Chapter 1: Rediscovering Freedom

I've made a significant change—I’m back in the US, away from my ex, and now officially single. It feels incredible. I have the freedom to explore my desires and connect with whomever I choose. But this newfound independence also opens up a complex array of feelings.

Having spent a total of twelve years under the influence of my ex, I'm now confronting the reality of what it means to be free to pursue my own romantic and sexual interests. Over the past years, I have engaged in extensive self-reflection, learning about relationships and my own behaviors. The traits I once thought were just quirks now feel both questionable and non-negotiable, creating a whirlwind of confusion.

I've always had reservations about conventional monogamous relationships—not because I struggle with fidelity, but because the expectations that accompany them often feel suffocating. While I appreciate the emotional depth that comes with a romantic partner, I also value my independence and the ability to bond freely with others. I’ve come to realize that I thrive in my own space, where I can enjoy my routine and focus on my personal passions without the need to accommodate someone else.

I enjoy the idea of love and deep connections, but I resist the unnecessary constraints that often accompany traditional relationships. I crave intimacy but don’t want to feel like I'm constantly compromising my lifestyle or engaging in mundane disputes over household chores.

To those who might question why I don't simply remain single, the answer is straightforward: I enjoy being in love and forming meaningful bonds. However, I believe those connections can exist without the typical demands of a relationship.

Here’s the thing: I don't want to share every moment of my day or negotiate schedules. But if a loved one is in crisis, I will be there for them without hesitation. I want to encourage my partner's dreams and offer support, but I also need the freedom to live life on my own terms.

Isn't that enough? It seems like it should be. Yet, I often find myself feeling like an outlier, especially as a woman navigating these choices in society.

A couple of terms help articulate my feelings: relationship anarchy and solo polyamory. Relationship anarchy advocates for the autonomy of each relationship, allowing them to develop organically without adhering to societal norms. A key aspect is that a romantic partner does not have to hold a higher rank than other connections in one’s life.

Solo polyamory, on the other hand, emphasizes being your own primary partner while engaging in multiple romantic relationships without the pressure of traditional relationship escalation. It’s about creating deep, secure connections without the expectation of exclusivity or cohabitation.

Both concepts resonate with me, and I suspect they reflect my true self more accurately than traditional relationship models. Although I lacked the vocabulary to describe these feelings before, they were always there. Society's norms made me question my validity.

But are these preferences merely coping mechanisms for deeper issues? Let’s delve into disorganized attachment, also known as fearful avoidant attachment. This insecure attachment style emerges from childhood trauma, where a caregiver becomes a source of both comfort and fear. This leads to adults who crave connection but fear it simultaneously, often resulting in chaotic relational patterns.

I can personally relate to these dynamics. I recognize my struggles and am actively working to heal them. But does my inclination towards relationship anarchy and solo polyamory stem from these attachment issues? Would my views on relationships differ if I weren’t grappling with such challenges?

My past relationships often mirrored my attachment issues. I gravitated towards unsuitable partners to maintain a sense of control, avoiding the chaos of deeper emotional engagement. However, my marriage was an attempt to break free from that cycle; it was a significant risk that ultimately led to re-experiencing the very traumas I sought to escape.

So, where do I stand now? Am I simply renaming old issues? I don't believe that's the case. Even in a framework of relationship anarchy, I must confront my tendencies to switch modes, face uncertainty, and practice vulnerability.

Perhaps there's an element of self-protection in maintaining distance, but I have time to explore these questions. If nothing else, my marriage taught me that I can push through my fears. Even when situations become difficult, I can endure and grow from them. Ultimately, this realization is the most valuable lesson I carry forward, alongside my experiences.

Chapter 2: Understanding Attachment Styles