Poly Nirvana

Love, Life and Rational Polyamory



Special Man Friend is spending time with new people. I want to be happy for him.  I want the elusive Compersion Fairy to visit me in the middle of the night and wave her glitter wand over my sleeping little self and when I wake I will sing of love and metamours and the joy that I feel when he spends time with others, and cartoon deer will gather around my feet while birds fly around and help me get dressed.  Oh, and I should be singing about how wonderful and perfect poly is.  And how easy.

I don’t have compersion.  Does this make me the worst polyamorous person ever?

Or just maybe, it makes me a better polyamorous person.  I have to work HARD at my poly.  I have to absorb and process and choose my behavior, even when my stomach hurts and my cheeks are hot because he’s been on a date with someone who isn’t me, and it’s late and he’s not home yet and that means he is probably having The Best Time Of His Life and I’m just the dumb old girlfriend.  Keyword, dumb.

These are not reasonable thoughts.

But, there they are.

PS.  I have a date in a few days with my own someone new.  Does it change how I feel about SMF?  No.  But can I extrapolate that concept and apply it in reverse?


I’m going to bed.  I need to mull.



I need some happy.

The weight of the Not Happy of late is making my knees buckle, though I’m still standing.

Yesterday, my children and I released red balloons into a blue sky for their father who ended his life earlier this year. I bought birthday cupcakes for them to mark the day, and we played Queen and The Beatles for him. For them.

I wrote “You can suck it.” on my balloon, in tiny letters so they couldn’t see, and I sent it into the sky.

After friends and family went home, I began to walk up the stairs to my room. On the sixth stair my legs began to slow. By the eighth stair, I began to weep. I planted my feet solidly on stair number nine, and didn’t move until the tears stopped. It didn’t take long.

This morning I am reminded that Horrible Things happen to many people, and that both eases and adds to my grief. I am craving real smiles and belly laughs. I want to see eyes that are twinkling with joy and life and pleasure. I am malnourished and I need to be fed.

Feed me.


The Art of Spooning

She was married to a man who loved her with ugly words and angry hands. At night, they slept, confined to a bed, seventy-two inches long, eighty-four inches wide, and named for the state they lived in. She slept on the edge of the california king, with her arms tucked close and when she heard his breath move slow and deep, she slept, with twenty-two inches of mattress between them. Some nights he pulled her to the middle of the bed, where she opened her legs and turned her face away; when he was finished, his weight lifted off of her and she returned to the geography of her allotment of bed, she could breathe again, safe on her side. She married him because it was her duty to be a wife, she stayed because it was her obligation as a daughter of God, and she could not bear the thought of denying her children the glory of eternal life by leaving. She knew the price was the space she guarded while she slept.

She did not think that she would ever live a different life, even on the day she left. She slept on the edge of a new, smaller bed, and wept quietly, for herself, for her children, and for the life she hadn’t deserved. She mourned her blind obedience; grieved the years she spent sleeping with someone who left her feeling raw and numb. She patched her children back together, tucking them into their own beds every night, determined that they would be whole and safe; knowing she was not.

She met a man with soft eyes. He knew she had stories to tell but he never asked for them. He moved gently. She felt like she was holding herself together with kite string and scotch tape; he told she was beautiful. Late one night, in a dim hotel room, she turned away from him and curled into the safe space on the border of the bed to wait for him to find sleep so that she could rest. The man moved to her, his body travelling across the space between them, until his skin reached hers. He molded himself around her, his nose at the nape of her neck, his chest to her back. His knees fit into the angle at the bend of her legs, and he pulled her into him. His body curled around her body.

She hesitated, confused with this unfamiliar touch that asked for nothing in return. He was present with her and she was overwhelmed. She focused on his breath on her neck, matching her breathing to his, in to in, out to out. She allowed herself to relax into him, as she started to cry without sound. He didn’t speak. He placed his hand over her eyes, and rested it there as she wept. When her grief began to slow, he smoothed her curls away from her face and waited, unmoving, until her breath became rhythmic and deep, and finally she could sleep.

1 Comment


I have been rewriting my personal story of late, or rather, mercilessly editing.  The pages of me, are marked with heavy slashes of red, arrows pointing here, paragraphs moved there.  There are typos that make me cringe, and places where I’ve used the same word over and over, repeating myself mindlessly. I sit, with fresh eyes and a mental thesaurus, reviewing and mulling.  

I admire people who can critique themselves, and come out the other side better for it.  I sat with an old friend recently and listened to some of her regrets, and watched her beautiful face as she acknowledged mistakes she made during an ungraceful time, and she did this with such utter grace,  that I wanted to hug her and whisper “Shhh. Water under the bridge, dearheart,” but I knew she needed to say it out loud.  I listened and I was taken in by the moment.  It was lovely to witness, this self-awareness and growth, and I can only take her personal revelations to me as an example of how grown-ups assimilate their life experiences and then move forward.

I am not always as graceful as this.   

But at least I’m still trying.


~Sentence ~

For just a moment, for just this moment, my relationship choices mean that I am going to bed alone, when what I want, and even need, is to be tucked in by hands who love me, and shushed when I argue that I’m not sleepy.