Poly Nirvana

Love, Life and Rational Polyamory

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My ex-husband lives in a homeless shelter, and there’s nothing I can do about it.  In the six years since I took my children and left, he has deteriorated into a person I hardly recognize.

I started to read something today, about the #WhyIStayed stories trending on the interwebs.  These are the stories of abuse victims, and you can either Google or check out Twitter if you are interested.  I had to stop reading at one point, because some of the words hit so close to where I live.  My secret is that I stayed because I wasn’t strong enough to leave.  And it took me a long time to forgive myself for that.

Today I am strong.  I am independent.  I am also guarded, and slow to trust.  It affects me, every day, and it affects my relationships.  So be it.

Special Man and I are in a new, solid place with each other.  I’ve come out to my children;  my mother. My Meta CC is coming to meet the kids in a couple of days.  We have  pizza and Uno planned.  I am both optimistic, and terrified.  I want it all.  I want my big happy poly family fantasy.

But I’ve been disappointed before.




Everyone wants to feel special. Everyone wants to feel loved and adored and wanted. Everyone wants to feel needed.

Three years ago tonight, I received a text message. “Hi,” it said. “It’s T. Are you still interested in getting together for dinner sometime?”

::Yes.:: I typed back immediately, surprising myself. This was a man who scared me a little (a lot.) This was a man I’d exchanged a few messages with over the previous six months. A man I knew was married and polyamorous. A man I didn’t quite understand. A man I had already backed out of a dinner date with several months before, because somehow I knew.

I knew he was a game changer.

Three years ago, tomorrow, I put on a black and white dress, and drove to the sushi restaurant near my house. He wore a deep red dress shirt. I was so nervous I wanted to throw up.

He wasn’t nervous at all.

Because I said yes, three years ago, my life changed. I am loved, that is true. But more importantly: I am loving. I am more open with my emotions. The tears I swallowed down during an abusive marriage, are allowed to surface, even at weirdest times (Like during sex. Or randomly at dinner.) I smile. I laugh, and I make him laugh. I can tell him when I’m afraid, and he never, evermocks me. He says he loves my beauty: my face without makeup, my pudgy little toes, my unruly breasts. He loves and accepts every piece of me, even the parts that scare me.

He provides me safe space to say this: I am me. And I like me. This has been his gift to me.

(And he likes me too.)



I want to write, but it feels as if I have forgotten how.

I want to sleep, but it feels as if my brain will never be quiet.

I want to cross everything off of my Big To Do List, but there is always something else to be added.

I want to get in my car, and drive to Somewhere Else, which I think secretly means, I want to get in my car, drive to Somewhere Else, and be Someone Else.  (Just for a little while.)

I want to eat another pumpkin chocolate chip cookie, but I already had two, and it puzzles me that I just want to eat all the cookies, regardless.

I want to write.  I haven’t forgotten how.  I just need to begin.