If you recall, I began the year with a new mantra: declaring in my January article that 2022 would be the year I’d finally let go. And boy, did I.
With this being the year following an era heavily dedicated to healing and reinvention of self, a formal resolution felt painfully similar to beating a dead horse. I sat and decided, amid the bustle of vision board parties and discussions of goals and intentions resounding like a gong around me, that this was my year where I’d relinquish everything.
No resolutions. No plans. No goals. Just being.
A ‘Que sera, sera,’ if you will. I planned for nothing except being okay with everything that the next 12 months would bring and giving myself grace for the situations I would normally replay in my head until their memories caused intangible bleeding of the brain. I wanted to let go of striving and embark on the beauty of taking it day by day.
The first six weeks of the year brought me heartbreak (shocking) and the following six brought me healing in a vengeful way with which I was initially unfamiliar, but quickly fell into familiarity. While I’d usually spend the weeks following freshly hurt feelings nursing my heart back to health with daily devotionals, therapy sessions with my mother and sister, and whatever feel-good series from the 00’s I’d sank my teeth into at the moment, this last one ignited retribution I hadn’t experienced prior.
Was it the anger I felt from knowing I’d done everything right and was yet again left with my optimism and hopeless romanticism shattered before me, waiting to be pieced back together?
Maybe.
Or, was it the stupidity I felt from months of being in the wrestling ring with my intuition; she, having me in a headlock and I, relentlessly elbowing her ribs in an attempt to convince her that maybe, just maybe, this one is different and good things happen to good people and he’s not like the others and this is my reward for being a good girl and waiting?
It was probable.
Either way, my airways became blocked, my vision blurred, and my hearing drowned out by an audience composed of my conscious and subconscious all rooting Intuition, Intuition until I ceased to move or lift another finger in my fight against good sense, unable to defend what was blatantly in front of me: she was right, men still sucked, and once again, it wasn’t me. No matter how dedicated I was to the right thing, the wrong still had no duty to be merciful to me.
I’m not sure what did it, truthfully. But one thing I can be certain of is the fire of vengeance that ignited in me following that situation. My one key takeaway: nobody would ever experience the same amount of naiveté and blissful ignorance from me again. I departed that situation with a promise to myself that I’d never again be left to return to my Intuition with my own tail between my legs, flowers, and candy in hand hoping to kiss and makeup because I’d inevitably need her on my side in the future.
So it began: my journey to avenge myself.
I won’t say that my decision to embark on casualty (the same waters I’d condemned and swore to never venture past ankle height a little less than two years ago) was something that was even really intentional.
In other words, I didn’t go looking for casualty. It found me, in a sense. It found me in the form of a man that I knew I wouldn’t otherwise experience unless I agreed to have our time be confined to his terms of conditions. Terms stating that while we would do a plethora of things, reaching Monogamy, Population: 2 was simply not in the cards. Any use of titles or standard chivalry was non-negotiable, for him.
After two weeks of texting back and forth, indulging in the banter that lives in the preciously playful space of fresh starts, and two (PG-13) nights spent together, he came right out with it: “I’ve never had a girlfriend and I don’t have any intentions of starting now.”
If I had a Frank Sinatra vinyl on a Victrola, this is the moment it would’ve come to a screeching halt.
I can recall being silent for a second in the pursuit of an intentional, carefully chosen response to his declaration.
A mental voice of self-righteousness whispered, “well, you’ve never had me.”
Common sense said, “then I’m not the person for you.”
Curiosity said, “but what if it works?”
This was the beginning of February, or what I like to regard as my PCE (pre-casual-era), so, common sense reigned supreme in this instance.
I chose to amplify the only voice of logic and rationale that lives in this durable skull of mine and upon hearing my mother’s encouraging, “You go girl,” I knew I’d made the right choice.
But still, curiosity lingered. I’d never technically, willingly been a part of a casual dynamic. It’d always been unbeknownst and without my consent.
I know, going from being heartbroken from an intense bout with like to considering a man who clearly had no intention of being with me might seem like a regression in healing to the naked eye; let’s clothe it with context, shall we?
For the first time in my entire life, I had somebody clearly communicate their boundaries and intentions.
What if this time, I was a willing participant? Would I still get hurt if I knew what to expect? Would I be threatened at the premise of sharing if I, too, was being shared? And for an otherwise stingy woman like myself, could feelings even grow if I was always plagued with the thought of another woman doing the same things as I, things which now had lost all significance?
The hypotheticals swarmed. Instances of ‘what if’ in conjunction with the objection from the man in question inevitably led to my reconsideration of the matter.
“Okay,” I said finally after having spent an entire day debating the matter.
Common Sense packed her bags for the remainder of the winter.
Intuition screamed.
I would be able to tell you what Intuition said, if not for Curiosity covering her mouth with a heavy hand.
“You won’t know unless you try. You did say this is the year you’d let go,” Curiosity spoke sweetly over the muffled cries.
And there I was; in a casual, going nowhere fast dynamic with the only man I’d ever fully defined expectations (or a lack thereof) with. It was going smoother than I’d imagined.
By the time we’d come to a consensus, I was already being courted by another man who I didn’t enjoy nearly as much, so I thought it was a humble beginning.
On Valentine’s Day, we didn’t speak.
On February 15th, I woke up to a minor hangover and a text message from my non-monogamous man.
Him: Did you enjoy yourself?
Me: ??? What do you mean?
Him: With whoever took you out yesterday. Did you enjoy yourself?
I smiled to myself. I think I’m doing it right.
While our time was free to be distributed with whoever, we stood in agreement that our bodies were not.
It wasn’t until we were on the same page that we decided to explore intimacy, I like to think this was one of our more productive decisions because sex complicates things. Nonetheless, I braced myself for things to change because they always had. They always do.
Around 45 minutes later, I was wrapped in my sheets with an unruly current of thoughts hindering my mind from rest. Although the sky was only two hours shy of dusk and sleep would’ve been as blissful (maybe more) than sex itself, I couldn’t ignore just how foreign this territory was.
It wasn’t being the little spoon while drawing circles on his arm. It wasn’t playing in his hair while he slept soundly (however, he did sleep). It wasn’t an excitement brewing in my stomach as I imagined all the times that would succeed this one.
It was, however, feeling freakishly the same. I laid with my brows furrowed, eyes intent on the ceiling and my lips pursed as my subconscious yawned, waking to aid me in the navigation of (his) post-coital clarity.
“That was it?” She dared to whisper.
I swallowed the threat of laughing out loud, turned on my side, and closed my eyes. If casualty was the outlet that would allow me to explore my options, I could get used to this.
And explore I did. As romantic montages go, my spell with a modest, Samantha-Jones-styled single life began as the weather warmed and spring began to melt the chill of winter.
I texted, I went on dates, I kissed (safely, we’re still in a pandemic), I answered calls, I declined them, I rekindled old romance, terminated new ones, and I’d never felt more alive. I mean, I’d never so intently focused on and enjoyed the moment (or the man) at hand. It was riveting.
To go from being a vicious over-thinker, planner, and dedicated advocate to all things that would result in me falling in a love that was only parallel to, “The Vow,” itself to indulging in the excitement brought by having a diverse palate of company I was enjoying and the spontaneity of not knowing where each evening would take me was a transition of the utmost intensity.
I’d never had every sense stimulated like this before without the prospect of my heart getting involved, and therefore, my feelings hurt. It was empowering. I felt like I had it all, truthfully.
My non-monogamous man was with me through every step, only, I’d assumed he was having a similar experience to myself. He wasn’t.
This brings me to hot take #1: Casualty only works when you’re both on the same page.
Did we agree on the terms of our dynamic? We did. However, internally, I was committed to really not going down a similar path to the ones I’d always gayly, stupidly skipped toward during my prior encounters; that led me to have a little bit stronger of a disregard for his feelings than I would come to find, he did mine.
As I found myself more enthralled with my own free will, I think my non-monogamous man found himself traveling in direct opposition to the direction in which I was going.
What began as, “sometimes, I’m not going to want to talk to you, and that’s okay. I’m independent that way,” became, “You’re always so busy. Did you see my text?”
What was once, “I live alone because I love my space. Sometimes I just need me-time,” soon turned into, “where are you going?” at any instance that involved my getting out of bed past midnight.
Then came the arguments. Whereas in the beginning, we had a very open flow of communication about our prior and current experiences, towards the midpoint it got a bit…rocky. Innocent briefings on my evenings resulted in him using my adventures against me in an attempt to accuse me of what, if we’d been uncasual, could’ve been regarded as infidelity.
But, as he’d initially desired, that’s not what this was and I didn’t want to deal. The moment it wasn’t fun, I shut down.
As he pulled, I pushed, and the contrast was clear: we no longer wanted the same things.
Once I noticed the shift in our dynamic, as well as my own growing intolerance for any sort of authority or obligation, I ended it.
Here’s where I messed up: the ending was merely a climax in the plot, not a final denouement.
This brings me to hot take #2: Quit while you’re ahead.
The rekindling of our situation after a three-week-long hiatus was cinematically satisfying, for me, anyway.
It was everything I wanted from a man in both my PCE and now as a new, self-proclaimed citizen of Singleness: population me.
He was accommodating, diligent, caring, playful, and, most importantly, structured.
(Trigger Warning: my daddy issues are showing.)
The one thing I’ve always craved from men was structure and routine because it was one thing (of many, many things) that I never had in my paternal relationship. I never saw or communicated with my father on a regular basis. After an outing in January, I may not have seen him again until June. From then, maybe in August, only because that’s my birth month.
I was always left holding on to the few moments that we spent because as long as I remembered the specific details like what Adidas he’d worn that day, at what level was his Carmex in use, what poorly picked cologne he sported (my mother has always been the scent connoisseur between the two, and how many silver hairs were peaking through his graying beard then it never felt quite like it had been too long…but it was.
I’ll save us all the details of trauma and abandonment for another day. My point is that my non-monogamous man, oddly enough and in all his romantic resistance, filled every need I had.
We went out, we stayed in, we cooked, we watched shows, we dog-sat (cute, huh?), but in all of our growing comfortability, we still weren’t confronting the issues that existed under the surface: I still wasn’t in a position of wanting to be possessed, and he was still accelerating in a direction inverse to my own.
We didn’t quit while we were ahead, and that led to me (yes, me) continuing to only maneuver in a way that filled every impulsive need, despite who the filler was. So after about five instances of Mr. Never-Been-a-Boyfriend failing to answer my phone calls past 10 PM, hearing sightings of him being out when he’d told me he’d called back (and failed to), I, feeling abandoned, reacted impulsively. I had a need and the need had to be filled regardless of the fact that the filler was a familiar friend of the non-monogamous man.
What happened was more PG-13 than what the worst-case scenario will allow the mind to imagine (but add wine for a more vivid, true-to-life adaptation) but still, it was without a doubt, the crappiest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life; Only paralleled by the time that I’d lied to my Grandma about having read a Christian-themed book she’d given me when I was 11-years-old. I still feel really bad about that one.
It was one thing to dabble with the existing roster, which was a list of prospects with no significant connections to Mr. Non-monogamy. However, my choice to venture into the most dangerous waters I could’ve gone, waters which I’d only made my acquaintance with through Mr. Non-monogamy himself, was despicable.
I had to do some internal reflection at that point. I wanted attention, yes. I wanted his attention, yes, but when did spite intrude my mental universe of obligation and why had it been so easy for me to listen?
The answer was easy enough: I was still hurt from my past situations and the moment I felt an instance of pull away, regardless of my newfound fluidity, I went into panic mode.
Intuition said, “there’s somebody else.”
Common Sense sighed, “for the love of God, Cheyenne, anybody else. Please.”
Curiosity countered, “but he asked for your number…what’s the harm in a glass of wine?”
Spite hissed, “don’t let anybody make you feel small. Do it.”
Hot take #3: Casualty is not for the healing, but the healed.
My main mistake in embarking on casual dating was that I mistook the qualifications of an effective, efficient casual dater. I thought that my yearning for power and sexual liberation made me a prime candidate, completely neglecting the importance of a proper head space.
I wasn’t over the hurt I’d experienced during my PCE. The moment that I felt a similar occurrence on the rise, I abused casualty and made it an unwilling accomplice in the intentional hurting of somebody else, somebody I’d grown to be quite fond of.
Casualty is for the comfort and respect of the boundaries of both willing participants, not purposed for revenge or punishment. Because I wasn’t healed, I wound up hurting somebody else and embodying that which I’d never imagined I’d become capable of: the bad guy.
It turns out that hurting people hurts a million times worse than being hurt. Being the victim is a luxury; the ability to sleep well at night knowing it wasn’t you, but it was them is a feeling of extreme relief.
I understand why people lie. I understand why people blame others.
Sometimes, it’s the disbelief that you’d even be capable of inflicting such pain. Other times, it’s just the fear of watching all of the high regard they had for you fade like a dimming light with the chronicling of every harsh detail of who you really are.
After years of being victimized for my own stupidity and neglect of signs, I became every lying, deceitful, and selfish person that had hurt me. Believe you me, I typically appreciate a full circle moment, but this was by far, the worst moment of my bout with college boys. (Outside of the part when I was back on the prowl less than 48 hours later, and the part where I did it again, of course.)
Hot take #4: Every man is not, ‘all men.’
My flawed characterization of Mr. Non-Monogamy led me to treat him according to what I thought he would be, rather than the person he’d revealed to me slowly, but surely.
I was repaying him for crimes he hadn’t even committed. But, in defense of my own heart, when I felt like I was going to end up neglected (again), I went into survival mode; flight or flight. It was me or him, and for the first time, in the worst possible way, I chose me.
I know you’d never read this, but in the case you do: I did it. I finally wrote the story about me as the villain vs. the victim. I’m not sure it’ll be as cathartic of a read for you as it was for me to write, but either way, I’m sorry.
Because every man is not “all men,” I’ve now committed myself to making sure that he who comes next, because there will be a he, receives from me all things that he depicts himself worthy of; nothing more, nothing less.
Hot take #5: Casualty is not for me.
I used to say that the ‘situationship’ thing wasn’t for me because of my own attachment issues. Today, I can say that it’s because of my commitment issues. When I decide to do something, I really go for it. My experimentation with plurality can end right here and now because I know that I experienced it, full throttle. I hit the town in the hardest way I possibly could, and I can leave my collegiate era fulfilled that I indeed did try everything.
And, as much as I try to fight it, I require structure as much as I desire it. I love routine and the ‘everydayness’ of committed relationships, as Nora Ephron once characterized it. Normalcy can’t exist in spontaneity, but a beautiful spontaneity can be birthed in the cultivation of a relationship; in the cultivation of a home.
What’s next, you may ask? What follows casualty and college?
There’s a guy. He’s special. And I feel remarkably compelled to be the best version of myself and protect him from the villainy and promiscuity as experienced by Mr. Non-monogamy (also, Grad School).
Intuition affirms, “keep going.”
Common Sense says, “you know better now.”
Curiosity ponders, “I wonder what it’ll be like?”
Hope answers, “It’s everything you’ve ever wanted.”
Wish me luck.
With closed legs and an open heart,
Cheyenne Paterson, B.A