This guy, Mike — you probably haven't met him. But you've heard of him; I've been going on about him for a while now. I'm sorry that there aren't more of him, that there aren't dozens and dozens, so I could dole him out everywhere he might be needed. Because, it turns out, Mike is pretty much perfect for a divorced girl. At least, this one.

He has never tried to move any faster than I am comfortable with.

He has never said anything negative about Jake, no matter what I've told him, no matter how I've felt, no matter how he might feel. He knows how to be supportive and understanding without being derogatory.

I've had hysterical breakdowns, panic attacks, periods of unexplained misery. He's happily (well, maybe not happily, but certainly willingly and patiently) weathered these, as little sense as they made to either of us at the time.

Most notably, most importantly:

He accepts that this marriage was part of my life, that it is now and will always be part of who I am. He never pretends it didn't happen. At the same time, he knows he doesn't have to feel threatened or compared. He doesn't mind that there was someone else important before him.

I don't know if he has any idea how much of a worry it was that, if I ever got into a relationship again, I would somehow have to ignore or negate or erase those years that were with someone else. But with him, if I'm still sad over this marriage sometimes, if I have a story that involves me as I was before — it's a non-issue. He's enough of a friend that all those parts are just a part of me, and I don't have to pretend they're not there.

So, I'm thanking him.

I wish everyone were as lucky as I am.

"I chose to be a workaholic to support my family. Then she chose not to be my family because I was a workaholic."

This was one of the postcards on PostSecret recently. The fact that I'm wondering if Jake sent it is unnerving. Don't I believe, haven't I always believed, that he was the one, really, that made this decision? That he was the one who didn't want me?

Jake and I don't really talk, and he's a little miffed that I won't be "friends" with him. In the middle of the summer, in the middle of the Cohabitation Experiment, in the middle of me trying to figure out why I was having such a hard time, I got an email from Jake saying that I should stop being mad at him. "It's not," he wrote, "like you were so great to be married to."

So, this made me think. All anyone knows is my side. All my friends with their righteous indignation, all those who excuse how difficult I make things, how panicky and skittish I am — it's not like any of them were there.

What if I am terrible to live with? What if I am ungrateful and unsupportive and demanding and all those things Jake used to say? What if I was, in the end, what made it fall apart?

What if any problems Mike and I had living together this summer were merely the real relationship-me manifesting itself?

As much as you tell yourself you're worth having, as much as your friends support you, as much as someone might love you — there's nothing scarier than wondering, secretly, if it wasn't really your fault after all, and if you'll just, eventually, end up ruining what you have now. 

Monday, September 29th was a big day. It marked one year since Mike and I started dating.

So you'll have to forgive me if this week is a little Mike-heavy — but this one-year point is somewhat startling, and really, really marvelous.

I would never have guessed, a year ago, that this is where I'd be. The curled-up-in-a-ball-on-my-couch stage of getting divorced was truly over. I loved living alone. I loved being single. I loved casual dating and nothing serious and doing everything on my own terms.

I liked this person I had turned out to be: She had fun. She didn't need anyone. She was free to do anything she wanted.

I had no interest in getting into a relationship. As soon as someone said the R-word, or mentioned their mothers, or planned ahead, I dropped them.

My Third Date Rule wasn't about sex — it was the last time I'd see someone.

Then this person showed up. He didn't want a relationship either. We rejoiced in our No Strings Mindsets. Then we realized that we liked each other a lot, and rejoiced that we lived so far away, since neither of us were in any place to date "for real." Then we realized we really, really liked each other a lot. And — well, you've pretty much been here for the rest.

I realize that we didn't call it a relationship until well after September, but seeing as both of us stopped dating other people, and both of us spent all our time being alternately delighted by and terrified of the unnamed something we were in from that point on, we may as well just count it from there.

So now, here we are. Long distance, yes. Terrifying, sometimes, still. But more happy-making and supportive and wonderful than I knew relationships could be. It astonishes me that this is where I am now.

And how nice to have an anniversary that marks the beginning, rather than the end.

Jake spent so much time out of the country, and for such long stretches of time, that my world, when married, was split in half: my life when he was home, and my life when he wasn't.

It was one of the things I least liked about our relationship. I didn't like that the pieces of my life didn't mesh, that we didn't share any friends, that he was so separate from the other things that were important to me. 

I worried that this dual existence couldn't possibly be sustained. And, of course, it couldn't.

Now I'm in a position where I'm trying to find that: I want my relationship life to be a part of the rest of my life, but, at the same time, I don't want to lose the life that's just me. How do I balance these things?

Living together this summer made finding balance difficult for the first time. Normally, when Mike and I see each other, we stay at each other's apartments — but it's for maybe a week at a time.

Suddenly, there was no looming deadline. And suddenly, I was confused. I wanted to see him. I wanted to see my friends. I wanted to see my friends on my own, but I also with him. I wanted to spend time alone, but didn't want to lose time with him.  I didn't know when and how to fit all these pieces together.

And because I didn't even realize this was what I was struggling with, it just meant that I was a pathetic sniveling mess a good deal of the time, without being able to offer an explanation.

Now I know, though. It's likely that I'll be moving to New York next year, and living together when I do is a bad idea, for now.

Yes, it's nice, when we're both busy, to have at least that 10 minutes in the morning, but having my own space is still too important to me to give up.  Figuring out how to merge these two lives a little at a time is something we both need.

This summer, Mike and I tried a Cohabitation Experiment: sharing an apartment for the month and a half I was in New York.

Said experiment was an epic failure.

Why was it a failure? Well, really, we just weren't ready for it.

But that's the easy answer. Plus, who didn't see that coming?

The girl: not-so-long split from a long term marriage, terrified of relationships in general, overly-analytical and prone to panic. 

The guy: has never lived with anyone before, equally skittish of a Relationship-with-a-Capital-R and all that might entail.

Obviously this was going to end badly. But just leaving it at that wouldn't give us much to discuss, would it? And who wouldn't rather pick apart all the little nuances?

Plus, in all seriousness, this "failure" was, in many ways, really good for this relationship — at least, from my end. In trying to figure out just why I had such a hard time, I think I'm in a much better position to move forward.

Having all your neuroses jump up and down on your head all at once does wonders for figuring out how to deal with them. At least, once you're done panicking.

You fall into a pattern, in a long distance thing. It's not real life, so much, when it's only a week, two weeks at a time. Real life is on hold. So when, suddenly, you're in the relationship and in real life, and sharing an unfamiliar space, and not on your regular schedule...well. Things get confusing.

But with some thought on this, with some distance — I'm less likely to make the same mistakes again.

Next Post: Specifically, balancing. 

This past summer will henceforth be known as "Cohabitation Experiment Summer." Yes. Just a few short months ago, Mike and I tried living together — in strictly controlled, scientific circumstances, of course.

The Initial Plan: I am used to spending the summers in New York. Since I am now dating someone who lives there, living in the NYU dorms no longer seems like a good plan. Mike, unfortunately, lives in an apartment the size of a shoebox. There is no possible way two people can spend an entire summer in a place this size and not tear each other's faces off.  We both like being alone too much. We both want the option of getting away.  We need a door to close.

We decide that he will sublet his shoebox, I will take the money I normally spend on the dorms, and, together, we will sublet a larger apartment for the summer.

This will be a living together experiment. We will see how we do when it's longer than a week or two. We are pretty sure we're not ready to live together For Real — at least, I am, but this will not be For Real. There is a time limit. It is temporary. It is safer. We will discover new and exciting things about our relationship.

Delightful Possibilities: The luxury of spending time together without anticipating its end in a few short days. Seeing what "real life" with each other is like. Waking up together every morning.

Scary Possibilities: That we won't get enough alone time. That I will somehow freak out and mess everything up.

All these things, as it turns out, came to pass.

Next post: Alice examines just why this experiment was such an epic failure.

As you may recall, this summer marked a relationship milestone: Going On Vacation Together.

I had planned to use this post, and perhaps the next two or three, to recap the trip and examine and analyze the various relationship stumbling blocks that occurred, but, as it turns out, there's nothing to write about. It was a lovely two weeks in which Mike and I did nothing but have a good time and not get tired of each other.

Instead, I will share some thoughts on packing.

Being the kind of girl who does not overpack, the kind of girl who does not bring five bags and expect her boyfriend to carry them while she traipses along in wholly unsuitable shoes is, I think, a good thing. Jake absolutely did not appreciate the joy and the wonder that is Alice's Impressive Packing Ability, and that was one of the many things wrong with our relationship.

Of course, packing in such a way involves somewhat obsessive planning. What Mike would think of this, especially when he saw the little outfit diagrams I make, I didn't know. So I sent him an email detailing what I was doing, thinking, "It's best he know this now, before he stumbles across the drawings and wants to know why I've labeled pictures of my T-shirts."

Did packing so impressively lead to what can only be described as the most marvelous vacation ever? Or was it because this particular relationship is everything I thought didn't really happen in real life?

I suspect the latter, myself.

Jake popped up on Facebook today. It startled me. A lot.

The Internet is not a place I expect to find Jake. He's not social in general, and doesn't do much with on the Web besides email. He's the last person I'd think would be a part of any kind of networking site. I certainly hope I don't run into him on any dating sites.

I only found him because I was idly flipping through profiles of people from my high school, just to see who was there. His name and picture popped up and my heart stopped, it was so unexpected. And so...strange. Like a violation. He was in a place I thought of as mine.

Someone I know recently un-friended me on Facebook. She just went through a messy, messy breakup with a guy I'm also Facebook-friends with and un-friended everyone who knows them both, saying it was just too hard to see his name and picture pop up on her screen all the time.

Another friend called me last week, crying, because her newly-ex-boyfriend had just un-friended her. Not that she hadn't expected it, but the reality of it was one more thing in the line of heartbreak.

The Internet is a strange thing. These sites are strange things — suddenly we have these visuals, these reminders, these ties. I get irritated enough when the people I didn't like in high school pop up on the "people you might know" list. I can't imagine being confronted with a lost love every day.

I am not pleased that Jake has stepped into my digital world. It's silly to feel possessive over something public, but I do. I can only hope that he remains as lackadaisical with the Internet as he has thus far. Because I'm certainly not going to be accepting any friend requests.

When what I believe to be the final divorce papers arrived for my signature this summer, I didn't feel exaltation.

I thought, when this happened, that it would be an occasion of skipping-and-hopping-delight — something like what it was like to finally get Jake's name off the bank account, only exponentially more so. Instead, I was kind of miserable.

Since I am in this new relationship — this relationship that's turning out to really mean something — I thought putting this final, legal closure on things would mean an extra little boost of freedom and happiness and celebration. Instead, it just felt like failure.

I know, in that logical part of myself, that I didn't fail, that it is not my fault, that this doesn't necessarily mean that I am incapable of making a relationship work, that this doesn't mean all relationships are inevitably doomed, but something about holding those papers in my hands sure makes it feel that way.

It's hard not to take this ending and feel that it might mean everything: That nothing will ever work out. That there is no such thing as real compatibility. That there is no such thing as forever. That I won't ever get more than a couple of years. That what I have now — this wonderful and perfect thing — will also drift into pieces until it becomes merely stilted conversation and paperwork.

I had thought, had hoped, signing these final papers would be liberating. That it would be exciting. That I would be joyful. But it's just sad, and I am just unhappy. 

Yesterday was the first day of school. It is my thirteenth, as a teacher. One would think first day would have become commonplace by now, but it still makes me fluttery and nervous and excited. It's still, after all this time, The First Day.

It's also an anniversary, of sorts: The first day of school is what finally made me ask for something to change in our marriage.

Jake used to take me out to dinner the night before the first day. As a teacher, this is one of my Big Days: The First Day, Graduation, Opening Night. Having someone at my side, recognizing their importance, meant something.

Jake had been spending more and more time in China. Eventually, he missed one of my productions. He started missing my birthday. I realized he hadn't been to a graduation in years.

Two years ago, when he told me, despite a month of reassurances to the contrary, that he wouldn't be back before school started, I fell apart. It was just one miss too many. "I need something to change," I said. It was the first time I'd said it in five years. They were five years of being told, "I can't work on this relationship now. Next year will be different. It won't be like this next year."

"You keep saying it will be different soon," I said. "Tell me — is it really ever going to be different?"

"No," he said.

"Then I can't do this anymore," I said. And then he told me he was going to stay in China. That this is what he wanted, more than he wanted me.

This is my second year starting school with no one else to mark the occasion with me. Third, if we count the year we made that decision.

I had a lovely day and made myself a lovely little dinner, but, still, having someone that I can share that with, someone who knows this day's importance to me and recognizes it — I really miss that.