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.  

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." 

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.  

Sick day equals time for TV. I guess I'd forgotten that daytime television really is crap. But I just saw something rather compelling. On The Bonnie Hunt Show, Denis Leary claimed the key to the success of his marriage is that he and his wife agreed to never divorce. My first thought was "That's brilliant, Denis." But there could be something to it.

Apparently, Leary thinks the divorce rate is high simply because divorce is an option. If it weren't an option, you'd find ways to make your marriage work.

Tell that to the women stuck in abusive relationships. Hopefully, he'd give them special dispensation.

I kind of hated what he said. But I've learned strong reactions can come from fear of the truth. So why not investigate?

I change my mind so often about Rob and me it's embarrassing. What if we lived by the Denis Leary rule? Would we settle in to this marriage more easily and enjoy ourselves? If we stopped hedging about our long-term chances, could we get on with life? Get a dog? Buy a condo? Start a family?

Truth is, I can't imagine feeling sure about Rob and me. Perhaps certainty about anything is just not in my nature. Maybe I'm too analytical. Or is it inherent dissatisfaction? I'd hate to think I'm just a negative Nellie come what may, but who knows? 

Perhaps an experiment is in order: Take the idea of separation off the table for a few weeks and see what develops.

I spent yesterday afternoon trotting in and out of stores, picking up an item or two here and there, nothing major dontcha know, until I froze with a little lamp in my hands.

It is normal, of course, to shop at this time of year. It is probably also normal to shop for oneself during the holidays. But all the stuff I bought yesterday was for me, and it's not as though I need any more stuff.

I'm already working hard to find places to put the stuff I already own. So what was I doing?

I looked at the lamp. The price was right and it would fit nicely on my nightstand (right next to the one I already have, I suppose) and it was a cute little thing, decorated with palm trees. Reminded me of home, the one I just moved back from, that is.

So that's what I was doing.

I've mentioned the geographical cure, the belief that changing your place of residence can fix what ails you. Yesterday I faced its cousin, retail therapy. 

I thought I was holding up pretty well, chugging through my first holiday season as a divorcée, newly moved away from the place where I had spent the last 20 years. But if I was seriously thinking about buying a lamp I don't need because it has palm trees on it and doesn't cost very much — and I was — maybe I'm not quite as okay as I thought.

And buying a lamp, or anything else, certainly won't fix it.

I put the lamp down and walked away from it (with a backward glance). I remembered what AA teaches you to do when you don't feel so cheerful, which is to do something for somebody else. Stop thinking about yourself and your little problems.

So I spent some extra time with my elderly parents last night, trying to be especially attentive to them and remembering to be grateful that they're still around. The urge to shop has left me, at least temporarily.

And if it comes back, I'm sure I can find something else to do for my folks, or for someone else. It's that time of year.