I told my boyfriend from the start, “you have to be patient with me, I’ve never done this before.” I was 26 when we met, so obviously I had dated before. I’d had a handful of boyfriends, one of whom I was with for 6 years. Being in a relationship was nothing new to me; it was being in a good, healthy relationship that I’d never really done before and struggled with at the beginning. At first I thought that made me unique in a sad sort of way, like some kind of bad relationship refugee. I thought to myself, how many other people in their mid-20s believe that up until now, they simply haven’t been treated very well? And what does it say about me that I lived like that for so long, and what part did I play in those dynamics? So I thought my situation was uncommon, and regarded myself as someone with an above-average amount of learning to do about how to be in an adult relationship, how to treat my partner, and how to treat myself.

Eventually I realized that everyone’s situation and relationship past is unique. Everyone has had their trials and tribulations and I challenge you to find me one person who thinks the path that led them to the one they ultimately chose to spend their life with was a gilded one.  I wasn’t a special case by any means; we’re all a little fucked up, and comparatively speaking, I really haven’t had it that bad. Neglect and craziness are a picnic compared to what some people go through, and I had the option to leave at any time, even if it took me years to learn how to exercise that option with any sort of permanence.

So now here I am, immensely grateful for the situation I landed in, the person I landed in it with, and for the sanity to do my part in maintaining it. It’s a lifelong lesson though, and in the back of my mind as I continue to learn about life and myself in general, I’m constantly thinking about how he and I are enmeshed. To what extent. With what frequency. Where do you draw the line? Where does “me” end and “we” begin? Obviously there are no right or wrong answers that are universally applicable, but I strongly believe that there’s a right path for every individual, and when the path that’s right for the individual is also right for the partner, and for the relationship between those two individuals … well, that’s when you’ve really lucked out.

Generally speaking, the notion of “two people becoming one,” as a result of marriage – the idea that you each cease to exist individually, and are instead absorbed into a new living entity that is your relationship like some kind of fucked up osmosis – truly offends me to my very core. In fact, it makes me angry. But I’ll let it go for now.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some insanely independent, cool-as-a-cucumber girlfriend, not by any stretch of the imagination. During our first year together, much to his dismay, I obsessively pointed out all eleven of our “monthaversaries” until we hit the one year mark, at which point I magically stopped caring. I have no explanation for that, but it’s better this way, believe me. To make matters worse, I’m affectionate to the point of clinginess (fortunately I benefit from a pretty high degree of reciprocity), and I experience my fair share of separation anxiety, and associated self-guilt (“grow a pair, woman!”).

But my point is this: my goal is to have a kick ass relationship, and I’m willing to work at it. And as time goes on, I continually refine my philosophy about what makes a good relationship and what makes things work. Recently, I’ve settled on the notion that to be truly happy, you shouldn’t need to be with someone; you should choose to be with them. If you can’t be happy without them, then you’ll never be happy with them, and everyone will be miserable. You need to be able to survive apart, either temporarily or permanently. I understand that this is in direct conflict with the stories we hear about a person losing their partner and remaining in mourning for the rest of their lives, their hearts and genitals holding vigil to the lost love for eternity. Yes, it’s romantic, but I think I’m willing to let it go. Maybe.

Another fact about me: I’m a neurotic worry-wart and massive control freak. My lovely boyfriend with his buddhist-leaning tendencies is constantly and gently reminding me to live in the now. Be present. A year ago, my general response to this urging involved my middle finger – literally and/or figuratively – and a dogged continuation of my obsessive planning and fretting. But I’m starting to wonder if attempts at mapping out and planning the future is less advantageous than simply working on making the daily bond so strong, so solid and so enjoyable that we can endure whatever does come our way, even if it’s not what we’d hoped for.

This is all particularly timely right now, as he is in the middle of an 11-day meditation retreat during which we’re having exactly zero contact (it isn’t just me, by the way – he’s not allowed to talk to anyone). And while I think there some amazing lessons to be learned in this vein regarding mindfulness, detachment and going with the flow (technical term), I’m not 100% convinced that overcoming attachment is the key to happiness; in fact, I believe that personal relationships and the attachments that come along with them are crucial to happiness, and I’m not alone. But I know myself well enough to know that the inability to even exchange quick little text messages for a longish period of time stood a good chance of stressing me out. And I started wondering why that was. Was it going to be a simple matter of “I miss you,” or something deeper? Something with roots I can trace back to relationships in my past? Something more about me, and less about him or us?

Was this an opportunity to do more than binge on wine and pasta for a week and a half? Perhaps some introspective self-work?

Yes.

(But I’m still consuming a ridiculous amount of wine and pasta.)