Myth

Watching the cars pass through the blurry windowpanes, the sound of the tires gliding over the wet street elicits a memory from childhood. A multi-sensory memory that includes the distinctive smell of rain and the steady sound of drops hitting the roof in a room devoid of sunlight. The darkness is apt. Reminding me of the painting on my wall and now, of the staging of a photo of me underneath a similar painting, the darkness has crept back in, accompanying the most recent atmospheric river pummeling those of us living in the golden state.

It’s late March. A half decade after it all began. We have a date on the calendar to talk at the end of the week. A date to talk about all the things. My mind is rehearsing all sorts of scenarios, and I find myself feeling despondent. Despondent because, at this point, I don’t even know what I’m hoping for. The thought creeps in — what if it’s the myth that I love? The lyrics of a favorite song comes to mind: Can’t keep hanging on to what is dead and gone. If you built yourself a myth you’d know just what to give. Materialize. Or let the ashes fly. The trouble is, I don’t know what the myth is in this case. Is it the myth of monogamy they still cling to in an attempt to avoid risk and fear? Or is it the myth of what we had — or could ever be? I still love them, but I’m feeling hurt beyond measure, and I’ve lost all reference points. Has the spell indeed been broken?

Ruminating over the last several months, my immediate presence with my other partner is elusive. I feel bad about it, too, especially since I’ve complained about the same from him in the past. But I can’t help it — I feel bad. Really, really bad. “I made you some coffee,” he mumbles, as he brings over a cup of warm liquid. Motel coffee is never very good, but at least it’ll revive me sufficiently to make my first virtual meeting of the day. Tears streaming down my face, I tell him I’m struggling. “I don’t know what to do,” I communicate through broken sentences punctuated by painful bouts of teary interruption. “I know that poly can be hard, and none of us has a road map. But I don’t feel seen. I don’t feel taken care of. I feel bad. Really, really bad.”

Memories can feel a bit like faded photographs strung together with one linked to the next, providing a conceptual narrative for the experiences we’ve had, providing linearity where there was none. The story of our relationship is no different. Images of time spent together create the backdrop against which my emotional journey winds itself around the drain. The prospect of looking into the drain is terrifying, a bit like staring into an emotional abyss that exists beyond the relationship that swallowed me up so many years ago. Who am I, if not the person who has mourned the loss of, rejoiced at the reentry of, and then again grieved the departure of, someone who has never been able to give me what I want — a relationship with them that has the space in real life for the emotional space it actually occupies — a relationship that doesn’t exist in the shadow of the periphery? Realizations like this are painful. When you simply lose someone you love, you have an object of desire of which you can mourn the loss. It’s easy to express. It’s legible to other people. There’s a support network ready and waiting for it. The loss of a dream — or a the myth of one — is altogether different.

Trudging through the streets of Los Angeles in the pouring rain next to my partner, two feet away, physically, but a million miles away, emotionally, I imagine the scene lying 48 hours in front of me. We’ll meet at our friend’s house, the goal being to talk through the challenges we’ve been facing. Having tried everything possible to address the pain of the last few months, all to no avail — a chilly reception at best, a hard shove away at worst. I used to feel they were my ally, a support beam… a magnet that could pull me from anywhere. But now I consider whether the role I played was little more than that of ephemeral holidays from routine — or, an accessory to remind them they’re desirable when their actual partner doesn’t make them feel sufficiently so. I didn’t always feel that way. “I’m not a mistress,” I frequently repeat, mostly jokingly, sometimes earnestly. When the emotion hinges more on the latter than the former, a day of reckoning has arrived.

With just such a day nearly upon us, the question lingers in the air. Is the love still there — indeed, is the person with whom I fell in love still there? The love that lasts is that which is flexible and allows the space for growth and change. Also, sometimes people can be standing on different arcs of the universe, arcs that are incompatible at a given juncture in time. If this is the case, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve stood on incompatible arcs with this human with whom I’ve experienced some of the most intense emotions of my life. Perhaps the latest development is simply another case of the exiting from the stage of a character in the theatrical production that is life. Maybe that character will reenter the stage at some later time. Maybe they won’t.

Rejoining the present moment, the sound of the rain and the cars on the street delivers me back to my body. In this moment, the here and now, I’m with my other partner, lying on the bed scrolling through the photos he took of me lying under the solemn painting just the day before. It’s time to be present in the present.