Non-binary isn’t a single gender. It’s a collective name for an array of gender identities, many of which may overlap, others of which may have nothing in common with one another, other than being external to the male/female binary.

I’ve come to hate that binary. I see it as a barrier to integration. It’s a screen, that obscures a section of humanity from the comprehension of the majority. It’s a limiting factor in understanding those outside it. It’s a blind. It even blinded me for decades. Until a trans friend came out to me, leading to my self-education on all things gender-queer, I had no actual idea what I was. I thought I was a deeply confused bisexual woman for more than thirty years. I’m not. I’m heterosexual and gender fluid.

I say heterosexual, but only because, as far as I know, I’ve never met another gender fluid non-binary that pushes the right buttons. I honestly don’t know if heterosexual is accurate. Without asking everyone who gives me that mental thump what their gender is, I can’t tell. I’ve passed strangers in the street and come across celebrities that give off a “vibe” of affinity to me, but I’m not the type to introduce myself to strangers, and I’m certainly not going to contact celebrities and interrogate their identity, in order to better understand my sexuality. It may be that one day I’ll discover that I like my own kind too. Until that day I consider myself heterosexual. There are just multiple genders for me to be hetero to.

The complexity of romantic life when your apparent gender, and those of the available potential partners, fits a binary you’re not part of, and many, including you, are invisible, can’t really be overstated. It’s absolutely mind-boggling. This is not helped by the fact that external perceptions of me are bound to be misleading. Don’t ask how many times I’ve deleted my online dating profiles. I’ve lost count.

I’m in my mid-fifties, and still present as a mannish woman, because the thought of fighting the established binary is incredibly disheartening and utterly exhausting. This apathy is further fuelled by those who are dismissive or even hateful of the gender-queer.

Nor is it helped by the fact that I’m mildly dysphoric, due to a few of my secondary sex traits. I have feminine traits, which, while others enjoy them, I don’t. I’m made deeply uncomfortable by the sight of myself in a mirror, though I wouldn’t say it’s distressing. It’s just a bit jarring. My internal self-image is much more androgynous than my feminine reality. That self-image is more accurately represented by androgynous men, rather than my own mannishly feminine exterior.

So, I can’t tell who is like me, I don’t know if my being drawn to someone is based in sex or gender identity, and the vast majority of people have zero understanding of my gender. The upshot is that I’m isolated, mis-interpreted, and don’t have the social tendencies to go out and find my tribe. This is why I’m single, with a F.W.B. It’s much less tiring this way. The only aspect of being partnered that I really mourn is snuggles. As a single introvert it’s almost impossible to find a regular source of cuddles.