I asked my partner if I could be their wife on an otherwise typical Sunday. A public and/or elaborately planned proposal would have been out of the question even if COVID hadn’t ensured that we were living through our eleventh month of “work from home” quarantine. The capitalist spectacle of engagements and marriage is a nuisance and burden neither my fiance — an aromantic enbie with adult ADHD — nor I — a transgender autistic Communist — desire.
Nic’s aromanticism does not make them incapable of feeling or expressing love. She is indisputably made of love to steal a bit from Steven Universe, but for Nic, the highly socialized binary that demands hierarchical stratification or even, for the most part, differentiation period between fraternal and romantic love doesn’t exist. That her first marriage was to a predatory, emotionally abusive shit heel contributed to Nic’s antipathy to ever getting married again. For my part, a combination of general neurodivergent social detachment as well as being the child of a divorce that just about killed my father and led to my mother cannonballing into two even more disastrous marriages afterwards has made me more than a little skeptical of the whole institution. Despite all of those existential roadblocks, there was no hesitation when Nic said yes, and I could not help but pop the proverbial question less than 36 hours after I’d stayed up until 7 AM realizing what I needed to do.
I emphasize the normality of that Sunday because like many couples with overlapping but not identical places on the neurodivergence spectrum, a degree of chaotic structure is the only thing that keeps the Frankenberry-Saas household from operatic spirals of executive dysfunction. This blog exists because I once spent a week putting together a list of every single film nominated in certain categories at major awards shows into a spreadsheet, randomizing said thousands of films large list, and then allowing that spreadsheet to order the overwhelming majority of my at-home movie viewings for half a decade because I would have been too paralyzed by choice at the time otherwise. I once remade the list from scratch without batting an eye because the computer that had the first version kicked the bucket not long after I started my blog.
Nic is reliant on sophisticated budgeting software otherwise they wouldn’t be able to keep their (and now our) finances in order, not out of laziness or profligate spending habits but because her brain simply can’t wrap itself around things like money or time if their existence isn’t pushed directly in front of her face. Nic’s bank merging with PNC sent them into a mini-panic spiral last year because said service was offered through her bank and will be discontinued after the merger.
Like a couple of geriatrics, we both had to relent and buy medicine bottles with timer caps so that we would know for sure whether or not we’d taken our medications. The number of times where Nic forgot their Vyvanse or I forgot my second dose of my Zoloft/Estradiol/Spironolactone (or my first/only dose of Loratadine) is far too high for folks not suffering from early onset dementia.
Although Alzheimer’s runs in both of our families so there’s honestly a good chance that we are experiencing very minor instances of early onset dementia.
A big part of our routine as a couple revolves around video games and that’s how our day had started on Sunday. Nic and I like to cuddle on the couch and watch the other play some game. The one not playing is generally engaging in some light parallel activity. Nic has been using Duolingo to learn Scottish Gaelic, Greek, and Spanish and her Gaelic and Greek are both scary good for someone who’s just started learning within the last four months. If Nic has the controller/mouse & keyboard, I’m generally reading a book or scrolling through Reddit or Twitter. We both have a tendency to need to be doing multiple things at once, but even as our attention is divided across multiple media, we’re communicating with and encouraging one another and simply touching each other after a lifetime of starvation for affectionate, non-domineering touch.
My fiance loves the Dragon Age games, and the social/romance elements in RPGs are why she plays western RPGs like the aforementioned fantasy series or the post-apocalyptic Fallout games in the first place. Video games and RPGs in particular have given queer and neurodivergent folks like us safe avenues to explore social roles and relationships that we would generally not have access to in real life, and one of the legion of reasons that I fell in love with Nic was how passionately they could discourse about the love lives and rich lore of completely fictional characters and universes.
Sunday, Nic was playing Cyberpunk 2077. Notable for one of the most bug-ridden and publicly mocked AAA launches of the last decade as well as for a nasty series of reversals on crunch and other promised protections for the game’s developers, CDProjekt Red’s latest release is a technical marvel held together by barely existent AI and the exploited labor of its dev team. I have a different essay to write about that game and its hilariously jumbled politics, but after the session that day, I turned to Nic and told them that I couldn’t wait to grow old with them, living vicariously through disaster video game bisexuals. Realizing that I’d just set up my own opportunity to propose without intending, I told Nic that I wanted to be their wife.
While I wound up being the one to propose, Nic actually brought up marriage as a possibility for us about six months ago. With the pandemic as well as the resurgence of fascism and our continued habitation in the heart of Trump country, Nic made it clear that she had no objections to marrying me in the future for the legal protections it would provide us, particularly as an openly queer couple in a state where it’s still legal to evict a tenant for being transgender. The day of the proposal I told Nic that I didn’t want there to be any way that any one could keep them from having the last say (beyond my own) in my affairs.
Nic’s love had helped sustain me during the second long-term dissolution of my relationship with my mother as well as my attempts to transition in a very visible, very conservative workspace. I had reached a point where I was experiencing daily suicidal ideation, and Nic and Zoloft are 75% of the reasons I made it through the winter of 2018-19.
I told Nic if they needed any time to think before they responded, they had all the time they needed and that I’d understand if they said no but Nic immediately clutched me right to their chest and said “Yes. Of course. Yes.”
We talked for about an hour about our relationship and what we both wanted from a marriage at this point in our lives. Nic made me promise that I hadn’t changed my mind about not wanting kids some day, and through thick happy tears, I belly-laughed and reminded her that being a parent was the last thing I wanted on this Earth.
Nic knew that this time around, our engagement didn’t change the texture of our relationship. I told Nic they were my forever person less than three months into our relationship and the confession was mutual. Our intense reciprocity has only blossomed in the intervening years. The hard work of building a life together had already been done and we were able to make this commitment to ourselves and our futures on our terms and inside of our vision rather than the socially baked in expectations and desires of others.
After the crying and hugging and kissing and declaring of love had stopped, we ordered dinner and put on Barbara Kopple’s classic labor documentary, Harlan County, U.S.A. One of the initial venues that Nic and I pursued to begin seeing each other socially was film. I introduced Nic to Upstream Colour, Inherent Vice, and When Marnie Was There on two of our earliest dates, and to this day, I can elicit at least a chuckle (sometimes a groan) by referencing Manic Pixie Dream Grandmother Lesbian Ghosts (can a film with two related leads queerbait? Studio Ghibli found out even if it didn’t mean to).
Nic’s politics are less vocally revolutionary and theory-oriented than mine, but we’re both committed leftists, and as soon as I explained ‘s Harlan County‘s premise to Nic, they agreed to watch the documentary as we wolfed down the hot wings we’d ordered as an engagement treat to ourselves.
I’m a card-carrying member of the Industrial Workers of the World, and while I’m also fairly consistent in saying that trade unionism is only a small part of the broader struggle for revolutionary liberation, the struggles of mine workers and the folks that risked everything for solidarity is the radical, revolutionary history of the Appalachia that Nic and I call home.
Miners living in tenement shacks without running water or electricity, company gun thugs intimidating working class martyrs that only wanted a fair pay for a day’s work, picket lines speaking truth to power.
Harlan County, U.S.A. is explicitly a product of the labor struggles of an increasingly austerity embracing America of the 1970s, but the war for a worker’s right to decency and self-respect is as old as the hills. Nic and I both have our trepidations and fears about the current state of West Virginia and the hyper-reactionary/unapologetically fascistic nature of so many of our elected officials (including State Senators who were involved in the Beer Belly Putsch in January), but our hearts bleed for the mountains that birthed us and we both want nothing less than the total liberation and emancipation of the Appalachian working class (but, once again, that’s a different essay).
Our engagement Sunday ended with Nic and I playing a multiplayer session of the historical dynastic grand strategy game, Crusader Kings III. The game allows us to disassociate and relax but also taps into the parts of our brains that process vast amounts of data and try to manipulate it to our benefit while also sharing with one another whatever debauchery or tragicomedy has befallen our medieval feudal lords.
Parallel play is one of the recurring themes of our relationship. The comfort that we can feel by being around one another, being aware of one another’s passions and sharing in the specificity of the moment without having to devote ourselves entirely to the other’s enterprise keeps our relationship fresh and strong. Nic and I occupy our own worlds with our own hyperfoci and digital obsessions, but we also find our joy in the pleasure and passion of each other. A psychic feedback loop of warmth and compassion and care drives our relationship and our world view and our lives, and as someone who had spent so much of her twenties resigned to my eventual, eternal solitude, that emotional and spiritual harbor that I have found in Nic is a treasure without equal. And if we can raise some Appalachian Communist hell while we find ways to express and enact our love daily… well, being a comrade starts in the home and if you can’t commit your heart and soul to a person you love, how can you hope to do the same for your fellow man?