49 - Tailspin

Loving other people and allowing all the feelings inside me to actually come out feels incredibly liberating—as though I can finally breathe again after spending years with an elephant sitting on my chest. An elephant, mind you, that spent the entire time calmly solving Sudoku puzzles. As a regular reader, you already know how fascinating I find all of this—and how grateful I am to the mister for allowing me to experience it all.

Leif is the first man I've fallen in love with since the mister. 

Because he makes my heart jump. 

Because he is close to me. 

Because we have been connected ever since that first kiss.

For me, loving someone has always meant caring for them. Keeping them on my radar like an air-traffic controller. You let them fly. You know where they're headed. But you still keep an eye on them at all times. If there's a problem, it can immediately be reported and solved together before anyone crashes. That's how I love. I let people be free, but I'm always on standby. I see you—even when you're not there.

Discovering that Leif loves differently sent me into an entirely unplanned tailspin this week. Cabin pressure loss and emergency flotation devices included.

We wanted to see each other. With holiday logistics already complicating things, that was difficult enough. So I had cautiously reserved a window of time. Maybe. Possibly. If everything worked out. When it finally became clear that I would actually be available, I messaged him. And he replied that he had already made other plans.

Objectively speaking, that was all that happened.

No argument.

No harsh words.

Nothing dramatic.

And yet it hit me with surprising force.

The man who loves me. The man whose name still makes my heart do a small somersault whenever it lights up my phone screen. And suddenly, the time slot I had carefully carved out for us had been given to someone else.

Ouch.

That landed somewhere right between my self-esteem and whatever remains of my romantic idealism. I am fully aware that this was never his intention. Unfortunately, feelings are rarely interested in intentions. 

Perhaps that is the real challenge. Not loving multiple people. But accepting that other people experience and express love differently than you do. The same words do not automatically describe the same kind of love.

Not less.

Just different.

And that is exactly what my heart is currently trying to learn.

Figuring out what love feels like for Leif—and accepting it for what it is instead of comparing it to my own instruction manual—will probably require a new radar software update. Version 2.0: Poly-compatible, with an optional communication amplifier.

Then again, these are precisely the challenges that help us grow. Fortunately, this is not my first unexpected software update. It's a little like squirting. At first, it seemed like an unsolicited Windows feature that suddenly appeared during sex. Now it's simply part of the operating system. I know there will be a towel. I know not to eat asparagus before a date. And once those conditions are met, I can simply enjoy it.

Loving means allowing yourself to feel. Allowing yourself to be vulnerable.

Being poly means doing exactly the same thing, multiplied by the number of radar blips on the screen. That certainly increases the risk of turbulence. But it also increases the chance of unforgettable views.

And if you have someone you're allowed to hold on to during the tailspin, eventually you stop falling and start gliding together until solid ground returns beneath your feet.