As I’ve been going through some old unicorn and/or
metamour stories (What a very nice assignment I gave myself!) two things became
clear: 1. I’ve been a little reluctant to admit the kinds of closeness I wanted
because 2. My early adventures are steeped in the confusion and grief of my
divorce from BFF-Formerly-Sweetie.
Looking back at the story of The Steampunks (This gold-star
breakup that didn’t really take is a good example: https://kittencalendar.blogspot.com/2013/07/a-girl-crush-wall-of-grief-and-gold.html?zx=592a17ae48503cbd
) I had forgotten I was drawn to both of them. I only pursued him, though, partly
because I was hankering for dudes after all my time on Lesbian Island trying to
fight the bi-ness, but partly because it’s easier for me to learn one person,
at least at first.
But I also had this imagined binary in my head, a loyalty-like-thing
to BFF-Formerly Sweetie—I felt like an attraction to a woman was
extra-betraying her. Since I’d given attraction to men as my main reason for
divorce, it didn’t feel fair to still be attracted to women too. Embarrassingly,
I still sort of feel this way sometimes, like liking a woman would be the ultimate
betrayal of Sweetie. Being a divorced bi lady who mostly likes men is really
weird sometimes.
The couples aspect of being bi still feels too big and
too out of reach, too outside the boundaries of what I’m allowed. This isn’t
because of anything BFF-Formerly-Sweetie said then or now. Playing with a couple,
the possibility of belonging to a couple, through any combination of romance and
friendship, seems like asking for too much. Even boyfriend-and-beloved-friend-metamour(s)
seems too much to hope for, but I hope to learn to let myself own that wish.
In my gratitude for The Steampunks and the perspective
that’s come from the last nine years I forgot how painful the breakups from
them (There were four different breakups from Steampunk Guy, I just couldn’t
stay away. This is part of why I’ve gotten good at staying away now.) were, how
much it hurt to be told I couldn’t play with him after I divorced--“We only
play with partnered people.” is truly one of the cruelest poly rules I’ve
encountered.
I can see why the tears poured out when I was worried
about Mrs. Shy One vetoing me, about not truly fitting into The Shy One’s life—those
fears were mixed up with divorce grief and shame at wanting so badly to be
approved of and the losses and indignities that came from past couples.
But every dater, every human, is walking around with
past griefs and indignities. Though I’ve been journaling about past
constellations privately, I don’t want to spend too much time focusing on the
losses of the past, on the bitternesses that bloom out of couple privilege and
my own mistakes and garden-variety thoughtlessness. If I did that, I would truly
never make it to the next snuggle.
Instead, if I should encounter another couple I’m
wildly drawn to, I’d like to give myself the compassion and space to absorb
those emotions, to acknowledge the monumental size and power of that particular
want. I’d like to learn to believe that a loving couple or
boyfriend-and-metamour(s) romance is something I deserve to hope for. Of
course, that doesn’t guarantee that I’ll get it, but if I do, I’ll do my best
to welcome it in with kindness and an expansive heart, and most of all, a deep
and boundless care for my tender self.
As I tiptoe back into playing/dating life, I have trouble
getting my head around that one day. The day I thought I could have The Shy One
for a boyfriend and Mrs. Shy One for at least a friend. I can’t overstate the
fulfillment I felt in those 24 hours or so. Included. Appreciated. Was it over
so quick because I wanted it so badly, because it scared me to death how badly
I wanted it? Did I need to sabotage that happiness because it was too much to
hope for?
Probably not. Probably what happened is what happened:
Her overstep with the writing brought the truth out about my feelings, made the
closet of it all more untenable, or made me see that it just was all along. I
didn’t know how to make a boundary around my (broken, I hated to admit) heart,
but I did know how to fiercely defend the writing. That part seemed clear—if it’s
the writing or the cuties, it's got to be the writing.
But I did feel a DEEP fear around the happiness that
was them, and only a fraction of that fear (maybe ¾? 5/8?) could be attributed
to the present. I do have a unicorn chip on my shoulder. I “knew” I was going
to be treated as less-than, vetoed, cast aside. I’m giving myself the
assignment to read all my couple-trouble posts and see what exactly is wrong with
me.
Confusingly, with The Shy Ones, my trouble wasn’t
really with the hierarchy. I was more than ready to defer to the wife-and-kids
of it all. I felt honored to put my desires on hold for Ramadan, to, in my own
spiritual-not-religious way, submit to something higher. Even/especially since
it wasn’t my something, even if the thing I was submitting to was just what
time the sun set each day—that’s a lot. I liked letting myself be small,
treating his life and his faith with honor and deference—it was one of the most
meaningful relationship months of my storied life.
That lovely feeling of letting myself be small, the relief
of bowing to him/them metaphorically if not literally, was possible because I
felt equal as a human being. I was equally-but-differently valued, adored, and
praised. When he momentarily balked at the idea of getting mail from me, that
egalitarian feeling began to crack. When he told me I needed to pretend we were
just friends if I posted pictures of him on my public feeds, the possibility of
any kind of equal footing shattered.
Does that possibility of equal-not-the-same exist? I
tried to make it clear to Mrs. Shy One that I knew the right role to occupy,
but that I wanted to be seen as a whole person. I begged her not to see me as a
threat (I should’ve been saying all this to him, I’m so sorry.) but I
absolutely was a threat.
If I’d been allowed/allowed myself to love as much as
I wanted to love him/them and if by some miracle he/they felt that big love
back, all of our lives would have had to grow and change. They were years and
years away from that kind of expansion, if ever.
In these lonely-then-less-so couple of weeks, I’ve
asked myself over and over why I couldn’t fit, why being out of the closet with
him was so important, why the deal broke when I really, REALLY didn’t want it
to.
“I want my heart to be free.” I said, and I have
compassion for myself about that, but what does it even MEAN? What good is a
free heart when I’ve lost someone(s) so dear? I guess that’s what I aim to find
out.
(art's a Rumi quote) Time for me to take a little rest in the praise ocean.
My desire to love and be loved by them, whether it was
the platonic love that I was just beginning to feel for her or someday being able to be
loved by both of them, was so powerful as to be unmanageable. It was so big I
couldn’t even see it until I’d started to let it go. I knew (Or was afraid I
knew, it amounts to the same in the end) that it was too big a want, too feral
a need to fit into their lives as they’re constructed. I was so scared of that
big desire. It felt like Kaiju want, Godzilla love. If I was a movie, you’d have
to pretend the buildings had been evacuated before they got smashed. This is a
terrible way to see myself, I’d like to change it.
Maybe Mrs. Shy One felt that fear too, because when I,
last Friday, the day after all the texting joy, asked her permission to blog
about her, she decided I needed to check with her every time I thought of
writing about her. From potential friend and metamour to editor, just like
that. For the sake of “healthy boundaries,” for “honesty and transparency.” (LADY.
You pretend your girlfriend is just a friend on your socials. Your husband
asked me to do the same. Come ON.)
Mrs. Shy One reaching out to grab my writing process was,
to me, the exact opposite of healthy boundaries. To put it in Downton speak,
she was putting her oar in. It was clear to me that the only boundary she/they
cared about was the one around me.
The bottom dropped out from the whole plan then, and I
saw the situation for what it was, for what I was. To keep playing with The Shy
One, I needed to be controlled. Managed. Shrunk or at least stunted. Even, my
now-panicking brain added, snuffed.
The box I’d agreed to, their affable and
understandable closet, was not going to stop shrinking around me.
The part that was absolutely NOT her fault is that I
felt completely submissive about the two of them. I knew that they probably
didn’t mean to try and control me, but I felt helpless, without a voice to
negotiate. I did have a voice. The so-big-I-couldn’t-even-see-it desire
combined with the submissiveness I couldn’t talk through without crying, made
it feel impossible to listen to them or advocate for myself. It shouldn’t have
been impossible, I know. My body was telling me that the options were to fall
at her feet or flee.
So I fled. More accurately, I blocked both of their
numbers so I could stop crying long enough to get through my workday and get at
least a little bit of the story into paragraphs.
The next day, seeing where the paragraphs were going
and not wanting to break things off via blog post, I asked The Shy One to come
over or call. He couldn’t do either, he said, so we broke up by text. I told
him the closet feels bad, that I want them to be exactly them and exactly where
they are, but that I just didn’t fit.
He was just as kind. He told me I deserve to love
without guardrails or artificial limits. That made me feel appreciated for who
I am, and not Godzillalike at all.
I know there’ll always be guardrails and limits
because humans are involved and nobody needs to be falling off a cliff.
I’m sure I’ll have more to say about him, and I
know I’ve got lots of Unicorn Stuff to paragraph out, but for now I’m just sad,
grateful and quiet. I don’t think it’s kind or helpful to compare myself to
Godzilla, but for now I’m happy to be back in the sea, at rest.
This Lorelai quote isn't QUITE how I feel (the phrase "that couple life" kinda gives me the heebie jeebies) but this DOES become a story about what I really want. Just...not yet.
Gilmore Guy has a Gilmore
Lady, a long distance but primary partner. Although I don’t fit the poly mold
these days (if I ever have), I wouldn’t have ruled him out for having a partner,
though the hierarchy in the word “primary” did raise a flag of hesitation. But the
appeal of connecting with Gilmore Lady, whether in friendship or otherwise, was
also a factor.
As Gilmore Guy and I walked
along in the woods, we talked easily and flirted gently. He told me about the
cocktails he’d designed based on Star
Trek, (How is Deep Space Nine anyone’s
favorite, BTW?!) I told him how much I’m loving my job these days, we talked
about how much we both hate fascists, normal 2018 stuff. Things were so easy
and fun and he looked so dapper, I was inspired to have him pose for a picture
in front of a nice stretch of creek.
When I asked if I could
post the picture, there was hesitation, and my heart dropped. Gilmore Lady is
looking for a job, he explained, and they couldn’t be as out as I am. They’d
agreed not to have other partners on their social media accounts, which just
made me sad. I mean it’s kinda like, love me, love my Instagram, even though of
course I respect people’s right not to have their pictures shared. Still, I
hadn’t asked to tag him or anything, so the closety-ness didn’t sit right.
(I also realize that this
is exactly what someone would say if they weren’t in fact IN an open
relationship, at least not one the other partner knows about, but I’m doing my
best to take him at his word.)
We kept happily walking
along making plans for that evening, but I kind of knew it wouldn’t work. To
have something intimate in my life I couldn’t document and share felt lonely
and sad, felt like an artistic limitation, and I told him so. Maybe that’s not
fair, but it just didn’t feel right.
“I’d better not come over
tonight,” I said, much to my own chagrin. I told him I don’t feel comfortable
in hierarchies, shared a little bit of the solo-poly chip I still have on my
shoulder while trying not to sound bitter. I probably sounded bitter.
There were still 30
minutes of hike back to the car, and much of it was in painful silence. We
walked in frozen awkwardness as I tried to buoy the conversation, talking even
more candidly since it wasn’t going to work out.
I’m sure it was partly
just me wanting to take care of his feelings, but there was something about him
that still made me curious. As the conversation shifted to kink (always an ice-breaker
when confronted with a taciturn man…) I could feel a playful power dynamic
between us.
“I have to admit you’d be
fun to boss around,” I said. The conversation and my body rallied to make me
want to forget his closet-y stuff, made me wonder if taking pictures is really
that important. (IT IS) As we (ostensibly about to say goodbye) talked about
the things we like and I told him a little about my adventures (this consisted
mostly of sighing about ropes) sex came into the conversation like a benevolent
pink force that lifted and carried us along. I was happy to let it.
He told me some more of
his submissive fantasies and between the woods and dropping him off at home, I
had talked myself out of telling him no.
“Can I wear pajamas when
I come over?” (Remember when this option was my requisite for going almost
ANYWHERE?)
“Of course, wear whatever
you want. Wear nothing!”
A few stoplights later, I
harrumphed “Do I have to SHAVE anything? I mean, not that I would.”
“No, I actually prefer
hair, though it’s none of my business.”
Gold star.
(Side note: I also
stopped shaving my legs a couple of years ago and I hope to never go back. Hope
there are guys out there who think fuzzy legs are cute, ‘cause that’s what I’ve
got.)
By the time I dropped him
off (I had some afternoon work to do, we agreed to meet up later) I was wet and
glittery with anticipation. I wondered how I would concentrate all afternoon,
with Gilmores, mojitos, and HIM to look forward to. I was glad I’d let my pants
decide—I’ve gotta do that once in a while.
On Thursday I woke up missing the Mystery Man a lot and
feeling really sad about the choices I’d made with the Mystery Family, about
having done the same self-erasing thing I’ve done so many times before. I felt
like all of my efforts to take myself forward must be false if I keep doing
this and maybe I would never be capable of loving people who actually want me.
Though my Twitter account didn’t really feel like mine anymore, just a way to
keep futile-ly reaching out to those unreachables, I wrote some sad Tweets
before I went to work and I admit to hoping they’d get their attention.
It was a hard hard day at work. The kids were
winter-frustrated and fighty and it was the second time I’ve felt so panicked
there that it felt like my soul had actually left. A day in a classroom with 23
riled-up children when I’m feeling like I’m not really there was a very hard
thing to get through. Credit our Gangnam Style Emergency Dance Party with the
fact that we were able to (mostly) retain our sanity and make it to 3:09.
I know the panic was mostly an after-effect of processing
the assault stuff and the Twitter-claustrophobia—I wouldn’t have made it a day
in my job if riled-up kids were that upsetting. My therapist had warned me that
there might be a delayed reaction to Sunday’s appointment, and I wasn’t giving
myself the space to be kind to myself about it.
When I got home, the Mystery Lady I felt closest to (and the
one who instigated my “relationship” with the Mystery Man) had said a bunch of
nice things in response to my sadness, but she also said this:
“You’ve got a lot of people pulling for you, both here and
IRL.”
She was still claiming to love me, and yet she was
reiterating that we aren’t in the same life. They were real life loves to me
and nothing I could do or say could convince them that we all live in the same
world. She also told me to stop feeling sorry for myself, which is a bonkers
thing to say to somebody whose heart you just broke over the weekend.
Seriously, Lady, (I did not say) YOU get rejected by eight to twelve people at
once and see how it feels! (Not that I would wish that on her or anybody. I
wouldn’t.)
I very much wanted to go back to being friends, to them
being comforting confidantes, people whose messages always propped me up during
hard times, but I didn’t know how to do that since they were part of the Bad
Thing now. I told them I missed them (the last message I got from the Mystery
Man was an “I miss you too” tweet, which would prove by the end of the night to
have been the worst, creepiest, most vile lie.) and then told her how I didn’t
understand loving somebody she wouldn’t have over. I told her I felt betrayed
because after all the paragraphs she’d read about my struggle with personhood,
in the end she’d asked me to be a fragment of a person. (Less than a fragment,
you’ll see at the end of the story.)
After I tweeted her all the things (Jesus, may I never use
the verb “tweet” again after this.) Gold Star Winggirl picked me up to go over
to her house for a beer and then to the neighborhood music night hosted by the
Cute Church Couple. (By now they’re much more friends than crush.)
GSW was the perfect antidote to the online mess: “Oh, you
dyed your hair,” she said, “Because you’re real!” When I told her she seemed to
be really stocked up on soap, she said “See, these are the things we’re
supposed to be able to learn about each other. This is the way it’s supposed to
be.”
My soul was still hiding, though, so I couldn’t quite
connect with the nice music night, but it was the best possible place to be.
All of the songs seemed to be about real, in person love, starting with my good
old talismans, The Beatles.
When I got home, the Mystery Lady had said more things,
mostly making me feel like she heard and understood me, so although my
still-panicking guts were telling me to flee, I started to write back. While I
was doing that, though, she wrote a post thanking another girl for playing
online with him “just when he needed it most. #Compersion #Poly”
#Gross.
It was the most nothing I’ve ever been. While I’d been
missing him and longing for all of them and feeling guilty for wrecking the
friendships, he’d moved right on ahead to the next thing and replaced me. That
was truly one of the most humiliating moments in all of my adventures, maybe
THE most because of its non-corporeal quality. I blocked them all, but that
wasn’t safe enough. I deleted the entire account. I took comfort in the idea of
all of my messages disappearing from their Interactions, all at once. It was
the only way I could take back some of what I’d so foolishly given.
I can’t for the life of me figure out what prompted them to
reach out to me, what I could possibly have ever been to them, what need I
could have possibly served. Maybe it’s just pure addictive behavior on all of
our parts. Since I was the third time something like this had happened, GSW
suggested that they need to “love” and then other
other people, break hearts and get sad and band together over and over so that
they can draw together against the outsider and keep telling themselves this
story about getting stronger when they really are a house of cards. I used to
do this to try and be close to Sweetie, choosing guys who would break me partly
so she and I could bond against a common enemy. Whatever the Mystery Family’s motive
was, I’m so ashamed that I got sucked into whatever ugly drama they needed to
have, that I let myself get (even momentarily) flattened by it.
But the real ugly drama here is my own. In the interest of
learning how to stop being one crazy story after another, I need to understand
what draws me to situations that make me into nothing. Clearly, there is part
of me that wants to keep experiencing that. It feels so good when I am not
nothing again, when my feet are solidly under me and I can hear the birds
singing and be all the way in the room with the crazy students I love so much.
Maybe erasing and unerasing is a way to prove to myself that I’m still alive, but
really, by now, that should be assumed.
As much as I’m grateful to be polyamorous, the way some
people practice it makes me feel unethical for being part of it. Polyamory is
toxic when it’s used as a way to avoid actual intimacy. When it’s used as a way
to treat people as if they’re interchangeable, it takes away their agency and
sexualizes them. And of course I continue to be disgusted and dismayed at the
way that outside partners are routinely treated with casual cruelty and
neglect.
Since I can’t and don’t want to un-poly myself, the best I
can do is be mindful of those possibilities and be more careful about choosing
partners who fit my standards of egalitarianism, openheartedness, and genuine
face-to-face communication. Those who remain on my dance card do, so I’m off to
a good start.
Once I deactivated my Twitter account, I felt back on track.
The next steps are to refocus on self-love and the Big Therapy Project, keep
treating myself kindly about the griefs, and keep in mind the year’s goal of close-to-home
connections. I wish the Mystery Family have come along with me, but in the end
it’s a blessing to let go of any love that isn’t real.
