Rob's and my couple's therapist suggested the choice I face isn't between our current relationships on the one hand, and separate futures on the other, but between a new relationship together on the one hand, and separate futures on the other.

Oh, right. I don't have to settle for our relationship status quo; if I choose to stay, it should be for a better, healthier relationship. While this is not earth shattering, it felt new, and gave me pause. I guess I had been in a rut thinking the relationship was unchangeable and therefore doomed. Not so?

After this suggestion, I spent a good day thinking, nah — there's no way Rob can change. And the trauma between us is irrevocable and can't be healed.

But then I thought of all the good changes Rob has already made and decided he would be capable of it. That lasted through a second day. But something still irked me. Even if change for the better were possible between us, I still had misgivings. What were they?

They were my dreams. My dreams of independence, the freedom of living on my own terms — without the guilt and the fighting and the worry — and the pride that would come of humble self-sufficiency.

These dreams of mine are set in the near future; I imagine enjoying this independence while I can still pass for the kind of young that gets away with putting up visitors on a futon rather than in a well-appointed guest room, that travels from hostel to hostel and is not decades older than the other guests.

This is it — I feel I'm in a race against time. Sure, independence at any age will be wonderful, but my particular dreams I want to live out, well, now.

This reminds me of Harry Burns's loving tirade at the end of When Harry Met Sally: "When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible."

On Thursday afternoons I go to a writing workshop in the basement of a local novelist's home. You've maybe read some books workshopped and developed in that basement, or seen the movies.

"Dangerous Writing," it's called. Dangerous because it's about going deep into places that scare you, the vulnerable places, and writing from them.

The sore spots, my teacher calls them. It's fiction writing, mostly. Characters created to explore places too hard to go alone.

He's the real deal. Along with a Pulitzer-nomination and his seemingly bottomless stores of compassion, he has a gift for intuitively guiding writers into the heart of their own hauntings.

We are all of us haunted, he says.

And he lives it. His books are brilliant and beautiful, but they aren't easy.

A couple weeks ago he was talking about how, for a long time, his boyfriends were just anyone who loved him.

I wonder how many of us do this. First fall in love with the love itself, regardless of who is loving us. Then stick around long after we should just in case there's no one else. Trade fear for love.

Because what if this is as good as it gets.

Or what if, in leaving, we are forced to see ourselves. The good, the bad, the hauntings, all of it. See who is living in our skin.

There's no hiding from yourself on the page and there's no hiding from yourself in divorce. It strips you down, exposes every place you never wanted to see.

It's dangerous business, being human.

The reward for seeing, for living circumstances that weren't supposed to be, is, hopefully, we put ourselves back together stronger and healthier.

More human and more loving.

I'm beginning to realize that this state of limbo just isn't going to work.

A while back I decided to just disregard the feelings I had about leaving, and to push it all aside and just go on like everything is fine. You know what? Everything isn't fine. It hasn't been fine for a long time, and it's not something that I can just decide to switch on and off.

The fact remains that something has to be done. A decision has to be made soon.

How did I figure this out? I was sitting on the couch, working on my laptop while my husband was watching TV. There was one of the Lord of the Rings movies on — I'm sure don't know which one it was because that's not really my cup of tea — and I glanced up just in time to see a scene where one of the guys returns home to his kids who leap into his arms and his wife who smiles, embraces him, and gives him a loving kiss.

It hit me like a ton of bricks: Married couples should be happy. I should want to kiss my husband when he comes home. I should smile when I see him walking toward me. I'm not saying that everything should be sunshine and roses 100% of the time, but how much longer can I wander around in the fog of "marital issues?"

When I saw that scene on the TV and had that reaction, I almost stood up and announced that I was packing my bags.

I'm trying to be practical about all this. I'm trying to give this situation as much effort as I can. I'm going to therapy. I'm trying to be a good wife. For goodness sake, we just booked a vacation for this summer!

I'm doing everything I can think of, and I have been doing it for months. I'm exhausted, and I'm starting to freak out a little.

Funny thing happens when you leave your bubble — you meet people.

Technically, I didn't even leave my bubble. I was sitting on a concrete slab on campus when a gentleman approached me. He was tall, well spoken, and confident, and politely introduced himself to my friend and me, as well as apologized for interrupting our conversation.

What I like most was the fact that he wasn't NYC-coiffed — you know, too well groomed as to reflect a bit of self-centeredness. That kind of primping always turns me off.

During our brief conversation, I learned that he is in the process of completing his MFA, which also leant itself to his disheveled appearance. I can appreciate that, as there are days where there is room to doubt — based on my appearance — that I am a member of a civilized species.

Long story short, I gave him a card with my number and email address. I figured what the hell, he represented himself so well that I would be a fool not to at least check things out.

I suppose now that things are beginning to wind down, that I may be slightly more relaxed than I have been in months past, which in turn makes it easier for people to approach me.

While I am not completely in the clear — I still have finals to get through, a job to find and I still have to move, it may be time to start branching out.

Soul searching and self-knowledge are good things, right? But if you can't get too much of a good thing, why am I tired of the pursuit of my true feelings, ready to give up on couple's therapy?

I'm going crazy from broken-record thinking, and pretty sure my best confidants are ready to flee at my next mention of these problems. I need answers. A divorce article I recently read pointed out that while contemplating separation over an extended period of time, you put yourself in a state of prolonged heightened awareness.

Heightened awareness. Helpful, right? It went further: indecision is an opportunity to contemplate every side of the issue. Great! But then it switched gears: at this time one does not think clearly or logically, and might not employ sound judgment. Beware of your thoughts. So which is it?

Well, of course it's both. I'm aware. And this awareness feels heightened — if, by "heightened" one means ever-present, obsessive, and anxiety-provoking. What am I aware about? That I'm not able to make a clear judgment about my situation. Circles again. All in all, I'd kind of like a break from thinking at all.

Since the divorce (two and a half years ago) and in the last year, I have discovered something quite wonderful. It is that each and everything that we do is important. So, consequently, I am no longer in a rush. Seems I spent 12 years rushing, rushing, rushing to please, to prepare, to arrive on time, to make sure "they" were on time, to get things done. And it nearly killed me.

Today, I take pleasure in the smallest of things. I simply look at the job at hand and begin. I cut linings for my friend's drawers today. I did not over think it. I did not look at all the drawers and think, "Oh, my God, there are so many of them."

She gave me the assignment, and I poured myself into it. I sat in the sun at my "work" station, which was a bench on her deck. I sat on a cooler with wheels, and I had a razor blade and a block of wood, an ink pen and a tape measure to complete my work.

I sat and drank a Smirnoff lemonade thing and began the task at hand. I did not care if there were rolls and rolls of this shelf liner that needed to be measured and cut and that the dimensions had to be 19 ¼ for some and 8 ¾ for others. I spread the material and measured and marked and cut using a quarter round to hold down the liner. I ran my blade as close to the quarter round as I could, paying attention to the fact that I wanted the edges to be smooth and not ragged.

I accomplished my task.

When the kids spill Pepsi or milk. When my dog gets sick and throws upon my floor or when the kitchen pipe under the sink leaks and I have to stop my current task or effort to relax and must stoop, bend, twist, unscrew, wipe, I do it willingly and almost happily.

I am a grateful Samurai, today. A soldier with Krud Kutter and Lysol as my weapons.

I always wanted a ring. It didn't have to be fancy. It didn't have to have diamonds or cost a fortune. I just wanted the symbolic gift of something I could hold in my hand.

I did get a ring, once. My first ex proposed with a ring he'd bought on my credit card. Since I paid for the thing, I kept it, even after we split up. It'll make a nice memento for my daughter one day.

But I never got a ring from my second ex. I'd asked, too. Nothing. I wonder why that is. Did he fear the commitment a ring symbolized? Did a ring carry less meaning and thus was often forgotten?

I gave my ex a ring for his birthday last year. I'm not sure why I did; it clearly meant more to me than to him, but they say that the best gifts are those that come from the heart. It was a silver worry ring with an endless braid running around it.

He seemed to enjoy it. He wore it that weekend at a fishing trip, making sure to place his hand in the light to attempt drawing attention. When people didn't really notice, he made sure they did and proudly (and charmingly shyly) mentioned I'd given it to him.

But he didn't wear the ring all the time. His job involves a lot of dirt, and he'd take the ring off to keep it both clean and safe so that he didn't accidentally lose it.

Murphy's law. Sure enough...

"I can't find the ring you gave me," he mentioned this weekend. He'd looked everywhere. He didn't look frantic as he shared the news, though, just a little puzzled.

I have to admit that I was hurt. I guess that ring meant more to me than I realized. I did want to be married one day. I did want someone to commit to me forever. I did want someone to care about me that much that the person would take the steps to be a solid couple.

I wanted the Cinderella story. What I got was everyday real life. Oh well.

"It'll turn up somewhere," I said.

I remember the exact moment I realized that things might not work out with my husband.

We had been married a couple of years. His job had moved us away from our family and friends, but we were back in town for his friend's wedding. The trip corresponded with my birthday and I was excited to celebrate it with all our old pals.

My husband and I had an agreement that he would get to spend a bunch of time with his friends and I would spend a bunch of time with mine. His friends preferred video games and drinking beer while my friends liked going out dancing and enjoying the nightlife. It's not that our friends didn't intermingle, but it was definitely a situation where the guys hung out with the guys, and the girls hung out with the girls.

The morning of my birthday my husband took off with his friends. He was gone all day long. I didn't have anyone to spend time with during the day because all my friends were at work so when I asked him to carve some time out of his day for me, he got really defensive.

"You said I could hang out with my friends as much as I wanted!" he argued.

Yes, I had encouraged him to spend time with his friends during the vacation, but I guess I figured that maybe my birthday might be cause for some time together. I didn't even care if he had invited me along with whatever they were all doing that day. I just didn't want to sit alone on my birthday.

Silly me.

Late that night he came back to the hotel with his friends and a cake from a grocery store bakery. They all stood around me and sang "Happy Birthday" in a way that tipped me off that all these guys knew I was mad at my husband, and they all thought I was a typical hysterical female. Have you ever heard "Happy Birthday" sung by five very unenthusiastic men who wanted to be somewhere else? It's not pretty.

Money, the image that money brings, meant a lot to Jake. I couldn't get a bookshelf or a pair of shoes without checking in first - I would have gotten a look, a comment, a day of silence. A plane ticket to see a friend for the weekend, that was out of the question. We didn't have the money to spend it recklessly.

The thing was, we did have the money. And when Jake wanted something, he would get it. He was an impulse furniture buyer. He bought a $300 humidor on whim.

He thought that, because he made more than I did, financial decisions should be his. He was uncomfortable with feeling this way, he tried to pretend he didn't, but he did.

I have mixed feelings about money. If there's not a cushion in my bank account, I get nervous. My cat might need surgery again. My car might fall apart. I want to be prepared. And, for the most part, I don't spend a lot. I don't like shopping. I don't have expensive taste in anything.

But I want to see my friends, and I'm willing to throw down for a plane ticket to do so. If I have the freedom and ability to travel, I want to do so — I might not be able to later. If that means carrying some debt around for a couple of months, so be it. I don't want to be irresponsible, but I also don't want to give everything up. So I try to balance.

I definitely have less money now that I'm divorcing. I have to watch things, especially since I have to guard against the day my settlement payments stop. But I love that I can take a class if I want to and not have to justify it to anyone. I can go on vacation. I can get a bookshelf.

I used to wonder about couples that had been together for years but still kept separate bank accounts. Now, I see the appeal. I don't know how willing I'd be to get back into shared finances. This way, I know exactly where everything is, and my choices about what to do with what I have are mine alone.

The other night I lay in bed with Sam at his place. The bed that used to be my bed, my favorite piece of furniture. The nightstand that used to be my night stand. The husband that used to be my husband.

And none of it felt like mine anymore. Laying there, body next to body, I was thinking: This man is my husband. And the words surprised me.

I don't feel married. Haven't worn a ring since before I left.

This man is my husband. I don't know what that means anymore.

There's no judgment, no longing. Just the thought. This man is my husband?

It's close to two years we've been apart together. I haven't dated anyone else. Haven't kissed anyone else. Haven't had sex with anyone else. In 15 years there hasn't been anyone else.

When I write these posts, I always feel like they should to go somewhere deep. Land on some wise thing.

I don't have that. No clarity to offer.

I'm just keeping with these words, meditating on the thought: This man is my husband.

This man is my husband.

If I repeat them enough, they'll lead me to the truth.