It’s time to shine a light on a perpetrator no one ever thinks to investigate. Sure, we’ve reprimanded the misleading situationships and navigated what it means to be single. But has anyone ever stopped to think about what’s lurking in the dark behind it all? A more horrific creature that stalks its prey, waiting to pounce. Stay safe, everyone. Serial monogamy is one ruthless beast.
There exists discourse surrounding the duration of each relationship (whether long-term or short); however, serial monogamy is defined as moving from one exclusive partner to another with little to no break in between. Sure, some may think being in back-to-back relationships is fun and joyful. Or it can mean experiencing a cycle of gut-wrenching dread and a whirlwind of emotions. I know I sound like a pessimist, and my only credentials stem from my experiences, but if there’s anyone who knows serial monogamy, it’s me. Let us just say I’ve found a way to have a Valentine every year since I was twelve.
Reflecting on these past eight years, I’ve realized that I have never had a point where I was completely and utterly single. Not single in the way where I wasn’t in a relationship, but single in the way where there wasn’t one person I was updating about my day or waiting to text back. I haven’t been single in the truest sense, living my life alone without the validation or dependency of someone else.
I never noticed serial monogamy sinking its teeth into me, sucking the blood from my individuality. People appeared, phased out, and someone new was introduced. I have never felt a door slam shut on me. I’ve only shifted my gaze to see someone new walking in through the side entrance. Every chapter I read in the story of my love life followed the same pattern, varied by a subtle difference here and there.
Soon enough, I would realize a settling deep uneasiness. A shift in my character accompanied every relationship, situationship, and talking stage. Aphrodite demanded a sacrifice for every development in my love life, and I offered her my autonomy every single time. I was keen on everything. Oh, you want to stay in? Me too. You want to split this check? I’d be happy to. You prefer to listen to your music on long drives? That sounds great. I can listen to my songs on my own time.
Deep within, I could hear someone screaming for dates that went beyond the walls of someone’s apartment. Someone in me longed not to split every bill or receive reminders to Venmo my half of the meal. I wanted to listen to my music too! However, every cry for help was silenced by the comfort of having a person, someone who was mine. Losing myself was worth dating someone, right?
I wasn’t dating anyone. I was becoming them.
I became the girl who didn’t care if his friends were rude sometimes—the girl who didn’t mind that comment about some actress. I would look in the mirror and struggle to find the version of myself who would have insisted she was right about that argument rather than simply giving up.
Serial monogamy kills. The surface-level pain of heartbreak hid its relentless erosion of self. The cycle of constantly being involved with someone else dissolved my identity into the inevitable collective “we” formed. Every experience I faced was done so with someone else, even if they weren’t physically present. The undying habit of experiencing something and immediately texting a significant other at the cause of “including them” erased what could have been a moment just for me.
Recently, I sat in silence. I sat in the quiet of no texts on my phone, no one beside me, and no plans to see someone later. I sat in a room with no one but myself, and a striking realization hit me. Did I know who I was? Every triumph, every hardship, and every moment I faced. It was all filtered through the lens of someone else’s presence. My life wasn’t just mine. It was always shared.
Grief surrounding losing someone wasn’t about them. It was about losing the person I had become through that relationship. I poured my all into every fling to the point where when a relationship ended, I was not only heartbroken but unrecognizable. I couldn’t remember how I spent my free time or what I would have done if I hadn’t texted or seen someone. I had compliantly watched as my individuality and self-security were murdered before me. To make matters worse, I was an accessory to the murder. I let it all happen time and time again.
For what? For a goodnight text? To receive a compliment? Looking back, I shake my head at all the restless nights spent arguing with others that could’ve been used just to rest.
There’s a reason many believe that loneliness is a core human fear. We crave connection, intimacy, and love. Without it, I’m left to sit with myself. I’m forced to remember that my thoughts are only my own, and I’m all I have at the end of the day. Being your own foundation is terrifying when you don’t trust the judgment or power you hold on your own. I’ve grown to believe that I’m on shaky ground, requiring the assistance of someone else to keep me stable.
Amidst serial monogamy’s killing spree, I try to remember the days before I entertained any romance. I remember lying in bed reading books all day or binge-watching my favorite shows. That was the period of my life when my yearning for connection resulted in making plans to see my friends. It was a time when love didn’t mean erasing who I was. It meant finding an unshakable sense of self.
I am stubborn, messy, and opinionated. I laugh too loud and speak without thinking. I argue, and I am demanding, and I will not diminish my love for who I am to receive love from another.
For the first time in a while, I’m choosing myself. I’m not a placeholder until the right person comes along. I’m a commitment — actually, a lifelong commitment — so I had better start giving it my full effort now. I want to live for myself. I want to love being alone. I want to remember what I love without sacrificing any parts of me.
I want to exist wholly, without relying on someone else to reflect who I am back at me. Serial monogamy is a serial killer, but I will survive.