The Polyamorous Man Part 2
waves of grief and another side to the story
Our first “date” was the day after summer solstice several summers ago. It’s only been the past two summers that the wafting of nostalgia has lessened and hasn’t felt like a full body ache. Though, he definitely does come to mind more this time of year, like a scar that gets inflamed by the summer heat, reminding me it’s still there and will never (I don’t think) go away. Today, driving to my favorite state park- where we used to hike together, though we both loved it separately before we went there together- grief came over me like an inexorable cloud, heavy, drenching me.
I sobbed as I drove. I often feel strong emotions on longer drives like this one. It’s something about the road, the small container of my car, the music and the in-between of travel. Like I’m in my own little universe, separated from my life by the steel frame of my car, a world unto itself. I feel so many emotions in regard to him and I imagine he feels the full spectrum towards me as well: love, hate, grief, resentment, anger, loss, longing.
There’s times when the memory of the love and intimacy we had crashes over me, like it did today. It doesn’t come very often anymore, but it came today, like grief always does, out of nowhere, out of the void of that ever expanding, ever unfolding human experience. Memories of our drives to that park rolled over me as I passed the corn fields. That year it was the hottest summer on record, the air thick and wet and hot. I could see him sitting next to me while I drove. We had the windows down, the music blaring. He would sing. I remembered how his legs looked in the seat and how he always put his hand on my thigh, touching me like we would be together forever and how much I fucking loved it. He was so unabashedly happy when he looked at me, then out the window, humming, like this life was perfect. Like it would never end.
In part one of this story, I focused in on my resentment and anger. There’s a whole other side to this experience too. One of deep intimacy, vulnerability and genuine care.
Was he selfish? Yes. Were there unconscious wounds being triggered? Yes. Was there a power dynamic playing out? Absolutely. And still with all that, there was real intimacy and love.
Lately I’ve been questioning my black and white thinking and embracing paradox, holding multiple truths in one breath. It was obsessive, lustful love AND it was an emotional and soul connection where we both felt seen and free to explore the shamed archetypes in ourselves through sex. It was both, I am certain. And today, driving, I felt that lost love as a visceral memory of what we shared together. And I missed him. Deeply. Because it wasn’t all pain and indignation at his bending of the truth to get his way. Yes, there was a lot of unconsciousness bouncing around and pulling strings (for all involved), but we were all also trying.
We were trying to do something different, against the grain. What could life look like if we continued? How could I fit into their life? We had fantasies. Fun ones. I even thought about what it would be like to have a baby with him and all of us would raise it (he had three other kids). Delusion? Madness? Maybe. But also, I’m not an average girl looking for an average life. I like weird. I go against convention. I want weird. This felt like a doorway into that.
In those moments when I miss him I want to text him and tell him. I want to reassure him that I did truly love him, just in case he thinks I didn’t- which he voiced in a grief induced delusion during our epically long breakup. But I can’t. We have each other blocked. And even if we didn’t, I couldn’t. Because we don’t speak. Even if he might want to, I absolutely cannot. There’s something about the silence that is medicine for me. A boundary that cannot come down, for if it did my whole world would be confused and wrong. He can’t be a part of it. Not now. Probably not ever. For a long time that broke my heart. It’s been many years of mending and now I am at peace with the silence, with the impenetrable barrier between us.
I’ll admit I feel a bit…silly (is that the right word?), for waxing poetic about this lost love when there are people out there who have lost children and parents and experienced atrocities I have never known. My story feels banal. Trite even. Does that mean I should keep it inside, not share it? No. Because that’s what art is. The expression of each of our unique experience of what life gives us. I have no control over what comes to me. All I can do is surrender and take it, trusting the great mystery of it all. And you can decide if you want to read about what I’ve been through or not.
He and his wife had been together for twenty years when I met him. It was a common ground as I’d been with James (my partner- not his real name), for nearly as long, so I understood that kind of love, how it’s familial and familiar, like your favorite sweater, where you know where all the holes are and understand how the fabric came to be so soft in that one spot. I didn’t feel threatened by her, at least not consciously, not at first. I wanted it to work out. I knew how much he loved her and thought we could both love him in our own way. That there was a way forward. I believed love would be enough. Why do I always get proven wrong with that one? Life in all its paradox and karmic ties; why can’t love transcend all. And maybe it does. It just doesn’t look the way we think it should.
We talked about getting land away from the city (any man who tells me he’ll buy me land pretty much has my heart). When I asked what his vision for our future was he said, “A king bed with me in the middle.” At the time I laughed. I found it endearing. And weirdly, in a way, I still do, because there was genuine love and a desire for a strange, non-traditional future together. I still wonder now if that could work. Not between the three of us, clearly it won’t, but for others. I’m not taking a stance for or against polyamory. I honestly don’t know where I land there anymore. I think- from what I know of my ever evolving self- is that I’m not cut out for it. At the point of the king bed comment we were all still starry eyed for each other (his wife included- she said she liked how happy I made him). It was a few months longer before the other shoe dropped.
At what point did my intuition tell me this was a bad idea? If I’m honest, it was there all along, but I didn’t want to listen. Our pull towards each other was too strong. And even though my intuition was warning me from the very beginning, I can’t imagine not having gone through that experience. He was the first person I’d been able to open to in full desire and vulnerability through sex. James and I didn’t have that. Our sex life was stiff and oddly rigid given how much we loved each other. I sometimes wonder if we were too close in every other way to have a passionate sex life, like we were too much like family or something. But I don’t know. Maybe there’s a way to have both.
With Nate, I felt met on a level of depth and intensity that brought me to my knees in desire. Time disappeared when we were together. The Universe conspired to connect us. I am sure. Somehow, that summer we both had tons of free time. And we spent it together. In the woods, hiking or in the bedroom (in some cases in the back of his truck).
Ever since that lusty love summer, the summer season hits in a different way. As the weather turns from warm to hot, in wafts that ecstatic freedom and magic that comes from falling in love. I can taste it: the soundtrack that played, those sleepless nights where I laid on the floor of my new apartment and stared at the ceiling fan, the early morning workouts and how he picked me up in his black truck, how the engine sounded and what it felt like to climb in beside him, how his tinted sunglasses looked on his face.
I fucking loved him. And that washed over me today as I drove. I’ve learned to live with the grief, as we all do. I’m certainly not unique in grieving a lost love. In an experience that is so multi-layered, I find a strange kind of calm when the grief comes. It reminds me, despite it all, despite it never being a thing that could work out, I still loved him. And it was an experience worth having, even just for that.
