Like many, I grew up in a heteronormative environment which considered heterosexuality as the only option. Until the end of primary school, I even thought the only kind of queerness that existed was gay men! Subsequently, I had always wanted a boyfriend and sought out male validation from a young age.
Then, throughout secondary school, I began to learn about different kinds of queerness, and some of what I learnt I also identified with. So, for much of my conscious life, I have been aware of my identity as a queer woman while still recognising my attraction to men.
This persistent attraction to men seemed to haunt me. It followed me around, always seeming to ground itself somewhere implicit within my personality. It was easy; it was the default. However, this self-imposed interrogation of my personality began while I was also sitting my GCSE’s, so I did not have time for much inner observation.
As I moved to higher education, I found myself studying feminism in an analytical context. My knowledge of the political framework was limited to the gender pay gap and dichotomous beauty standards. Of course, these fundamental issues cannot be disregarded, but there was a substantial amount more to be understood about the ‘ideology’ than I knew of.
Monique Wittig, bell hooks, Judith Butler, and many others unveiled to me an understanding of the social world that I was seemingly ignorant of, yet which resonated with me. I began to understand (if one can ever understand) the mechanics of society, in tandem with its manipulation of gender and sexuality. Furthermore, I began to understand how such mechanics impacted me.
Suffice to say, the woman I am today – writing this article you are reading now – is rather cynical. I feel, personally, that the patriarchal politics of gender and sexuality bleed into the crevices of everyday life. In truth, since becoming aware of the ‘personal as the political’, I have found it shamefully difficult to throw away the notion and say, “it’s not that serious”.
Some have said that ignorance is bliss, and perhaps they’re catching on to something.
While, if given the chance, I would not erase my understanding of feminism and its omnipresent effect, I often wonder if life would feel ‘easier’ if I had simply read less. To have borderline radical opinions in an ever-leaning right-wing society is one thing, but to have said opinions permeate into (and thus complicate) your life plans is another.
I return to my earlier point. I have always envisioned my life as a heteronormative dreamscape: husband, money, baby. Ignoring the financial pillar of this dream ( another topic of contention in and of itself), the future I had vaguely planned for myself was rooted in heterosexuality. No deviation could be considered without my dreams shattering in consequence. Alas, this domestic trajectory has been the blueprint for many generations of women before me, to the extent that the dream could no longer be called my own – more of a condition of femininity.
Before I had even entered my first serious relationship, I recognised myself as an outlier to the heteronormative ideal. Everything I stood for would go against it. I would be unable to find peace if it meant compromising myself for a system that had essentially indoctrinated me through years of outside influence.
And then, it happened. As though I had subconsciously relapsed, I found myself in a heterosexual, heteronormative relationship with a guy that I – respectfully – tolerated, at most. I had wanted him to want me back. I had shamelessly chased him for months. My feminist enlightenment was pushed to the corners of my brain as I cooked and cleaned and let him lounge around my home.
I was in a dire predicament. I felt reduced to this role of ‘girlfriend’. I could not stand that I had been labelled. I could no longer separate my existence from the role that I felt was so tethered to patriarchy. It was demeaning.
Laura Mulvey’s concept of the ‘male gaze’ never left my mind. I was being watched with both an invisible gaze and, now, a true set of masculine eyes. My boyfriend would look at me, and I felt objectified, sick. My mind could not escape from the thought that he wanted to control me; take over me; consume me as a woman and a woman alone. He did not know me, but only the role that I felt forced to perform.
In reality, he was just a guy. My internal political deliberations had stolen romantic ‘normalcy’ from me.
Ultimately, I do not wish to be ignorant, even if it is at the cost of my ‘bliss’. However, if said bliss is the patriarchal, heteronormative prison that I found it to be, I’m not sure I want it anyway.
Perhaps a boyfriend is not for me.
Another article you may enjoy – https://thebadgeronline.com/2026/04/the-hidden-lives-of-sussex-student-sex-workers/
