Vanishing Twins: A Marriage

by Leah Dieterich

Overview

Sharing her story of an evolving marriage, Leah Dieterich offers an intimate look at ethical nonmonogamy and polyamory that redefines how she experiences love, trust, and her own queer identity.

"Crisp and intelligent . . . [Dieterich] writes about her own reckoning with her sexuality and exploration of queer identity without becoming pat or coy, giving readers intimate access to her fears and conflicting emotions." —NPR

For as long as she can remember, Leah has had the mysterious feeling that she’s been searching for a twin—that she should be part of an intimate pair. It begins with dance partners as she studies ballet growing up; continues with her attractions to girlfriends in college; and leads her, finally, to Eric, whom she moves across the country for and marries. But her steadfast, monogamous relationship leaves her with questions about her sexuality and her identity, so she and her husband decide to try an open marriage.

How does a young couple make room for their individual desires, their evolving selfhoods, and their artistic ambitions while building a life together? Can they pursue other sexual partners, even live in separate cities, and keep their original passionate bond alive? Vanishing Twins looks for answers in psychology, science, pop culture, art, architecture, Greek mythology, dance, and language to create a lucid, suspenseful portrait of a woman testing the limits and fluidities of love.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781593762919
Publisher:	Catapult
Publication date:	09/04/2018
Pages:	304
Product dimensions:	5.50(w) x 8.10(h) x 0.80(d)

About the Author

Leah Dieterich’s essays and short fiction have been published by Buzzfeed, BOMB, The Nervous Breakdown, and The Offing. She lives in Portland, Oregon, and Los Angeles, California, with her husband and daughter.

Read an Excerpt

Maybe my twin would have danced ballet, too. I stopped when I was eighteen. Maybe my twin would have kept going.

Because of ballet, I spent a lot of time looking at my reflection. In class, we all clamored for the single panel in the wall of mirrors that inexplicably elongated the images of our bodies. The studio was large, but we crowded each other to dance in front of the skinny mirror. The teacher tried to spread us out but it was no use. Our only other option was to lose enough weight to look skinny in any mirror. And we tried that, too.

Twelve years later, I sit in the dark, behind a two-way mirror with my ad agency colleagues, watching a focus group eat hamburgers and talk about how they taste. It feels deceitful to watch someone when they think they are alone with their reflection.

We like to believe that a mirror shows our truest self, but it rarely does. If you’re right up against it, with your nose touching the glass, you don’t see anything at all.

That was the way I pressed myself to Eric. And Elena. And Ethan. I was too close and could not focus.

*

In all the articles about twins separated at birth, they always seem to share incredible similarities and quirks, no matter how differently they were raised. They hold their beer cans with just their thumb and index finger; they have moles on the left side of their rib cages. Neither of them likes ketchup.

I thought if I met someone with disgustingly fast-growing cuticles who liked the smell of burned toast more than anything in the world, it would prove I’d been my missing my mate.

If my twin was identical, it would have been a girl, but if it was fraternal, it could have been a boy or a girl. All this is to say I didn’t know what I was looking for.

*

Giselle got a boyfriend at the donut shop where she worked and quickly experienced all of her sexual firsts without me. This threw off the comforting symmetry that had always made our friendship seem predestined. Ancient. Suddenly I felt like I was a foot shorter than her. At sixteen, her parents allowed her to finish high school via correspondence courses so she could spend more of her day at the dance studio, and she was gone. Jumped off the seesaw while I was still on it, letting me drop with tailbone-breaking speed to the dirt below.

Ever since we met in third grade, no one at school had uttered our first names separately. They were always linked with an and. Now there was an empty space next to that and, a vacancy. Sometimes the weather in that space was mild, just the sideways breeze of her being whisked away. Other times it rained for days.

I needed to sandbag it.

But instead of filling this void, I chose to build a structure around it. I got up at 6:30 a.m., was at school by 7:25, drank a Diet Coke, ate a Granny Smith apple for lunch, and finished my homework during study hall before driving myself to the city for ballet. This schedule was a scaffolding around my terror of being solo.

*

Vanishing Twin Syndrome. That’s what the American Journal of Obstetrics and Gynecology calls a fetus in a multiple pregnancy that dies in utero and is partially or completely reabsorbed by the surviving fetus.

This phenomenon has likely existed forever, but it wasn’t until the late 1970s, when ultrasounds became sophisticated enough to detect twins as early as five weeks, that doctors began having the unnerving experience of viewing twin embryos one month, only to find a singleton the next.

The term vanishing twin was coined in 1980, the year I was born.

They say if the less viable twin is not consumed, it “exists in a kind of limbo, compressed by the other to a flattened, parchment-like state known as fetus papyraceus.”

Papyrus, like paper.

*

The fact that it’s called “vanishing twin” instead of “vanished twin” seems to indicate that the disappearance is perpetual, not completed, possibly not completable.

Obviously when one twin comes out and the other doesn’t, it’s over, in a certain sense. But grammatically, the vanishing twin never disappears; it is just continually fading from existence. This makes it harder to mourn, since it’s never really over.

Editorial Reviews

06/04/2018
Dieterich (Thxthxthx: Thank Goodness for Everything) chronicles her romantic life in this intimate and passionate memoir, which focuses on the link between identity and love. The narrative’s central metaphor comes from the phenomenon of the fetal “vanishing twin,” when “one twin becomes less viable and is... absorbed by the other twin.” Dieterich explores each of her relationships as the quest to become either the viable or absorbed twin. In her husband, Eric, an architect and artist, she recognizes the nurturing compatibility of a partner, observing, “It’s like we’re the same person. We finish each other’s sentences. This is what we’ve been taught to desire and expect of love.” Then Elena, a filmmaker, enters Dieterich’s life. Dieterich develops a romantic relationship with Elena, and in the process explores questions of fidelity, monogamy, and the malleability of sexual identity. Dieterich’s self-exploration is also informed by her experience as a ballerina, as when she observes that the dancers in the George Balanchine ballet Agon never “merge their bodies into one and become set dressing.” Like her relationships, the structure and style of the book explores unconventionality. Dietrich writes in short passages that could be read as prose poetry. The narrative, though, is seamless, as she traverses a period of uncertainty and questioning into comfortably claiming her queer identity. (Sept.)

Publishers Weekly

Praise for Vanishing Twins


Shortlisted for the 2019 Pacific Northwest Book Award

Named a Best Book of Fall by NYLON

"It's exactly this tension between retaining your individuality and absorbing yourself into someone else that unfurls throughout Vanishing Twins . . . Her writing is crisp and intelligent, she relies on architecture, Greek mythology and even language to place her relationship in the context of a wider world . . . Dieterich maintains her searching, inquisitive voice throughout Vanishing Twins. She writes about her own reckoning with her sexuality and exploration of queer identity without becoming pat or coy, giving readers intimate access to her fears and conflicting emotions." —NPR

"Leah Dieterich's memoir, Vanishing Twins, is filled with that specific sharp agony; it echoes with longing, vibrates with the effort Dieterich undergoes as she pushes the boundaries of who she is, both as an individual and within the context of her marriage. Within both realms—the individual and the partnered—Dieterich explores what it means to have options and to choose one thing over another; she and her husband open their marriage, and she explores what it means to expand and maintain connections to another person and to herself. All of this exploration is done in the kind of beautifully written fragments that lodge inside you after reading, so that you carry these thoughts around inside of you, exploring the themes until they become, if not your own, then something shared, and elevated, because of it." —NYLON

"In many ways, Dieterich's provocative, poetic memoir is about wanting more than what we—particularly as women—are told we can have. It is a meditation on openness and constraints, on partnership and absence, and it hinges on Dieterich's experience of a period of polyamory within her marriage, a time during which both she and her husband explored relationships with other partners while also staying tethered to one another. But it is also a book about making choices, and knowing that those decisions are best made after thoroughly exploring the available options, and also fully getting to know ourselves in the process." —NYLON

"A gorgeous portrait of marriage that is searching, fractured, [and] humane." —Marina Benjamin, New Statesman, One of the Books of the Year

"Vanishing Twins is more than a memoir about love and marriage. It’s a literary experiment in both structure and subject, a novel mix of theory and story." —Rebecca Schuh, Bookforum

"Dieterich’s book tells us there isn’t any one way to create a sexual life and I’m grateful for that invitation . . . [Her] voice is inviting, the prose simple and confident and I found myself thinking of the narrator while I was away, making connections between my own life and hers. Twinning, you might say." —Entropy

"Is 'magical' too big a word to describe this memoir? No, it isn’t. In this ethereal yet psychologically astute memoir, Dieterich analyzes the story of her life—from aspirations as a ballerina, to her work in advertising, to her experiment in an open marriage—through the lens of her search for her missing metaphorical twin. Vanishing Twins is composed in short, often page-long chapters that each sear powerful images about love, monogamy, and what we ask of the people in our lives, onto the mind." —Refinery29

"As Leah Dieterich beautifully explores in her new memoir Vanishing Twins, an open relationship can allow two individuals to make room to discover who they truly are—within and outside of a relationship." —Bustle

"Her book is a dance, moving adroitly through brief, philosophical, and thought-provoking fragments." —Bustle

"Vanishing Twins paints a portrait of Leah Dieterich’s open marriage and offers meditations on love, sexuality, and identity. You’ll devour this honest memoir that beautifully broaches subjects we don’t talk about enough." —Hello Giggles

"A mesmerizing story that merges fluidity and structure, your mind floats through waiting for more. It is reminiscent of Maggie Nelson, Leslie Jamison, and Sarah Manguso . . . It's a book that you will keep following along to see Leah's next move." —Girls at Library

"In such disintegration lies room for redefinition, and Dieterich describes that messy process with a level of intimacy that often amounts to bravery. The marriage at the heart of Vanishing Twins may snap back into its original shape eventually, but from the inside it feels bigger than before." —Lambda Literary

"Vanishing Twins is a stark commentary on social norms and expectations, choosing to fully delve into these subjects as a whole rather than focus on singular experience . . . Timely and vital . . . A stunning and fascinating narrative that delivers a startlingly touching blow." —Popscure

"Like the great essayists, [Dieterich's] probing mind struggles to understand itself, and she makes fascinating connections between a range of subjects from pop culture to psychology to literature to help figure out who she is and what she wants. Vanishing Twins is a powerful, poetic memoir, both emotive and cerebral, that casts new light on the familiar issue of relationships, marriage and storytelling, and vividly articulates some of the most subtle aspects of human relationships in a way many readers will recognize in themselves." —Longreads

"A perspective on marriage and relationships that cannot be categorized. I have referred to it so many times since I finished the book. Read this if you want to redefine the humanness of being in a relationship." —Eliza Wexleman, MyDomaine, One of the Best Books of the Year

"Leah Dieterich's stunning memoir Vanishing Twins is a poignant exploration of identity and open marriage, and one of the year's most thought-provoking books." —Largehearted Boy

"Are you fascinated by twins? I know I am, and in pop culture, twins have always occupied a unique space. When Leah Dieterich began researching Vanishing Twin Syndrome, a gestational illness in which one fetus absorbs another fetus, she realized that this idea really resonated with her as she approached nonmonogamy in her marriage. Intimate memoirs are sometimes difficult to pull off, but Dieterich’s marriage with Eric and partnership with Elena is really captivating." —Bitch Reads

"A quick and thought-provoking read . . . In the end, Vanishing Twins reads as a love letter—a testament to two people who love and respect each other enough to give each other space to explore, make mistakes, and grow." —Gertrude Press

"Dieterich chronicles her romantic life in this intimate and passionate memoir, which focuses on the link between identity and love. . . . The narrative . . . is seamless, as she traverses a period of uncertainty and questioning into comfortably claiming her queer identity." —Publishers Weekly

"In this ethereal and heady memoir, Dieterich paints a stunning portrait of her marriage and her lifelong search for twinship. . . . Poignant and extremely hard to shake." —Booklist

"Dieterich fully embraces the art of introspection in this unique memoir. Her prose, dispatched in pagelong ruminations, establishes thought-provoking connections . . . In these poetically written episodes, the author ponders the nature of love, attraction, and identity through literature, pop culture, psychology, femininity, and the delicate nuances of being a 'beautiful and controlled' ballerina. Graceful snapshots of a life that lyrically coalesce into expressive declarations of identity and intimacy. —Kirkus Reviews

"Dieterich is unfailingly open to her own curiosities, which makes for an engaging read . . . The instinctual nature of Dieterich’s exploration is the charm of her voice and narrative style, reflecting the motions of the ballets she loves, reflecting her way of dancing with vocabulary, turning words around and around until she spins out from them. This is an artist’s memoir as much as it is a writer’s—she plays with image, language, and ornamentation in ways that are as much for sheer aesthetic pleasure as they are to further the narrative, and yet she keeps the narrative feeling lean and necessary." —Eve Ettinger, The Adroit Journal

"The themes in Vanishing Twins are at once timeless and contemporary: what does it mean to be both wife and artist, both partner and individual? Leah Dieterich's singular explorations of these ideas paired with her sharp, nimble sentences made it impossible for me to put this book down." —Chelsea Hodson, author of Tonight I'm Someone Else

"I'm captivated by Dieterich's naive but searching and intelligent narrator; the connections she ties between typography and twinning and ballet and sex are unexpected and frequently magical. I love this book." —Sarah Manguso, author of 300 Arguments and Two Kinds of Decay

From the Publisher

2018-06-18
An unconventional literary self-portrait examining the relationships that shaped a writer's identity.Essayist Dieterich (thxthxthx: Thank Goodness for Everything, 2011) fully embraces the art of introspection in this unique memoir. Her prose, dispatched in pagelong ruminations, establishes thought-provoking connections among the multifaceted dynamics of twinning, fetal "vanishing twin syndrome," and the author's physical attractions. As a young ballet student, Dieterich watched herself on walls of mirrors, drawing close to fellow classmate Giselle in third grade. As teenagers, however, she was abruptly abandoned after Giselle acquired a boyfriend, lost her virginity, and broke the "comforting symmetry that had always made our friendship seem predestined." The author admits to harboring a "terror of being alone," so pursuing attachments she wasn't entirely certain would prove successful came easily. She chronicles intense emotional connections to female classmates throughout her college years, just one of several forks "in the road on my sexual map." The author eventually settled into a rhythm with artist and architect Eric, with whom she dashed across the country to cultivate a marriage. As the couple slowly merged into what Dieterich deemed to be a single synergistic organism, the arrangement slowly regressed beneath the weight of her desire for varietal stimulation and discontent with the sameness of a consistent partner. An open arrangement allowed her to probe her emerging queer sexuality further with women, and, through the revolving door of nonmonogamy, the author escaped into the arms of Elena, a filmmaker who mirrored her passion. Dieterich artfully compares her former lovers of both sexes to the sensation of standing too close to a mirror, unable to focus on anything within the blur. In these poetically written episodes, the author ponders the nature of love, attraction, and identity through literature, pop culture, psychology, femininity, and the delicate nuances of being a "beautiful and controlled" ballerina.Graceful snapshots of a life that lyrically coalesce into expressive declarations of identity and intimacy.

Kirkus Reviews