Realness

Every time I try to write about my family, I feel at a loss for words. I see friends sharing so many beautiful thoughts and photos of their families, and I love it. I love seeing the vibrant energy that comes from getting to share life with each other, and I'm glad that you're sharing your happiness and your sorrows with me.

I think of how I would share my own, and I'm overwhelmed with so many feelings and memories to choose from. How do I describe that which takes no words to experience? There is no analysis to dissect the soft touch of lips on neck, of nose pressed to nose, no photoset of the hopeful fearful dreaming of the future.

How do I possibly approach the looming spectre of misrepresentation? When the only positive example of nonmonogamy I know to point to is drawn from the mind of a dirty computer one short day ago, how do I possibly avoid the stereotype threat pressing my own free expression back into hiding?

I live my life as a fake person only seen for how closely I can imitate realness. I know that every story, every image, will be scrutinized for which relationship is the real one. Which person is the person I love the most? Which would I sacrifice everything for? Which part of my life should I stop pretending?

And then I think about the richness and fullness of our lives, and how many people I know are struggling for even a fraction of that, and I worry that I would ever cause another person pain of longing or envy.

So I leave things unsaid. The deep abiding commitment, the joy of flourishing affection, the fear that at any moment it could all be taken away. Maybe one day we all will get to be possible.