A former lover once asked me if I’m monogamous.

I said I didn’t know. I’ve never been in a long relationship, so how could I know how I’d feel if I got there? But the real answer is more layered. I’ve been wondering about open relationships since my twenties, when a boyfriend said he’d marry me—if I could promise to be open to polyamory someday.

I couldn’t say yes. But I also couldn’t say no. I loved him. I wanted him. He had been dating multiple people when we met, and I broke up with him when I found out. He came back saying he wouldn’t date anyone else—he was choosing me. But I think he always assumed I’d eventually open the door again.

To understand my own truth, I went to a therapist who specialized in polyamory. Alone. He didn’t come with me. Looking back, I’m stunned I carried that inquiry by myself.

What she told me stuck: open relationships require relentless communication, transparency, maturity. But even when it was just him and me, communicating was already a struggle. How would adding other people help?

And then he cheated. Not just on me—but on the woman he eventually married, while she was pregnant. He cheated on her with me. And later, he admitted he planned to keep cheating, just not get caught. Because only men who want to get caught, he said, get caught.

That was my first big lesson in love under patriarchy.

Open Relationships or Open Wounds?

I’ve tried to explore non-monogamy. Dated men in open marriages. Dated men who claimed to be emotionally available.

But what I kept running into was powerlessness, hierarchy, and emotional neglect. I often felt like a placeholder—someone they wanted to feel nurtured by, but not someone they’d ever choose.

Even the most “ethical” setups still left me feeling disposable.

One man told me if his girlfriend knew how he felt about me, she’d be furious—and I think that turned him on. He later left her, but not for me. Another man told me he and his wife had a “don’t ask, don’t fall in love” policy. But we did fall in love, or something like it. And it all crumbled under the weight of secrecy.

The truth? I don’t think I’ve ever seen non-monogamy modeled in a way that felt truly liberating for women. Not in real life.

The Performance of Being “Enough”

For years, I shaped myself to be chosen. I’d clean, shave, cook, decorate, perform—hoping that if I made the experience effortless for them, they’d eventually want to stay.

One man told me from the beginning he didn’t want a relationship. But I thought if he saw how good I could make things for him, he’d change his mind.

He never did. But he kept coming back for the comfort.

That taught me another thing: effort doesn’t equal love. And being chosen once doesn’t mean being chosen continuously.

Patriarchy Doesn’t Want You to Know It’s Not You

I’ve spent so much time wondering if I’m not pretty enough, thin enough, good enough, soft enough, quiet enough, sexy enough.

But over time, I started seeing the same thing happening to women all around me—beautiful, powerful women being lied to, abandoned, disrespected.

I realized the problem isn’t whether I’m enough.

The problem is that patriarchy has trained men not to choose women. Not fully. Not with devotion. Not with equality.

I grew up thinking if I could just fix myself, everything would fall into place. But patriarchy feeds off that exact belief. It benefits when women internalize unworthiness and work harder to prove themselves lovable.

Even when men claim to be doing the “inner work,” they still want gold stars for basic emotional effort.

Screwed: A Living Metaphor

In college, I made a piece for an art show called Revenge of the Doormats. I took a carpet sample and screwed hundreds of copper screws into it, sculpting a pregnant female body. I titled it Screwed.

It was about exactly this. That under patriarchy, women are set up to be emotionally, physically, and economically screwed by the very systems that say they’ll protect or reward us.

Even before I had the words, I knew.

Choosing Myself (At Last)

After everything, I’ve started to ask: What if I’m not the problem? What if I don’t need to be thinner, hotter, more chill, more fun?

What if the men I’ve wanted to love me just weren’t good enough for me?

What if being alone isn’t failure—but freedom?

I don’t have a happy ending here. But I have some peace. I live alone. I don’t have kids. I have cats. I take care of myself.

And I’ve stopped performing to be chosen. If love comes, let it be honest. Let it be whole. Let it be mutual.

Until then, I’m done being screwed.