Poly Nirvana

Love, Life and Rational Polyamory

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It’s been a week for the books. And it’s only Wednesday.

I have been worried, stressed, and preoccupied with my relationship with my Mister.

I have been tearful, exhausted, and irritable. I have been impatient with my kidlets, and downright annoyed with my teenagers.

A sweet friend told me on Monday night, that she thought I should go on an anti-depressant for thirty days, and then re-evaluate where I stand within my relationship.

“I’m already on an anti-depressant,” I said.

She was visibly surprised. We sat in silence.

I must be a hot mess.

And here I thought I was holding everything together. Holding myself together. And it turns out, that I’m flying apart into a thousand tiny pieces and I don’t know how to save myself, apparently, from myself.

Last night at work my supervisor further validated the Hot Mess Theory. I was written up for well, pretty much not doing my job.

I cannot buy into the entire reprimand. My skills are solid. My patients like me. I give good care. However. I am exhausted and irritable and I have been foolish to think that those things were not bleeding over into my professional life. I feel hurt and tired and sad and defensive.

Seven years on nights…it’s enough.

On a good note, I saw Mister yesterday for a quick visit, and while there were tears and general gnashing of teeth, I left feeling calmer than I had been in a while. There is no doubt that he loves me and wants what is best for me. But how can I ask for what I need, if I myself cannot figure that out?

In PolyLand, I am a secondary partner to him. He has a wife, a child, home, a career. I see him twice a week, generally, and overnights are rare.

I am madly in love with him. But I am still lonely.

I don’t think an anti-depressant can fix that.

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I woke up at 6AM this morning. (This is a big, big deal.)

I have an absolute need to streamline my things. I must remove clutter and excess. There are bags and bags of stuff lining my hallway, waiting to be taken and donated to the secondhand store. I don’t need it. I don’t want it.

It does not escape me, the parallels between this organizational drive, and the inner dialogue I’ve been having of late, regarding my relationship with my Mister. I’m in a period of transition, and I’m in the process of redefining my wants, and clarifying my needs. I’m letting go of some of the mono-centric, ingrained expectations that I haven’t been able to let go. Perhaps completely releasing them is not realistic. Our entire society is mono-centric. It’s what I know. It’s how everyone I know relates to the world; even many of the polyamorous people I know structure their relationships to this end. I think our brains try to “make sense” of polyamory, by framing it through monogamous eyes.

So therein lies the crux. My needs seem to have shifted, and Mister may or may not be able to meet them. My monogamous-minded self wants to run away, because surely Prince Charming is out there somewhere waiting to meet all my needs. My underdeveloped poly-minded synapses are screaming to be heard above this dialogue:

No. Don’t walk away. Communicate, clarify, compromise. Don’t throw out the baby with the bathwater. He can’t meet all your needs, and it’s unfair to expect him to.

I love this man, deeply. The automatic script that runs constantly through my mind, needs to be rewritten. Hell, it needs to just be purged and donated to the secondhand store. And I will not be buying it back, no matter how safe and secure it makes me feel.

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There are words
inside me,
but they are
stuck fast
to the center of my chest
and they will not,
can not
come out.

Your root beer eyes,
hold mine
until I look away.
The words move to my throat,
and I
swallow them back down.

My universe is
Grab me, quick
before I float further
from you.

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I’m debating.

Special Man Friend has a name. (It’s not actually Special Man Friend.) It’s awkward to type Special Man Friend each time I want to refer to him here. It’s also not very catchy, not particularly charming, and does not roll off the tongue easily.

I do call him Mister often, along with a slew of other pet names that are much less manly. Darling Man and Sweetheart are in high rotation. I can’t reference his chosen career. I could call him The Philosopher, The Fisherman, or The Smart Ass, though I suspect that last one might get me in trouble.

He is exquisitely adept at the following: Doing many things in a short period of time. Knowing the smallest bits of trivia possible. Making surprisingly good grilled cheese sandwiches with exactly one and one half pieces of American cheese. Finding good places to eat. Rolling his eyes at me. Choosing the perfect gift. None of these skills lend themselves to a fitting nickname.

Mister it is.