Sexual Vulnerability
Sometimes I reflect on just how lucky I've been in life. My therapist charged £10 an hour for students. If you've ever checked therapy prices, you're probably astounded. Even if you haven't, it's clear just how generous this was.
At university, particularly during my first couple of years, I was depressed and anxious. I felt trapped, ready to drop out, ready to leave. I was wary of SSRIs. I tried them for a few months, but perhaps I didn't genuinely want them to work. I was suspicious of drugs altering how I saw the world. Maybe I never gave them a fair chance; maybe that was a mistake.
Did therapy help?
At first, it felt very tough. Confirmation bias, perhaps. They always say the start is the hardest. You reopen wounds that had been closed or hidden. Eventually, they heal.
I haven’t lived a very long life yet, so most of my wounds come from childhood. It was filled with anxiety and insecurity, and my teenage years were no different. They were marked by self-doubt and neurosis. One deep insecurity was my inability to talk comfortably with women.
My school was split into two blocks, one for girls and one for boys, with the lobby area in between. There was almost no opportunity to interact. Unsurprisingly, this made things difficult at university, especially when I found myself sharing a flat with five women.
Expressing romantic attraction was particularly hard. It started with shame, turned into agony, and finally became paralysis. Why did I struggle so much? Mostly, it came down to how I valued myself. What could I possibly bring to someone else's life? Of course they'd say no if I expressed attraction.
Therapy helped, but it didn’t magically resolve this. I still felt avoidant. I was less anxious, yes, but not necessarily more confident. I'd absorbed beliefs like, "I'm not a charmer," or "I don't know how to flirt."
At 19, I saw a video and took its message to heart: flirting, dating, asking people out - these were just horribly awkward things you had to survive.
(I once asked someone out like this. Never again. Stand up for yourself!)
But a question I wish I'd asked myself sooner is: What if it doesn’t have to be awkward?
Why does vulnerability have to feel so cringe? Maybe a lot of my anxiety was really resistance to vulnerability itself. I'm slowly learning to shift that perspective. I haven't fully figured it out, but I feel more grounded now when I think about asking someone out.
The excuses still come: What if they're already in a relationship and I make it weird? What if they think I'm strange and feel uncomfortable just because I asked? But more and more, I see the value in simply finding out.
And it’s not just about dating. Expressing desires has never come easily to me. I’ve often defaulted to people-pleasing, putting others’ needs before my own. Holding hands, going in for a kiss - these things still feel unfamiliar, like there’s no script to follow.
Recently, I went to a kink meet-up, a “munch,” as they call it, and it was oddly refreshing. People were open, vulnerable, honest about their wants and needs. It made me rethink what vulnerability could be. Maybe it's not awkward or weird. Maybe it's just honesty.
I realise now that so much of my discomfort with vulnerability came from trying to avoid awkwardness. But what if it doesn’t have to be awkward at all? What if the whole thing - all that raw, honest feeling - is just part of being human?
Yes, honesty can be uncomfortable. But maybe the real mistake is holding everything in out of fear. Maybe the right thing, the brave thing, is just to speak up. To say what I feel. And to let that be enough.