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Moving in with polyamorists

Three things happened the year we lost our love. We got married, we went bankrupt and we moved into a house with a polyamorous family.

I’d like to trace it back to one event, say definitively "it was moving into the poly house!" when the dropped stitches started to appear. It would be easy to blame the cracks in a monogamous relationship on proximity to friends committed to loving more than one person. But just as gay marriage probably isn’t the reason for your divorce, polyamory wasn’t the reason for our problems. By then we’d been broke and bickering and living in a van for three months, the romanticism of our itinerant life frozen by a bitter Pacific winter. By the time we limped into the home of our friends -- the only ones who’d offer us shelter when the cold and the van became too much -- we were already so deep into a knotted pattern that we either had to unpick completely and start again, or continue and pretend the holes weren’t getting bigger.

We kept on going.

We argued through Christmas and the van shuddered into the New Year, where it, like me, promptly collapsed. By February, at a loss about what to do, we moved the van into the backyard of our friends’ home. We became a newly married monogamous couple, living with a polyamorous family in their new home.

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