Poly Nirvana

Today I made I lighthearted joke to my guy, that I was an “accidental polyamorist.”

His reply? “I’m not even convinced you’re really polyamorous.”

Huh.

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.

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.

April is almost gone.

I did not find a date.  I’m pretty much the most monogamous poly person I know.

~Ginger

“Everything you want is on the other side of fear.” -Jack Canfield

What I’m really afraid of is that I don’t have it in me to do this hard thing well. That I’m not loving enough, understanding enough, selfless enough. That I don’t have it in me, to do good poly. That I will get too tired; too weary.

Some days I just don’t want to think about it any more. I don’t want to communicate, I don’t want to be mindful, I don’t want to be in it for the greater good. I want to have what I want, what I need, NOW. I don’t want to wait.

I love the theory of polyamory. But sometimes, the practice of poly is exhausting.

The end.

Place your hands upon me
like a big tent preacher
and with a whisper
heal all that aches
inside.
Put your lips upon my
forehead and glance your
eyes to the sky,
tell me that I’ll walk
again and tell me
I can fly.
Hold me like a revival
and shake the demons
from my skin,
touch me like a fever
and kiss me like
a sin.

~Tyler Knott Gregson

I am outspoken, opinionated, and difficult. I have a hard, cynical edge. I laugh too loudly, judge too harshly. I am impatient and short tempered. I am independent. Driven. Feisty. Logical to a fault. Jaded.

Sometimes I lay awake in the dark, fighting with the demon that whispers to me that I’m not good enough. Not good enough in my work; not good enough at home. Just not. I crave perfection, and rarely attain anything close unto it.

And then.

Then he calls me Princess. He calls me pumpkin, buttercup, cupcake. I am his pet, his strawberry, his lemon drop. He speaks to me, soft and sure: “Kitten,” he says to me, and my world goes silent.

And in that moment, I am me. The very truest me. The me who exists without expectation or pretense. I am not an impatient, difficult woman. I’m just a girl.And I am his.

Everything else fades, and my mind quiets. I exist, in my core, at the center of my body. Waiting. My mind is still. I am his princess: beautiful, treasured, good and kind. I am his kitten: adorable, playful, wanted. I am everything he ever says I am… a deliciously sweet cupcake, a luscious, juicy strawberry, a treasured and loved pet.

And in that moment, for just a moment, what I desperately crave is finally mine. Because for a time, I am exactly what he wants. I breathe him in, and I breathe out perfection.

“It was rather beautiful: the way he put her insecurities to sleep.
The way he dove into her eyes and starved all the fears and tasted all the dreams she kept coiled beneath her bones.”
― Christopher Poindexter