Solo Polyamory as a Queer Person on the Autism Spectrum
My complicated journey toward love and sustainability
Before discovering my intersections as a non-binary, queer, neurodivergent, and invisibly disabled person, I navigated the world with the skewed perspective that I was only a deeply misunderstood Black woman—different in both my mindset and mannerisms from everyone else. On a surface level, I met the milestones of my abled peers. I graduated high school, got an undergraduate degree, studied abroad even. Early adulthood led me down a long road of complex frustrations and misconceptions around intimacy and romantic love.
I began seriously dating around age nineteen. My boyfriend at the time seemed like “the one.” We tried to overlook the “green” in one another. I was a terrible cook then and I reluctantly accepted the fact that he was a serious mama’s boy. My executive functioning was nowhere near as refined as it is now, and byproducts of my ADHD got reduced to oversimplifications like me “being dirty.”
Despite my being content in our relationship, one night I selfishly discovered firsthand that I could, in fact, be happy with two people at once. I own my lack of ethics, while acknowledging that I didn’t yet have access to the language and worlds of ethical non-monogamy and polyamory.
I thought it best to come clean, so I did. In an attempt to scold me, he said, “I’m so glad I didn’t get you pregnant.” His heartbreak was obvious. His words cut, but they weren’t believable. A bigger, more problematic message presented itself beyond his emotions and my personal remorse: the assumption that my lot in life was motherhood. This was an ideal that everyone else around me seemed to possess—except me. I’d never believed my security and worth as a woman were tied to his seed. To this day I’m childless by choice.
After consequently getting dumped, I moved from Atlanta to New York for graduate school and prioritized my studies. As the first in my family to receive both my bachelor’s and master's degrees, I wouldn’t dare pursue higher ed for an MRS. degree—I actually wanted to learn. I launched my first career as a teacher to support my independence. In my downtime I began to date; this time, though, my lovers were almost exclusively women, and the difference was worlds apart.
I tried to maintain monogamy as my dating structure. My first serious same-sex relationship in my late twenties was toxic. She couldn’t understand why I was so “stubborn” and often tired. After we split, I experienced multiple fainting spells and discovered that I had an underlying heart condition. A few years later, I got the ultimate mindfuck that I was also on the spectrum: comorbid autism and ADHD (AuDHD). It was as if I’d been immediately flooded with memories that looped in a whirlwind full of my obsessions, gifts, failures, flaws, and quirks, paired with the microaggressions, diverse violence, and silent animosity I’d received from other people throughout my life. Now I had concrete answers as to why.
Up until this time, I cohabitated with my partners and did all of the other “grown folk” activities you do when you think there’s traction to go the distance, except my relationships had a threshold. As a natural giver, I’d been set up for manipulation more times than I could count. I was a sponsor to many monetarily, an emotional host with big golden retriever energy, a placeholder while lovers awaited their better partner.
I began to notice that people loved how I made them feel, but they didn’t love me for who I was. Each successive breakup and move out took a toll with a more noticeable impact on me, ending in either my abandonment or me having to throw all of my shit into trash bags and bounce. Financial ruin and the fact that it always took me much, much longer to mentally process and cope than whomever I was dealing with triggered me. I’d never had an amicable breakup. This destructiveness became a pattern that I needed to break free from.
I held out hope that ethical non-monogamy would be a better fit. I discovered books, podcasts, and influencers espousing open relationships, and used apps as a tool to find like-minded people. I constructed new boundaries and decided that cohabitation would be off the table indefinitely. However, despite my best intentions heteronormativity and ableism are tough nuts to crack. It’s been harder to date now that I’ve “come out” for a second time as not just queer, but as disabled. At the moment my love life doesn’t exist, thus creating a need for me to be my own primary partner first or rot in “pick-me” purgatory.
Just before I reached thirty, I had my first semi-successful experience in being a third to a couple. The relationship was fun, insightful, and, unfortunately, short-lived. When I hit it off with the guy in the relationship, his girlfriend felt threatened by me and called it all off. This collapse was one of the worst of my breakups; it felt like I’d finally made progress and found authentic connections, only to have the rug pulled from underneath me. I was impressed that our triad connection had been public, because after them, my involvement in monogamous and ethical non-monogamous relationships was predicated on being “private.”
I received bullshit rationales about being with my partners, as long as the relationship was kept secret. Their status quo as a couple continued on, while to the outside world, I just seemed perpetually single. I wish I could put a lid on the disrespect I feel and the angst I carry about this insistence on secrecy. These instances prompted my choice to take a stab at solo polyamory.
Solo polyamory can encompass a myriad of different meanings. In my world, it means I’m my own primary partner first and foremost. I have to be. Any changes to that approach are case-by-case and subject to change.
As great as I am on and off paper, because I arrive solo, I’m seen as the “threat.” Deep down, no one wants to admit that capitalism is so deeply embedded into our psyches as Americans that it impacts how we view, act on, and distribute our love. My presence can be (and is often) misinterpreted as “dangerous” to anyone looking to maintain an “image” or be on the “right side” of what everyone else is doing. God forbid we lose the aesthetic of the “nuclear family.” Scarcity thought wins again.
I found that with same-sex couples, many have adapted the idea, “We’re already queer, we don’t want to be too taboo.” It trickles down to this idea of ownership. When the fear of appearances from others kicks in, my autistic-ass gets cut off cold turkey with no clarity, just abrupt and sudden changes made without my input. I know for a fact that I have been a launching pad to repair and/or strengthen other folks’ relationships with one another while I became a casualty on their path to recovery—and it bites.
It’s difficult reckoning with the fact that as a disabled person, being underestimated is commonplace. Through it all I can’t help but wonder, is it because I’m autistic, publicly? Is that why I’m not taken seriously as a romantic partner? I’ve been infantilized in so many ways by the limiting mindsets of others who believe that however they found me would be my final form. I’m not given the privilege of growth and improvement. When it comes to dating, I have to weed out elitism and ableism with intersections of class, colorism, xenophobia—all with ill-constructed othering and an attitude of “I am better than you.” It icks me down and it sucks, yet I have hopes of love over toleration.
I won’t deny the allure of the marriage-and-kids package as (perceived) social currency. It’s very loud now that I’m in my early thirties, however, these life decisions are too risky for me. I care to be claimed, not conquered, and my tolerance for bullshit is cooked. My independence as a high-functioning person is of the utmost importance to me. Even with neurodivergence and an underlying heart condition, I’m able enough to have gainful employment, a driver’s license, and I live alone. I’ve found that involving or getting involved in an intertwined life of joint everything doesn’t make me happy, despite our culture pushing that as a one-size-fits-all ideal. With solo polyamory, I have choice and can maintain order for my mental and overall health. I’m not interested in compromising my heart space, body, and autonomy in such drastic ways.
Because multiple truths exist, I resolve that solo polyamory is not a gimmick, but rather a matter of function and sustainability for me. Had I felt safe enough to continue an orthodox path to romance, I would have done it, but I’m an outlier with diverse needs.
Solo polyamory is healthy resistance. Solo polyamory is one of my biggest buckets of self-advocacy—it keeps me safe. I require someone who compliments me well and is cognizant about neurodivergence and invisible disability. In the meantime, it’s my responsibility to love myself fully and unconditionally through all of my evolutions.
As flawed as I come, I too am a prize with plenty to offer, and my newfound discretion reflects this. I have the capacity to not care to be anyone’s first, but rather to be included, respected, and cherished as anyone else would. Until that day comes, it’s just me, myself, and I.
Jasmin Benward (She/They) is a Black, non-binary, queer, invisibly disabled multidisciplinary artist, educator, and creative instructor based in South Los Angeles by way of New York and Georgia. Jasmin expresses herself via music a music supervisor, songwriter/topliner, creative/sync coordinator, a&r rep, via multidisciplinary writing as an author, essayist, screenwriter, and through wellness as a family yoga and mindfulness instructor.
Their life’s work includes disrupting inequities of marginalized and underrepresented folks in media, entertainment, and wellness. Jasmin founded a startup, Create the Room, to do just that.
Jasmin is a Black Queer Creative Summit Finalist (GLAAD), a Disruptors Screenwriting Fellow (The Center for Cultural Power), a Music Supervision Fellow (Women in Film), a Songwriting Mentee (Unlock Her Potential), and a Music Innovator (Keychange U.S.) with journalism bylines in Refinery29, Healthline, Cashmere Magazine, and The Black Femme Collective.
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Rachel, thank you so much for this opportunity. I’m feeling very liberated!! 🫶🏽
"...I cohabitated with my partners and did all of the other “grown folk” activities you do when you think there’s traction to go the distance, except my relationships had a threshold. As a natural giver, I’d been set up for manipulation more times than I could count. I was a sponsor to many monetarily, an emotional host with big golden retriever energy, a placeholder while lovers awaited their better partner. I began to notice that people loved how I made them feel, but they didn’t love me for who I was."
Reading this hit hard. I'm a queer and polyamorous disabled person who struggles with being frequently exploited or taken for granted because of a natural tendency toward nurturing and being helpful--perhaps also a product of the people pleasing that so many of us socialized as women can't get rid of. I enjoy being a caretaker, but often don't know if it'll end up with my partners becoming entitled to my attention when they are unable or unwilling to return it. Thank you for highlighting the importance of being one's own primary partner as a disabled person. I am lucky enough to have found healthy dynamics in my more recent relationships, and it's been liberating to be with people who understand how crucial it is that I do not become an extension of another person. I wish only the same and better upon you. The best thing about being a polyamorous person is our commitment to uplifting one another's freedom by supporting one another's autonomy. We all deserve at least that much.