Lessons from my 37th year of living, my 22nd year of romantic involvement, and my 16th year of polyamory

 I come up for air from my favorite spot on his neck.  We’ve been holding each other for hours.  We lightly press our foreheads together and feel the vibrations of each other’s minds in the quiet serenity of our vulnerability.

“I have a gift for you.  It was in my pocket.”  He hands over a small ziplock bag with a ring.  It’s my birthstone, but not the type I’ve usually received as a gift.  It’s a black iridescent opal, surrounded by tiny gems.  It looks like the cosmos, like the life inside of a black hole.  It’s magical and dark, just like me.

I’m speechless, near tears.  I’ve gotten romantic gifts from boyfriends before, and I can recall the various women I’ve been in those moments.  There’s always an orgasmic rush of validation, the importance you have, tangible evidence of the space you occupy in his mind.  It’s not a lie–he loves you.  He thought of you when you weren’t there, and planned on a way to make you smile the next time he sees you.

I had associated passion with dread since my first serious poly breakup in 2019 (ending a ten year relationship in which I’d got a matching, permanent body-mod as a metaphor for our commitment).  Even more so when my second serious partner of three years (with whom I had much smoother and more gracious communication) had to leave because of a traumatic event that had nothing to do with me…making me question everything about love.

“Will he pass the test?” my wounds ask.  “Will he make you feel safe, and then one day decide that you’re not worth the effort?  Will he love you until something difficult happens in his life, and then be unable to proceed?  Was it really love that you had before?  Or did you become blind?  Does real love last?”

These are all vain attempts of emotional calibration, because they’re my wounds trying to figure out someone else, rather than my own strength solidifying a foundation that will enable me to participate in a relationship.  It’s what scores of hours in therapy has been helping me to understand, and it speaks to centuries of patriarchal, religious, and cultural conditioning.

We did love each other, it did end, and it will keep happening.  We all will keep loving and evolving, loving and moving, with each other and by ourselves.  I will learn a lot along the way about triggers and desires and needs.  About habits and cycles.  About headspace and holding space.  How to say no without worry.  How to let my partner own their feelings and time while I own mine.  How to engulf myself in the present and be grateful.

I look at this beautiful, ardent man next to me.  Not more or less perfect than any of my exes.  Just here, this version of him with this version of me, sharing this time which is now more valuable than it’s ever been.  We geek out about a tribe in the Amazon whose numbering system is rooted in the fibonacci sequence rather than base ten.  We give our nuanced opinions about Taylor Swift.  We crack up over easter eggs in The Simpsons and Family Guy.  We recite our favorite lines from our own poetry.

Our trust tightens like a cable knot, because I still don’t expect anything from him except his genuine self.  I love the ring; I’ll tear up every time I see it.  But I’ll still be just as grateful that he decides to send one more text or schedule one more Friday.

Relationship longevity is a wonderful thing, but it isn’t proof of our individual worth.  No amount of passion, paranoia, or loyalty will prevent us from being shrapnel in the bombs that life decides to throw, should we become unfortunate enough.  All we can do is continue to rebuild.