Freedom to Leave

When I was married and had a house, I remember a day when I was so frustrated with my husband. He'd left the house and taken the truck to go out to the farm to finish some field work, but I hadn't known he was gone until I searched the house, called to the garage, scoured the yard, and found him missing. It wasn't unusual; he often got preoccupied with a job and in the urgency of getting something done, just forgot to let me know his plans. He wasn't purposely being unthinking, it was just something that happened.

But that day, his careless (to me) actions made me snap.

Home with a toddler, needing to run to the grocery store to pick up something for supper, I didn't want to have to pack up everything and haul her along; I just wanted to walk out of the house, get in the car, and leave. I wanted to be like him. But, I was The Mom. I was the one who made the arrangements before leaving, making sure that everyone knew I was going, the kids were taken care of, the animals inside, the doors locked. It seemed that this came along with giving birth and staying home with the children, so what did I expect?

Still, when he finally did come home, I tore into him. I shouted angrily, I fumed, I stomped around the kitchen, and banged things on the counter. "Just once!" I yelled. "Just once I'd like to find out what it's like to be a man and just leave! What's it like? I'll never know!"

Funny, now I do.

These days, I have no little ones at home who depend on me to care for them, no husband or significant other to inform when I'm leaving the house. True, I need to make sure the dog gets fed and let out on a quasi-regular basis (although she's uncomplaining about my erratic schedule), but for the most part, I can simply leave whenever the mood takes me.

It's strange, and liberating, but it can also be lonely. When I first began living on my own, it felt mildly brazen, as if I were doing something illicit or daring. I enjoyed going where I wanted, without having to be back at a certain time or letting anyone know where I was. After a time, though, it became routine to the point where I miss letting someone know my plans. So I can run to the grocery store at night--who cares? So I decide to see a movie on a weeknight and eat the popcorn all by myself--big deal.

"I'm going to the library and then run a couple of errands," I inform my dog, who looks at me with her head cocked to one side, earnestly staring at me with her deep, brown eyes. "I'll be home in a bit and then we can go to the park, OK?"

There. That feels better.

Loneliness

It's been a year since I've seen him… a year since the Christmas Day walk in the park with the dogs, and the argument that ended in me moving out of the house completely. A year since the New Year's Day he used his pickup truck to move the last of my belongings to my mom's garage; asking over and over the impossible question, "Why?" to which I had no answer that would satisfy him. A year since we drank coffee at Starbucks, embraced one last time, and said, "Good-bye," signaling the finality of our relationship.

A year since I've been someone's fiancée, Significant Other, domestic partner, or listed as an "In Case of Emergency"  contact on a phone or diabetes bracelet. A year since I've heard his voice, seen his face or felt his embrace. A year since I've been kissed with anything remotely resembling passion or desire. A year alone.

It's not so much the physical connections I miss as the company. Sure, I miss having someone to hold hands with, to hug, to have stroke my hair or lean against while watching Food Network. But when I climb into bed by myself at the end of the day and realize the only conversation I've had is with my dog, that's when the sadness hits. Most days, I like living alone and I like the life that I'm in the process of creating. While I was being consumed by the toxicity of my relationship, I created a fantasy world in which I had a small house of my own, where I was free to be myself without fear or anxiety. Now that the dust has settled, I realize that I'm exactly where I'd longed to be.

And yet.

There are times--usually late at night--when I hear the insidious whispers in my mind that tell me I've had my chances, and I blew them all, so I shouldn't expect to be given any more. Or that I'm no longer young, and the kind of love I long for isn't going to happen again; the best I can hope for are chaste friendships involving movies, coffee and going home to separate beds. And sometimes, I believe the whispers, even as I know they are lying.

We aren't given a certain amount of opportunities and then no more; there are countless chances for us to make connections, form relationships, and yes, find passion and love. At any age.