Adjustment Disorder Revisited

Pre-divorce, I found myself in counseling for the first time in my life. I was able to afford the finest county mental care services poverty could buy. And it was really good. I might have chronicled some it in my mountainoflaundry (but if I go looking for a link, I will rabbit-hole like no one's business and never return to this story, so...). Because to continue seeing a patient requires a diagnosis, my social worker said I had an "adjustment disorder," meaning, I was struggling to accept the fact that my marriage was a joke.

Many (is it eight?) years later, I sit in a magnificent home in a hoity-toity KC suburb with a hybrid car in the garage, a savings account at the bank, and a college diploma in a manilla envelope in one of the many closets. I have (suddenly?) found myself living in an upper middle class world and a year into it, am realizing I'm mildly uncomfortable about it.

You see, I'm becoming what I had once mocked. I am able to buy what my children need, want, and then some. I can purchase new running shoes, pay my credit card bill monthly (which I only use so I can earn airline miles), and always have a full refrigerator and pantry. We eat meatless on Mondays because I want to...not because the food stamp card is dry. I am living a life that I never dared to dream of. '

And it makes me a tad uncomfortable.

Don't get me wrong. I LOVE having enough cash every month to pay the bills and then some. I am giddy to be able to hear the cries of my children for x and y and z and to be able to appease them. Christmas...don't get me started (on the good AND the bad). For a solid 66.6% of my offspring, I have demonstrated the value of higher education, and for that I am elated.  But the truth is, this is just weird.

Give me time, allow me to vent, send me to a therapist. I'm sure I'll get over this. But for now, I will have moments of ill ease with my prosperity. I have given money to charity, we adopted a family for xmas, and I have taught my kids the value of sharing (as evidenced by an act by  my son that merits its own post). I need to find my place in this new world, while keeping my feet on the ground.

Promises, Compromises

"It hasn't been easy to live with you the last couple of weeks."

...or at least something like that. His quote hung over my head all night long, and boldly greeted me when I woke. The details of my workday dulled the edges (and the exact wording), but the sentiment still clings.

It was an important that he tell me that. I knew it to be true, but it needed to be said and he was the one who needed to say it. I have been quiet, sullen, chilly, snarky. I have dragged my feet when heading home, I have looked for diversions to spend time elsewhere. I have not been a pleasant roommate.

I wrestled with his message today. I made a few excuses for myself (work has been very stressful, the kids need a lot of my attention, PMS is a bitch), and then I faced the truth which is, while I have not necesarilly tried to be difficult, I have certainly not made much of an attempt at nice.

When we began down the path toward cohabitation, I realized I knew how to live with him, but he didin't know what it would be like to live with me. Our time spent together from our previous chapters were almost exclusively on his turf. I learned to fit into his life. Over the years, this translated into more than just knowing where he kept the measuring spoons. I compromised my needs for the sake of his. I lost sight of the importance of me because i couldn't bear the thought of failing us.

When we reunited, all of those uncomfortable compromises were left behind. They were part of our past, part of our story, but no longer part of our lives.

And as we began sharing our lives, kids and all, shared turf, same bed every damn night, it was blissful. Really, it was pretty damn great.

But just a few months later, pots and pans in the wrong place, school stuff strewn about the house, and conflicting ideas on home decor leave me with my foot firmly planted in the ground, not necessarily getting my own way, but pouting because I am not.

While I'm not ready to diagnose my disorder just yet, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that perhaps I'm not willing to negotiate how I want the house to look and function because I fear one compromise could lead to another and another and...



We have agreed that ours is a lifelong partnership. I think it's time my subconscious get on board with us.

Six Date Rule

We reunited. We madly, passionately agreed that we were willing to close the door on our single lives and embark on a journey, a partnership, a lifelong love.

But there was something we had to take care of first...we had to date.

While working at a thrift store at the tail end of my marriage, I encountered a book about dating. I recall flipping through it until I found the subject of sex. It suggested I insist upon six dates from any particular suitor before dropping trou for him. The last time I dated, I was 21 years old, and I was generally eager to spread my legs for a fella for numerous ridiculous reasons, none of which involved my own sexual satisfaction or empowerment. I embraced this new found guideline as my own, if only to surrender control to a rule and avoid the hassle of making healthy decisions for my own good.

The very night we met, sparks flew. A day and a half of text messages led to a lunch date that I didn't want to end. The following night, he invited me to his place for a cocktail...and some couch time. And it was on that couch that I breathlessly stated my intention to maintain my chastity for at least four more meetings.

Twenty minutes later...

When Mark and I both concluded we wanted to hang out for the long haul, he insisted upon six dates before we consummated the relationship. A lot of water had flowed under each of our individual bridges during our months apart. Those six dates would provide an opportunity to know one another again, and push the definition of sex to it's very limit.

Part of the agreement for our reunion was that we would become equal partners. During chapters one and two of our love, I took the back seat in decision making, feeling that my voice didn't really matter as I wasn't able to make much of a financial contribution to our relationship. This time around, my backbone had to be present. We took turns choosing activities, counting down to that final magical night when we could...well...you-know-what.

We climbed walls, we cooked meals, we went to parties a week before they happened, we giggled, we reconnected, we loved. And yeah, we did that too.

Those six dates have come and gone. Continuing to woo one another was put on hold for a bit while we shopped for, bought, and moved into a house. The dust is settling and we will get back out there soon, squeezing deliberate together time into our busy schedules.

Those days and nights together sealed a promise that we intend to stick this relationship out, thick or thin. While it won't always be chocolate and pretty ponies, I'm reasonably certain there will be more laughing at ourselves than gnashing of the teeth. And if most of the tears shed are over cut onions than hurt feelings, I think we'll make this thing work well past our sell-by dates.

And So It Ends...and/or Begins

It appears that our Rumspringa will end soon. We wandered from the familiar and will now consider those experiences to issue a verdict as to whether or not to return to one other. If we both come to the same decision, we are promising that we will do our damndest to remain connected for the long haul, that we plan to spend our lives together, grow old side by side, and leave one grieving when the other dies.  This is kind of a big deal.

The nearly six months we've been apart(ish) have been challenging and amazing. Personally, I have grown by leaps and bounds, grabbing my career by the horns, embracing friendships and fitness feats, and proving my worth to myself and my children. (I also cried a lot. And that's cool.) This version of me is stronger, smarter, and more independent than any previous model.

I'm fairly certain that I would not be the confident woman I am today if we had not separated. I was fearful and unhappy during those final months and I'm grateful to him for setting me free. I had not spent enough of my life alone to understand my potential. And I doubt we would have considered stepping into a permanent relationship without the break from one another. There were too many questions that only time apart could answer. 

Seems like the traditional way of permanent partnering (or the illusion thereof) starts with a few dates, grows into a relationship, then finally surrenders into a long-term something with little opportunity to explore the uncertainties that will inevitably crop up. It works for some, but not so much for many, many others.

In just a few days we will lay our cards on the table and declare our wishes for the future. And if this relationship does move into its final chapter, we will have both spent time exploring ourselves and others, weighing what we learned against what we know of our powerful love, and understand that ours is a partnership worth nurturing...for a long, long, long time.

Same Song, Second (or third or fourth) Verse

My car is idling outside a club while I hope he'll come out and go home with me instead of the hot blonde who speaks three languages and has her shit just a little more together than I do mine.

This is foolish. My smart, strong girl self knows this. I am so fearful of never again feeling what we had that I won't budge, refreshing my lipstick, sucking in my tummy, and checking my hair so that if his head turns my way, I catch his glance.

This happens every few weeks. I sit quietly for just long enough to get angry, then sad, then my stomach ties itself into knots, reliving the break up again...and again...and yet again. I hear myself say that I deserve better. I see myself stomp my foot and announce I am no longer going to be tethered to an uncertain love. I feel myself brace my backbone and rehearse a bold statement that goes something like, "I am done. I will keep your family as my friends, but you are no longer a critical part of my life." Then I roll my eyes because I know I can't say those words aloud.

I can only assume these frustrated feelings will melt to the ground and I'll fall back into hopeful mode the next time we hug. Our embraces are powerful, healing, if not deceiving demonstrations of love, passion, and connection. Our history is deep and wonderful. Our friendship is precious. This is not a simple something to walk from, but at the very least, I must start taking baby steps away from what we are.

He's a runner. If he realizes he's ready to love me completely, I'm sure he can catch up with me.

To-Dos To-Done

While not always the case, there have been a few occasions when resolutions have been a phenomenal influence toward my growth. I have a hard time believing I'll ever outdo this quartet of hopeful promises and its magnificent outcome. There's no reason to try to reinvent the wheel, and I can't run my first race or launch my bachelors degree quest again, but I can set goals (out loud) and accomplish them (out loud) over and over and over again.

Just a few weeks back, I said I would join a book club (and read a book), grow something, and set a fitness goal. 

Done.

After next Saturday's 50k, I'll get back to you with another trio of to-dos. I'm thinking something along the lines of pay library fines, protect tomatoes from squirrels, and nurse sore legs and arse.

History Repeats Itself

I met a friend for brunch today. We are both muddling through the trenches of singledom and have acted as sounding boards for the other off and on for a few months. We spent a good long time chatting about his loves, past and present, and of course, mine came up for more than a few minutes.

I spoke of my inner voice and it's loud proclamation. He smiled and said, "You've said that every time we've spoken since the break up." He's right. I've said it. I've known it. I just haven't been ready to act on it.

Not sure if I am yet or not, but I'm trying.

...and I'm crying.

Again.