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I need the objective viewpoint of an uninvolved third party.
Lately, my head hasn't been on straight. This is why I am reaching out for what I hope will be sober advice. Though this dilemma has absolutely nothing to do with poly, I have been impressed by the way some of you on here think.
I need the collective wisdom of, what I came to think are, older and more experienced people who've seen it all.
I've seen a lot of overlap on these forums with respect to how advice given to poly folk applies, word for word, to everyone across the whole spectrum, even to vanilla monogamists!
So…
Let’s call her Bumblebee. Bumblebee and I have been in a relationship for about 3-and-a-half years. It was great for a while, blah, blah, blah. The usual.
I confessed one thing up front, and made a single promise to her shortly thereafter. I stressed that I absolutely do not believe in marriage or commitment. I promised her that if I ever cheated on her, she will be the FIRST one to know. Hell, just a couple weeks in I kept emphasizing: “Let’s not rush into things. I’m not the kinda guy who buys flowers and takes you to Paris, ok. Just play it by ear, y’know? See what happens.”
If you asked me three years ago whether or not I knew anything about polyamory, I’d wrinkle my face and say something stupid like, “The fuck? Is that… another word for plated armor or something?”
It all started about two months ago. Her car broke down and she needed a ride. So she stayed at her friend’s house. Let’s call her friend EvilBitch.
Later Bumblebee got another car from her parents, but she and I were fighting at the time, so Bumblebee stayed over at EvilBitch’s house to minimize stress. So I thought.
I don’t like EvilBitch. I had a bad feeling about her the moment I met her. As I learned more, I hated her more and more. She’s recently divorced, and is recklessly spiraling out of control. She drives while drunk. Like, plastered drunk—eyes wiggling back and forth drunk. She continues to drive that way despite having crashed her parents’ car on the freeway at the beginning of October.
Ever since her divorce, EvilBitch habitually engaged in completely unprotected sex with strangers who look like they’re living off welfare and never brush their teeth. Her precious jewelry got stolen by one of her one-night stands… but that didn’t stop her at all. She was in bed with a new guy just a couple nights later. Again, unprotected sex. Hell, one of the guys she was banging got drunk at her place, WHILE BUMBLEBEE WAS THERE… and was starting to get physically violent.
EvilBitch missed her menstrual cycle two months in a row. Then suddenly she got her period again. Ah-hah. She said “it must have been the stress.” Chick’s hammered 12 hours out of 24, that baby would have had gross health complications if it was allowed to live anyway.
Point is, EvilBitch is aptly named.
Something was off and I wasn’t able to put my finger on it but I just had that nagging feeling that SOMETHING is not right with EvilBitch.
After lots of fighting, I somehow managed to convince Bumblebee to come back home. My anxiety started to ease away, and I thought things were back to normal.
On Sept 23th, Bumblebee’s car breaks down on the freeway (her father’s got a bad rep for thinking he can actually fix cars). So guess where Bumblebee goes? Yep, now she’s going to be getting free taxi rides from EvilBitch.
That didn’t stop EvilBitch from drinking in the morning before the commute, even though she’s still got enough ethanol on her breath from last night to trip breathalyzers two feet away.
On Sept 24th, Bumblebee wanted to go with EvilBitch to a nightclub. Oh, I forgot to mention that EvilBitch doesn’t like that Bumblebee isn’t as single and miserable as is EvilBitch, so EvilBitch kept pushing, over and over, even at times rudely while in front of me, for Bumblebee to find guys to also have casual sex with.
I rolled my eyes, and didn’t really come closer to liking EvilBitch.
I asked Bumblebee to instead stay home and spend time with me, ‘cause I miss her and it would be lonely for me without her here at night. I reached out to her and told her that I’m going through a really tough time, and that, with all the shit going on the past few weeks, her presence is the only painkiller my [figurative] body is NOT going to vomit right back up.
She refused, and said she really needed to go out and relax. I was disappointed, of course, but I still accepted her request. Hell, I vividly remember running that lint roller all over her black, body-hugging dress to make sure she looks her best.
Talk about loading the gun that’s aimed to shoot me… but seeing her get all happy to go on an evening-long vacation brought me more comfort and happiness than did to me bring disappointment and sadness the realization that she’ll be gone away for several hours.
Bumblebee, EvilBitch, and Bumblebee’s homosexual male coworker—let’s call him HappyFlag, along with HappyFlag’s partner, EvenHappierFlag, went out to a gay nightclub full mostly of lesbians and homos. I had NOTHING to worry about.
But there was one thing I specifically asked her not to do. A couple times while she was still getting ready, and finally once more right before she left out the door. I mean, I made eye contact with her, verbally confirmed that she’s acknowledging my request. I got a resounding “I promise not to” from her. She also promised that she’d be dropped off at home, and would NOT go to EvilBitch’s house.
I asked her simply not to drink TOO much. I already stressed to her how I’m not comfortable with EvilBitch’s tendency to drive drunk.
I specifically told her that I’m not going to be there to keep an eye out, so it would put me at ease to know that she won’t drink too much.
A few hours into the night I sent her an email. Getting no response for a couple of hours I thought, “Ah, you know how clubs go. Those things are open ‘till 2:00 AM.”
The email on her cell phone is the same one on the computer at home. Somebody was definitely reading those messages.
Then later I sent another message. And later, again another. No response. Now I’m a little worried. I called, and called again. You know where this is going.
Right before leaving, she put the cell phone in her breast pocket. I figured no matter how loud the nightclub, she should still probably feel the phone vibrating. I mean, her nipple’s like two inches away! How do you miss that??
So now I’m thinking she lost the phone. Oh well. I just hope she’s okay.
I call EvilBitch, figuring they can’t both have lost their phones. No answer! I call again. Nope.
At this point I’m starting to fixate on what possibly could be going wrong. I keep calming myself down by saying, “Relax, she’s probably ok. It’s only been like 8 hours.” But then I relapse and start wondering if she’s maybe bleeding to death in a flipped over car. I start to hyperventilate and wishfully cross my fingers, fighting back tears praying she’s not drugged at some date rapist’s apartment.
Finally, an answer! It was one of the most satisfying puffs of oxygen my lungs ever took in. She wasn’t gone a day and the sound of her voice already felt like an injection of morphine (I think, I have no idea what that feels like).
She was alive. Sounded tipsy. Nothing out of the ordinary. I told her I tried to reach her, you know, that kind of thing. She said everything’s ok. Described her evening as having had “a couple” of drinks, then it got really hot at the club and she left with EvilBitch to eat at a fast food place across the street. Then they went to EvilBitch’s parent’s house.
“Ok,” I asked, “so when will you be home?” She said “in like an hour.” I asked her if she’s sure, she insisted. Her speech was a little bit slurred, so I pressed on and asked her how much she had to drink.
She told me only a couple, just to relax. She didn’t get into a fight, “nothing happened,” and everything’s ok. “I’m fine. I just… needed to relax.”
When I asked her why she lied about it being only two drinks, she got pissed off.
I asked her if EvilBitch was sober while driving her. She told me EvilBitch “didn’t have as much to drink.” She said her intake was “only” about 5 shots of hard liquor’s worth (but we’re Russian, so it’s all good), and they both ate afterwards, so EvilBitch was “ok to drive” and that Bumblebee was making sure to remind EvilBitch to “drive carefully and keep [her] eyes on the road” and that Bumblebee was making sure the speed limit was observed, etc.
SPECIFIC promises unequivocally broken. Promises that I asked her to make not to control her, not to get something out of her, but to keep her safe (both she and I ended up spending the night in jail ‘cause of her drinking—I was very angry with her at the time, but today remember it as one of the most hilarious and satisfying adventures ever).
40 minutes go by and I call to make sure she’s on her way home. Instead I hear an even more intoxicated voice. I’m informed that “You know how things are” and that they drank more.
Ok, whatever. I accept that she’s not coming home tonight. I can’t get any sleep, though.
An hour after sunrise, I call her. Nothing. No answer. I call EvilBitch (who calls herself an insomniac, by the way), still no answer.
I worry now. It’s eating me alive like vermin chewing on sore flesh. I try my best to hang in there.
But I can’t.
I need the objective viewpoint of an uninvolved third party.
Lately, my head hasn't been on straight. This is why I am reaching out for what I hope will be sober advice. Though this dilemma has absolutely nothing to do with poly, I have been impressed by the way some of you on here think.
I need the collective wisdom of, what I came to think are, older and more experienced people who've seen it all.
I've seen a lot of overlap on these forums with respect to how advice given to poly folk applies, word for word, to everyone across the whole spectrum, even to vanilla monogamists!
So…
Let’s call her Bumblebee. Bumblebee and I have been in a relationship for about 3-and-a-half years. It was great for a while, blah, blah, blah. The usual.
I confessed one thing up front, and made a single promise to her shortly thereafter. I stressed that I absolutely do not believe in marriage or commitment. I promised her that if I ever cheated on her, she will be the FIRST one to know. Hell, just a couple weeks in I kept emphasizing: “Let’s not rush into things. I’m not the kinda guy who buys flowers and takes you to Paris, ok. Just play it by ear, y’know? See what happens.”
If you asked me three years ago whether or not I knew anything about polyamory, I’d wrinkle my face and say something stupid like, “The fuck? Is that… another word for plated armor or something?”
It all started about two months ago. Her car broke down and she needed a ride. So she stayed at her friend’s house. Let’s call her friend EvilBitch.
Later Bumblebee got another car from her parents, but she and I were fighting at the time, so Bumblebee stayed over at EvilBitch’s house to minimize stress. So I thought.
I don’t like EvilBitch. I had a bad feeling about her the moment I met her. As I learned more, I hated her more and more. She’s recently divorced, and is recklessly spiraling out of control. She drives while drunk. Like, plastered drunk—eyes wiggling back and forth drunk. She continues to drive that way despite having crashed her parents’ car on the freeway at the beginning of October.
Ever since her divorce, EvilBitch habitually engaged in completely unprotected sex with strangers who look like they’re living off welfare and never brush their teeth. Her precious jewelry got stolen by one of her one-night stands… but that didn’t stop her at all. She was in bed with a new guy just a couple nights later. Again, unprotected sex. Hell, one of the guys she was banging got drunk at her place, WHILE BUMBLEBEE WAS THERE… and was starting to get physically violent.
EvilBitch missed her menstrual cycle two months in a row. Then suddenly she got her period again. Ah-hah. She said “it must have been the stress.” Chick’s hammered 12 hours out of 24, that baby would have had gross health complications if it was allowed to live anyway.
Point is, EvilBitch is aptly named.
Something was off and I wasn’t able to put my finger on it but I just had that nagging feeling that SOMETHING is not right with EvilBitch.
After lots of fighting, I somehow managed to convince Bumblebee to come back home. My anxiety started to ease away, and I thought things were back to normal.
On Sept 23th, Bumblebee’s car breaks down on the freeway (her father’s got a bad rep for thinking he can actually fix cars). So guess where Bumblebee goes? Yep, now she’s going to be getting free taxi rides from EvilBitch.
That didn’t stop EvilBitch from drinking in the morning before the commute, even though she’s still got enough ethanol on her breath from last night to trip breathalyzers two feet away.
On Sept 24th, Bumblebee wanted to go with EvilBitch to a nightclub. Oh, I forgot to mention that EvilBitch doesn’t like that Bumblebee isn’t as single and miserable as is EvilBitch, so EvilBitch kept pushing, over and over, even at times rudely while in front of me, for Bumblebee to find guys to also have casual sex with.
I rolled my eyes, and didn’t really come closer to liking EvilBitch.
I asked Bumblebee to instead stay home and spend time with me, ‘cause I miss her and it would be lonely for me without her here at night. I reached out to her and told her that I’m going through a really tough time, and that, with all the shit going on the past few weeks, her presence is the only painkiller my [figurative] body is NOT going to vomit right back up.
She refused, and said she really needed to go out and relax. I was disappointed, of course, but I still accepted her request. Hell, I vividly remember running that lint roller all over her black, body-hugging dress to make sure she looks her best.
Talk about loading the gun that’s aimed to shoot me… but seeing her get all happy to go on an evening-long vacation brought me more comfort and happiness than did to me bring disappointment and sadness the realization that she’ll be gone away for several hours.
Bumblebee, EvilBitch, and Bumblebee’s homosexual male coworker—let’s call him HappyFlag, along with HappyFlag’s partner, EvenHappierFlag, went out to a gay nightclub full mostly of lesbians and homos. I had NOTHING to worry about.
But there was one thing I specifically asked her not to do. A couple times while she was still getting ready, and finally once more right before she left out the door. I mean, I made eye contact with her, verbally confirmed that she’s acknowledging my request. I got a resounding “I promise not to” from her. She also promised that she’d be dropped off at home, and would NOT go to EvilBitch’s house.
I asked her simply not to drink TOO much. I already stressed to her how I’m not comfortable with EvilBitch’s tendency to drive drunk.
I specifically told her that I’m not going to be there to keep an eye out, so it would put me at ease to know that she won’t drink too much.
A few hours into the night I sent her an email. Getting no response for a couple of hours I thought, “Ah, you know how clubs go. Those things are open ‘till 2:00 AM.”
The email on her cell phone is the same one on the computer at home. Somebody was definitely reading those messages.
Then later I sent another message. And later, again another. No response. Now I’m a little worried. I called, and called again. You know where this is going.
Right before leaving, she put the cell phone in her breast pocket. I figured no matter how loud the nightclub, she should still probably feel the phone vibrating. I mean, her nipple’s like two inches away! How do you miss that??
So now I’m thinking she lost the phone. Oh well. I just hope she’s okay.
I call EvilBitch, figuring they can’t both have lost their phones. No answer! I call again. Nope.
At this point I’m starting to fixate on what possibly could be going wrong. I keep calming myself down by saying, “Relax, she’s probably ok. It’s only been like 8 hours.” But then I relapse and start wondering if she’s maybe bleeding to death in a flipped over car. I start to hyperventilate and wishfully cross my fingers, fighting back tears praying she’s not drugged at some date rapist’s apartment.
Finally, an answer! It was one of the most satisfying puffs of oxygen my lungs ever took in. She wasn’t gone a day and the sound of her voice already felt like an injection of morphine (I think, I have no idea what that feels like).
She was alive. Sounded tipsy. Nothing out of the ordinary. I told her I tried to reach her, you know, that kind of thing. She said everything’s ok. Described her evening as having had “a couple” of drinks, then it got really hot at the club and she left with EvilBitch to eat at a fast food place across the street. Then they went to EvilBitch’s parent’s house.
“Ok,” I asked, “so when will you be home?” She said “in like an hour.” I asked her if she’s sure, she insisted. Her speech was a little bit slurred, so I pressed on and asked her how much she had to drink.
She told me only a couple, just to relax. She didn’t get into a fight, “nothing happened,” and everything’s ok. “I’m fine. I just… needed to relax.”
When I asked her why she lied about it being only two drinks, she got pissed off.
I asked her if EvilBitch was sober while driving her. She told me EvilBitch “didn’t have as much to drink.” She said her intake was “only” about 5 shots of hard liquor’s worth (but we’re Russian, so it’s all good), and they both ate afterwards, so EvilBitch was “ok to drive” and that Bumblebee was making sure to remind EvilBitch to “drive carefully and keep [her] eyes on the road” and that Bumblebee was making sure the speed limit was observed, etc.
SPECIFIC promises unequivocally broken. Promises that I asked her to make not to control her, not to get something out of her, but to keep her safe (both she and I ended up spending the night in jail ‘cause of her drinking—I was very angry with her at the time, but today remember it as one of the most hilarious and satisfying adventures ever).
40 minutes go by and I call to make sure she’s on her way home. Instead I hear an even more intoxicated voice. I’m informed that “You know how things are” and that they drank more.
Ok, whatever. I accept that she’s not coming home tonight. I can’t get any sleep, though.
An hour after sunrise, I call her. Nothing. No answer. I call EvilBitch (who calls herself an insomniac, by the way), still no answer.
I worry now. It’s eating me alive like vermin chewing on sore flesh. I try my best to hang in there.
But I can’t.