Yes Doesn’t Always Mean I Do
Notes from a former fiancée.
There was a long list of things I was happy to be when COVID-19 initially hit, but in a relationship was inexplicably at the top. Never mind that I was young (27), healthy (save my unrequited love for carbs), and in shape (well, relatively). Those facts didn’t necessarily buy my way into the “lucky” group, but my relationship status did.
My condescension knew no bounds — as if I were the only one in the world who had someone to hold my hand as headlines became ominous; someone to unpack the groceries as I doused them in Clorox; someone to compliment my nightly attempt to jazz up chicken; someone to be my partner through the morning dance of coffee, toast, and necessary silence. I felt disgustingly giddy that I had managed to escape the loneliness I now put on my fiancé-free counterparts. What I failed to realize, though, is that I hadn’t.
The truth is, since childhood, my impatient habit of fast-forwarding through life — skipping over the boring bits and plopping down in the middle of juicy moments — had landed me in some sticky situations. I learned life’s lessons in hindsight instead of in real-time and favored explosions over slow burns (no matter how many times Kacey Musgraves told me otherwise). Too much flirting. Get on with it already. So when he got down on one knee a whole 16 months after we first met, I thought nothing of it except yes. And, soon after, when the world forced the title of “homebodies” on us all, I took it upon myself to scurry past our impending wedding and promote my title to “perfect little wife” (save the aforementioned chicken experiments).
I’m not exaggerating when I say I did it all. I listened and advised, acted as ally, friend, and lover. I lightened the mood when it slumped and shrugged off disappointment each time it came knocking. I supported and celebrated everything from promotions to Tuesdays, and spent ridiculous amounts of time drawing roadmaps to guide us toward future plans. In other words, I was the relationship Mother Theresa. Sure, I had my fair share of faults, but I concealed them with the stifling perfection I allowed the world, and the man on my arm, to demand of me. My fast-forwarding had gotten me exactly where I had wanted to go, and I couldn’t have been more miserable.
Now, I have to caveat this by saying I didn’t know I was miserable. If you had asked me at the time, I would have said I was luminously happy, that this life of semi-solitude was actually idyllic and that the pandemic was to blame for my emotional purgatory. I would have chalked my frustration up to postponed wedding plans and delayed life milestones. That’s the funny thing about misery — sometimes you don’t realize you’re drowning in it until the water drains. You distract yourself with tasks like making double-fudge brownies and waiting for subsequent praise. You take yourself on long walks and forget to listen to the podcast you wasted thirty minutes selecting. You read Normal People three times over and convince yourself it’s because the rest of the bookcase is rubbish. You find comfort in the tidiness of routine and lose your appetite for any other version of yourself. Like I said, I did it all.
Given my previous superiority around being in a relationship at this particular junction, you would think that I’d be more romantically inclined than ever. But a funny thing happened when I was forced to quarantine with my decisions; I began to resent our union and everyone in it. The role I had written for myself became an albatross. I was weighed down by the laundry list of love’s illusion and begrudged the creeping suspicion that I hadn’t managed to capture it at all. Must stop listening to Joni Mitchell.
In my animated fast-forwarding, I failed to realize that, despite how right our relationship was, we were still a wrong fit for each other. Somehow, in striving for perfection as a couple, I tricked my prized partner into thinking I was content riding shotgun, never getting my turn at the wheel. Blind to anything beyond the road ahead, he never offered me a go. Perfect little wife. But, when it came down to it, I didn’t just want to drive — I wanted to control the radio, decide the route, set the AC temperature, and ignore the speed limit. And I wanted to do it alone. For the first time in my life, I longed for a rewind button. Finding none, I settled for eject.
I once read a quote from Maggie Smith that said, “there’s a difference between solitude and loneliness.” What she meant was that being alone doesn’t necessarily guarantee feeling lonely and vice versa. It’s a quote that echoes in every single girl’s battlecry — dripping with a you-deserve-better sense of independence. But, in my case, solitude was the only antidote to loneliness. Having spent the greater part of a year evading isolation, I found myself jumping eagerly into its arms to escape the grips of its unforgiving sibling.
When you’re in a relationship long enough, you forget the comforts of singledom. You overlook its ability to satiate a starved heart with a simple ache and fulfill the role of rebound by igniting desire. After becoming a solo act through every newsreel, grocery haul, takeout order, and morning grind, I made my way through the clichéd post-breakup checklist. I cried and napped; I drank too much and exercised too little; I over-divulged to reluctant listeners and accepted advice from unqualified sources. Despite my inability to pinpoint their presence, I felt all the emotions. And I carried on as one does when there’s nothing else to be done.
I was alone, but I wasn’t lonely. I was devastated, but I was relieved. I mourned the future we would have had, but I hungered for the future I had yet to create. Such is the case while sitting relationship shiva — the five tidy stages of grief stretch into a tangled web of a million. They bombard you with the same determination as unwelcome telemarketers until you relent and greet them as you would Mr. Right — albeit with fewer eyelash bats.
I don’t expect anyone else to embrace solitude as much as I did. After a year of living in lockdown limbo, I think we’ve all reached our limit on introspection. But, my point is, it doesn’t have to come as a foe. It can come as friends do — with silver linings, belly laughs, and refreshing perspectives.
These days my fast-forward button idles, collecting dust, and I’m in a committed domestic partnership with my single status. But I’m luminously happy in an unexpected way and, quite uncharacteristically, burning slowly. That’s the thing about solitude — sometimes you’re too busy shooing it away from the life you thought you wanted to realize it comes bearing the gift of brilliant possibility. Sometimes you mistake it, as I once did, for loneliness.
