I met a pretty cool crew in town this weekend, one where not only are several of them poly (I’ll talk more about past relationships sometimes, but I’ve spent most of my adult life as poly), but most of them are also non-binary. They seem to get it.
It’s a relief, honestly, as it means there’s a group of people to whom I can ask questions as I go along. Will it ever be safe for me to paint my nails? What can I get away with clothing-wise? What places are cool with all of this?
That’s nice. That’s important.
But there’s something else about being accepted, and it’s something especially important to mention today—especially as she beat me to the punch.
Today is 2 years that I’ve been in my current relationship. We’re many thousands of miles apart right now, which is very hard, but we also have it easier than a lot of previous generations, where waiting for the mail was the only contact. We have all sorts of ways to zap zeroes and ones to each other.
She has never questioned this process of me exploring who I am. She’s asked questions, yes, and I’ve appreciated that. But I never had to feel like I was risking my relationship if I wanted to wear a dress around the apartment. I haven’t sensed any loss of attraction. That support is so huge, that acceptance, and I know a lot of people don’t receive that.
She has also always understood the way my eye wanders. I’ve joked before that I could fall in love five times a day. An overstatement, of course, but only in depth of feeling. That she’s never been threatened by my attractions—and she shouldn’t be threatened by them, period—means a lot to me. And it means a lot that she shares hers with me as well.
I’m sitting here on a Sunday afternoon, vaguely procrastinating on getting some of the last stuff for the semester done, alone. But I know I’m not alone and I haven’t been for two years.
That means a lot.