SideQuestPanda
New member
I didn’t always know who I was — but I always knew I was different.
I was born from a one-night stand. My mom was just sixteen. She raised me alone, and my father didn’t come into my life until I was twenty-one. By then, I had already lived through too much for someone my age. My early years weren’t easy. I grew up poor, and by the time I was old enough to understand my mom’s drinking problem, I had already started to resent her. It wasn’t just the alcohol — it was what came with it: the missed meals, the cold nights, the feeling that I wasn’t protected, that I wasn’t chosen.
High school was rough. I didn’t fit in. I was neurodivergent and undiagnosed. And even though I had friends, I often felt alone in ways I couldn’t explain yet. By nineteen, I was on my own — scraping by, but proud of my independence.
Then came Indiana.
A friend from high school convinced me to move there in 2015. It felt like a fresh start. I found a job, but it wasn’t enough to cover the rent, and within eight months I had to move again — this time to a town called Decatur. I stayed there until 2019, then packed up and moved to Missouri. I landed a job at the local hospital as a housekeeper and worked there for almost three years. Stability, at last — or so I thought.
During that time, I moved in with the same friend who brought me to Indiana. That turned out to be one of the worst mistakes I’ve ever made. She refused to work and lived off of my income. I paid her $700 electric bill once just so her kids wouldn’t come home from school to a dark, powerless house. She had the audacity to call herself more responsible than me — despite her having no job and three kids, while I worked full time and asked for nothing in return.
I lived in her basement. Literally. A cold, bug-infested corner barely big enough for a cot bed. I tried to make the best of it, but the weight of that environment ate at me.
Then one day in 2021, my mom reached out. We hadn’t spoken in over 15 years.
She came to visit. When she saw where and how I was living, something shifted. She took me home with her — back to my grandmother’s house. That small act changed everything.
We lived with my grandmother for two years. During that time, I was finally diagnosed with autism. I got back on medication for anxiety and depression. I started to understand myself more. My needs. My rhythms. My way of thinking and loving. Eventually, my mom and I got our own place — and in December 2024, we moved into a house along with our roommate and my three cats: Alastor (the dignified troublemaker), Piper (the clingy cuddlebug), and Mitchel (our curious little gremlin). It’s not just a house. It’s a home — a space filled with warmth, creativity, and healing.
And then I met the love of my life — D.
We’ve been together for over two years now. He lives in North Carolina, and even though we’re in different states, our bond is strong. We stay connected through honest conversations, shared dreams, and emotional support. He’s always encouraged me to be myself and has stood by me as I’ve continued to explore my identity.
Between 19 and 33, I was in and out of relationships. Only one of them was sexual — and it was, without question, the most traumatizing experience of my life. It felt more like coercion or worse than anything remotely intimate. That experience confirmed for me that sex wasn’t just “not for me” — it could actively harm me emotionally. It also helped clarify that I was asexual.
Being with D was the first time I felt completely safe. Wanted — for me. Not for what I could give, not for what someone could take from me, but for who I am. And in that safety, I started to get curious about something else: Polyamory.
D and I talked, and he encouraged me to explore. I wasn’t looking to replace him — I was looking to expand. I wanted space to build other connections. Emotional ones. Queerplatonic ones. Relationships that filled me up without being physical. I wanted — and still want — a community of people who see me, understand me, and choose connection in all its beautiful forms.
So I began my polyamorous journey. Slowly. Intentionally. With honesty and boundaries and a deep sense of self.
At 35, I was also diagnosed with ADHD. Another piece of the puzzle. Another part of me I can finally understand and love, instead of criticize.
Now, I spend my time writing, designing games, making resin art, and building a life that feels like my own. I live with my mom, our roommate, and my three chaotic, loving cats. I have a partner who supports me in ways I never thought possible, and I’m learning every day how to love — and be loved — in ways that are true to who I am.
And while my journey has been messy and painful and far from perfect, it’s mine.
I’ve survived. I’ve healed. I’ve grown. And I’ve learned that love — real love—doesn’t always come in the shape the world expects. Sometimes, it looks like friendship. Sometimes, like chosen family. And sometimes, like a quiet partner who says, “I see you. I want you to be free.”
Polyamory didn’t “fix” me. It just permitted me to love the way I was already wired to love — abundantly, respectfully, and without shame.
I was born from a one-night stand. My mom was just sixteen. She raised me alone, and my father didn’t come into my life until I was twenty-one. By then, I had already lived through too much for someone my age. My early years weren’t easy. I grew up poor, and by the time I was old enough to understand my mom’s drinking problem, I had already started to resent her. It wasn’t just the alcohol — it was what came with it: the missed meals, the cold nights, the feeling that I wasn’t protected, that I wasn’t chosen.
High school was rough. I didn’t fit in. I was neurodivergent and undiagnosed. And even though I had friends, I often felt alone in ways I couldn’t explain yet. By nineteen, I was on my own — scraping by, but proud of my independence.
Then came Indiana.
A friend from high school convinced me to move there in 2015. It felt like a fresh start. I found a job, but it wasn’t enough to cover the rent, and within eight months I had to move again — this time to a town called Decatur. I stayed there until 2019, then packed up and moved to Missouri. I landed a job at the local hospital as a housekeeper and worked there for almost three years. Stability, at last — or so I thought.
During that time, I moved in with the same friend who brought me to Indiana. That turned out to be one of the worst mistakes I’ve ever made. She refused to work and lived off of my income. I paid her $700 electric bill once just so her kids wouldn’t come home from school to a dark, powerless house. She had the audacity to call herself more responsible than me — despite her having no job and three kids, while I worked full time and asked for nothing in return.
I lived in her basement. Literally. A cold, bug-infested corner barely big enough for a cot bed. I tried to make the best of it, but the weight of that environment ate at me.
Then one day in 2021, my mom reached out. We hadn’t spoken in over 15 years.
She came to visit. When she saw where and how I was living, something shifted. She took me home with her — back to my grandmother’s house. That small act changed everything.
We lived with my grandmother for two years. During that time, I was finally diagnosed with autism. I got back on medication for anxiety and depression. I started to understand myself more. My needs. My rhythms. My way of thinking and loving. Eventually, my mom and I got our own place — and in December 2024, we moved into a house along with our roommate and my three cats: Alastor (the dignified troublemaker), Piper (the clingy cuddlebug), and Mitchel (our curious little gremlin). It’s not just a house. It’s a home — a space filled with warmth, creativity, and healing.
And then I met the love of my life — D.
We’ve been together for over two years now. He lives in North Carolina, and even though we’re in different states, our bond is strong. We stay connected through honest conversations, shared dreams, and emotional support. He’s always encouraged me to be myself and has stood by me as I’ve continued to explore my identity.
Between 19 and 33, I was in and out of relationships. Only one of them was sexual — and it was, without question, the most traumatizing experience of my life. It felt more like coercion or worse than anything remotely intimate. That experience confirmed for me that sex wasn’t just “not for me” — it could actively harm me emotionally. It also helped clarify that I was asexual.
Being with D was the first time I felt completely safe. Wanted — for me. Not for what I could give, not for what someone could take from me, but for who I am. And in that safety, I started to get curious about something else: Polyamory.
D and I talked, and he encouraged me to explore. I wasn’t looking to replace him — I was looking to expand. I wanted space to build other connections. Emotional ones. Queerplatonic ones. Relationships that filled me up without being physical. I wanted — and still want — a community of people who see me, understand me, and choose connection in all its beautiful forms.
So I began my polyamorous journey. Slowly. Intentionally. With honesty and boundaries and a deep sense of self.
At 35, I was also diagnosed with ADHD. Another piece of the puzzle. Another part of me I can finally understand and love, instead of criticize.
Now, I spend my time writing, designing games, making resin art, and building a life that feels like my own. I live with my mom, our roommate, and my three chaotic, loving cats. I have a partner who supports me in ways I never thought possible, and I’m learning every day how to love — and be loved — in ways that are true to who I am.
And while my journey has been messy and painful and far from perfect, it’s mine.
I’ve survived. I’ve healed. I’ve grown. And I’ve learned that love — real love—doesn’t always come in the shape the world expects. Sometimes, it looks like friendship. Sometimes, like chosen family. And sometimes, like a quiet partner who says, “I see you. I want you to be free.”
Polyamory didn’t “fix” me. It just permitted me to love the way I was already wired to love — abundantly, respectfully, and without shame.
