If someone were to ask me, “Is Polyamory weird?” I would say, without hesitation, yes. It is weird. Our entire society is shown examples of what a “healthy” relationship is in monogamy. The mechanisms of which have been drilled deep into our minds that we have no idea it has tainted the perceptions of how a relationship could and can function. Which is fine… It just limits possibility.

When my husband and I first opened up our marriage it wasn’t because I wanted to date people. On the contrary. I am someone who can easily separate the “carnal” from the emotional. It’s very, very easy to do. My husband on the other hand did not find it as simple. In any manner of speaking. It is the primary factor why I wanted us to have an open marriage.

The only way he would agree to it was if I “dated” other people. His logic was that “dating” would “slow me down” and he wouldn’t feel compelled to “keep up” as if it is some kind of race.

I didn’t want that. At all. If I date someone emotions ABSOLUTELY come into play. I’m getting to know someone, I’m sharing my life when they share theirs. We have intimate dinners where we discuss our hopes for the future. There is no way to avoid romantic entanglements. But, having that was better than what we had been doing. Which was just cheating and lying to each other.

As one would expect from dating other people, Josh came into my orbit and has not left. Nor do I want him to. Ever. It’s just that… I am someone that can’t casually date. If I consider someone worthy of my attention and I bring them into my life, they’re there unless they forcibly remove themselves. (Or, if there is something we just can’t talk through.) I don’t know why Charlie (my husband) wasn’t aware of this. He is the result of this very behavior.

I didn’t like the idea of dating because if I shared anything on social media my friends and family would assume I was trying to replace my husband with someone new. I didn’t want that. Because that was never my intention. (Ugh this topic makes me so mad.) Most people can’t grasp the nuance of polyamory or that every relationship is very different. They only see 1+1=2. The end. No other questions. This meeting is over.

I am almost certain that that is how my in-laws viewed it.

Now, they have been incredible. Truly. I have not been treated any different, nor have they treated Josh or Tony any other way than kind. They’re truly accepting. But… there is always implicit bias. The kind we don’t even know we’re doing as it is occurring.

The other day my mother-in-law and I were chatting on the phone and she said something off-hand that I know she genuinely meant nothing by it. She was being sincere and kind, but it was hurtful. She told me to write a story about Charlie’s and my experience with ALS and how everything weirdly fell into place. “And you loved each other like brothers,” was what she had said during her suggestion. In the moment I was thunderstruck… But I didn’t have the energy or the time to explain how polyamory or “love” works.

That’s the bane of living an “alternative” lifestyle. We’re forever having to acquiesce to other people’s perceptions. At least the ones like me who avoid confrontational conversations at all costs.

For me it all boils down to: is that what she thinks I felt for him? One might argue that that just shows that you cared for each other. Yes. But brotherly love is different than romantic love. For instance, I love Tony (my husband’s boyfriend) like a brother. I love my husband like a lover. There are two very distinctions between the two. At least in a logical sense. They carry different emotional weight.

Anyway… none of it matters in the end. I know my truth and it is such, regardless of how someone else perceives it. I just wish charlie was alive so I could say “See! I was right!”

Tonight is one of those nights where I just want to write. Whether it be a steady stream of consciousness or some haphazardly cobbled together narrative doesn’t matter. It is something I need to do. I yearn for it.

I’ve reached a point where I worry that I use my husband’s death as a way to receive sympathy. Like the people who humble brag in a self deprecating manner. Although this is neither humble nor a brag. I worry that I have begun to use it as a way to justify terrible behavior. Which is something I don’t want to make a habit.

I bring it up more than I feel I should. It’s not like I pop into Starbucks and when they ask for my order I reply “my husband just died and I’d like a black cold brew please.” Sometimes in the lack of conversation I bring it up or when prompted with how I am doing. More often than not I withhold my true feelings because it makes for a less awkward casual exchange. For those that I am familiar with, and know, I feel treat me as if I could crack at any moment. In their defense I might. I surprise even myself. But I haven’t yet. Whatever feelings I have I have buried them deep down to where they only bubble up, like crude oil, when things get tense.

Tonight… I have the image of my husband lying deceased in our bed prominent in my mind. The mental image is as fresh and real as if I was standing in the entry, staring at him resting peacefully. Unlike the times before this has caused me to feel a cut across my chest. In the actual moment this memory occurred I was calm, collected even. I was sad he was gone but… I wasn’t aching. It wasn’t painful. He passed with us around him, in his own bed, on his own terms. If given the optimal choice in passing, I think most would choose this exact scenario. Why now does it hurt?

The further I get from the last time I kissed his forehead causes me more heartache than I think I am prepared for. I miss him more and more as each day passes. Thinking of happier times waxes and wanes from joyful reminiscing to a painful desire for that which will never be again.

A friend of mine, who lost his husband to Covid, told me that almost a year, to the day, it was like a switch went off in his brain and he was no longer sad. The shared experience has been repeated a few times since and I can’t help but feel odd about it happening with me. I understand that I will always miss him, that’s a given. But I don’t want it to be a passing thought, like “oh, I need to buy milk” or “I really liked that jacket I had in junior high.”

I know my husband wouldn’t want me to be sad. He explicitly said he wanted me to live and have fun. It’s just weird without him. I don’t want to do it without him. At the very least, sharing with him what I did. How I feel.

And each day that passes I talk to new people who feel as though, in his absence, that there is place that could be filled by them. And all that does is make me angry. At both them and myself, for allowing it.