Liminal Living: Walking a Tightrope of Queerness, ENM, and Normative Expectations

Summer 2023.

It was 8:45am. Humid, already.

The air smelled of that moment you duck out of the plane somewhere abroad after a dawn flight: sweet and unfamiliar. A feeling of being mildly judged for not really belonging there, but not enough to spoil anything.

We crunched along the gravel of a pathway, through the boundary of dusty brick and pilasters, and into the broadened welcome of wonky gravestones. Bleary-eyed with the ghost of last night’s mascara, and visions of twelve tangled limbs, I traced my hand along the curve of each block of jutting granite. Sandstone. Slate. Stuck my finger absent-mindedly into the groove of somebody’s expiry date and felt a pang of guilt.

Up ahead, I could hear the strains of an organ being played through a tinny speaker, wafting through ogival arch doorways: a remastered copy of “Jerusalem” by The Holy Trinity Choir. (I recognised it from times in my childhood when Dad would ask me to listen and I’d sit there, too bemused to speak as I tried to decipher the look on his face). Personally, I thought this was a heavy choice for my son’s best friend’s Confirmation, and as powerfully beautiful as the tune is, it’s always left me with a knot in my stomach, and a sense of sadness that doesn’t belong to me.

Looking sideways at my husband, I watched him sigh and wipe a thumb across his nose as the seeds of a rogue dandelion clock floated across his face in the breeze, and hooked my hand into the crease of his arm, stepping into the nave. His opposite hand reached across and grazed my fingers, and my mind flashed through images of how those same fingers had gripped the waists of two women, just hours before.

Heads thrown back.

Knuckle marks in crumpled sheets.

The slide of a strap.

Good girl.

And then suddenly, I was brought sharply out of my involuntary reverie by what sounded like the 7-year-old confirmand’s dad playing a clunky rendition of Thomas the Tank Engine on the organ. I supposed that this was signalling the fun was about to start, and I took my seat, trying to ignore the warmth seeping through the flagstones.

I was raised atheist, and despite growing into my own agnostic and philosophical notions as an adult, I’ve never really been exposed to regular, Christian rituals. Faith, for me, moves away from any particular religious doctrine or structure, in that I prefer to understand it as a deeply human need that I honour closely within myself. In that way, I wholeheartedly acknowledge the comfort and value of it.

However, I’ll admit that the moment we were asked, half-way through this Confirmation service, to get up and sing the hymn to the rest of the congregation…whilst ‘mingling’ and shaking hands, my introvert-ass was sent into an internal tailspin. I looked into the eyes of people I perceived to be entirely wholesome and pure, and I felt the biggest gut-punch of recognition that I was, once again-

Straddling Two Worlds.

Duality

Queerness and hetero-presenting normativity

Vanilla life and Ethical Non-Monogamy

Non-normative truth and conventional expectations

Authenticity and acceptability

Radical honesty and performative respectability

Chosen intimacy and assumed relationship structure

Internal freedom and external conformity

Celebration and erasure.

With the gentler lens of reflection, I can remember that morning in Church and laugh about it. I can picture a scenario in which a cloaked elderly lady from the congregation sneaks up on me a year later as I’m queuing in Sainsbury’s, and (like a scene from a 90s horror film), silently hands me a note reading:

Even now, my husband and I will occasionally drive past a Church, look at each other, and smirk, remembering the time we spent rolling around in a fervent threesome with a beautiful domme at 4am, before brushing ourselves down in time for connecting with Jesus at 9.

I do believe that if there really is a Higher Being, they’d probably be pretty cool and merciful with any chosen life, providing it was built on a foundation of being good to one another, and to this Earth. But as it stands, humans tend to complicate and warp our innate understanding of these concepts. Consequently, there really is nothing like side-eyeing your partner over the top of prayer-hands, and listening to the words “forgive us our trespasses” and “lead us not into temptation”, when you’ve very much spent the night trespassing on the majority of society’s moral code.

And so: along with many other ENMers (and any person who embodies an identity or lifestyle that veers away from the ‘norm’) I’m left with a reality in which I’m constantly walking a tightrope of :

Wanting desperately to embody my full self in this life…and

Recognising that I can’t.

At least not right now.

Because, as much as I know my value system aligns with the idea that I should be able to be congruous and authentic in presenting my identity and relationship dynamic to the world with transparency…as a queer/ bisexual woman who practises ENM, some fundamental facets of my identity and lifestyle choices are simply unpalatable, or even unacceptable, for a significant chunk of society. And sometimes even for those I hold dear.

I don’t claim to be speaking for other people within the LGBTQIA+ community, or the ENM/ CNM community. I’m sure there are thousands of people who have bravely carved a life of pure transparency for themselves against the odds. And then there will be thousands of people who have sadly been forced so far into the closet, that they’ve probably made friends with Narnia’s Mr. Tumnus.

I’m also aware that I come from a place of privilege in a way that many LGBTQIA+/ poly/ ENM people are unable to experience, e.g:

I reside in a country in which I am generally safe to identify as a bisexual woman. For now, anyway.

I’m in a ‘hetero-presenting’ marriage, and in the future, if I ever felt unsafe and it became absolutely necessary, people might argue that I could choose to use that semblance of temporary protection.

I am now self-employed and no longer have to sign a ‘morality clause’, as I was once requested to do in my previous teaching career.

I have some family members who accept my sexuality, or ‘tolerate’ it, as a bare minimum.

I have some friends who are open to my ENM lifestyle choices, and have supported me in that.

I have the financial, social, emotional and relational resources to be able to pursue my ENM desires, and to embody my bisexuality, in relationships beyond my marriage.

I have tasted freedom in that. And I’m so grateful.

But there is a price to be paid… and for me it looks like this:

I still live in a society that values hetero-normative, monogamous relationships above all else. I have long-lasting, loving ENM relationships with people that I cannot talk about with family, and hardly anybody would understand or acknowledge my grief if I ever lost these people. These relationships exist in the paradox of blissful shadows.

I experience frequent bi-erasure because I’m married to a man. My in-laws prefer to forget that I’m bisexual, because it’s uncomfortable dinner conversation. My social media Pride posts receive very little engagement from my loved ones these days. I am not seen as a ‘valid’ bisexual because to the majority of the vanilla world, I’ve only ever had relationships with men. I can’t talk about or share the love I have for people I know intimately in my life, when they happen to fall outside of my marriage.

There is no longer a morality clause inked with my signature. But the subtle judgement, distancing, assumptions, and avoidance I have endured from people I never expected, represents an invisible contract that is far more binding.

I have tasted freedom. But I can still feel the glass.

Liminality

I think this is a beautiful word, because it accurately captures where my heart has settled, when I’m grappling with the psychological and emotional dissonance of maintaining dual narratives for my life.

My life is not quite one thing, and not quite the other.

The word ‘liminality’ comes from the Latin word ‘limen’ which means ‘threshold’.

I’ve accepted that I can’t share my complete internal landscape with certain people I love, in particular environments, and during this season of my life, and actually, in many ways, I don’t want to either.

At the same time, I feel as though I’m gradually distancing myself from one state of being:

Of feeling shame;

Of moulding myself within a tolerable or palatable framework;

Of disguising my vulnerabilities;

Of casting myself as a character I’d never watch;

Of nullifying the intensity of my experiences for the comfort of others.

But I haven’t quite reached the next. Because I don’t know what it is.

I’m in a state of transition, ambiguity and potential: A threshold.

I’m fire in a glass bubble, suspended between truth and perception; liberation and disorientation; euphoria and disappointment. I don’t know how to navigate keeping myself warm with the joyful connections and genuine unfurling of who I am, without getting burnt, all because I was emotionally slutty and didn’t protect myself from the realities of the world beyond.

When they Can’t Come With You

I’m going to tell you a story about a particular type of ache that can arise when you’re trying to navigate a queer, ENM lifestyle whilst also straddling an environment and social circle that is more normative or conservative. An ache that is personal to me, but one that you might relate to, as you come to realise alongside me, that sometimes, there are people who love us, but who can’t fully see us. The kind of love that still counts, but it lands differently when you can no longer frame yourself within its parameters.

My oldest friend is someone who has walked with me through so many versions of myself.

She was there on my first day of school; the first Summer when we’d skip home and strip our gingham dresses off before even getting to the house. She was there to attend joint birthdays in lilac trouser suits at Mcdonald’s. She was there to hold our dancing trophy, after coaching me through stomach cramps from all of the anxiety. She swept me up during my first heartbreaks, and listened to me cry over university overwhelm. She wrote me what can only be described as a platonic love letter when she delivered her Maid of Honour speech, and has offered me experiences I never would have had without her. She’s held my baby, and watched him grow, and we’ve sat in garden chairs and smiled as our children have played together, enacting remnants from our own pasts. She is a sister to me, and that will always be.

I love her.

But as I gradually stepped more fully into my queer, ENM life, it feels as though something in our connection has subtly begun to fray. Over time, I’ve introduced her to a version of myself that I once never knew existed, and a version of myself that I’m sure has been confronting, and unfamiliar for her. And to her credit, she has on more than a few occasions been there to listen to my experiences, and offer her thoughts, advice and support. But I have also felt a gradual, but very real withdrawal from curiosity about that side of my life…and ‘acceptance’ without curiosity can feel like quiet rejection. Even though I know it’s more complicated and nuanced than that.

I’ve invited her in, in the only way I know how.

It hurts me to know that I’ve made choices in my life to embody an identity that I can’t fully share with her. It hurts me that the more I come home to myself, the less I feel at home with her. I find myself wishing that she would phone me up, and ask about how my heart aches when I have to come home from visiting some special people, and I won’t see them for a long time. I wish that she would ask me how my date went, and whether I’m able to be a sane person in a new relationship, because I always used to be a little crazy. I want to giggle with her about some stupid thing I did in bed with a girl, like we probably did as teenagers when we talked about boys. I don’t want to talk about work when I’m wondering if she truly knows me. I want her to tell me about how she truly feels, so that we can laugh, and cry, and share.

Some things are hard to talk about, when you’re afraid of the answers, too.

This isn’t a story of betrayal. It’s a story of dissonance, of longing, of the grief that comes when things are changing. That maybe I can’t have it all.

And that’s okay.

This is the reality of living a life that occasionally requires you to split fragments of yourself.

It’s not all characterised by this kind of heaviness either.

Sometimes it’s as seemingly minor as having to code-switch quickly in different company. Like when you’ve spent a whole weekend in completely uncensored ENM circles, expressing yourself in your entirety and talking about your deepest fears, your slightly odd sexual fantasies, the jealousy and insecurities you’re still ashamed of, and the time somebody’s sweat landed on you in a group-sex situation. Then all of a sudden, it’s Monday, and you’re grappling with mumbled conversational seedlings, such as the weather and “How are the kids?” when they’re already turning to walk away before you’ve begun to reply.

How are we supposed to teach our nervous systems that we’ll be okay, when we’ve ingested the kind of emotional connection that lights your soul up, before suddenly having to censor ourselves again, or even worse…make-do with the crumbs of indifference or neutrality?

I do have very close connections with people who reside in the ‘normative’ side of my life…mostly because they’ve been able to come with me as I grow, and because I’ve met them where they need me to be, too. But it still makes me deeply sad that in my experience, so many humans are content to play out their years without any curiosity or proper investment in the multi-faceted lives of others.

Even when it’s somebody they love.

Integration

It’s scary for me to write that I don’t understand how I feel, and that I don’t know what’s next, and that I’m unsure what to do about it all. Maybe that’s why it’s taken me so long to write a new blog post, but in therapy, it’s widely known that the real work doesn’t happen when you’re floating through a session, feeling like you’ve arrived. The true healing happens when you’re at a loss. When it’s gritty, anger-inducing, painful, and when you feel utterly pissed off at your therapist because they’ve witnessed you at your worst and you just want to slam the door in their smug fucking face. Slamming the laptop lid down doesn’t feel quite as satisfying when you’re online, but it’ll do.

So if you’re in the midst of wondering what it means to live authentically in a non-binary way; and to embrace all facets of your life so that it all feels more fulfilling, let me offer some thoughts. Not from an expert lens, but as a fellow person who is also treading a crumbly path.

TRANSITION- Reframe any conflicts and dissonance you might be feeling as a transitional phase. We don’t grow from shame, ever. We do grow from reflecting on how we’re feeling, accepting that change sometimes needs to happen, and believing that we’ll be okay when it does.

AMBIGUITY and DISORIENTATION- It can feel quite surreal when you’re managing a lot of different environments, connections, obligations and roles. Particularly when one side of your life fits neatly into a box and can be spoken about at a work lunch… and the other side of your life involves finishing a meeting at 5pm and then preparing for a midnight orgy at the sex club in the town-over. But we live this life as a conscientious choice to make our years truly count, and the obligations are often a necessity to keep the plates spinning. Remind yourself why you’re doing this, and make small changes where you can, if it all feels too much.

EVOLVING- When we feel the ache of living somewhat of a dual life, the opportunity for evolution often comforts me. I won’t always be in this space. I’m learning what has felt good, what feels right for me in this moment, and what I might want in the future. I don’t need it all now. I’m making steps, and that’s enough. There is a tendency for humans to stagnate when they’re too comfortable for too long, anyway. So embrace the gentle moves forward that are bringing you closer to yourself.

CONTROL WHAT YOU CAN- and let go of the rest. I can’t control the societal and familial stigmas that have prevented me from living transparently, as somebody who actively pursues my bisexuality as a married woman, and as somebody who has multiple intimate connections with others beyond my husband. I can control the fact that I have a voice. I can write this blog and hope that it reaches somebody. I can advocate. I can support people in their therapy sessions and be the one person they’re completely safe with. I can accept myself. I can celebrate myself. I can validate myself.

CONNECTION- Find the people you feel totally seen by. Prioritise them, and let them fill you up. It’ll save you.

A call to reflection

Now it’s time for me to gently invite you to consider:

Where do you split yourself?

What identities go unseen because they don’t ‘match the container’?

What truths deserve more space, even if they don’t get applause?

Do you want to do anything about it?

And then I’d like to leave this here…

Because that last line was introduced to me in Glennon Doyle’s book “Untamed”, and I carry it with me always:

What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

Whatever your experiences, it’s a call to live with intentionality.

To embrace the preciousness of life in all of its fragility.

To reflect on your passions and values, and live a life that reflects them in any way that you can.

To be brave.

Even in tiny ways unseen.