My Original Polyamorous Vision…

…was based on a video I saw, documenting the morning routine of a triad all living together in an idyllic cottagecore house. They had one giant bed (and a second bedroom with a twin sized bed, in case someone wanted to sleep alone), matching mugs with their initials on them, all blissfully in love with each other. Plants covered the windowsills and spilled over the shelves, decorated with handmade tokens of affection. All three members were white and probably pretty well-off to be able to afford a house that nice. One of the three passed their partners their morning coffee with a kiss on the temple, all of them sporting gentle, affectionate smiles. They weren’t all legally married to each other, obviously, but it was exactly the kind of picturesque polyamorous relationship looked like to the kinds of people who still valued the traditions of monogamy. Basically just a monogamous marriage, but with one additional person. They made it look easy, dreamlike, and achingly romantic. And for the romance-loving young adult that I was when I saw it, still figuring out that polyamory was possible, it looked like everything I wanted.

I had every reason to believe I was alloromantic. I loved romance novels, I loved romantic poetry, I loved writing both of them myself. I loved physical affection, I had (what I assumed were) crushes on classmates and celebrities. I was on the fence about marriage, but just sort of accepted that I’d come around to it eventually, going through the motions of making a dream wedding Pinterest board like my friends. I stumbled clumsily through the first relationship I ever had (it ended in mere months, because I didn’t understand what my feelings even were), but that’s normal for a teenager. To put another nail in this particular coffin, polyamory came to me when I was in college, in the form of that triad’s video.

It was the model I tried to aim for, from the first time I started considering polyamory and for years beyond being the hinge in a relationship that would never be able to recreate it. I kept the fantasy in my head for years, using it as the guide stick that I should use to make all my relationship choices. It was what I wanted more than anything else, and took it personally when everyone’s choices moved farther and farther away from my goals. I tried to move in with my first partner as soon as possible, because that was the next step of realizing my vision. I was so upset when they decided to move in with their other partner instead, because it felt like an eschewing of my dream, a way of declaring it undesirable. Both of my partners expressing desires of wanting to live permanently elsewhere or travel between homes regularly was heartbreaking, but I assumed it would all work out in the end.

It was so important to me that I never questioned if it was possible, or even desirable—not just for my partners, but for myself.

I ignored how I’d only ever had experience living alone, how much I valued my personal space, and the discomfort I felt in the idea of having to share my room and bed long-term. I ignored how much I really, really fixated on having that second bedroom, with the single bed in it, “just in case” I ever wanted to sleep alone (which also ignored that I’ve slept terribly every time I’ve ever shared a bed with someone). I ignored how much I loved living alone, having my own space to do with as I please. I just assumed that, one day, I would suddenly become favorable to the idea of co-habitation and marriage and a wedding like I was supposed to. Being in a relationship long enough would spontaneously generate all the feelings I was missing. All of the panic I felt at not feeling the right feelings, not being able to live up to what “true love” promised, would just magically go away. I would start feeling proper romantic love any second now. That fantasy-vision required it, so I had to make it true.

Chasing that impossible goal was load-bearing for me, despite the fact that I never truly worked to fulfill it. I didn’t have a plan for reorganizing my apartment if either of my partners moved in with me. I deflated at the idea of having to get rid of my own things, even if it was for the righteous cause of making room for theirs. I didn’t really want to think about what sleeping in a bed with three people really meant, always soothing myself with the secondary fantasy of being able to get away. Every time I thought about the polyamorous triad house of my dreams, I carved out an additional room: a room just for me, where I could be alone, with all my stuff and nothing else. I rarely thought about how the other two would live. I just assumed they’d figure it out, everything would fall into place, and I would get to bask in the light of my own fantasy, content that I had done a romantic relationship correctly.

In reality, I was struggling. I would regularly burst into tears from stress when my partners visited me. I was sure they could tell that I didn’t “love them enough” or that they’d someday find out and leave me. Or, sometimes, that it should be up to me to end both relationships, because it was my responsibility as the one who had “fallen out of love.” What’s worse, I didn’t tell either of them. If I did, I’d be giving away I didn’t love them enough, and assumed they would both leave me instantly. I didn’t turn to the people who cared about me most, because I truly believed they would abandon me when they found out why I was sobbing.

My fears convinced me that not only was I a bad partner, but a bad person. I was only pretending at romance, and could never be a decent partner at all. And in the throes of all this stress, I convinced myself that all of this grief and anxiety was proof of my romantic love and devotion. I convinced myself that panic attacks were proof I was worthy of love from others. That every downward spiral was the feeling of romance drawing me in.

I called myself “entwined” not because it’s what resonated with me, but because that’s who I needed to be. Being an entwined poly person was what needed to be true in order for my fantasy to be true, that dream I had fixated on so much. I even believed it about myself. I was convinced that I was totally, definitely entwined, and one day I would start wanting to settle down with other people like I was supposed to.

Any day now.

Polyamorous reading only helped me so much. Because I convinced myself I definitely already wanted to be in my vee polycule sharing a house, entwined forever after, I never truly absorbed the information about solo poly. It fascinated me in the same way the term “non-binary” did when I was a teenager, before realizing my bigenderness—solo poly sounded very cool, but it was clearly not about me. I didn’t process any of what it was trying to teach me about myself, because I had already excluded myself from its definition.

It wasn’t until I embraced being aromantic that everything started to make sense.

My New Polyamorous Vision…

…is unabashedly aromantic, solo, and independent. In my most recent home of Chicago, I dream of owning one of the historic brick two-flats around the city, and renting out the second floor to no one. I’ll make my living on the ground floor, and save the second for my visiting partners—or family, or friends, or sex partners, or anything in between. I’ll have my own home, but keep a second just as pristine for the people I care about. In a way, it’s the perfect compromise. I get to protect my peace, to have my coveted privacy and personal space, but without giving up my old fantasy of giving my most important people a place in my life.

There was some truth to convincing myself I was entwined. Today, I feel more emotionally entwined than physically entwined. I still crave deep intimacy with those I trust, people I can share personal parts of myself with that I wouldn’t feel safe revealing to others, but I cringe at the idea of combining finances. I want to have someone (or more than one someone) to turn to in my darkest moments without fear, but I’d never want to share a cramped city apartment for years on end (or, God forbid, my entire life) with another person, no matter how much I care about them. I am entwined in some ways, for sure, but firmly solo in others.

Since describing my experiences with romance and anxiety, I’ve been told that panic attacks and grief spirals are not, in fact, what romantic love actually feels like. Thanks to aromanticism, I don’t do that anymore.

I don’t obsess about what I feel or don’t. My feelings, or lack thereof, don’t scare me anymore. I consider myself romance favorable, because I’ve never really felt repulsed by romance, just not quite fitting into the box—a square peg in a heart-shaped hole. I still enjoy reading and writing romantic fiction on my own time, and my relationships improve my life a lot. I still stay “I love you,” to my partners and my friends, but now I use it as a shorthand. It’s a bit long-winded to say, “I care about you very much, appreciate having you in my life, and I’m grateful to be able to share yours,” every single time. “I love you” works for now.

It might be a mystery as to why I bother continuing two relationships when I don’t experience romantic feelings. My answer is simple: I don’t think aromantic people should be barred from the intimacy, connection, and cathartic vulnerability that comes with being in a long-term relationship, romantic or otherwise. And to be honest, nothing about either of my relationships is materially different since I’ve discovered myself. The only thing I’ve changed is how I label my feelings

There are still things I crave outside of the relationships I already have. I fantasize a lot about having a network of sexual friends, about people I can be platonically and sexually intimate with. I want exclusively sexual relationships, too—non-platonic, non-romantic relations, built only on sexual love. I hadn’t even heard the term “sexual love” before realizing my aromanticism, and I’m forever grateful for the community for giving me a name for the type of dynamic I’ve been yearning after for years.

Being aromantic freed me in ways I’m still putting the pieces together on. I had rethink everything I ever thought I believed about relationships, romance, polyamory, and what I even wanted out of life. Once I stuck my nose in the dirt, digging around inside myself until I found the answer, it allowed me to dig up so many other things. I got to break down what I thought I was supposed to want into what I actually wanted. I got to accept that coveting my space wasn’t just better for me, but better for everyone I planned to stay close with. I could finally process what being solo poly meant. I wasn’t blinding myself to the possibility anymore, because I allowed myself to see how beautiful my life could be without the rules I so stringently held myself to.

I can see now that I would have been miserable in my old fantasy, if I had managed to achieve it. I would have been suffocated, stressed, and probably still assuming I was entwined and alloromantic, or discovering it in a much more painful way. I would have hated sharing a bed, been annoyingly particular about the state of the kitchen, and probably felt guilt and resentment every single day without knowing why. I feel much more confident in my new fantasy. In my ability to attain it, and also my ability to be happy once I get there.

In my new fantasy, I get to do it all. I get my own space, my own life, and the ability to make room in it for others when I want to. I get to invite people over and send them upstairs for the night, while I tuck myself in, comfortable and safe on my own. I get to keep a well-furnished apartment at the ready in case one of my friends needs a place to stay. I get to spend my days upstairs with my partners and head back down to embrace my solitude in the night. I get to have my life the way I like it, and treat everyone better because of it.

It's still a fantasy, and probably won’t turn out exactly as rosy as that description. I’m romanticizing it for the sake of expressing this newfound freedom. But it’s a much more comforting future than the one I convinced myself I needed to want. This future is one I want all on my own.