Am I Real?

I sometimes get wrapped up in wanting to be more "real." In convincing myself that I am somehow "not real" or "not real enough." I can see the signs and symptoms of it in my thinking and in my emotional responses to things, and I know that it is not factually an intellectual position or reaction. I've come to feel as if it is almost more of an effect of living the way I do in the world the way it is. If I had to describe it, I'd say that it is like having places where your skin feels irritated for no particular reason -- the irritated spots just show up periodically from out of nowhere and generate discomfort and "itchiness."

There are many different ways to think about the question of "what is real?" Of course, it is possible to pick up the dictionary and look it up, but the definition (Being or occurring in fact or actuality; having verifiable existence: real objects; a real illness. True and actual; not imaginary, alleged, or ideal) just isn't all that helpful in terms of how I'm thinking/feeling just now. The notion of "real" that feels more like what I mean in my head when I am saying it feels more like "consensual truth" -- what is it that we, as a society, agree is the truth about something. It's that business of "whatever we say it means, what matters is how we all actually behave about it in the event."

So when I get into these places where I'm itching about being real or more real, I'm really reacting to the social reflection that communicates that there is something inherently NOT TRUE about my life, my position, my relationship. It comes from the small, subtle (and sometimes not so subtle) uphill battles of being His without being able to be public about that. It comes from the almost endless complexity of navigating the social and legal details of polyamory like credit and bank accounts and budgets and insurance and separate addresses and who can know and what they can know and when and where and...

Usually, I just go along and don't pay attention. I don't fuss and I don't obsess and I don't dream of the day when I could become "legally" His. It isn't going to happen. I understand. I see the bumper stickers --

My logical, reasonable, sensible mind tells me that it isn't important. I'm not going to be bringing children into this. I'm all grown up and pretty well self-defined, and I don't need "white lace and promises" to fulfill any of my dreams. But it hurts. It tells me that I am outside. Permanently. Simply because of the numbers. Two. Not three. Our socially "consensual truth" defines marriage by gender and number. As long as you fulfill the gender and number criteria, you can have your marriage recognized ceremonially in almost any sort of context you can dream up: church, courthouse, beach, sci-fi convention, Las Vegas marrying parlor, sporting event -- you name it. No limits, no requirements, no definitions or obligations or expectations past that point: boy meets girl equals two.

I don't have any problem with all the "twos." I know and love lots of wonderful "twos." Not the least of which would be my own dear Loves. I also know that IF there could be a legal way to make me part of this household, officially, it WOULD happen, and without any hesitation or pause. But. There is no legal status for me. I am not "real." I am really "His." Inside our doors and our walls, there is no question or doubt. It is just the rest of the world. That's a BIG place, where I have to live and operate a lot of the time. I bang around out there and after awhile, my nerves start to fray and the irritation begins to show.

Ahhhh, well. No answers. Just fussiness.

swan