resilient crush on a girl I’ll call Julia.

Julia was exactly my height (short) but where I was stoutly athletic and muscular, she was petite and willowy. She had thick black wavy hair and huge brown eyes that sparkled whenever I made her laugh. She was smart, had a lovely soprano voice that she showed off in the school choir. While I flirted and dated, she pined after a boy who wouldn’t look at her twice (his loss), and I wistfully pined after her.

When she graduated (she was a year ahead of me) I told her how I felt. The burden of my long restrained feelings put a strain on what had been for her an easy and comforting friendship. Predictably, our friendship rapidly waned.

Backtracking to my freshman year, I had the worst crush on a boy we’ll call Charles. He was tall compared to me (but everyone is) with messy blonde hair and a smirk that made me want to die. Like Julia he was older than me, and I was dazzled by his intelligence and wit. Being multi-talented as a musician didn’t hurt either.

Just like with Julia, I felt a burning wistful longing for him. But despite all my apparent confidence and brazen attitude in my wheeling and dealing with boys I was not as enthralled by, I felt that I didn’t have a chance with them. How could they, people so magical to fill me with these raw, intense sensations and emotions, possibly want me? 

I found out a few years later that all my friends had known he’d had a crush on me. Some friends, right? It was a revelation that sat in stark contrast to Julia’s quiet rejection of me. No, not everyone I was deeply affected by would feel the same about me. But I had to believe in myself and put myself out there if I wanted to find out.

I didn’t ultimately end up acting on this lesson right away. Instead it collected dust alongside “do the dishes as you go, don’t let them pile up”, and “have fights in person or at least over the phone, not over text”.

But two years ago from writing this, I fell in love. Horrible, awe inspiring, soul burning love. I was completely out of my mind. The first month I cried every day because I was simply so raw with emotion. The lesson came back to me with sharp, knife edged clarity, and I threw myself into being in love, embracing cringe and embarrassment rather than hiding behind my own fear.

The difference now from my teenage explorations (and subsequent adult errors) is I choose to feel worthy. I can’t know or decide how someone will feel about me for them. What I can do is believe in my own capacity to love and be loved, to desire and be desired, to know and be known.

It’s all any of us can do.