Love is a Many Splendored Thing

You have quality ears

And a high-end nose.

Grade A meat on your bones.

I once worshipped whoever I was with. The writing above is an entry in one of my journals about the primary in my first polyamorous relationship. The anesthetizing effect of love on my bipolar brain is well-documented in my writing and therapist’s notes. Monogamous or polyamorous didn’t matter to me at first. What mattered was that I had someone to call my own. I wanted to have a person like a possession. I wanted an object to admire, to use when convenient, and to ignore when it suited me. Of course, I never would have articulated my desires in this way. It sounded more like “soul-mates” or “they’re my everything.” It was romantic hyperbole. Love-bombing from a disordered brain. I would knock you off that pedestal as quickly as I built it for you. I wasn’t properly medicated for my bipolar disorder until I was twenty-seven, so every relationship before that was marred by the whims of my dysfunctional mind.

She dumped me.

She’s not dead.

Tomato, tomato.

Grief, grief.

The worship wasn’t enough for partners to deal with the mood swings. It certainly wasn’t enough to deal with the cheating or the lying and withholding. The realization that I was the problem wasn’t a pretty one. It took time to learn and accept that truth about myself. I liked to blame the exes. My internalized misogyny ensured I called these women “crazy” or “bitches” before I ever turned my reflection inward.

Always the appetizer, never the entrée.

It was easier to feel bad for myself than bad about myself.

I healed, though. After several fruitless attempts at different therapists, psychologists, and medications, I found what worked for me. I was able to stabilize. Suddenly, looking at myself critically without wanting to die was easier. The clarity I felt on my anti-depressant and mood stabilizer allowed me to put in the work necessary to step outside of my disorder and act according to my values. Therapy helped me articulate those values and learn ways to stick to them, even when it seemed impossible. Philosophy taught me to think critically about the construct of “values,” so I could develop my own, free of societal pressure and familial rearing. Time has allowed me to synthesize all of this into a set of routines, habits, and behaviors I can be proud of.

My current relationship is going strong in year three. We have been polyamorous for two years. I’m in a place I never thought I was capable of reaching. The work I put into staying here with this person in this relationship feels like the easiest and most rewarding effort I could make. I realize the success and prosperity of this connection is due in part to the change in my mental health, not just the fine and compatible qualities of my partner.

Love has been a labor that involves softening in hard situations, listening when you want to speak, and choosing chances when you want to quit. Most of that feels dangerously close to compromise and vulnerability. Once upon a time, my world and way mattered most to me, so the emotional exposure of acquiescing to the needs of another felt out of reach. I interpreted my selfishness and resulting loneliness as “edge,” so I felt boring when I finally medicated and opened myself up to an honest and healthy partnership.

Have I lost my edge?

I don’t think I ash my cig too much anymore.

Edge.

I danced under the South Carolina moon.

Edge.

To Harry Nilsson.

Edge.

Just keep going.

While I lamented what felt like losing a former self, I celebrated my new life and cheered myself to continue pushing forward. I’m thirty-three now and feeling better about myself and my love. I’ve learned that you get what you give; this is the rule of my one value. When building community, family, relationships, etc., what matters most is the love you share.

My primary partner is still a rock to me. The worship is different, though. It doesn’t consume me; in return, I don’t consume her. The part of me that insecurely clung to romantic relationships to define my value has been laid to rest. That insecure part of me has been soothed and eased into realizing I am enough. There is a new calm I feel that naturally begets a fathomless repose. Here, I found love for myself and a capacity to love others as we all deserve, a love that extends beyond the romantic. I feel love for community, for causes, for humanity, for the planet and all its flora and fauna.

Platonic and intimate love exists in places you would least expect. Learning this changed how I treated everyone. People no longer felt disposable. Every contact was sacred and deserving of respect. I realize now that the poets and songwriters weren’t wrong. Love is so much more than romantic; it is all we need, and it will save us.

I once met a man who survived the 36-year civil war in Guatemala. He was a guerilla fighter with the indigenous resistance and had lost his entire family to political attacks and disappearing tactics. He was nearly martyred himself three times. He was the kindest and most joyful speaker. I asked him how he could be this way with everything he had witnessed and lived through. He said one thing to me, with a broad and warm smile—one which invited me to join him in his joy and resistance:

"Everything I do, I do with love."