Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell Me Who You Love: Dispatches from a Painful Journey through Non-Monogamy

Staring at the painting above the desk in the living room, I identify myself in the woman, collapsed in exhaustion on the bed, the morning sunlight intruding in its onward march against the darkness. The events of the past few years have nearly broken me. Or at least that’s what it feels like.

My initial foray into polyamory was disastrous. It’s not that I thought it would be easy, but I naively underestimated the work that would be required of a relationship structure dependent upon everyone communicating openly and establishing clear agreements for which consent is non-coercively provided by all parties. Moreover, acute self-awareness, the ability to sit with difficult feelings, and the propensity to compassionately give others the benefit of the doubt are necessary on all sides if the arrangement is to be successful by any reasonable measure. As I would come to learn, unless (or until) the hard work of identifying and healing one’s early wounds is meaningfully done on all sides of the equation, fears will be operationalized into destructive patterns that reverberate throughout the entire chain of relationships. Small victories may obscure the work that remains, but unaddressed issues will simply take different shape, causing pain. A whole lot of pain.

It all started in 2018.

As is usual for San Francisco in spring, the warm afternoon sun had given way to a cold, damp fog. Excitedly, I make my way toward the bar we had designated as our meeting location. I’m running a little late so I grab my phone to update the group just in time to see a text announcing that Fiona would no longer be joining us for the evening festivities. I find myself worrying this might change our plans. With Nick’s wife also unable to come because of studying for a professional exam, Ari may well decide to pull the plug. My fears are confirmed. Ari messages me that he prefers to cancel and that, actually, I should come home. Still upset over a tense exchange with him earlier, I decide to continue on to the bar to meet Nick. Had I known the consequences of this decision, I would have turned around.

I arrive to find Nick ordering a drink from the surly bartender who has taken little interest in his recently designed sticker depicting smart phone, dumb head, a nod to his ongoing attempts to paint himself as resistant to the addictions of the modern digital world. Nick smirks, “He apparently doesn’t realize I’m a rising, talented guerrilla artist. I can’t expect the commoner to understand.” Laughing and settling into the barstool, I tease him as I often do about his delusions of grandeur, order a drink, and change the conversation to the recent turn of events. Fiona cancelled. Ari and I are in another fight. Should the two of us go ahead to the party anyway? After brief consideration, we decide that we should.

A half hour or so later, we walk the few short blocks to the party, and I find myself inadequately dressed for the cold. Nick puts his arms around me in a friendly way to keep me from turning into a human popsicle. Or maybe he isn’t simply being friendly, I think to myself. After all, a light flirtation had begun developing between us. After four years of friendship, we had only recently discovered we’re both in open relationships, a fact that had remained a secret after socializing and traveling together as two seemingly monogamous couples.

We enter the party to find ourselves preoccupied with each other, and Nick orders me a drink. The music creates a cocoon around us, providing a space to share feelings not previously verbalized. The euphoria we awaited slowly overtakes us as we begin dancing more closely. “What are your rules with Jenny,” I ask, as it becomes clear we’re feeling the same vibe. “Jenny first,” he responds. “Is it ok that we’re all friends though?” I ask. “Oh yeah,” he responds, “we’ve done this before.” He continues, “One other thing. While we never lie to each other, we also don’t talk about it. Because, you know, jealousy and all.” Considering my own rocky open relationship with Ari, I agree that jealousy can be hard and reflect back the tacit agreement we had just made.

I would come to learn there’s a relationship model named after this arrangement, not so lovingly referred to as Don’t ask, Don’t tell. Essentially, as I would come to find, this amounts to: Avoid the work of addressing the emotionally difficult issues and hope for the best. What could possibly go wrong?

I digress.

The attraction is palpable, and I surrender to the moment. We take each other in, dancing around each other in playful flirtation, and one thing leads to another. The die is cast. The lights come on as the dj wraps up his final set. Kissing good night, I hop into a car, invigorated from a passion-fueled evening that was as unexpected as it was predictable.

Weeks unfold into months, with stolen moments bringing intense excitement. Messaging back and forth with abandon, we begin the process of falling in love. The distinct tone notifying me of his arriving text messages brings an adrenaline rush. “Send me a sexy picture,” is met with “I suppose it’s my duty to throw sand in the gears of capitalism,” a flirtatious reference to our shared disdain for the workings of a system in which we both spend inordinate time analyzing and daydreaming about its replacement. We’re intellectually on the same page. I am hooked. The mutual admission that this is the best sexual connection either of us has experienced is as intensely satisfying as it is terrifying in its implications. How would our other partners react if they knew? Sharing this, of course, was not a risk we were willing to take. Nor was it something either of us could deny.

In the journey of self-exploration that ensues, different roles and scenarios are probed and played, reinforcing the emotionally intense dynamics of our relationship, which can neither evolve organically due to the constraints of don’t ask, don’t tell, nor be moderated due to the intensely accelerating desire to follow the feelings wherever they might lead. I decide I want him to fall in love with me. The ultimate prize for the demi-sexual.

My natural intensity serves as a contrast to his far more guarded state, but he allows me to breach the emotional barriers he has constructed over his lifetime with some degree of regularity. How to describe the sweetest of moments during which we abandon our defenses and share our deepest hopes and fears? Beautiful and ephemeral. One late night, I ask him, “What is your greatest fear?” Nick responds, “losing Jenny,” a sentiment so thoughtful and sweet that I feel a wave of respect and affection wash over me. Neither jealousy nor envy floods over me. It never does.

Concerned at the prospect of our friends (and Ari) knowing, while Jenny remains in the dark, he persuades me to keep our relationship secret. Having many friends in the poly community, I am made aware of how taboo this request is. I revisit it multiple times, but am convinced to let things be, lest the delicate equilibrium we have established be thrown into disarray. “Pile of red flags” is how one friend characterizes the way Nick is showing up to our relationship. But it feels like a drug, and I am addicted.

A good ten months after Nick and I had begun seeing each other, Ari and I descend into an intense discussion about how our open relationship is faring (conclusion: not good). I disclose that Nick and I have been seeing each other. I naively expect him to be happy that I, previously resistant about being in an open relationship, finally want to exercise the same freedoms he had been for the better part of four years. Instead, I’m met with fury. I defend my choices, alluding to the general lack of integrity he had shown me throughout the years of our open relationship. This was all true, but should have driven our separation, not my own deception by omission. I watch as our relationship of eleven years, which should have ended years before, deteriorates into a dramatic end that spares no casualties. He presents an ultimatum, I refuse to acquiesce, and he leaves our home of a decade. Tears are shed, but I surmise it’s for the best.

Nick and I continue seeing each other. Having revealed our relationship to Jenny one weekend in the countryside, he reports back that we can continue seeing each other. For her part, Jenny was also involved in another relationship, albeit not one of the ethical types. I am again reminded of the red flags signaling communication failures and the unwillingness to show up in ways that are honest and healthy. I tell myself that society makes this harder than it needs to be — that we’re all programmed into believing we have to live according to monogamous coupledom. Cheating is tolerated. So is sacrificing the hearts of other partners. Ethical, open polyamory, not so much.

One day, Nick tells me Jenny is traveling, so we can spend the entire week together. We plan a trip to the Sierras, preceded by a party at the same place where we first kissed, over a year before. The much anticipated night finally arrives, and we twirl around each other in the warm air, flirting much in the same way we did on that first night. I “whisper” in his ear over the loud music, “you know I’m in love with you, right?” Stepping back with a bit of surprise — not over the sentiment, but at my forthrightness in sharing it, it’s apparent the feeling is reciprocated. We return to his place, where sexplotiations are playfully exchanged for emotional admissions. “Why should I explore this new thing with you?,” I demand to know. “Because I’m exploring poly with you for the first time, and I love you,” he retorts. It’s hard to argue with that.

As time goes on, Jenny becomes upset that we are seeing each other. Asked point blank if he’s in love with me, he replies “yes.” The truth will set you free. Or something. In recapping the conversation, Nick offers, “She didn’t seem surprised. I think she knew all along.” They embark on counseling with a poly therapist. As Nick increasingly finds himself pulled in opposite directions by the two of us, my poly friends remark, “He’s engaged in some serious ping-pong poly.” After he is with her, he becomes cold towards me, seemingly sympathizing with her position that she’s the victim of an infringement by an unwanted interloper who seeks to force their relationship into a model they had not agreed upon. When he is with me, he seems to be reminded of the intensity of his feelings and summons the strength to be true to himself, leading to the next impending battle with his wife. Rinse and repeat.

One evening in early fall, our date commences with a sexy game of truth or dare, and we slip into the perfect rhythm and cadence of all our nights spent together. Pulling a square of paper from the jar, Nick reads aloud, “show me how much you appreciate me in a way that speaks to me, specifically.” Intuitively, he takes me by the hand and gently leads me over to the bed. Lying me down on the covers, he looks affectionately into my eyes. No words. Just silence, for five minutes. No actions, other than seeing me. No one has ever really seen me the way he does.

The evening ends in a state of bliss as all our evenings have, but the morning has other plans, arriving as it does with a barrage of messages from Jenny, who is furious that Nick is spending time with me. I tear up as I realize this may be the last night I spend with Nick, who is suddenly, and completely visibly distraught. We kiss goodbye, and he tells me, “we have therapy coming up soon, so at least we’ll get our money’s worth.” I wonder to myself if this is the last time I will see him.

The months that follow are painful in a way that is unprecedented in my life thus far. Nick communicates that he will not accept a relationship structure that prohibits forming an emotional connection as a requirement of demonstrating primacy to Jenny. I soon realize, however, that he’s not disclosing that his efforts in therapy are driven by the desire to forge a relationship with an actual human with a heart on the line: me. Having communicated that the most painful outcome imaginable would be for them to undergo counseling only to find myself vetoed because Nick has feelings for me, I find my fear taking shape as reality.

The call comes one afternoon after their third therapy session. Tearfully, he communicates that we can no longer see each other, Jenny having made clear she will not tolerate his having a relationship with me. She has given him an ultimatum, and he chooses his wife. “This is the most painful choice I’ve ever had to make,” he tells me. I ask to meet so we can talk — in person.

We meet the following week. Two hours and three drinks later, he throws an envelope down on the table, proclaiming that he “will fight for us.” “I’ll be in touch to let you know if something seems possible,” he tells me, “…if not, open the letter. If, however, we can make it work, we’ll burn it together.” He dramatically leaves the bar. I return home and place the envelope in a drawer, unopened, where it would remain until nearly a year later.

More months pass, and I receive a text asking if I might like to meet for a drink to “check in.” Sitting on the sofa in the back of one of our favorite bars, we reconnect. The chemistry is palpable. I admonish him for not telling Jenny he is in therapy with her because he wants to make a poly relationship work with me, specifically, rather than a relationship structure, generally. To my surprise, he has an epiphany. He will tell her everything and advance the case that we see each other again. I am elated.

He returns home and composes a proposal to Jenny — a six month trial period during which it would be demonstrated that I pose no threat to their relationship. I wait for the shoe to drop — and drop it does. I receive a message the following day: “It went really, really badly. I can’t be in touch until after our next therapy session in two weeks.” Two weeks later, my phone rings. I see his name, and my stomach sinks in anticipation. She has presented a second ultimatum — and he, again, chooses his wife. He tells me this time there’s a finality that didn’t previously exist — and to forget him.

Enter the global pandemic. We are sheltering in place, and this means I’m sheltering in place with my depressive thoughts, which are no longer able to be silenced by the noise of everyday life. I embark on a painting project to keep my thoughts at bay. As I remove my dresser drawers, I discover the envelope Nick gave me, unopened, from many months before. Tears of renewed pain flow. I record my thoughts in my journal and find the words forming, “Will we pass each other on the street and look away?” The next day, as I walk down the street, I pass him, unaware, and, indeed, fail to acknowledge him. I receive a message from him expressing pain over this fact. The universe plays cruel jokes sometimes.

A conversation ensues. He proposes, “Maybe we can develop a new friendship and establish comfort with Jenny so that we can see each other again. But, it’s going to take time. I need you to be patient.” We set a date to meet at the park as friends.

Arriving at the park a week later, the easy chemistry we have immediately reasserts itself. We make small talk over wine. Politics. The pandemic. The politics of the pandemic. We discuss our social lives. We assess the social distance circles spray-painted on the grass in the distance. As we leave the park, he tells me he realizes he either has to make this work as more than friends — or we cannot be in touch anymore. We hug and leave each other. A few hours later I receive a message. We can see each other — and not only as friends. I am elated.

The next weeks are spent excitedly texting back and forth, preparing for when we can see each other in person. “We’re putting in the hard work in therapy so we have a sustainable foundation,” he assures me, “the sword of Damocles is no longer over your head. We’re past that now.” One morning, I mention an issue that has me in bit of a tailspin, and he casually announces over text, “The pandemic is shaking things up for a lot of people. We’re actually considering a year long van trip.” My heart drops as the realization sets in that, after months of being asked to be patient, he intends to leave the Bay Area — and has failed to communicate this to me!

I ask to meet in the park, and he agrees. With tears in my eyes, I communicate how hurt I am. I want him to apologize for not telling me sooner. I want him to assure me that we’ll still see each other, even if it’s the occasional weekend. I wait to hear something. Anything. Nothing comes. Jenny won’t stand for it, and he has no intention of standing up to her. He gets up to leave. I watch his silhouette fade as he walks away from the park.

The next day, I receive a message:

Dear Shawn,

This period has been one of the worst of my life. The amount of pain I have caused everyone is immense.

I haven’t truly considered your feelings or considered the consequences of my actions. It was unfair of me to ask you to work through all of this without being transparent about what I could offer.

You are an amazing woman and I love you. It’s why I’ve never been able to let you go. It’s why things feel “off” when you’re not in my life.

I went through therapy with my wife and tried my best to be as ethical as I could in a situation where no perfect option existed. In the end, we came up with a relationship structure that I think can work. Unfortunately, there can be no “seat at the table” for you.

Jenny reintroduced the ultimatum yesterday, so we would have ended up here anyway.

I feel awful I can’t have the relationship I want with you. I feel awful for how I’ve treated you. I’m not sorry for loving you.

Nick.

Sadly, the destructive pattern did not end here. Alas, the heart wants what the heart wants. Embarking on polyamory means the emotional journeys of everyone involved in a given relationship are intertwined. Several years of experience later and with the benefit of hindsight, I will simply suggest that perhaps the most important green flags to look for in partners along such a journey are those marking self-awareness, the recognition that there will always be challenging work to do on oneself (and enthusiasm for doing it), and a strong capacity for compassion and forgiveness.

*Names have been changed out of respect for the privacy of individuals.