In bed the other morning, we're laying there talking or arguing, whatever you want to call it, about the same old issues that never go away. Because they don't. And the thing that's worth bringing up here has nothing to do with the issues. At this point, they're all just blah, blah, blah.

What's different is how we start talking and keep going and no one walks away before we're done. That was how we used to do it. Walk away. Hold it in. Spit little sharp nails of spite at each other, that passive-aggressive bullshit. But never talk about what we weren't talking about.

When I have to tell the truth, Sam and I still have a lot to learn about the finer points of using our words. But give some credit for trying. Now what I recognize when we fight is it's the words not the ideas we're reacting to, the words and their delivery make it more argument than discussion.

I can stop the whole thing and talk to Sam about not knowing how to talk about it. And I do; it's a new thing I've been doing. When I say I don't know how to talk about whatever it is, suddenly the idea becomes the focus, and we're trying to figure out what that idea is and what we each believe about it.

We still have the same problems, they're the kind you can't talk away, and at the end of three hours taking them apart, we weren't any closer to resolving them, but I left the conversation satisfied. It's a huge improvement.

Any progress is good progress.

You don't KNOW if you don't TRY. So I'm applying myself to my marriage to see if it might work. And things are shifting.

Then at our last counseling session Rob spilled to our therapist that I had complained our work with her had been overly focused on him. I had told him that in confidence! I was horrified when — apparently unaware this would be a problem — he let on. I was left sitting there sheepishly, making excuses as to why I said what I said ("It was in jest!"), trying to convince her I had no problems with how things were going.

Anyway, I didn't mind the neglect. Rob is paying for these sessions; I guess the unbalanced attention allowed me to feel okay about not contributing to the fee. So as the therapist spent our time week after week asking Rob about his relationship to drinking and encouraging him to work on communication and connection, I didn't argue. It's not like I wouldn't benefit immensely from his improvements in those areas, so I watched patiently and hoped the work would stick.

And I assumed she felt it important for me to witness his determination and growth. Why else would she kinda ignore me for him all those times?

Whatever we're doing there, it seems to be working. I've felt more kindly and warm toward Rob. We're both more quiet and calm — with each other and others. I mean, I didn't even blow when he told our therapist about my complaints. It felt like a betrayal for him to embarrass me like that, but whatever. Perhaps I've finally learned not to sweat the small stuff.  

Isn't social networking great? Not only can I hop on the FWW Network and chat with women who are in a similar situation, but I have also reconnected with a bunch of people through other networking web sites whom I thought I would never speak to again. 

It's a little weird how ex-boyfriends and lukewarm friends from the past suddenly request to become "friends" on sites like Facebook. I had one friend look me up recently; things did not end well with her 10 years ago. She ended our friendship with a diatribe about how selfish I was and lo and behold now she's sending me messages saying she's so happy to find me, we really need to catch up, yadda, yadda, yadda.

My best friend from my early twenties found me online the other day. We were inseparable back when we were young and single, but job assignments took us to opposite ends of the globe and we eventually lost touch. Last night we chatted a bit and it's funny how similar our paths have been: We both got married, quit working, had kids, and became disenchanted with our marriages.

Here is where the differences become incredibly clear. She makes a swift decision to divorce her husband, gets offered a fantastic high six-figure job in an exotic country, travels the world with her child in tow and now spends her days writing a novel. By the way, she looks fantastic, like she hasn't aged a day.

Then there's me. I languish over whether to divorce my husband or not. I know that a divorce would mean a huge dip in income, and I would probably wind up in a tiny apartment with huge financial difficulties. I've gained a bunch of weight from the stress of the relationship problems, and no, I don't look as though I haven't aged a day. I look like I've aged about a billion days.

Re-reading my last post about not taking Rob to the end-of-yoga-teacher-training party, it worried me how desperately I wanted to avoid involving Rob in the new step I'm taking in my life. I wanted to avoid introducing him to my new friends. Is this telling? Does it mean that though I won't admit it to myself, what I really want is to have an altogether separate life from him?

Part of me wanted to bring him that night. After all, he's been incredibly helpful to me as I've been in the program — he gave me rides to the studio, made me dinners after a long days of training, and generally took care of things at home when I was swamped with homework. If I'm not sure my heart's in our relationship, am I taking advantage by accepting such support?

But there was that moment, in the midst of mingling at the party when I missed Rob. I met a fascinating filmmaker he would have had a great chat with. I thought of how much he would have loved to have been there, and maybe I even wished he was.

That's the thing about being married. There are moments when you are together but you long for independent experience. Then there are the moments when you are apart and you see something that you would have connected around, and you miss your mate. But life doesn't give you what you want when you want it. Maybe this isn't a case of "still haven't found what I'm looking for," and more a case of "still can't manage to grow up and settle in." 

My in-laws come for Christmas next week. It's not my holiday, Christmas, and I despise the excess of it, but I'm a sucker for tradition. Also, the tree smells nice.

It matters to me that my girls keep the customs of their grandmothers and their grandmothers and their grandmothers before. That they remain linked, and that they understand all the cultures that made them.

I can share only half, the Jewish rituals passed down through my people. So, I'll make potato latkes and spin the dreidel with them, light the menorah each night and teach them the blessings.

But I'm grateful Sam's parents can visit with their red velvet cake and, hopefully, stories waking up Christmas morning when they were kids. Pass down what I can't.

I bitch about Sam's parents, resent the "stuff" passed on to him and so to me, because it happens this way: what you do not deal with, the problems you don't stand down, they don't disappear, they are passed to the next generation.

Merry Christmas.

There's a present for you. No, for real.

I'm looking at it as a gift this year, an opportunity to better understand why Sam is who he is. To understand why I chose him as my partner, and after leaving him, why I made the same choice again.

Some people say we marry our parents; another perspective is we partner with people who present a chance to work where we need it most. We seek, not only what we know, but what we know will force us to grow.

And we go back until the lesson is learned.

What I've learned: I'm not going to change Sam's family. No matter what I do, no matter what truth I try to shock them with, they will never get real. They will always avoid the uncomfortable and when the small talk plays out, 99 times out of 100 they'll choose silence over depth.

Tomorrow night we start marital counseling again. We finally settled on a schedule where our pastor comes over to our house in the evening after our kids are in bed. Now that's an accommodating pastor.

My husband isn't happy about the counseling. I guess I can't blame him. I do such a good of putting my emotions into a little box and ignoring them that as far as he knows it's business as usual until someone actually asks me what I'm feeling and won't take "I'm fine, thanks" as a realistic answer. 

In other words, even though I'm not as affectionate with my husband as I once was, it's pretty easy to live with me. I take care of stuff around the house and bring in an income, so if he wants to ignore the fact that we're having problems then it's probably pretty darn easy.

It's in counseling sessions that I start crying and carrying on about how desperate I feel in the marriage. With someone there to mediate our conversation, I feel more comfortable saying how I feel because I know it's not going to turn into the usual frustration fest that serious conversations become when my husband and I try to do this on our own...or, at least, when I approach him about something that has been bothering me and it morphs into me apologizing for being bothered by something.

Yes, tomorrow night should be interesting. We haven't been in marital counseling for months, and after my last debacle with the therapist who apparently had the hots for me, I'm a little reluctant to trust the process. As usual, though, I'm still willing to try again to see if the relationship can be salvaged.

I'm bracing myself. It should be interesting.   

Not only have I neglected to put the Leary theory into effect, but I've acted quite the opposite of a married woman who has taken separation off the table.

Tonight one of my fellow yoga teachers-in-training is hosting a dinner party for our group and our significant others to recognize our hard work and transformation — like a pre-graduation party. It's a chance enjoy each other's company before the stress of the final exam and practicum after which (if we pass) we'll leave the group and go into the world as registered yoga teachers.

And I never even told Rob about it.

This morning he woke up with a terrible cold, and I had an out. "Aw," I said, "I forgot to mention this get-together tonight, and now you won't be able to come." 

It's not that I'm embarrassed of him or want to keep him out of some part of my life. I just don't want to babysit. I want mingle and enjoy myself.  

When you have a child on your hip, it's harder to make real connections with people. Instead, you're busy interpreting for the child, cajoling him, attending to him. This is what I have to do with Rob. He just blanks out otherwise; he turns into the most uninteresting, white-bread guy you ever met. He says nothing at all, which I find stiflingly uninspiring.

Perhaps it not very yogi-like of me to say — maybe, in fact, I sound like a complete bitch — but I'd rather go alone than have him by my side tonight. 

In honor or of Earnest Hemmingway and my virtual sinkhole de jour, today I'm attempting to write the story of my marriage, separation, and reunion in six words.

Marriage. Separation. Reunion. That's half my word count right there.

I'm no Hemmingway, and even though you can find some fantastic sentences by googling "six word stories," neither are any of the other writers attempting to do what he did. As the story goes, Hemmingway was challenged to craft a complete work from six words, and came up with his favorite: "For Sale: Baby shoes. Never worn."

Thought it was the best thing he ever wrote.

Tough to top that.

Margaret Atwood did nicely with: "Longed for him. Got him. Shit." I mean, who can't relate? There's a story in there for sure, but not a gut puncher like Hemmingway's.

I love Joyce Carol Oates' "Revenge is living well without you," but it sounds more like a motto than a story.

Same with Arianna Huffington's "Fearlessness is the mother of reinvention."

So, yeah, I don't have delusions topping those women, but I can still have some fun with the challenge.

Here goes: Got married. Got undone. Do Over. Nah, sounds like a cryptic telegram.

Or: Dog bit kid. Marriage severed. Re-enter.

How about: Thought I knew what I didn't.

Ah, well. I gave it my best.

There are my tries, now you. 

It takes a lot to come to grips with the idea that a relationship has ended. It took a lot for me to realize that my marriage was over, but I remember coming to peace with the decision. It was painful, but I had resolution in my heart that I was making the right decision.

So what happens when the relationship doesn't actually end after this decision has been made?

I let my husband go in my heart. I came to grips with the fact that it was over. The marriage had ended. The relationship was a failure. Everything was going to get really messy.   

Then I didn't leave. We decided to keep trying for the sake of our kids and for the love we once had. I quickly found that the decision to try to stay in the relationship didn't instantaneously become a magical decision that made everything better. At first I was really frustrated that I couldn't suddenly be a full-fledged partner within the marriage. I felt disconnected, and on top of that, I felt really guilty that I didn't feel connected.

After much thought it occurred to me that it had taken me a long, long time to decide that the marriage was over. I guess in light of this, it makes sense that it would take me a long time to adopt another stance. That doesn't make it any less frustrating, though, and to tell you the truth I don't know if I'll ever feel like I'm 100% in this marriage. I'm on a plateau. I can't decide what is worse: making the decision to end a relationship or just kind of hanging out to wait and see what happens. 

At least back then I felt a little empowered for having made a decision. Even though I'm glad that I'm sticking around for the sake of our kids, I'm disappointed that I didn't trust myself enough to stick with the decision I made after a too much laborious anguish.