This weekend will mark my “singleship” at one official week – for the first time in over two years. It’s a strange place to be. Not because just over two years is particularly or remarkably long, although I must confess that it is the longest relationship I’ve ever had, but because I didn’t expect  to be single again. This was the relationship that I thought I would spend the rest of my life in. I would have bet money on it. I would have bet lots of things on it. Thank god it never came down to betting.

I think the worst part is retraining myself not to depend on that particular person. Not in the sense of material things or money, although that’s been interesting for me too, beings that I have none, but more on the emotional end of things. When something great or exciting has happened, my first instinct is to call him and tell him. That’s no longer appropriate, and apparently it’s no longer emotionally healthy to do so. When things are really difficult, I know how to confide in him, and yet I can’t. In fact, calling him seems to be a moot point. I am reminded again and again – we aren’t together anymore.  How do years of connection turn into nothing so quickly? Perhaps the bigger question is, where is the line between staying friends and not being together any longer? There’s a good chance there is no “staying friends.”

It seems that everyone ends a relationship by remaining friends. In my experience, it never works, and the more serious the relationship was, the more difficult t is to transition into any other type of relationship, including  friendship. My rational mind knows this. It’s that damn emotional mind that hasn’t seemed to learn the lesson. I know it won’t work. I know no one can actually do it. I still hope that this time we can stay friends. The problem is, I can stay friends with exes, but that’s only because I have learned to be very comfortable with blurred boundaries (the fuzzier the better!). Most other people? Not so much. Hence, I always find myself trying to be friends. Trying to be inclusive. Trying to maintain connections. Trying not to act like it doesn’t hurt when the other person pulls away entirely because they can’t handle the relationship transition.

I feel very alone.

Have you ever met one of those people who seems to know exactly what they want at all times and in all situations? You may even BE one of those people. If you are, answer me – and the rest of the mis-guided, clambering world – how do you do it? Let me be more clear (pun not intended). How is it that you quickly and decisively sort through all of the options, possible consequences, your own feelings and emotions, etc. thoroughly enough to make a guided and direct decision in a matter of minutes?

I don’t have the answer to that question, and answering that question is not really the purpose of this blog. Hell, I have spent the last twenty years of my life trying to figure out “what I want to be when I grow up” and have yet to come up with an answer, let alone a clear one. But I’m not just talking about the big, life-long, burning questions – you know the ones: ” do you want to be when you grow up?” “Do you want to have children?” “What would you say your life goals are?” – I’m talking about every day questions that sometimes plague us, or maybe it’s just me. I can come up with at least seventeen reasons why making chicken for dinner could be detrimental. Or twenty as to why that same chicken could lead to happiness all around. For some reason, at this point in my life, I find myself plagued by the options – from whether or not to get married to what to have for dinner.

I am equally terrified that a) I will run out of time if I don’t make a decision eventually; b) I will make the wrong decision and regret it for the rest of my life (or the rest of the day, in some cases); and c) Making a decision will inevitably run me out of options until I eventually find myself cornered and unhappy, wishing I once again had options.  You can see why this is a problem. I makes me hesitant to move forward – even on things I’m sure that I want. I makes it difficult to be decisive, rendering me generally ineffective and making people assume I am wishy-washy or laid back (two things I really am not). Worst of all, it leaves me in a position of constantly reacting to the decisions that other people are able to make.

I must admit that I do find myself jealous of the people who seem to have it all together – the ones that know what they want all the time. On the same hand, I can’t help but think that this somewhat irrational fear that I have developed has at least partially come from watching the many (so many) of “those” people in my life make their unquestionable decisions and very tragically come to regret them. Or maybe it stems from a fear of failing. From watching those around me fail and being told that I had to be different. Or maybe it comes from a subconscious fear of events that occurred the times in my life when I was decisive and unafraid. Maybe it is all of these things.

I am not sure how to battle this ailment. I am not sure how to go about facing this fear. I do know that I cannot continue to watch my life happen and simply live in a constant response to it. I need to begin to move forward in a very deliberate manner, and yet for as much as I know that as truth, it seems equally as unattainable.

Every girl has a “type” –  when most of us look back on our relationships we notice something strange. It can be just a little unnerving, slightly unsettling, but not in an alarming way. Its as simple as this: we date the same guy. Over and over. No, I’m not generalizing the entire world of dating women, but we all know it’s true. Ask yourself: what’s your type?

I most defnitely have a type. It’s not even a question. For me, there are no general similarities among the people that I have dated. Oh, no. I have dated the same exact person. Literally. For instance – Every significant relationship I have been in has revolved around cars – at least partially. All the guys have been mechanics. All the women have been self proclaimed automobile gurus. Many a first date has been spent leaning under the hood of a car admiring a recetly rebuilt engine, smiling and nodding at the “great deal” so and so got on “this beauty”, and yes, even test driving cars on lots. Sure, I like cars. But not nearly as much as all of these people probably thought.

My next major requirement? Musicians. I can’t get enough of ’em. They’re like pedigree dogs – the more instruments, the better, the bigger the obsession, the better. And writing me songs? Make me melt. Every single sig-o of mine has been a musician of sorts. There was the amateur guitar player, the drummer, the guitar player and drummer, the bass player, the singer, the singer and guitar player… the list goes on. There is something immediately attractive about someone who commands a musical instrument, performs with confidence, or opens their soul to the power of music. I love it when someone is overtaken by the emotion of their music and loses themself in the art.

Tonight I caught the ending of “Walk the Line” – the Johnny Cash movie – on television. It reminded me how much I love musicians. When I imagine myself in the perfect relationship, I imagine it sort of like this – passionate and-music filled. I could do with a little less of the cheating, dysfunction, and drugs, but still, similar. I want to lose track of time writing and playing music. I want to spend rainy afternoons making home recordings and learning to play the piano together. I want trips to the recording studio for anniversaries. Mostly, I want someone who values music as much as I do, doesn’t mind becoming lost in the art of creating, and who can see that the the act of joint creation is more important than the product, more important than any differences in taste or opinion. I want a love like Johnny and June.

When I was in high school I dreamed of living anywhere except for the place I was living – a.k.a. with my parents. Like most teenagers, there were many a night that I locked myself in my bedroom (well, for me, I shut my door really hard but not hard enough to give my parents even a whiff of disrespect and didn’t lock it because they kept keys to our bedroom doors should any of us ever mistakenly think that having a lock on the bedroom door meant any thing as nonsenical as independence) and dreamed of living some place else. Swore I would live some place else. Any place else. I would show them, they would miss me then, blah, blah, blah… It was the safe way of pondering suicide – all the guilt and regret you could ever want with not so much death.

I moved out not long after I turned 18. In my desperation I moved in with my therapist and the roomies – and quickly became the girlfriend. Yes, to my therapist. (Messy. I know.)  It ended up not being the brightest move on my part – neither on the home front nor the relationship front. (Shocker. I know.) But I stayed anyway and for way too long. Looking back, I often wonder what made me stay in such a messy environment that was clearly a bad decision just so I wouldn’t have to live with my parents. Sure, it’s a normal “coming of age” thing. Sure, all teenagers want to be independent. Sure, lving with our parents is supposed to be slightly unbearable in some way at some point. But, is the drive for indpendence so, well, driving, that we are willing to put ourselves in less-than-ideal situations just to get it? I know I did, and unfortunately, I think more times than not that ends up being the case. We’re all hard wired with a natural tendency to leave our parents, and I believe that there is a time when that move becomes both inevitable and perilously ignored (you know you know at least one. Come one. The adult-child? … yeah ya do).

I have since moved to the city of brotherly love in better circumstances. I haven’t always made the best decisions while living there, and I certainly haven’t always lived in the nicest neighborhoods, on the nicest blocks, or even in places where my family would visit by their own free will, but I have lived. Even with an apartment in the ‘hood with no heat (literally. I wore a coat inside my apartment for months), smashed in car windows, crazy landlords, good (and bad) roomates, failed dinner parties, disapproving looks from everyone who ever visited, weird houses, bad neighbors, and the rest under my belt, I have no regrets. I have more experiences now than most people gain in a lifetime. I have learned to make better decisions and I continue to learn to improve my quality of life. There is a valuable lesson in everything, and if you truly view every situation through tht lens, you will find yourself in a place where there are no wasted experiences. Despite all the “bad” things that I have done, lived through, and lived in and despite all the people that disapproved, looked down their noses, and had all kinds of things to say, I still have all the amazing people I have met, the amazing places I have been and things I have seen. I still have all the amazing lessons I have learned. (and how many other people know the best ways to keep warm in a below freezing loft apartment when you can’t leave because the gunshots sound like they might be too close to go outside?)

Philadelphia has become my home. It is the place I am most comfortable. It is the place I choose to be when I have the choice. I have come to love the city in a way that is both real and profound. It’s not hard to beat a little house with your therapist her roomates, but I must say, Philly rocks. bff ❤ Philadelphia.