I'm Polyamorous – Is There Something Wrong with Me? (DP vs. PPL #5)

I am a freak. You might not think it to look at me – in fact, I regularly appear in public without raising the slightest suspicion -- but I've chosen a lifestyle that catapults me far outside the boundaries of the cultural norm. A lot of the time, I completely forget about my own freakishness, and go about my daily business thinking I'm no different from the next person standing in line at the grocery store.

But although my life seems normal to me, it doesn't always seem so normal to other people. Almost without fail, when I disclose certain facts about my personal life to someone who doesn't know me very well, I get some kind of reaction. Sometimes it's a look of blank incomprehension. Sometimes it's incredulity, often accompanied by morbid curiosity. Every once in a while, it's an expression of relief: “I can't tell you how glad I am to meet someone else like me.”

I always go into these sorts of conversations feeling like I'm going to be asked to account for myself, to somehow justify my aberrant behavior.

Normalcy needs no explanation. But deviance had better come up with a damned good excuse.

At the bottom of the blame barrel lurks the Dominant Paradigm's ad hominem attack: If you are polyamorous, there must be something wrong with you.

In response, the Poly Party Line proclaims: There's nothing wrong with me that isn't also wrong with everyone else. In other words, yes, it's true that I'm not perfect. Neither is anyone else. So what's your fucking POINT?

But let's not shut down this dialogue just yet – I always find it pleasant to peruse the long list of human imperfections, don't you?

I guess it might be interesting to conduct some research on a large sample of people who identify as polyamorous. We could then determine whether, as a group, they exhibit a higher-than-average incidence of certain personality disorders, or cardiovascular disease, or that selfish gene that makes them think they can have more than their fair share.

Until such time as this research is fully funded, though, let's stick with the evidence at our disposal, namely the observations of yours truly, about yours truly.

So, for all you psychological Sherlocks out there, here's what's wrong with me:

1. I have very poor vision. We're talking 20/1000. Compared to the average person, I'm way more likely to mistake one lover for another.
2. I'm bad at math. One, two, five, what's the difference?

Wait, wait, wait, you say. Viny, be SERIOUS.

Okay. I've got a bunch of personality flaws that would seem to make me a bad candidate for polyamory, such as competitiveness (see my whole series of posts on “The Problem of Comparison”) and completely sucking at multi-tasking.

Personal weaknesses of mine that make me a good candidate for polyamory probably include being a show-off and a know-it-all, craving attention and approval, and having a sense of entitlement.

Which reminds me of something my Aunt Vanessa once said to me: “Your son is exactly like you – you both just assume that everyone loves you.” I've never forgotten her comment, or the tone in her voice when she said it – a bizarre combination of disapproval, disdain, marvel, and envy.

Actually, I think my Aunt Vanessa was on to something, although I'm too tired to figure out exactly what, or how it might relate to our topic.

I will say this: if we're really looking for an explanation for how I ended up here in Polyfreakville, it would be more fruitful to examine a cluster of personality traits that probably aren't listed in the DSM, and to excavate a few interesting details about my religious upbringing.

I think polyamory appeals to me because I am at once uber-practical and deeply romantic. I'm loyal; I keep the promises I make, which means I'm careful about what I commit to. I'm an extrovert who values intimacy. I'm a lover. Nothing matters more to me than my relationships. Sexuality – my own and others' – has always fascinated me. I also look at sex as a necessary creature comfort. And I can't deal with the emotional claustrophobia of keeping some important feeling or experience to myself, or the sensual stinginess of “saving” myself for my spouse.

So, maybe all this means there's something wrong with me. C'est la vie.