My feet went on strike 
        this week.
"No more." they said,
and now we all grimace
        under ice packs
                                  stinging

Last night
I awakened with a
       start, dreaming
already out of my sweaty bed
      onto my crumpled feet--
my sleep world hounded
      by my doings or
      something left undone
"who am i, who am i, who am i"
      (my heart pounds)

This episode has 
          aired before.
I am here again seeking,
         desperate in exhaustion.
I am that thing, like in darkness,
          you see fleetingly 
                  out of the corner of your eye
that when viewed
          squarely, disappears;
Present and perceptible
          only in motion.

Imagine that
my grandmother had known
how to recklessly lounge about,
      not producing
      important documents
      and well-rounded meals?
What if she had tossed the tinfoil
       right into the trash, and
       thrown her delicate
paper sewing patterns into
                 a     messy     heap
                 in the corner?

Frankly,
her daughters could have left
        their beds unmade,
shamelessly spent entire days
reading romance novels,
        supine in their motivation,
and lavishly embracing their
                        own indolence.

Care
(do I dare?)
for myself.
Like a meadow of blowing wildflowers
I want to know no compulsion
                  to explain or act.
Like the unapologetic air
                  in my lungs.
"I am here now"
(I whisper in the dark),
wearing my own goodness
                 like skin.

In the jittery days just before telling my husband I was leaving him, my older sister advised, “Just ask yourself if you will be happier alone.” I could always count on her to distill life’s biggest quandaries to a simple yes or no question. Yes. I knew in my bones that I would be happier alone than with him.

This had been true for a long time. In my 14-year marriage whenever I had the opportunity to be alone, I cherished it. In the final years, I began seeking out more and more opportunities for solitude, from solo vacations, to hiding out in the bathtub behind a locked door, to sleeping for months in the guest room. It wasn’t so much that I felt happier alone, but I did feel relief. That August day, I felt absolutely sure. I took the plunge and broke the news to him that I was leaving.

I am an introvert and was trained by circumstance as a child to be a content and competent loner. My sisters and I were the quintessential latchkey children of the 70’s, returning home after school to an empty house with dinner instructions taped to the fridge. Our absent workaholic father and over-extended, ambitious mother loved us deeply, but taught us through example the supremacy of self-reliance.

Even before the long unsupervised afternoons of elementary school, I became independent and self-directed in my play. As a youngster, I retreated to our hot New Jersey attic where intricate wooden block villages for my china animals could remain undisturbed for weeks. In my version of a soap opera, the china characters interacted with their community, family and friends with me improvising all of the speaking roles. They were my imaginative world, and in that world I was everything; producer, director, actor, set builder, costume designer and audience. In this world, I delightedly answered to no one but myself.

The courtship with my husband had been accelerated by an early and accidental pregnancy, which turned out to be twins. With that development, we went zero to sixty before we had any sense of our interpersonal compatibility. Emboldened by our own successful break-neck charge into parenting, we added one more child after 3 years. Once inextricably linked together by our children, we leaned in hard. We operated with the delusional paradigm that if we each did our best for the kids, it would all work out between us. In the process we each neglected each other, and ourselves, leading to mountains upon mountains of immoveable resentment.

At age 46, I steadied myself and was prepared to be alone forever. After six months living in my own space, without any deliberate effort, I was stunned to meet a man who I liked and lusted, and who felt the same about me. When he looked at me, I felt shivers from my scalp all the way down the back of my legs, amazed to discover that my genitals, heretofore assumed to be dead, were not. In the midst of the exhausting anxiety of divorce, I felt seen. It was exhilarating and terrifying. On our first official date I told him he was probably the rebound guy, and that I was loath to become obligated again. He smiled, smitten and unfazed.

Fast-forward six years to last Friday. Over drinks with a friend, she said; “you know, all of your friends are talking behind your back about this thing with you and your guy. We find your stupid back and forth really annoying and uncomfortable.” She was referring to the fact that the relationship with my post-divorce “rebound” man had been on and off for years. She was right. My enduring ambivalence about him was annoying, even to myself.

At first, I first felt defensive at her irritation with me and my relationship/non-relationship. Granted, approximately every year for five years, I have attempted to break up with this man, explaining with radical and (at times) brutal honesty, my overall ambivalence towards commitment, possibly towards him, and my intermittent desire to explore seeing other people. Each time, as I pulled away, I feel very clear and sure. During these breaks, both he and I have ventured out and had sex with other people. Predictably, with a few weeks, he and I gravitate back together, resuming our relationship and sustaining it again for several months.

It is always me that pulls away, and it is always he that remains steadfastly in the wings, ready to drop everything and come back. I end up feeling selfish, damaged and crazy, while simultaneously marveling at his punishing capacity to be reeled back in, like Charlie Brown with the football.

And why, exactly, do I need to pull away from this lovely man, who is kind, generous, adoring and absolutely committed to me? With every go around, I get closer to the truth; that the allergy to sustained closeness is my own. After a period of weeks or months together, I begin to feel crowded, and annoyed, squeezed, and crave being alone as if my life depends on it. I find reasons that we are not suited for each other. Like Alex Clare states in one of my all-time relatable pop songs; “It feels like I am just too close to love you, There’s nothing I can really say….Got to be true to myself, And it feels like I am just too close to love you, so I’ll be on my way.” So, with what has become a predictable rhythm, I shove him off again, and briefly revel in my solitude.

Until….. I begin to feel too alone, and I miss him, of course; my dear friend, closest confidante, most patient supporter and sweetest lover. And ‘round we go.

So I asked my friend in the bar, “Why do people care what we do or don’t do? Whether we are together or not together. This is just our version of crazy. Other people have other versions of crazy.” She paused over her beer and said, “I think people just like clarity. They like to know where things stand.”

Clarity. A noble goal. So I sit to write to see if I can find it, extract it and to offer it to the irritated friends and bystanders, to help them better know “where things stand.”

In my life, closeness and commitment have been a mixed bag. In high school, closeness with boys meant uncomfortably participating in not-so-fun sexual acts rather than risk being labeled a “prude.” I did not begin to own my sexuality until my late 20s, worrying for years that any outward expression of desire and lust would tip me towards the other not-acceptable label of “slut.” I lived in the narrow band of what I understood to be acceptable female sexuality—put out just enough, even if you aren’t comfortable, but by all means, don’t act like you enjoy it too much.

Add my overall sense of obligation and duty to the unrealistic societal expectations of wife and mother, mix it together with my warped grasp of sexuality, and well, it is easy to see how I tied myself in knots trying to fulfill roles that had nothing to do with my own heartfelt desires. My desires, which at the core, are something akin to sitting quietly alone for hours undisturbed in a hot attic, surrounded by sunlit dust motes, creating, writing and directing stories I want to tell and live.

Post-divorce, I have been on high alert to not again feel trapped and obliged. My children have nearly flown the coop, and I comfortable in my life and work. Now in my 50s, my intermittent sexual intimacy, has become more playful, curious and raucously unbound. I have been unwilling to cede my independent ground, to merge my life fully with my friend/lover. Whether this is surrendering to my post-marital PTSD, or just simply sensible adult-woman wisdom, I don’t know. Aside from the rumblings from the peanut gallery, and the occasional flare of my own self-doubt, it works very well for me. As for the man in my life, he will have to write his story to get to his own truth on the matter.

Last week, my 16 year old son, who now has a close relationship with my on and off again friend/lover cautiously asked me my relationship status. I fumbled to explain, not wanting to drag him into the way too complicated weeds, and said, “well, I really love him, and he really loves me.” My son said, “Mom, that really should be enough to make it work, shouldn’t it?” Yes, I think to myself, that should be enough.

I called my sister during this last relationship break, as I tipped towards pulling my lover back in, tormented by the possibility I am just crazy and mean, and she asked the same question again; “would you rather be alone than with him?”

The answer is not as clear as it was in August 2012, and maybe also crystal clear. I want to be alone, sometimes, AND I want to be with him, sometimes. And most of the time, he and I are okay with that paradox, even though our relationship style rattles our friends who long for clarity. Maybe there is no definition for us. On this day, in this quiet moment, I can live with that.

1. To give audible expression to; speak or pronounce; to express oneself, especially in words
2. Complete, total, absolute, real, consummate, full, limitless, infinite, cosmic.