I gave my current boyfriend a chance because his girlfriend seemed really cool.
They had an open relationship, I was single, and I figured that if this gorgeous woman thought he was worth her time, he’d be a good fit for me too.
By our first date they had parted ways, and he was single… ish. He identified himself as polyamorous, which wasn’t new to me.
I wasn’t polyamorous but I was used to dating several people at a time. It was my way of keeping everyone on their toes and it helped me focus on what I wanted from a relationship without compromising on my boundaries. I was less likely to ‘settle’ out of a fear I wouldn’t find anyone else, or to tolerate relationship red flags.
By the time our first date came around I was even looking forward to learning more about his perspective and comparing notes on juggling partners.
It was simple and sweet – a trip to a vegan market, a bar, chatting on the swings in a nearby playground. I didn’t think we had much in common, but we had shared ethics and politics, he was gentle and kind, and we had undeniable chemistry.
We didn’t tend to talk about other partners in the early days of dating – but we didn’t hide them either. Occasionally he’d mention a day spent with someone else, but I didn’t press for details. We spent almost all of our free time together, roaming London, eating at restaurants, having a whirlwind summer romance.
In fact, I didn’t expect my new polyamorous relationship would have an especially long future. I’ve always known I wanted marriage and children and knew that at some point I would want just one person to build a life with.
Then unfortunately, and with unexpected speed, I accidentally fell in love with him.
One month in, we were lazing around and talking when, seemingly out of nowhere, we admitted that we loved each other. By anyone’s standards this was absurdly fast but he asked me to be his girlfriend and I accepted, delighted, assuming this meant I was now his only partner – at least his most important partner – and that monogamy would soon follow.
This bubble of naivete burst when he mentioned his ‘other girlfriend’.
With love now on the table, I was suddenly no longer blase about who else he might be dating. I began to get territorial about the time we spent together. I watched his Instagram Stories when he was on a date, trying to catch a glimpse of who he was with and gauge how romantic the outing was. Once he took someone to comedy club I had been planning to take him to and I felt heartbroken.
I cried, wrote melancholy poetry, fretted about whether the other women he was seeing were thinner, smarter, prettier or better in bed than I was. We talked about me meeting one of his other partners, and eventually I did, but for a long time the idea of seeing him engage in any type of casual intimacy with someone else made me nauseous.
I tried to continue dating other people too but no-one held my interest. I was surprised at how many men had no issue dating me while I was in an open relationship – most assumed I was only interested in having sex, but were quickly disappointed.
Sleeping with other people felt like cheating, and jealousy from any encounter hurt us both, so it didn’t feel worth it.
I was misled into thinking there was a rulebook, one way to do polyamory correctly, and that if I asked for anything different I would be constraining my partner to a version of love that was inauthentic and incomplete for him.
I endlessly searched for testimonies from other monogamous people in a polyamorous dynamic, looking for honest accounts and success stories, trying to calculate the life span of our relationship in a way that bordered on the macabre.
But most were written from a polyamorous perspective and with the benefit of hindsight I can see how they warped my expectations.
I was misled into thinking there was a rulebook, one way to do polyamory correctly, and that if I asked for anything different I would be constraining my partner to a version of love that was inauthentic and incomplete for him – the thought horrified me.
We reached an uneasy, ever-shifting compromise. I would interrogate him about what love and commitment meant to him, where he saw us in five months (six months, five years…) and we were brutally honest about what we meant to one another.
We (re)negotiated boundaries like how often we would see each other, committed to be each other’s primary partners and told each other about other dates.
I tried to understand that it wasn’t a deficit in my character but rather that he was just built differently. When we talked about our different approaches to love, I described a finite resource – a cup of love that only has enough to nourish one person. His was a deeper pool from which he could give endlessly under the right circumstances.
I did my best, while my self-esteem slowly eroded.
We finally settled on a solution: a monthly relationship audit with a set of questions that allowed us to talk honestly about any changes in expectations or boundaries that we needed to make to keep us both – but mainly me – happy.
I knew it couldn’t last. The toll on my wellbeing was too high, and knowing that I wanted long-term monogamy was making polyamory feel like a waste of my time.
He was effusive in his love for me, letting me know he wanted a future with me no matter what. Because I loved him, I wanted him to have the future he wanted with or without me but I still did not ask for what I needed – monogamy.
Ten months into our open relationship, he did it for me: he asked me if we could be monogamous, and we still are six months later. He says this wasn’t a difficult decision in the end, as it was vastly preferable to losing me. The ease of our relationship now has stopped either of us looking back.
We have both learned a lot about what we value in a relationship. We have laughed the entire way, are constantly mindful of each other’s needs and desires and our hard-earned policy of radical and total honesty has made our transition into monogamy the healthiest relationship I have ever been in.
From our fundamental difference in outlook, we have cobbled together a definition of love that works for us.
Dating a man who is capable of loving others as deeply as he loves you is daunting, but the time and love we spend together, we enthusiastically choose to give to each other before all others.
Loving each other is a choice we commit to anew every day, a chance that I am so thankful I took.
Write for Love, Or Something Like It
Love, Or Something Like It is a new series for Metro.co.uk covering everything from mating and dating to lust and loss, exploring what true love is and how we find it in the present day.
If you have a love story to share, email rosy.edwards@metro.co.uk
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source https://metro.co.uk/2019/10/26/falling-polyamorous-man-changed-thought-love-10942855/
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