Homesick

For a while now, I've had a blog post in my drafts called "My Poly Family." In it, I gush about how happy I am that I finally feel like I have a community. That I'm so happy to be friends with my partners' other partners, partners of some type with many of my friends, and close with most everyone else involved. But for some reason, that post never got written. I think it was because I knew there was a dark side to such inter-connectivity, and since Adam and I broke up, I've found it: he is still close with our community, I am still close with our community, but he and I are no longer operating together within it. In fact, it's hard to see him in the same contexts, which is why we've both been treading lightly when choosing which social gatherings to attend.

I know a lot of people have already gone through this, maybe in high school or college. Friend groups, especially back in those insulated environments, all dated around, or so I'm remembering from my own experiences. But many relationships in high school were fluid for me, and I only dated one person in college (my ex), so I've never had this experience before. In fact, other than those high school flings, I've never ended a significant relationship in the same town as the other person. So the only way I knew how to get over someone was to have a lot of space from them, which is quite easy when that person is across the country.

It's much harder when that person is in your living room, hanging out with someone you live with and not you.

Everyone is being great about this, though. Friends are being sensitive when talking about hanging out with him, and we've decided it would be best if we all socialized with him outside of our house for a while. I'm also trying to be better about knowing when I do or don't want to know what he's been up to. He and I are even talking and trying to make plans to hang out as friends. But I can't stop thinking about how much easier this would all be if one of us had just left town.

I don't know how to re-introduce myself into my community without constantly bringing up old memories. I know that it will take time, just as it took time to get over those guys who moved to other states. And I know that things are probably already getting better. But as you know from previous blog posts, I suck at patience. I want to be in those photos of my community having fun together with Adam. I want it to be a pleasant surprise when he comes over to hang out with my other friends, not something that shakes me. And most of all, I want to go out with Joel, Adam, and Adam's wife again. I know it will never be the same, but missing that, right now, hurts almost as much as missing all that relationshippy stuff.

I want to enjoy my poly family again. I want to come home. But I don't know how yet.

Love

Space

Postmortem

I've needed to write for a few weeks now, but haven't. It just didn't feel like the right time. Maybe I wanted to wait until my feelings weren't as raw, so that my post wouldn't just sound like a big jumbled mess of pain. Maybe I was trying to spare others' feelings by being a bit more private than usual. Maybe I just didn't know what to say. I still don't. But I know that ultimately it helps me to write about and process experiences, and sometimes it helps others, too, so I'm going to try.

Three weeks ago, I made the decision to break up with Adam. I was visiting my parents at the time, and miserable in the knowledge that I had to wait another week to meet with him to talk about where things stood. I didn't want to do it over email; even though most of our communication happened online, I felt that this conversation should be in person. But the longer I realized I had to wait, the more miserable I felt. So while my mother was out at a meeting one afternoon, I sat at a local coffee shop and typed the email, knowing I was making the right decision but still heartbroken in it. I hit send. It was done.

A week later, I met him on a park bench near the dinner spot where we intended to eat. Neither of us knew if this was a good idea, and for the first fifteen minutes, I was convinced it wasn't. I voiced serious doubts, sobbing, trying not to look him in the eye. But as we sat there longer, and I allowed myself to look at how sad he was too, I calmed down. We decided that since we were already there, and starving, and wanted to still be in each others' lives, we might as well eat.

For two blissful hours, we stopped talking about the breakup and just were. We ate, drank, caught up from the previous few weeks, and laughed. It might have been the beer, but I felt happier than I'd felt in weeks. And it wasn't because I thought we were getting back together, it was because I knew I wasn't losing him for good. I saw a spark of what we should have had all along - an arrangement that was comfortable for both of us, that allowed us to enjoy each other in the moment and not worry about how we were not being fulfilled or not fulfilling each others' wants and needs.

Since then, it's been a challenge. I've always needed space from someone after a breakup, and have always gotten it - my last two significant breakups were a result of distance, so while I missed talking to them, I could control exactly how much I wanted to know about their lives post-me. 

But this is different. Not only is Adam in my friend group, he's close with who I'm close with, in ways I wish I was, and I'm reminded of this even if no one intends to remind me. He is still in the extended poly family of friends and partners I used to feel was a comfort, and now I realize is a double-edged sword. My close-knit groups are wonderful for support through the bad times and fun through the good, but can also deny me the space I badly need to get over heartbreak. 

Because of this, I have to be cautious, withdraw when I'm feeling I need more space, stay in when I don't think I'll have as much fun at that party he'll be at, and request discretion of those who we're both close to. I have to learn how to handle a breakup all over again, and maybe that's why I waited so long to write about it: I have no idea what I'm doing. 

The only thing I know how to do is strengthen other relationships, focus on other interests, make other plans; see Adam when I feel I can see him, talk to him when I feel I can talk to him, and retreat when I'm feeling hurt. Learn as I go. Ask for help. Cry sometimes. And trust that sometimes, the only way to save one type of relationship is to end another one. It's still something I'm only telling myself and not feeling. But I guess if I'd been good at telling myself how to feel, I wouldn't have had to end the relationship in the first place. 

A Formal Letter of Resignation

To Whom it May Concern,

As a wise friend once said, "Epiphanies have different predatorial styles: some construct elaborate spiderwebs which only get noticed when you tug (and have Sarlaccesque digestion times), others swoop down." This one swooped. And so, it is with a heavy heart that I resign, effective immediately, from the Obligation to Become a Professional Fiction Writer. 

To clarify, I'm not resigning from writing. I still love writing, when it's on my terms. I love reading others' writing, and thinking about writing, and constructing everything from haikus to ideas for novels. It is, instead, this position of "Obligation" I need to leave. It has not been a good fit for me for a while, though upon hearing that "Being a writer is hard" and "You just need to force yourself to do it," I thought it was me, not the position, that didn't fit. I thought I wasn't working hard enough, that I could be great if I just pushed myself, that I would eventually find everything more enjoyable if I just dived in head-first and sent out ten stories a day and went to readings and took classes and wrote (at least) an hour every morning. But I've never been able to dive in - I've just been doing belly flops over and over again until my skin is raw, and I feel useless for all the things I don't do, and envious toward my colleagues who do them. 

So, I must go. I appreciate all that you've taught me to do in this position, like how to take rejection and cultivate a local writing group community. And despite my belly flopping, I have become a better writer. But mostly, I appreciate that you've given me the chance to teach college writing, something I still enjoy. I hope that by resigning from this Obligation I can put the energy I've been using to make myself feel bad about not writing toward becoming a better teacher, and a better whatever-else-I-decide-to-be. And who knows, someday it could be a professional fiction writer, but I won't know that until I learn how to dive in myself and not let you, Obligation, push me. 

I know that you will find many other writers who will flourish and be happy in this position, Obligation. I wish them the best of luck. I hope you will wish me the same.

Best,

Kate

Preoccupied

It's been this way for as long as I can remember. When I was younger, before my body started producing hormones that eclipsed all else, it was characters and movies and shows. Peter Pan, then Robin Williams (probably because of Hook and my lingering obsession with Peter Pan), then Twister and anything having to do with tornadoes. They were all I could talk about, think about, dream about. Others called them obsessions, but it wasn't until I grew up and realized what a loaded word that could be that I felt uncomfortable admitting that's what they were. But that's what they were.

And then I got older, it changed from fictional characters and celebrities to real people. After my first boyfriend in 9th grade, I no longer had to occupy my obsessive brain on fiction. I had something to attach to that was real.

I can't even type "something to obsess on," because it makes me feel creepy. Like I'm a stalker, like my thoughts are unnatural and unwanted. And I don't know, maybe I have been creepy. It's not like I've stood outside someone's window, followed someone around, looked for their car in a parking lot, called them at weird hours of the night. But I have definitely annoyed my friends and family by talking about my interests non-stop. I have definitely driven people away by being too enthusiastic about them.

I've also made plans based more on the excitement of these attachments than logic. Like, it's a good thing people don't choose professions at thirteen, because I'd be living in the middle of tornado alley right now doing weather science. I mean, okay, maybe I'd be happy doing weather science, but I wouldn't have turned into Helen Hunt, which is what I really wanted. But even more disturbing to me are the choices I made (or almost made) based on people I was attached to. Because when I'm in one of these phases - when there's something that occupies my brain for more time than other things - my own desires and needs don't matter as much.

As I've gotten older, I've learned the difference between someone I have an obsessive attachment to and someone I have a healthy attachment to. I've developed the ability to step back and go, "This is too much." But at the same time, I still let myself be dragged under, and it is never me who, in the end, says, "I need a break from this to detach." It is always the decisions of others who break me from the spell, and with distance, I am usually grateful that they do so. I just wish I could do it myself.

And most of all, I wish the peaks and valleys of the unhealthy attachments weren't so beautiful that the flatlands of healthy attachments seemed boring in comparison. Because it's hard to plant in rocky soil, and deep down, I know that it's time to grow more things that last.

Love's Inconvenient Truth

The last time I wrote about love, I pondered what it meant to me now that I'm poly. In that post, I talked about there being more than one kind of love, that love can be scary, that I don't have to love two people in the same way, and that love isn't always what we see on TV. To that, I will add one more:

Love is not enough.

Author Mark Manson discussed this very concept on his blog, which resonated with me and made me look back at how much stock I've put into love throughout the years to be the end-all, be-all to my relationships. Not only did I think as long as there was love the relationship would be emotionally satisfying, I also thought that as long as there wasn't love, the relationship was over. While in some cases the second might be true, neither are true 100% of the time, and that presence or absence of love is not what dictates the happiness of all parties in a relationship. 

All three of his main points resonated with me. Like "Love does not equal compatibility": when I married my ex-husband, it didn't matter that his chosen career path (medicine) and my lack of career path would cause problems. It didn't occur to me that his desire to sit at home most nights and my desire for adventure would cause problems. It definitely didn't occur to me that his desire for children and my indifference would cause problems, and I'm utterly grateful we never got that far (and am happy he now has the baby he wanted).

I thought, too, of my relationship with my ex, and others, regarding "Love is not always worth sacrificing yourself." I've been so ready in the past to pack up my own desires (whether I knew what they were or not) and follow someone else, that I'm surprised I haven't found myself in more miserable situations. 

And finally, there's this: "Love does not solve your relationship problems." 

Manson writes that "while love may make you feel better about your relationship problems, it doesn’t actually solve any of your relationship problems." In fact, I think it can make them worse. It makes the highs of a relationship temporarily drown out the lows, so that the lows are tolerated for much, much longer than they should be. This is the most obvious in situations of emotional and physical abuse, but it can also harm perspective when no one is really "at fault." 

Adam and I have been together almost for a year, and I've spent a lot of that time trying to adjust to a relationship that had more challenges than I'd faced before. The biggest challenge was a disparity in emotion, and even moreso, a disparity in how he saw me as a partner as opposed to how I saw him. For a long time, I thought that if he ever told me he loved me back, our disparity would lessen. But then he did,  and while it made me feel all kinds of warm fuzzies, it didn't change much else. Love didn't solve our relationship problems - we have to tackle those ourselves, by taking a break and re-evaluating if there even is a middle ground for us after all.

I don't want to stop thinking about love as something special, but I have learned that I need to stop using it as an excuse to stay with someone (or stay in a certain arrangement with someone) when so many other things are missing or not working. I would recommend everyone - no matter your relationship style - go check out Manson's post. It's not a happy truth when we think about it, but it is a truth, and I hope that by taking it to heart, someday the happiness will follow.

[Enter the Popular Title of a David Bowie Song Here]

For the last few weeks, I've been thinking about change.

The most obvious kind of change is the big, life-altering variety: moving, getting over a long-term relationship or officially starting one (like marriage), starting a new job, coping with the loss of a loved one. These are "ushering in a new era" changes, and usually, at least at times, are scary. 

Then there are seasonal changes that occur, for me, every year: the beginning of a new school year, that joyous month-long break in January, and the transition to the summer, which, for me, is actually a more difficult transition than going back to school in the fall.

And finally, there are the smaller, everyday changes that I crave: I rearrange my room a lot, like trying new restaurants and going to new places, and swap out my profile picture on social media frequently. I even chose an Android phone over an iPhone because I can customize its look more.

Right now, I'm trying to juggle a few different changes. and putting them together at the same time makes me feel uncomfortable. I'd almost rather move to a new city, break off a long-term relationship, and start a new job all at once rather than try and parse how so many seemingly inconsequential and imperceptible changes are making me feel unstable.

Like my time: the semester ended and I plunged head-first into more free time, which is always a little jarring after feeling like I should be grading and working every second of every day. Getting used to being home by myself during the day instead of out teaching is always a struggle, especially when I always need to spend less money in the summer as well.

And my home: Our apartment lost a roommate who had a lot of furniture and gained a new roommate who brought a lot of furniture, so like a few summers ago, I'm living among boxes. Getting used to being home by myself during the day plus not being super comfortable in that home yet is even more of a struggle.

And Adam's home: After Joel and I spent an incredible weekend getaway with Adam and his wife, we dropped them off at their new apartment in a different neighborhood and I couldn't help but feel like they were completely different people, and that would make our relationship a completely different relationship.

Even the cat is going through changes of her own: she's got new roommates, too.

On top of this are little things: objects around the house I need but don't have anymore (like the vacuum) because they belonged to the old roommate, trying to find a new place for the cat scratching post, my mother's procurement of her first smart phone, new short stories, new dates, new bedspread, newfound interest in butter lettuce, new distance between my parents and I, new growth on the tree outside my window, new discoveries, new expectations and outlooks on relationships.

I used to think that if something in my life was always changing, I'd be happy, and that being static is what drove a lot of my unhappiness in the past. But right now, so much feels different that I've swung too far in the other direction. At some point soon I need to find something familiar to keep me grounded until everything else falls back into place again, so I can start to appreciate these changes for the positives they are.

What is Love? (With Apologies to Haddaway)

I don't know, what can I do? What else can I say, it's up to ewe.

Now that you have that song in your head, let's talk about what I've learned about me and romantic love since being poly: 

There is more than one kind of love.

Love is not just what society tells us it is. It is not just kissing in the rain, marrying your high school sweetheart, holding a boombox outside someone's window, letting them have the whole damned door to float on even though it's clear there's room for you too. It is not just what is written in Hallmark cards. It could be any of these things, or it can be something completely different. It could be letting them have the last bite of cake, checking up on them in the middle of a really tough day, wearing their hair ties on your wrist even though you don't have long hair. The love I feel doesn't have to fit into someone else's mold.

I don't have to love someone the same way I love someone else.

Love is an amorphous feeling, and therefore can be different for everyone I love. I don't love Adam in the same way I love Joel, and I don't love Joel in the same way I loved others before him. I don't expect to be loved in the same way my partners love their other partners. And just because the love is different, doesn't mean it's not significant or shouldn't be communicated (or communicated about - see below).

Love doesn't have to be a floor on the relationship escalator. 

For a long time, I thought that relationships became real when you started saying "I love you" and whatever came before that was just casual. I thought that once you started slinging around love, more things were slated to come, like moving in together, going to (and almost breaking up at) Ikea, getting incessantly bugged about having kids. And then a few years ago, I fell in love with someone who would be leaving town just a few months later and realized that love doesn't have to be on the way to something else, or the end of something. It just is. 

Love can be scary.

In the past, I have taken for granted that love is a concept (and emotion) that has always come easily to me. I love often, early, and strongly. I fall hard. But not everyone is like that. Love is complicated for those who have only ever known it to be one thing for one person at a time (or for that matter, one person, period). Love is hard to express when you don't know if the emotion carries other obligations or expectations, and it's tricky to qualify, quantify, and clarify because it sometimes feels like doing so cheapens it. It's not always as simple as "He loves me, he loves me not."

I need to hear that I'm loved. 

Affirmative language is something I need a lot of in poly relationships, even if my partner and I aren't using "love" to describe how we feel about each other. Even though it does bring me comfort to feel a warm embrace or a tender kiss, the words "I love you" mean a lot in making me feel valued and important in a relationship. Obviously, if love is felt, it should be shown, but I'm wired to need to hear it too.

And finally,

Love should be communicated about, not just communicated.

It took me far too long to realize I needed to communicate what love meant to me versus what it meant to others. I think sometimes we think that it's this subject we have to tiptoe around because saying it for the first time is supposed to be special and important,  and because it means something. But really, it's more dangerous not to find out what that something is to everyone involved before diving in.

I truly believe that it is more enriching to live life with the potential to love more than one person. But at the same time, I know that this concept can be complicated and messy. It shouldn't be kept in a collector's box high on the shelf to maintain its pristine condition. It should be taken down, taken apart, played with, and most importantly, experienced. 

Happiness Is Not a Fish*

On a good friend's bathroom mirror, written in dry-erase marker, it says, "You are looking at the person most responsible for your happiness."

The message appeared there after one of the many parties he throws, and it's stayed there since. I read it every time I'm washing my hands, which is a lot of times over the course of a party because my bladder is the size of an olive. I read it and look at my reflection and read it again, hoping that the more I read it the more will sink in. (That pun was free. You have to pay for more). Because it's one of those phrases we read and think, "Yeah. Right on, mirror," and then we go back out into the world and it's gone, like my reflection, and I'm back at looking to others to cheer me up or make me happy.

I've been doing the 100 Happy Days project on Instagram, despite feeling kind of sheepish about the perceived notion that I'm flaunting all the things that I have that others might not (including happiness). But I know that I have trouble with looking for happiness from others - especially in my relationships - that I thought I would chronicle (mostly) other things that make me happy that I have had the power to seek out myself. I'm almost done - today will be day 93, and going back I can't believe how many of those pictures were things that weren't people-dependent: new books, office supplies, coffee, LOTS of pictures of my cat, beer, nature. These are things that no one else had the power to give or take away from me. 

And yet, others still have the power to not only make me happy, but make me incredibly unhappy. I feel like I have little control over this, and it's infuriating. This past weekend I looked up at the mirror after a particularly stupid evening that I let turn south and wondered why I couldn't take it to heart. I'm a responsible person. I pay my bills on time. I keep my cat alive. But the happiness thing I let slide. I'm not saying I can't get happiness from others, but they can't be responsible. That would be like depending on someone else to come over and clean my cat's litter box. Someone might do it a few times, but once they stopped, I'd be in a crapload of trouble (okay, that one was free too.)

In addition to the 100 Happy Days project, I keep a journal where I write a few sentences about what I did each day. Last night, out of curiosity, I went back through the 146 days we'd had so far in the year to count and see how many of those days I mentioned being unhappy because of someone else. It was a fifth of the days I tracked. That's too many. I need to stop sucking at being responsible for my own happiness, because there are (obviously) a lot of things that do make me happy. Some of them are people. Some of them are new pens and notebooks. Some of them are fluffy animals. But I am the only one who can give them power over my happiness.

I don't feel like I'm getting any better at this, but past experience tells me I am. I was unhappy in the Midwest, so I left. I've been unhappy doing jobs or activities, so I've quit. I've been unhappy in relationships, so I've tried to adjust. I'm impatient. I see those 32 days out of this year in my journal and want them to be gone now, not in six months. But I'm starting to get that happiness is an investment. It's not always going to pay out right away. It's a paycheck, not the lottery, so I best keep working.

*Our Lady Peace was right.

Alone

Over my mother's stressful visit last November, during which she caught Adam and I kissing and proclaimed loudly how much she didn't approve of our life choices, she told me she was worried that dating all these unavailable people meant I was just going to end up alone. "You can't be alone, Katie," she said. "I know you."

My first response was, "How could I be alone around more people? That doesn't make sense!" and my second was, "Well even if I am, I'm happier being alone than I used to be. I've changed. You'll see."

And I thought that I was getting better at it, that I relished those nights at home with no plans, that I still took comfort in reading or drawing or writing when I needed some restorative time, that I liked stretching out in a bed all to myself. I grew up an only child, after all, I should be used to being alone. Shouldn't I? Wasn't my mother just basing her fears on a societal stereotype that single people are lonely?

This morning, I said goodbye to Joel for a week as he embarks on a fun trip I can't take because I have to give a final and then grade them. Adam and his wife just bought a condo, so they're furiously trying to prep and pack and don't have a lot of time for dating this month. Instead of being excited that this time is an opportunity for me to get back to doing these activities I like to do solo, the prospect of a week without either of them, and then several weeks without Adam, makes me feel empty.

It shouldn't. In fact, if anything, being in love and in happy relationships should make me more okay with being alone because I know I'm really not - that there is someone (more than one someone!) out there who cares for me and looks forward to seeing me the next time we have plans. I've even met some wonderful new people I'm excited to get closer to and see more of. So why am I so lonely? Why has comfort with Joel and lust for Adam made it harder for me to be alone, not easier?

I'm frustrated with myself. I want to be stronger than this. I want to be telling my mom the truth when I say that if I end up living alone with no domestic partner for the rest of my life, I'll be OK. But right now, I'm lying to her and, I think, also lying to myself.

Sometimes I tell myself I just need a primary partner who isn't unavailable. That the problem is I keep becoming involved with people who already have homes, or who are okay with being their own home, when in reality I want someone to make a home with. But that's not going to solve the problem. I had that once and it didn't make me happy. Even if I had that again, there would still be times like this week I'm alone and lonely and empty.

This comic says very succinctly what I want to do: not be so worried about filling the hole in my chest. I think there is a misconception that poly people can't be lonely, or even that coupled people can't be lonely, but the truth is that if we're unhappy with being with ourselves, it doesn't matter how many people we live with or are dating or trying to fill that hole with. We have to figure out how to be happy letting it whistle as we run. I'm still working on it.

Maybe my first step is to get over my hatred of running.

The Trap, or Why Facebook and I Are on a Break

The biggest irony is that I am, indeed, posting this to Facebook. 

A few weeks ago, I was wasting time online when my mood changed from relatively content to sour. As I continued to scroll, the sourness deepened, and I went from gherkin to sauerkraut to lemon wedge to Green Apple Warhead in about thirty seconds. By the time I pried myself away from my distraction, I had settled into a funk that stayed with me for most of the morning. If someone had gone back through my browser history to try and get to the bottom of my mood, the findings would be inconclusive. No one would have been able to tell that it was spurred by counting "likes" on Facebook.

I've taken various breaks from the "Book of Faces," as a few friends call it, at different times, mostly during busy periods of my life where I simply can't afford the distraction. Up until a few weeks ago, though, I'd never stepped away from it because I thought it was "bad" for me. I always just figured I had a "healthy" level of addiction just like everyone else, that I could step away from it whenever I needed to get things done, and that it would continue to be a source of harmless entertainment. That was until some other factors in my life made my emotions go on a bit of an amusement park ride, and I realized that Facebook wasn't so harmless after all.

I got jealous. I started comparing the number of "likes" on my posts to others' posts. I even started counting the number of times certain people "liked" my things versus others' things. I craved that little cartoon thumb, but at the same time hated it. So I stepped back again, this time to get my head back in the real world, where people actually like me.

How my Facebook newsfeed affected me wasn't healthy, but it isn't rare, either - studies have shown a correlation between spending time on Facebook and depression, like this one from Sweden, which found that "women who spend more time on Facebook report feeling less happy and...less content with their lives." I can usually catch myself becoming more discontent the longer I scroll, and I know the cure is to walk away and focus on the happy things that are happening in my own life. But that's where the trap pulls me in again.

Because a mark of our generation is to share things. To share everything. Not just information, but pictures. Look at this sandwich. Look at this sunset. Look at this cat. And sometimes I think the sandwich doesn't seem as delicious, the sunset not as brilliant, the cat not as adorable, if we can't get someone else to share in our satisfaction. So back to the internet we go, and wait for the "likes" to pour in. And if they don't? It must not have been that great of a sandwich/brilliant of a sunset/cute of a cat after all.

The only way right now I can break the cycle is to step away from it - well, partially anyway. I'm still on Twitter and Instagram, still wonder why there are fewer hearts on my pictures of me and Adam than on my pictures of the cat, still wonder if anyone even read that last Tweet. But for some reason those darts aren't as poisonous, so for now, it's where I'll make my social media home*.

But Kate, you ask, why don't you just step away from everything and go out and live your life? If you're so worried about the quality of your experiences being marred by your desire for social media validation, why don't you just unplug altogether? Because, disembodied voice talking to a blog post, I live in 2014. I'll always be right back in the soup, and so will you. The trick is not letting it slosh out the sides.

*But of course I'm still posting a link to this on Facebook. That's where you found it, right?

At the Funeral of Spontaneity: A Eulogy

We were the warriors of the Google Calendar. We fought under its cheerful blue banner, killing free time for it, sacrificing for it, crying for it. We were mocked for having to rely on it, for being "too popular" and having "too many friends" or "too many dates."  We were offered tiny violin concerts for lamenting our struggles. But we did struggle.

We did too much to please too many. We couldn't say no but yet often still couldn't say yes. We turned away from work to play and play to work. We carried cannonballs of guilt in our stomachs, shot from others who expressed disappointment at having to wait to see us, and yet we still returned fire on others.

We despaired in the face of too much and were relieved in the instance of last-minute reprieve, yet refused to leave openings in the first place. We fortified the walls with dates, with discussion groups, with volunteering, with singing, with extra work, with parties, with pubs, with more dates. We could not leave our posts. We could not be alone.

At times, we knew too much. We shared our schedules and despaired. We watched our loved ones form allegiance with others, and even though we craved allegiance, our breath sometimes caught in our throats to see it happen before our eyes. We pined for those living under our same roof. We were lonely in the middle of a battlefield a thousand strong.

And among this, among the colorful, carefully timed blocks of work and play and sex and drinking and travel, we forgot to fight for ourselves. We forgot to schedule even an hour for us, because that's the hour we'd been invited to fill with something else, something we'd always wanted to try or learn; or someone else, someone who we'd really been meaning to get to know if only we had a moment.

We left few survivors. Instead, we left a string of casualties, of fading friendships and lovers, in our wake. But to live the lives we chose, we knew no other way.

So here we lie, the warriors of the Google Calendar, crushed under the weight of our own ambitions. Come place bouquets of paper Day-Planners and number two pencils at our graves. Come lament that we were given such little time.

Our Salon Article Disaster

I am, overall, usually quite sanguine about the media's portrayal of things I hold near and dear, like polyamory and bisexuality. When others are raging, I am usually the one going, "Well, at least we're getting press." But this. This throws me so far off my middle-of-center, "let's give 'em a bit of credit" mentality, I think I finally feel what others have been raging about.

The "this" in question is this article, though I want to say up front that I'm not actually against the content of the article itself. I like Nicholas Garnett's writing. I thought the post itself was honest and raw, and the writer in me appreciates phrases like "We burrowed down into a grinding disillusionment and mutual resentment from which our relationship never really recovered." So I don't think I should blame Garnett for the anger I'm feeling this morning. Or, rather, I don't want to blame Garnett.

I want to blame whoever is responsible for the title: "Our Polyamory Disaster."

Yes, polyamory has been kind of a hot topic recently in the news (Yay! We're getting press!).  So okay, Salon, I understand your desire to jump on the bandwagon with some clickbait (a concept I didn't really fully understand the significance of until this very morning). I understand that you want to be on that bandwagon so bad you thought you'd share a two-year-old article on your Facebook page to bring in the droves of readers. The former sorority marketing chair in me really truly understands.

The polyamorist in me really truly wants to write more explicit insults here that I don't feel match the tone of the rest of my blog, so I am refraining. 

The bold italics have probably tipped you off that you have finally reached the portion of the post where I talk about why I'm so mad. Ready?

The article isn't about polyamory. The word "polyamory" doesn't even appear in the body of the article. The word "monogamy" or "monogamous" only appears twice, when the author realizes he has a crush on a woman he is having sex with while both of them are high off the myriad drugs he talks about them all doing over the course of the weekend in question (I'll get to this in a minute).

The title furthers the conflation of "polyamory" with "promiscuity." Related to above, Garnett writes: "Rachael and I were curious. Everything else about [the lifestyle of our partying gay friends] seemed to be working for us. Could promiscuity?" The composition professor in me applauds Garnett for setting up the reader for exactly what he will be writing about: a vacation in which this couple tries having sex with other people at a sex party. Being poly does not necessarily mean an arrangement like this, though it can, and on its own promiscuity is okay (and something to be celebrated when done healthily!). But the two words and ideas are not the same.

The title makes it sound like polyamory is about having sex while high. In short, it's not. I have so many thoughts about how many risks they were taking, not only with the substances but what the substances were doing to their capacity for consent, but that could be a whole other blog post (or two or three). A more appropriate title would have been, according to a friend of mine, "Drug Use and Sex Parties: Not for Everyone, Try Before You Buy." It obviously wasn't for them.

Essentially, the title gives fuel to anyone who wants to argue that polyamory is nothing more than drug-addled sex parties. It gives fuel to anyone who wants to believe that polyamory is a threat to "stable, happy" marriages (which, if you read this article, you can see that this one obviously wasn't, even before the party). It gives people something to point at and go, "See? Polyamory is a disaster. I morally oppose anything having to do with this destructive lifestyle and don't believe these people deserve even an ounce of the legal rights or benefits afforded to NORMAL COUPLES."

Because that, ultimately, is the fear - that misleading titles of articles that thousands of people will click on will send the wrong message. That those clickers who get the wrong message will oppose politicians and laws that would make it possible for us to be able to be visited in the hospital by all of our partners. And laws that would allow our children to be legally cared for by all of their parents. And laws that would allow our insurance to cover all of our family members. The fear is what made me so angry that I ditched grading this morning to write this. It made me realize that there is such thing as bad press, and if anything was a shining example, it's this.

The Price of Admission

Dan Savage was my first introduction to frank talk on relationships and sex. I remember fondly, and with some titillation, listening to the Savage Lovecast on my iPod while I did data entry at a temp job a few years ago. No one ever knew that as I updated databases, I was getting tips on having better sexual experiences and learning concepts like "DTMFA" (dump the motherfucker already).

Now I know that a lot of people are polarized about Savage, which I understand; I haven't been happy with things he's said either. But what I do like is when he takes a simplified look at some of the concepts in relationships that I think get muddled by centuries of idealizing what love and sex are "supposed" to be.

One of those concepts is the "Price of Admission": essentially, what one is willing to put up with, or "pay," in order to maintain a relationship (or what he calls "ride the ride"). In this video, Savage talks about it in relation to the little things: your partner chewing with their mouth open or leaving sandwich-making supplies all over the counter. (One of Joel's prices of admission are his sometimes disturbingly loud sneezes, for instance.) He admonishes an audience member who prompted the discussion for having too many deal-breakers - essentially, for saying he wasn't willing to pay any price of admission. Savage says, "There is no settling down without some settling for."

Beyond the problems I have with the concept of "settling" (which I'd really rather think of as compromise), I believe this is largely true, especially when it comes to loud sneezes and open-mouth chewing. If we are unwilling to pay some sort of price of admission, or make some compromises in our relationships, then we should get used to not riding much of anything at all (and yes, for those of you keeping score at home, that was a double-entendre).

But sometimes, the cost of maintaining a relationship - of riding that ride - is too high. Sometimes that threshold is easy to measure, like if your partner wants to move to a different country and you're already rooted. But sometimes it's not. Sometimes the threshold is simply at a point in time when a relationship, for whatever reason, is making you more unhappy than happy.

And where that threshold is could be muddled. You could lose sleep over it one night, cry over it half the next day, but after a little space and reflection realize you can afford more. Because you've thought about that ride, and it's been one of the best you've ever been on, and you're not ready to get off of it yet. But you're still aware that at some point, you might come up short, and that scares you. And you realize that this risk - the risk of too high a price of admission - is a price of admission in itself.

I feel like some polyamorous relationships have more prices of admission than monogamous ones. You have open-mouth chewers, loud sneezers, and messy sandwich-makers. But you also have jealousy, insecurity, impatience. You have relationship hierarchies and communication challenges and metamours. You have societal discrimination and scheduling issues. A polyamorous relationship can be a really big roller-coaster, which means it has the potential to be expensive and scary. But it also means it has the potential to be the best ride of your life. The question will always be, "Can you afford it?"

I wish I had a blunt Dan Savage-like figure in my life who could answer that for me, but I don't. And I don't know if I'd listen even if I did. Relationships aren't actually rides, after all; they're made up of people with feelings. And unlike a ride, the cost of maintaining them isn't set in stone - it's negotiable. Yes, the ultimate price of admission costs what it costs, but there's no reason you shouldn't try to make that cost affordable for both of you. If you - or your partner - ultimately decides the price of admission is too high, at least, then, you will have done all you could. That is all any of us can really do.

The Comparison Trap

A few weeks ago, a friend shared this comic from one of my favorite websites, Zen Pencils. Gavin Aung Than's artwork always catches my eye, but this time the quote especially struck something in me I've been thinking about recently. In the cartoon, philosopher and writer Juddi Krishnamurti observes that from birth, we learn to measure our own self-worth by comparing ourselves with other people:

In an ordinary school where there are a lot of boys, when one boy is compared with another who is very clever, who is the head of the class, what is actually taking place? You are destroying the boy. 

I didn't grow up with siblings to be compared to, but I grew up with neighbors and cousins, and was never immune to these comparisons. Though my parents tried to balance them out with healthy doses of encouragement, I internalized comparing just like everyone else, and it stuck: "Her handwriting is nicer than mine," "She serves a volleyball faster than me," "He can draw better than me." Over the years that has become "She's a more motivated writer than I am," "He's a more well-read professor," "She's thinner and thus more beautiful according to societal ideals."

Measuring self-worth by comparison can be toxic to anyone in any environment, but in polyamory can be even more damaging. I mean, think about it - I'm constantly exposed to other people who are with, in one way or another, people who I am with. If I'm not comparing myself to the people themselves, I am comparing how I am treated with how others are treated, or I'm comparing how this relationship is progressing versus how this one progressed. (Which is ironic, in a way, because one of the reasons I like polyamory is that all relationships are different.)

But if I've been raised to internalize comparison, and I'm always going to be around those who are easy to compare myself to, how do I escape from the trap?

The conclusion Krishnamurti gives, that looking within to find out who you are instead of looking without, encourages us to avoid the trap altogether: essentially, he's saying just stop comparing. But that's hard, especially in a world that's based on comparison and competition. I would be lying to myself and everyone else if I said that Krishnamurti's solution is realistic for me.

In a response to the cartoon, another friend told the story of the energy she spent throughout high school trying to be better than another French horn player from a different school. Once they'd actually started talking in college, they realized that both thought the other was more talented, and instead of destroying their self-worth, the comparison pushed both of them to get better. She used the comparison as a motivator. What have I been using it for?

So far, nothing. I've been noticing it and letting it make me feel shitty. I haven't been using it as a motivator. I haven't been using it as an opportunity to learn. I haven't been using it as a way to grow. I've been letting it do to me what it does to the boy in the cartoon: destroy self-worth and confidence. I push the successes of my peers away to keep them from bringing me down, instead of using them as a motivator to bring me up.

I know I need to change. I know I need to figure out what motivates that writer, what books that professor has read, what that couple has done to be happy all this time. I need to focus on what's good about my relationships instead of what looks like it's better in others. I need to catch myself comparing and ask, "What am I using this for?" and if the answer is "Nothing" then I need to distract myself with something else until I can stop. It's not going to be easy. In fact, I'm comparing myself to others right now - others who can recognize something in themselves and be like, "I'll change that," and then just do it. (To those of you who might think I am one of those people, and have made peace with all the challenges I discuss in this blog, I'll set the record straight: I have not. Not even half of them. Not even a quarter. This stuff is still hard.)

But thinking about it and recognizing it is probably a good start. I was thankful that my friend who posted the cartoon gave me the opportunity to think about it more. And I'm thankful that Than did such an amazing job of illustrating Krishnamurti's words, because they impacted me more than they would have in text form. I would say that I wish I could draw as well as Than, but instead I'll say that I'm glad he can draw and design the way he can so that we can all appreciate it. (Did that count as a start?)

Holidays in the Closet

When I came out to my parents as bisexual and poly in 2011, I had good intentions. I wanted to have an open and honest relationship with my family the way I can with everyone else in my life. However, their fears of my "lifestyle" becoming public -- to other family members, their friends, or even people my father knows professionally -- made me realize it was going to take a lot of time and gentle information-sharing to be able to get to "open and honest."

So I'd been talking to them about it slowly and carefully since then, only really bringing it up if they ask, being careful not to give them (especially my mother) more information than I feel like they could handle. I'd mentioned casually on the phone that I was dating a married man (though didn't name him) and thought my mom was getting used to the fact. So during her most recent visit from the Midwest, when an opportunity arose to meet Adam and his wife, I wrestled for a while with how honest I could be.

I ultimately considered everyone's potential awkwardness and my mother's possible stress and chose to introduce them as friends. And other than being slightly annoyed as I usually am when I have to act like just a friend around someone I feel so strongly about, everything went well -- until Adam and I (stupidly) decided to share a quick kiss in another room and my mother saw us. I tried to back up, introduce him as my boyfriend and be truthful, but it was too late. She told us she didn't approve, even if everyone else there did, and the encounter ruined the rest of her trip (and the rest of her week after she got home).

On National Coming Out Day, I mentioned in this post that my biggest reason to come out is to be able to be me. I thought that ultimately, if I could be honest about myself and my life and show my family how happy and secure I am in it, they would be happy for me. But in the last month I've realized that being out to my mother is causing more damage than good. Her worries -- that I'm going to be hurt, or end up alone, or somehow not blossom into whatever ideal person she'd imagined -- are hurting her, and those worries bubble to the surface every time I talk about being bi or poly.

At Christmas I talked to my father, who is more open to discussing such things, about how I could be honest with Mom without making her upset. His suggestion was one I should have anticipated: you can't, so don't. Please, he was saying, go back in the closet in front of her, and stay in the closet with the rest of the family.

So despite how I feel about being able to be myself, I did. I didn't talk about any other partners other than Joel for the rest of the trip. I've just started talking more about my "friends," not naming anyone in particular. It was hard, and I felt an immense relief upon my plane landing back home after the eight days we spent together, but so far the relationship with my parents is less strained. I'm happy knowing I'm not causing my mother pain, and I'm trying not to worry.

I try not to wonder what will happen if I decide to move in with more than one partner someday, maybe even marry again. I try not to wonder what kind of toll this hiding will take on my relationship with my family in the future. I don't know what will happen. But I do know that even though they don't want to know everything about me, my family of origin still loves me, and that's more than some people can say after coming out. Taking that comfort with me, and the comfort that I have a chosen family here who also loves me, will hopefully make those temporary closet visits a little less dark for as long as I have to take them.