Some people fake orgasms during sexual encounters. I faked periods.

Like Lauren’s character on MTV’s Faking It, I am intersex. No two intersex people are alike, and my experience growing up with Swyer Syndrome is mine alone. I was assigned female at birth and raised as a girl. My chromosomal sex is XY and I don’t have ovaries, or gonads. For this reason, I don’t produce endogenous sex hormones or menstruate without hormone replacement therapy. I identify as an intersex woman.

For many girls, menstruation begins a ritualistic process of self-care, and signifies the coming-of-age moment, or rite of passage, when a girl becomes a woman. Books, film, and television support this phenomenon! The cultural significance of menstruation varies by country or household. My mom bestowed several illustrated “girl guides” upon me that used cute, flowery language to describe our moon cycles. One recommended sitting in front of a mirror spread-eagled to examine the female anatomy. These books failed to mention the possibility of alternative, atypical reproductive, hormonal, or chromosomal sex developments.

However, as a growing adolescent, sex was the mysterious rite of passage that most concerned me. There are many avenues to experience sex, but as a teenager my notion of sex was exclusively vaginal penetration.  At fourteen, I hid bootleg VHS copies of American Pie and Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion to fill in the gaps.  At fifteen, I drank way too much liquor and performed my first hand job on a boy from a far away city that I barely knew. Booze and sex were two alluring vices for a self-conscious, insecure teen and I craved the superficial validation warranted by both.  I wanted peers to see me as an adventurous, up-for-anything-chick, and I manipulated sexual proclivity as a means to this end.

Underneath this guise of confidence, I felt unbelievably self-conscious of my body. I was sixteen and hadn’t experienced physically noticeable outcomes of puberty. My menarche was missing, nowhere to be found. I only imagined how girls stuck a cotton sponge fastened to a piece of string floss up their vagina. I had a sparse patch of pubic hair. To my dismay, I didn’t develop an hourglass figure and kept a broad shouldered straight torso instead. My body image suffered.

That year lead to the discovery I was intersex.  Curious as to why I hadn’t menstruated, I visited a local women’s health clinic for blood work and an MRI. A week later, my parents received a perplexing phone call. The OBGYN believed there “must be something wrong” with their tests because it revealed I had one X and one Y chromosome and no egg-producing ovaries.  At first glance, I wondered if I was more male than female or if I was a hermaphrodite. A visit to a noted endocrinologist followed and, after further speculative exams, he charted Swyer Syndrome as the official diagnosis. During a time period when conception shouldn’t be a major concern, I grieved my infertility and went home with a hormonal prescription to spur puberty.

In the mirror I saw an androgynous figure requiring daily manipulation to appear ultra feminine. In gym class, I cushioned padding underneath a sports bra to disguise, what I believed, a weird and ugly flat chest. At school, I positioned a girdle around my waist to contort a curvy frame. I wore this mask of femininity to accentuate femaleness. It’s no doubt that non-intersex cisgender men and women experience similar obsessions with body image. Our image-obsessed culture defines and dictates clear gender, racial, and socio-economic boundaries. These socially constructed divisions are harmful and discourage individuals and communities from embracing physical difference.

As a high school senior, I carefully envisioned the loss of my virginity.  I loathed the idea of going to college “a virgin”, whatever that really means. Until then, I saw my body as a vehicle to appease a partner’s (read: male) desires. My first experience with penetrative sex arrived unexpectedly at a house party with a guy I barely knew. I wasn’t completely drunk, nor completely sober. From mythical stories of broken, dismembered hymens, I expected a fair amount of blood. The reality was quick, painful, and sobering. I left the scene in a state of disappointing shock. I’d gathered from books, television and movies that the “first time “ wouldn’t be pleasant. The illusion that sex gets easier and better with practice was only slightly comforting. For me, it didn’t. At least not right away.

To my detriment, I looked to male-pleasing, stereotypical depictions of sex to inform sexual behavior. His pleasure was tantamount to mine. I bled during vaginal penetration time and again. I casually explained the blood, indicating “Aunt Flow” arrived early. It seemed like a completely logical explanation to a twenty-something college co-ed. And thankfully, no line of questioning followed. Blood spotted sheets and a load of laundry mid-coitus deflated an intimate mood. I left those one-night-stands feeling empty, embarrassed, fake, and frustrated with my non-normative body.

My sexual partners couldn’t possibly know I faked my period on these occasions. Two years later, after consulting a second endocrinologist, I learned the likely cause of my bleeding. Due to low estrogen levels, my vaginal lining was very thin and susceptible to both inflammation and injury. Once my estrogen prescription doubled, the bleeding stopped. Maintaining a consistent daily hormone regime wasn’t nearly as important to me then, as it is now, to protect my sexual health.

I exercised dishonesty with those men and hid under the guise of a normative female practice, like a period, because I feared prejudice and intolerance. That fear compounded my isolation being intersex. I was twenty years old and didn’t have another intersex person to commiserate with regarding, sometimes awkward or difficult, sex experiences. Many, but certainly not all, intersex people experience trauma on their psyches and bodies at the hands of surgeons, endocrinologists, nurses, parents, caregivers, and even strangers. Initiating discourse with other intersex people characterizes the healing process.  Being a part of, versus away from, discussions pertaining to bodily integrity, relationships, healing, trauma, and advocacy is fundamental.

Today, as a member of Inter/Act, I strive to overcome institutional silence of intersex experiences by uniting voices of intersex youth across the globe. Open conversations around gender fluidity, oppression, non-normative sexualities, informed consent, and access to health care are critical to building a more inclusive, vibrant future for intersex children and adults. As humans, we are incredibly diverse and it’s my hope that XY girls, XX boys, and many other distinct intersex people will feel comfortable and confident to be who they are, without “faking it”.

To find out more about Inter/Act member Ali, check out the video she made with the Interface Project. Happy Intersex Awareness Day!