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.