Artwork by Teresa Grassesch
I lost my father three times over the course of my life. I was eleven for the first loss. As I began secondary school in Barbados he declared I was becoming a man now so the playful nature of our relationship had to change and become more serious, more responsible, more mature. I was in college for the second loss. He suffered a Traumatic Brain Injury during a violent robbery. His personality was forever altered, and not for the better. The third and final loss, his death, happened early May, 2022. As he took his final labored breaths, and in the weeks that followed, I was crushed under the weight of all three losses.
I spent many a morning alone on the beach mourning him, but also facing many questions about my future. Not surprisingly, his death brought me to a stark awareness of my own mortality. I was 47 years old. Were I to live as long as he did, I had 35 years ahead of me. I was 47 years old and had always lived a limited life, my choices mostly determined by the expectations of my roles (husband, father, pastor, just to name a few), any number of fears, and a list of unconscious internalized cultural norms.
I don’t regret the roles I embodied, but who was I beyond them? What other unexamined internalized norms was I living from? What would it feel like to live a life centered around the pursuit of pleasure instead of the avoidance of pain? I felt like, to that point, I’d been living at 85% authenticity. What would 100% feel like? Did I even know who that was?
Perhaps the most pressing question was where would I live? During the weeks between ending my relationship with V and flying back to Barbados, I lived in a friend’s guestroom in DC. My search for a new place to live was just picking up when I got the call about my father. When I told my friend I wasn’t sure how long I would be gone, maybe a few days or weeks, he asked why I was bothering to return? Hadn’t I always talked about moving back someday? And since I was now self-employed online I could work from anywhere, so why not there? Why not now?
I was genuinely intrigued by the possibility, but there was one other person to check in with. My daughter was nearing the end of her junior year in college, and my intention had always been to live in at least the same country until she graduated. She didn’t call on me often, but I felt I needed to be accessible should she need me. When I floated the idea, her supportive yet brutally honest response knocked the air out of me: “I like that for you. Besides, your being here is doing nothing for me.” Ouch.
Here’s the thing about being an immigrant, especially if you’ve spent at least half your life away from your birth country: you still feel like a foreigner in the new land, and home feels more and more like a foreign land. In the weeks leading up to and following my father’s death, I realized I wasn’t ready to return home permanently. Not yet. I loved the place and the people, but they felt like an old favorite suit that didn’t fit quite right. I was self-employed, but the new business wasn’t bringing in enough income. If I returned to the US I would have to get another job, and the thought of yet again being a cog in the capitalist grind machine wasn’t appealing. Plus, after six years in Massechusttes, I was at peak hatred of winter. So I said fuck it, I’ll become a nomad on top of trying on non-monogamy for the first time. Why half-ass it right?
So I began to envision a new pleasure-centered life of bliss: winters in Barbados; the warmer seasons in USA and parts unknown; become non-monogamous and, as my dating app profiles now state, create a network of friends and lovers wherever I traveled; with my work partner, continue to grow project_SANCTUS, our virtual antiracism education platform and community; expand my online spiritual coaching practice; finally write that second book. The more I dreamed, the more excited I became. I ignored the objections of my inner critic committee about being too old, too poor, too irresponsible, too inexperienced, too scary, too out-of-the-box. It was the perfect plan. And you know how to make God laugh, right? Tell her your plans.
I should probably take a moment to share that when I say non-monogamy, I’m referring to what folks traditionally refer to as Ethical/Consensual Non-Monogamy (ENM/CNM), terms designed to distinguish it from what we usually think of when someone is having multiple sexual or romantic encounters: cheating. With CNM, everyone involved knows and consents to multiple simultaneous relationships. However, there’s a growing sentiment, which I happen to agree with, that we should drop the ‘E/C’ because having to use qualifiers like ‘ethical’ and ‘consensual’ imply there is something inherently immoral with non-monogamy and we’re trying to apply a fix to make it acceptable.
To be clear, infidelity can happen in ENM relationships as well. Any time relationship agreements are broken, no matter what those agreements are, it’s infidelity. Leanne Yau, the creator behind Poly Phillia blog, says it best: “No one says ‘ethical-’ or ‘consensual monogamy’. If people can be bad monogamists and still be considered monogamous, why can’t non-monogamous people do the same? Why do we need to justify ourselves in a defensive way?”.
Non-monogamy comes in many flavors, like polyamory (which has its own subsets), swinging (aka “the lifestyle”), polyfidelity, and more. The more research I did (books, blogs, articles, podcasts, respected influencers, friends who had been non-monogamous for years), the more solo polyamory felt like a good fit for me. I knew I didn’t want just casual connections. I also wanted to be in committed, long-term, romantic, emotional, and sexual relationships.
I love being in love. I also fall in love quickly. I used to think it was a character flaw, but it’s not. I am who I am: an open-hearted, trusting, romantic. The not so healthy trait was that when I used to fall in love, I would rapidly upend my life to meet my partner’s needs, and practically sprint up the relationship escalator. I no longer wanted to live like that, losing myself in another. We solo polyamorists often describe ourselves as our own primary relationship. We don’t cohabitate with our partners or merge lives in more traditional ways. I promised myself at least two years on the solo poly path, even if I encountered someone worth upending my life for.
Now the scary part: meeting people. I didn’t like my chances of encounters in the wild, especially since only 5% of the American population admit to being non-monogamous. Fortunately there’s apps for that. Any dating app could potentially work, right? I simply had to make sure to share my relationship orientation and identity in my profile. Not so simple, especially on an app like Tinder where folks are notorious for not reading profiles. I’ll share later about some messy interactions because of that habit in a future post.
The two most recommended for non-monogamy, and where I’ve found the most success, were Feeld and OKCupid. Feeld was specifically designed for non-traditional dating, stating that “We believe nothing is more fluid or less binary than human relationships. This is why we created Feeld, where everyone can be honest with themselves while being responsible towards others.” OKCupid, although around for much longer, was one of the first dating apps to allow users to choose from a wide range of identities and relationship styles, and match them according to their desired partnerships. Before I returned to the states in June, I had already set up my profiles, made connections, engaged in conversations, and scheduled dates.
From the first moments of decision on that beach, to my current work, life, and relationship choices, I have been deeply deconstructing the internalized beliefs about myself and the world that resulted from being born and raised in Christianity and the big three systems of oppression: white supremacy, capitalism, patriarchy. Sometimes I intentionally put myself in situations and encounters with others to fuel the deconstruction. Other times, only after I noticed that I was overly emotional or indecisive or confused, did I realize that an internalized, and likely unconscious, belief was being challenged.
One of those beliefs, as noted in the Feeld app description, is the deeply ingrained belief of the gender binary. Gender, like race, is a construct that we created and believe to be innate to our beinness. We are taught that gender is binary, that sexuality is binary, that identity is binary, that we’re either this or that. An early (and still current) connection I made on OKCupid was with H, who identifies as non-binary, genderqueer, and pansexual. They were assigned female at birth (AFAB). Because of their intentional choices in clothing and appearance, at first glance you may question their gender, which is their point. Because of my cultural conditioning around gender, I initially wanted to put them into a category that I could understand, accept, and feel comfortable with as I navigated the confusion that arose because I was undeniably attracted to them. My inner struggles, I would soon realize, were of my own making. Peace came when I let go of needing to explain my attraction through a gender lens. Once, a friend asked if I see them as male or female. I said, “I see H.”
We’ve been trained very well to put every one, ourselves included, into categories in order to make sense of them. If we can’t, the tendency is to first reject their choice, then their agency, then them. Much of our ‘othering’ is a refusal to sit through our discomfort and question our own programming. We have so embraced the binary that we even made God binary, and we speak of the Divine Masculine and the Divine Feminine. When we look at the words often used to describe the Divine Masculine (protection, discipline, authority, guidance, resilience, maturity, responsibility, leadership, logic, action, stoic, relentless, confident, committed, willful) and the Divine Feminine iIntuitive, heart-centered, compassionate, wise, accepting, forgiving, collaborative, reflective, creative, sensual, kind, gentle), there’s a very patriarchal slant that reflects humanity’s gender biases. None of the qualities listed are inherent to either gender. Inadvertently, I believe, some verses in the Bible question that binary narrative. In Genesis 1:26 and 27 God said, “Let us make humans in our image, according to our likeness” and “God created humans in his image, in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them.” In two verses God transitioned from singular to plural, and embraced both genders as a single entity. Regardless of the pronoun “his”, it reads very non-binary to me.
Even though I had left the purity culture of evangelical Christianity behind decades ago, I continue to be surprised by how its shame and guilt still resided deep in my subconscious. It was also a revelation how much white supremacy, capitalism, and patriarchy (wscp) were intertwined with them within me. I give much of the credit to my antiracism work with project_SACNTUS for expanding and deepening my awareness.
And I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge the transformative power and freedom I experienced when I began to explore kink.
The deconstruction continues in Poly Notes Pt.5 - Enter The Kink
Artwork by Teresa Grassesch
* * TRIGGER WARNING * * This post contains content about domestic abuse and suicide. If you or someone you know needs help please call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233 or the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline at 988 in the USA. Click the links for more resources.
When people think of domestic abuse, they often focus on domestic violence, and domestic violence is typically depicted as a crime perpetrated by men against women. The facts paint a bigger, more alarming picture: 1 in 4 women and 1 in 10 men experience sexual violence, physical violence and/or stalking by an intimate partner during their lifetime; approximately 1 in 5 female victims and 1 in 20 male victims need medical care: female victims sustain injuries three more often than male victims; 1 in 5 female victims and 1 in 9 male victims need legal services
What’s also true, is that men under report being victims of domestic violence. Ironically, the social stigma is often greater when the victim is a man (regardless of if the abuser is a woman or same-sex partner) because of the unconsciously accepted narrative that men should be able to defend themselves because they tend to be bigger and stronger. In addition, male victims historically receive unequal treatment when reporting their abuse to law enforcement and medical professionals, often not being taken as seriously, being mocked, and their injuries not being treated adequately. As a result, men minimize their abuse and often end up hiding or denying it in order not to suffer further shame and embarrassment. Yet another tip of the hat to the harm wrought on all genders by patriarchy.
Early 2022 I visited some friends in Brooklyn. For reasons still entirely unclear, V believed I had sex with one of them. She interrogated me repeatedly about the visit, comparing every minute detail of my recounting. Any variation became evidence of a betrayal that never happened. I understood that her past traumas of betrayal and abuse were being triggered, so I was determined to ride them out. It wasn’t the first time either of us held space for the other as we worked through our individual issues. But this felt different, more pervasive. We kept coming back to it, and with each revisit our emotions escalated.
On what would turn out to be our final weekend together, things reached a scary and violent breaking point. It started as yet another interrogation and accusation. Her anger grew, as did my exasperation. She started throwing things; not at me initially, but I soon became the target. We had canvas prints of photographs from our travels in various rooms. She went after them with a pair of sharp scissors, stabbing and shredding, carving deep holes in the drywall. Then the shoving started. She hadn’t ever laid hands on me in anger. The angrier she got, the more she shoved and cursed, the more shock started to set in and the quieter I became. I could feel myself shutting down, not responding, which seemed to infuriate her even more.
As I stood stunned by what was happening, she went to the kitchen and returned with a large knife. She held the point to her neck, demanding to know why she shouldn’t end her life right there and then. Three thoughts immediately came to mind: she is bluffing and this is as bad as it will get tonight; she is not bluffing and I might have to bear witness to the death of someone I love for the second time in my life; this could go sideways and my daughter could lose another parent. And then I really saw V for the first time that night: someone collapsing under the immense weight of the unresolved and unimaginable pain she had been carrying since childhood. My heart broke for her.
I credit my pastoral training for the next thirty minutes it took to de-escalate her emotions, take the knife, and get her to bed. She slept for the entire next day, while I vacillated between states of shock, trying to process what had happened, and contemplating what to do next. I began to rationalize all the ways we could turn this around: maybe if she got better help; this was probably an isolated incident anyways; this was just a bad fight, it didn’t qualify as domestic abuse; once she was fully regulated she would be able to think straight; our love was strong enough to recover from this; what kind of person would I be to abandon my partner in her moment of crisis; if I left it might truly push her over the edge and I would never be able to forgive myself for her suicide.
A feeling of familiarity slowly began to wash over me. I had heard these thoughts before. They came from individuals sitting in my office recounting their own past and current struggles. In the cases of ongoing relationships my recommendation was always the same: please safely extricate yourself, because the only outcome of staying would be further pain and suffering, and you are worthy of more. I realized I had to take my own advice. I had to choose me.
Our decoupling was its own adventure, which I won’t go into right now. I will share, however, that I found a therapist within days of leaving which was fortuitous for a whole other reason. Two weeks later I would get a call letting me know that my dad was dying, and could I fly home to Barbados to help take care of him. When it rains, it pours.
When I started writing this post I hadn’t planned to share this part of my journey in such detail. It was originally going to be a paragraph or two, almost a footnote meant to show how a previous relationship experience informed my current choices. But as writers will tell you, at some point we just become conduits for the stories that demand to be told. This telling became bigger than the beginnings of my polyamorous life, and it was clearly another step in my healing. I haven’t carried the burden of it alone. I’ve processed it in therapy, and I’ve talked about it with my closest friends and family immediately after it happened. But this is the first time I am writing about it, being public with it, being vulnerable with the world.
I didn’t write this post in a single sitting. Every time I sat to write, a multitude of feelings arose: deep sadness because I left a best friend and lover and partner; flickers of shame and embarrassment from imagining what others might think; remnants of tension in my body from the shock and stress and abuse; pride and empowerment from being in a place to tell my story; hope that my story might inspire others who survived similar situations to share theirs, that we might inspire those still trapped in similar situations to know they are not alone and to seek help; relief that the situation did not get any worse; compassion and concern for V; acceptance and patience with my ongoing healing; immense gratitude for the love and support I received from friends and family; awe in how far I’ve come since then; appreciation and love for my current partners.
A really close friend once pointed out that since Jennifer’s death, my choice in partners incrementally improved. My relationship with V cast some doubt on that observation, but she wasn’t just only her trauma, nor deserved to be reduced to her worst moments. What my friend was really saying was that I was getting better at knowing who I was beyond marriage and during grief, as well as what I was worth and who I deserved to be with. I had a history of putting my partners’ needs and desires before mine, essentially choosing and staying with partners based on my ability to meet their needs. I thought it made me a good partner, but it was based on a lack of self-worth, a fear of conflict and abandonment, and a scarcity consciousness. Definitively not good partner material. Looking back, it was a wonder any relationship made it as long as it did.
The ending of my relationship with V was very traumatic. My healing was that much more challenging while hospicing my father. In the wake of both endings, however, I felt like I was on the brink of a new way of being, of living. And as life goes, I got so much more than I bargained for.
The story continues in Poly Notes 4: Deconstruction Dive
Artwork by Teresa Grasseschi
When I read The Ethical Slut, I didn’t realize I had begun another leg on my deconstruction journey. Deconstruction often follows crises, and I didn’t feel like I was in crisis. It was more like I had discovered useful information that made sense to me, that I resonated with, but I was in a situation that didn’t allow me to investigate. I would simply continue to be who I was, end of story. Of course, nothing is ever that simple.
I tell folks that if they haven’t had at least two major crises of self or faith in their life, they’re not doing life right. My first personal crisis involved both. During my sophomore year in college I learned about the history of Christianity and the Bible, and it blew my evangelical mind wide open. For a period of time I was faithless, and who was I without faith? I grew up believing faith defined me, not that it was an expression of me. My second crisis was an almost near-death experience I found myself in as I attempted to avoid my call to ministry (Ch.2 of my book Rants To Revelations if you’re interested in that tale). The third happened as seminary graduation neared and it suddenly hit me that Unity’s theology wasn’t the right one, but that it was just another flawed attempt in a long line of flawed attempts to make sense of the ineffable nature of All That Is, and could I even be Unity minister, and did I just waste thousands of dollars and four years of my life.
I’m an out-loud processor. My wife Jennifer knew this so she just stood back and gave me space to spiral until I wore myself out. But during one of my rants, I let slip that I also didn’t know if I believed in monogamy any more. Not surprisingly, that caught her attention. She heard it as I didn’t want to stay married and I couldn’t convince her otherwise. Right quick we found ourselves in couples therapy with me saying things like, “I’m not saying I don’t want to married” and “I’m not saying I want to be with other people” and “I’m not NOT saying I’m open to talking about exploring this if you want to” and her saying things like “Oh my god what is happening right now?” and “Who the hell are you?” and “If that’s what you want then let’s just sign the divorce papers right now.”
It was a very scary time for both of us. I had enough self-awareness to know that because I was already spiraling, it wasn't the time to make major life decisions, like blow up my marriage and family. So I gave the necessary assurances. We both calmed down, stayed married, and never spoke of it again. It was easier and safer for us to remain in what we knew. Our relationship was never quite the same again but we made it work.
It was also easier and safer for me to be monogamous even after she died. From mid 2015 to early 2022 I found myself in monogamous relationships ranging from a few months to almost three years, interspersed with a few thrilling yet vacuous “widhoe” phases. When asked why I didn’t jump into non-monogamy during that time, I’d say that I kept falling for monogamous women, as if it was their fault I didn’t take responsibility for my relationship choices (tip of the hat to the internalized patriarchy norm of men blaming women for their discontent). Truth is, I was probably still too scared and too worried about what others would think. What was also true, was that the cultural and religious programming ran deep, and I wasn’t consciously ready to do the work to write and run new code.
I ended the longest relationship of that time in early 2020. As much as I loved my partner at the time, I slowly came to the realization that it wasn’t a good relationship for me. As an Enneagram 9 who really didn’t like to cause anyone discomfort, it was an immensely difficult decision to make, but thanks in part to a coach I was working with at the time, I gained the courage needed to choose myself. I grieved for a couple months with the intention to remain single until at least summer before dating again. Not just dating, but perhaps finally trying non-monogamy. Covid, however, had other plans.
When the pandemic arrived, no-one had an inkling of an idea what lay ahead. We all thought we’d be home for a mere three weeks during that first shut-down. As the quarantine extended, my bachelor pad began to feel more like solitary confinement. As the death count rose, so did my day drinking and pizza consumption. As the loneliness intensified, so did the temptation to seek relief with dates and hookups. Thankfully, my desire to stay alive was stronger. I re-envisioned that time as an opportunity for deepening my relationship with myself. I cut back on the drinking and the pizzas, meditated more, and became well-acquainted with calisthenics. I felt and looked as good as anyone could during a global health and existential crisis.
And as the good book reminds us, “It is not good that man should be alone.” (Genesis 2:18) I really think it’s more like, “Not good things will happen if man is alone for too long.” What began as more frequent check-ins with a friend of seven years who was recovering from surgery quickly became a long-distance romance. I was in MA, and “V” was in DC, and by the end of summer we were braving the potentially deadly skies to see each other. Before things got serious, I let her know about my interest in non-monogamy. While she was quite happy to be casually dating multiple people, she felt that monogamy was the path when things got serious.
It’s what’s referred to as the Relationship Escalator: casually date multiple people; like one person more than the others; date that person exclusively; fall in love; live with that person; get engaged; get married; merge finances; buy a house; have children; live happily ever after.. or at least try to. The order and steps on the escalator vary from couple to couple, but it’s the well-established and deeply-ingrained cultural relationship norm; a core component of the American Dream. Or as I call it now, the American Gaslight.
My connection with “V” felt like the most fulfilling one I’d ever experienced. We were more compatible in all the ways than anyone I’d been with before. For the first time we both felt safe and brave enough to be 100% ourselves out loud. We accepted and held space for each others’ traumas and ongoing healing. We laughed and cried so much together. And the sex was… otherworldly. We were in an intoxicating combination of New Relationship Energy (NRE) and comfort-food familiarity.
Once again, I found myself not wanting to risk losing something so precious, afraid I would never find it again. Scarcity mentality much? Once again I silenced my curiosities, myself really, and chose monogamy. I convinced myself that I wasn’t going to miss out on something I had never tried before, and that my previous struggles were about not being with the right partner. In early 2021, mostly due to pastoral burnout (I talk about it in this podcast interview), I quit my church job, relocated to DC to live with V, and for almost a year we lived in the kind of relationship bliss we never thought possible.
And then it fell apart… so quickly, and frighteningly, and violently, in ways that I am still continuing to heal from.
The story continues in Poly Notes Pt.3 - On The Brink. Coming soon...
Artwork by Teresa Grasseschi
Over the last few months I’ve been getting more requests to speak more about my polyamory journey. Sometimes folks are asking out of curiosity. Sometimes they’re asking because they’re thinking of practicing some form of non-monogamy or opening up their current relationship and they want my advice. Sometimes the conversation happens within a spiritual or religious context, or folks wondering what I mean when I say it’s a pathway to dismantling systems of oppression.
Whenever I have these conversations I feel compelled to remind folks, a disclaimer really, that I’m fairly new to this journey and still learning so much about it…and myself in relation to my journey. I also realize that in my relatively small world, I may be one of their few, if not only, personal frame of reference because of my willingness to be open about my journey. What can I say? I am an oversharer. I don’t share for the attention. Believe it or not I’m an introvert. I share more in an effort to normalize a way of being that still carries a lot of stigma, and to help others feel less alone. Maybe so that I feel less alone too? Also, I have shit memory, so I knew from the beginning that I wouldn’t be able to keep up with who knows and who doesn’t. Call it part authentic living, part work-smarter-not-harder.
When I say a way of being, I’m alluding to a well-worn conversation in non-monogamy circles: is this simply a relationship descriptor or an identity? Do I practice polyamory or am I polyamorous? I know for me it’s an identity issue. I know that I am polyamorous regardless of my relationship status at any given moment. I could be single (not dating, not in a relationship) and I am still polyamorous. And if you view it as a relationship practice, that’s perfectly fine too. Some might think it’s a futile chicken and egg debate, but I think not. Who we are, or at least who we believe ourselves to be, determines our choices. It also gives us clarity about ourselves beyond our choices.
Which raises the question I often pose to folks who raise an eyebrow to any form of non-monogamy: are you truly monogamous or is it a relationship style you choose to practice because it’s all you’ve ever known because it’s culturally accepted and validated and you weren’t aware you had other options? Not that there’s anything wrong with monogamy. It’s perfect for some folks, but not for everyone. One size fits all is not a thing. You might suspect it's not for you, but you haven’t wanted to give yourself the opportunity to find out for a whole host of reasons that range from ignorant to very valid: it’s an excuse to cheat; my partner won’t ever go for this and leave me; it’s not moral; I can barely manage one relationship, no way I can handle multiple; this is for people who can’t control their sexual urges; this is for young unattached folks and I’m older with a spouse and children; people will think there’s something wrong with me; I think there’s something wrong with me; I might lose friends and family; I might be shunned from my spiritual community; it's not Christian; I might catch a disease.
I first heard about polyamory maybe 13 or 14 years ago. Remember, shit memory. I was married for just over 10 years. I was a seminary student in the Midwest, and my wife and daughter lived on the East Coast. I spoke to them pretty much every day, and I flew home every two or three weeks. At some point, through mutual seminary friends, I met Lisa.* The mutual attraction and chemistry were immediate and intoxicating. Right away we started spending a lot of our free time together. I told myself it was ok. As long as I didn’t act on any of my feelings, they would eventually dissipate and we’d just be good friends. It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened during my marriage, and my method had always worked.
Shortly after we met, she asked if I was polyamorous. I had no clue what she was talking about. She gave me the cliff notes, and in the moment something stirred inside me. My out-loud voice declared that I wasn’t, but my deep-down-inside voice whispered, “Maybe I want to be? Maybe I’ve always been?” You know that feeling when you’re working on a puzzle and you see an opening that looks perfect for a piece you passed over 15 minutes earlier? Like that. She recommended I read The Ethical Slut, and the puzzle piece clicked into place. It’s a non-monogamous relationship classic, and as I read I kept thinking, “Of course! This makes so much sense! This explains so much about how I’ve always felt!”
The more I read the more relieved I felt. Finally there was a valid explanation for why I had struggled and never felt settled in monogamous relationships. Until then I had always assumed that my internal restlessness was just what happened in long term relationships, and that the times I cheated in the few relationships I had before getting married in my twenties was due to moral immaturity and weak will power. I didn’t know this world existed, and I felt like it was where I should be, but by happenstance of fate I was living in another dimension that I didn’t belong. I felt like I was meeting myself for the first time, again.
Another feeling crept in as I read: despair. I knew my wife would not want to open our relationship. I knew I wasn’t brave enough to even ask. I also felt guilty for what might happen if I did: for the pain I would cause by blowing up our marriage; for the untold developmental harm it might do to our preteen daughter. And even though I philosophically agreed with the idea of non-monogamy, it didn’t mean I would actually enjoy living like that. I felt there was too much to risk losing over what might just be a flight of fancy. To be fully honest, as much as it felt right, there was still so much cultural and evangelical Christian programming that made it feel more wrong.
So I said nothing, and buried my feelings until a memorable rant a couple years later during a spiritual crisis right before graduating from seminary. Let’s just say sometimes you have to be very mindful if you tend to process things out loud. I wasn’t. The shit hit the fan, and for a brief time, things got very messy.
The story continues in Poly Notes Pt.2 - Old Habits.
Check back soon.
* Lisa is not her real name. To this day we continue to be platonic friends. She is married and monogamous. Yes, you can transition from non-monogamy to monogamy as well.