Queerness, sexual health and mental health: Cassie’s story 

I’m genuinely proud of who I am today. I’m an openly queer woman in a long-term relationship with another woman, and I wouldn’t change it for the world. If I had the choice to be straight, I wouldn’t take it. But that doesn’t mean being queer has come without its challenges.  

Navigating the world as a queer person has impacted my mental health in ways I never expected.

I knew coming out would be challenging at times and I knew that queerphobia was always going to be something I’d have to deal with, but I didn’t realise how much being queer would affect my mental health. Or, more accurately, how society’s reaction to and unpreparedness for queerness would affect my mental health. And, in turn, my sex life… 

At first, I didn’t make the connection, but in hindsight, it’s obvious. Society’s perception of my queerness has a direct impact on how I view myself, my body and what I do with it.  

Growing up in a world that assumes everyone is straight made me feel othered.

Heteronormativity was everywhere, on TV, in books, in schools, in casual conversations. It wasn’t even that people outright said that being queer was wrong (actually… some did); it was the fact that queerness wasn’t even considered. This led to some deep internalised queerphobia. I tried to ignore my feelings, but I just couldn’t shake the fact that I fancied girls, and it felt like the world was telling me it was wrong.  

I became ashamed of who I was and I carried that into everything I did: how I approached relationships, how I saw my body and how I engaged in intimacy. I’d even go as far as to say it hindered the depth of some of my friendships. My friends were boy-mad and would always be talking about kissing boys and going on dates, and I would sit and question what was wrong with me. Why can’t I do that? How do they have the confidence to do this and I don’t? Now I look back and realise that all that shame and confusion had led me to hate myself. The mental impact of that self-hatred is something that is still with me. Even though I now love my queerness, I find myself being overly critical of everything I do. It’s been difficult to unlearn that feeling of not being ‘normal’ and always feeling like who you are is ‘wrong’. 

The lack of queer inclusion in my sex-ed classes didn’t help with this feeling either. I remember sitting in my media classroom, learning about STIs and contraception, but absolutely nothing about what sex could look like for someone like me. I thought, well, if school thinks it’s wrong, then it must be.   

No one was teaching me how to navigate my own sexual health or my own relationships. The result? I was terrified of sex. Without any real guidance, I turned to the only source I could find: porn. Now at 27, I want to scream at younger Cassie and say, “This isn’t going to help! PORN IS FOR ENTERTAINMENT, NOT EDUCATION!” but we live and we learn I guess… 

I was less afraid of my sexuality at this point and felt like I had to prepare myself for sex with a woman, but watching porn only made it worse. I saw these perfect bodies and exaggerated performances, and it made me feel insecure about sex, my body and my queerness.  The poor body representations and the unrealistic portrayal of intimacy took a toll on my mental health and left me feeling unworthy and isolated.  

In my late teens, I somehow managed to find other queer people who helped me get past the self-hatred and the internalised queerphobia. But it’s no wonder I felt the way I did; nothing was made for us! Education didn’t include us, films didn’t tell our stories, and even porn didn’t accurately represent us; in fact, they fetishised us!

Thankfully, I gradually learnt to love my body and love sex, but it took time and a lot of patience. 

However, society’s view of queerness can still impact me and my sex life today. Regularly facing queerphobia and the constant fear of being hate-crimed is terrifying. Mentally battling harmful myths like ‘lesbian bed death’ is exhausting. The pressure to constantly ‘prove’ my sexuality is frustrating, and feeling like queer love is always under scrutiny or needs to be justified takes a real toll. All of this has impacted my mental health, leading to times when my libido is extremely high or almost non-existent. This can be hard, but I’m lucky to be surrounded by other queer people who understand me and who will support me whenever I need it. 

I wish I had found my people sooner, but I’m grateful I eventually did. I’m not sure where I’d be without them. With their support, I’ve been able to heal parts of myself I didn’t even realise were hurting. And without all that self-hatred, it turns out I’m actually quite a sexual person. I’m thankful I get to be that person despite everything. 

I don’t have all the answers, and I probably never will. But one thing I’m certain of: my queerness was never ‘wrong’. It was society that was wrong.