How I found out I'm poly

Ian's voice on the phone made me tingle. I loved his rakish grin, and when he cooked for me, I was in heaven. But he wasn't my husband.

It was about five years into our marriage, four years into parenthood, that H. and I became friends with Alicia and Ian. This happened somewhere in the suburbs of the U.S., sometime in the second half of the Clinton era.

We liked them. They, too, had a young child. We had dinners together, watched the kids together, enjoyed lively conversation and the things we had in common. Before too long, Alicia and Ian had to move farther away, but close enough for car trips. Our visits after that involved being houseguests, staying the night, having breakfast together. Spending even more time with each other.

When we were with Ian and Alicia, I felt excited and alive. When we were apart, I missed their company. In the weeks between one visit and the next, I couldn't wait to see them again. Parting was sad. When Ian and I would hug hello or farewell, there was something else, too--I could have lingered there, happily, our arms around each other. They were on my mind a lot. He was on my mind a lot.

Over time, I noticed my feelings, my preoccupation with him. I tried to interpret my feelings in terms of friendship rather than anything beyond that. I explained to myself that I cared deeply for him as a dear friend. It was a terrible mental struggle. Such denial.

And finally, the truth. I admitted to myself that I felt love and desire for this man. The denial was over, but now the grief began over what I thought were the implications--that I must not love H. anymore, as I had these feelings for another.

I suffered with this secret, withholding it from H., which was damaging to our relationship. My secret made me feel more distant from him, made me shrink from his touch.

I sank into self-loathing, feeling I was wrong and bad.

I searched for consolation. I tried to find literature on the theme of my pain, anything written by anyone who had ever been through something similar. The young married woman's guilty, secret, unrequited desire for someone else.

Then, at last, a turning point: somehow* I came across a column by a young woman who'd had a similar falling-for-someone-else experience. She felt terrible about it. But her self-image changed when she encountered the idea that it's possible for the heart to feel love for more than one person. And she stopped hating herself. She figured her nature might be "polyamorous" rather than monogamous.

(*I've tried hard to remember how this happened. I think it must have been a column in Loving More magazine, but exactly how I came to have a copy of LM is hazy in my memory now.)

Thus, my healing began. I received the good news that having more than one person in one's heart is quite possible, and having more than one lover at a time needn't involve betrayal, dishonesty, deception. I dumped the logic of monogamy.

Looking in my heart, I knew I wanted to, and still DID, love H. Feeling love for Ian did not mean my love for H. had to end.

It was time for confession. I told H. the truth about my inner emotional ordeal--my attraction to Ian, how my self-hatred was transformed into self-acceptance, my conclusion that I'm poly. It hurt H. to learn all this. After all, he, too, had spent his whole life inside the monogamy box. All those love stories we absorb...from childhood fairytales to adult literature...as portrayed in television, film and music...the assumption remains hidden, goes unquestioned by so many of us. We internalize the cultural dictum that love requires exclusivity. If you love me, you'll love only me.

(to be continued)