It’s been six months since Ken and I separated. I haven’t written about it here because it’s been fragile in different ways and also because that story belongs in essays I spend months on, revising and reconsidering until I trust editors at respected publications to assess them on both substance and craft. Essays about my real human relationships are the loftier works, the stories that are also my vocation. Substack, for me, is for the reminders and musings—daily shit.
Our separation after 11 years was and wasn’t a surprise to many who know us. I have, after all, been transparently wondering if I believe in partnership for years. If I’m “supposed to be” single for life.
Six months into singlehood it takes restraint to not say, “100% yes, the answer is yes!” I know, we have no idea what the future holds, blah blah. But I do know there are three things I’ll unequivocally never attempt to “share equally” with another again.
Home. Where I live and sleep can’t be a space in which I’m expected to cede any amount of myself (except to my child).
Money. I will always have and maintain at least one account of my own money.
Sex. My body (and the fun things I do with it) will never be an implied or assumed aspect/asset of any future human relationship.
This list isn’t a reaction to Ken, or our relationship even, it’s a broader knowing. What it means to me, to not have to share these things, is the freedom to be generous. This has long been one of my complaints in partnership, that the baseline expectations cause most of us, over time, to operate more and more from a place of deficit, of not enough. I love giving, love sharing, it’s actually a huge part of who I am. But forced generosity is absurd. I’ll bet no one’s ever said, “You should want to give/share that” and gotten what they were after.
America has a weird relationship to individualism. Independence and freedom are supercharged words in this country, often get interpreted as violently anti-something and/or totally selfish. I’ll spare you a feminist rant (for today) about how successful patriarchy has been at denying women the right to a sense of self, but suffice to say it’s easy for most of us to get righteous pretty quickly on this issue.
I’m currently reading Mark Matousek’s Lessons From an American Stoic: How Emerson Can Change Your Life.* Since adolescence, “self-reliance” has resonated with me. Not overextending ourselves for others, not letting others take too much from us. Matousek is quick to clarify that “self-reliance has nothing to do with selfishness,” sums it up with a simple bullet list. A few of my favorites:
Life without self-knowledge is not worth living.
There is no me without you (interdependence is everything).
Obstacles can become opportunities.
Wonder and awe are the keys to the kingdom.
Yesterday I gave myself permission to “not be productive” and make a PERMISSION banner to hang over my door. It was productive, of course, just not like that. Permission is self-acceptance supercharged, indulgence even. For me it only feels indulgent to begin with, since there’s defiance in overriding my perceived sense of what’s “not allowed.” But slowly it softens into baseline listening. To myself. An acknowledgment of who I actually am. Acceptance of my limitations, sure, but also enthusiasm for what I am capable of.
I’m capable of a lot, have a lot to give. I regularly override this knowing with eye-rolling about ADHD and losing things and walking in circles. But my inefficiency with time no longer needs to impact anyone else (except, and only sometimes, my child). I give myself permission to walk in circles. To make things to hang above doors. To paint my nails and eat ice cream for dinner and record voice memos full of strikingly-clear thoughts I may or may not remember to make into essays. To not wash the dishes. Permission to listen to the same song on repeat all day. Permission to fill my days with long walks with people I like, long talks about all the deep things. Permission to call none of this “doing nothing.”
Optional Assignment:
Start your own Permission List. If you need a jumping off point, start with something about you that’s annoying (to you and/or others) but probably isn’t going away. Give yourself permission to be that way. Get more indulgent from there.
Please share! With me, with a friend, in the comments, whatever. This isn’t about technology “engagement,” this is about actual engagement. With your own damn self.
*Cicero, before you applaud me for reading a book, calm down. I’m on page 17.
I have been missing your posts. Appreciating your movement and awareness.
Love this, Serena. Interestingly, I separated (and divorced) my first husband after eleven years together. Talk about permission. I went to a shrink after that because I went around crying happy tears about silly things: butterflies flying in front of my face; sunsets burning the horizon; tripping over my own feet in a lush field; or when I tasted that first smooth sip of a good wine. I thought, “This can’t be normal. Shouldn’t I be upset? Maybe I should talk to someone.” No shit. But the body never lies. Just took a good damn while for me to hear her. I wish you so many tears of joy in this next chapter. No permission necessary. ❤️