When I first stumbled upon the word, amid a jumble of other adjectives dedicated to describe French existentialist writer Simone De Bevouir, well, it was merely the Frenchness of the word that invoked my curiosity.
I readily assumed that the word was one of those out-of-box philosophical musings, albeit embryonic to have escaped me, when we are exposed to noteworthy amount of write-ups on homosexuality regularly. (Ya, and I thought I was well read!)
However, on close follow-up, the idea came as a full-fledged concept, which was adopted by a noticeable chunk as a lifestyle. And there are, actually, psychiatrists specializing on the issue, even though American health insurance doesn’t recognize their charge as medical expense yet.
And wait, they aren’t swingers (one who swap their partners for pleasure). Uh, uh, not even polygamist (those who, as if not suffering enough, go for multiple marriages).
Polyamory is defined as, “a lifestyle in which a person may pursue simultaneous romantic relationships, with the blessing and consent of each of their partners. This is in contrast to monogamy, where relationship partners agree to romantic exclusivity. This is also in contrast to infidelity, where someone takes on additional lovers without their partner’s consent.
Polyamorous people commit to honesty, negotiation, and clear communication about each of the relationships in their life (Hymer and Rubin, 1982).”
While the concept as a whole was intriguing enough, what really got me was this term “romantic exclusivity”. Of late, I’ve pondered a lot on this particular aspect of relationship, yet the neatness of the summarization—romantic exclusivity—came as some sort of revelation.
During my three years of living together relationship, and for that matter in the commune, where regular influx of people looking for “love and light” is a norm, it was difficult not to stumble here and there randomly into the plethora of multiple attractions, subsequent jealousy or the sense of guilt or the desire to earn or allow freedom.
Polyamory argues love always multiplies on sharing. If you share a loving relationship with 10, its more extensive.
Over and again, we’re thrown into the situations, when either of us is casually attracted to other people in the commune. There are people with whom we would like to spend time with or talk to or hug or dance with (on situations “or” is replaced by “and”). Though, normal as it may sound, for some reasons, it’s somehow painful to accept that your partner might enjoy somebody else’s company better than yours at the given moment. You want that exclusivity, that romantic exclusivity of being his only fascination.
Unfortunately, or, rather, ironically, when it comes to pinch, you can’t render that exclusivity either. Why can’t it be less complicated! We want freedom, yet we want to possess, we want to love everybody and yet cringe at the thought of being loved like “everybody else”. When I try to pin-point, why it hurts me to be “one among many”, petty though it might sound, its inferiority instinct (“complex “makes it sound more of a clinical psychology, while it’s pretty much normal, even basic psychology).
We are so used to measuring our worth through somebody else’s eyes that at the mere hint of disapproval, we lose our sense of worth. My sense of beauty, my worth, or whatever that is, is so much derived from the other. It’s so petty, so unbelievably petty that I always try to rationalize it into something more “sophisticated” more reasonable like, “you’ve stopped loving me” or “you’ve always been so self centric”. I did that with my mother, I do that with my boyfriend.
It was exactly when I was amid these random musings, Polyamory hit me. In the beginning, I thought it was quiet unnatural, given human need for exclusivity. But on further pondering, isn’t exclusivity equally impossible too?
Yes! We want to be exclusively loved, but it is difficult for us to exclusively love one person. And I’m not hinting promiscuity. I mean, just the casual attractions, you know.
I won’t buy if any sane person would come to me and claim that all his/her life they haven’t been attracted to anybody but their spouses. I’m sure the variables and quantity of attraction could be segregated on priority basis, but we can’t always be attracted to one person.
School of polyamory argues (?) or suggests that, love always multiplies on sharing. Or in more plain terms, it suggests if you share a loving relationship with 10 people, its more extensive than loving one person. Simple mathematical axiom!
And when you experience more freedom in a relationship, not just freedom to pursue multiple relationships, but freedom to be yourself, whoever that is, the dynamics of relationship expands from mere attraction to mutual respect. From my own experience, whenever my boyfriend trustingly lets me be with other friends, even male friends, I feel more loving towards him; I feel this great joy for being trusted. And funnily, the more I’m convinced that he trusts me with other men, the lesser I’m motivated to cheat (ya, that’s a huge word) on him. I can be friends with men, be myself, and joke around, without any murky desires lurking on the backyard of my mind. And that is so beautiful, so meaningful, so relaxing.
With little bit of difficulty, I try to follow the suit too, although allowing freedom is always against our normal mindset, even with something as small as letting Kushal wear a pair of torn, ragged trousers and run around waterfall on them.
Torn amidst this desire to break free and allow freedom, I’m extremely fascinated to polyamory as an intellectual theory, but I wonder, if pursuing 10 relationships at a time, per se, wouldn’t be ten times more problematic, if not as hectic.
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