On the first Friday in January, after my New Year’s Eve had gone awry, I was driving home from work, anticipating a long, lonely weekend. I was a little agitated, my anxiety still unreasonably high, worried about how another weekend alone would go. But Bumblebee called, as he often does in the early evening, asking how I was.
“I’m tired,” I lamented. I hadn’t slept well for several days, and it was starting to take a serious toll on my overall health.
“What will help?” he asked.
“Sleep. Lots and lots of sleep.”
“What if I’m there to sleep with you?” He paused. “I’m giving you three hours’ notice, as you’ve asked. I’m on my way.”
And just like that, he drove on a Friday afternoon from Birmingham to Atlanta to see me. We still missed a midnight countdown and champagne, but we did manage to see Bumblebee in the theater (as we’d planned for months) and to get pho (as we’d planned for two weeks). We managed to escape into our beloved bubble, tucked away from the world and focusing on us (We. Oui.) and recharging our shared battery.
All of my disappointment from the screwed up New Year’s Eve, which had ballooned a growing anxiety into an almost-panic, was assuaged by his showing up. As I’ve discussed so many times before, much of my anxiety both comes from and drives my fear of emotional abandonment. Often in my life, love meant leaving, it meant disappointment, it meant hurt—all of which my internal system interpreted as Stephanie simply wasn’t worth loving.
In October, the logistics of the long-distance relationship had started to take their toll. What I need from a partner is hard to maintain across such distance, especially my need for physical touch and consistent, reliable interaction. Hell, I’ve broken up with more than one local man for not being able to make time to see me, because “to date someone requires actual interpersonal engagement within a certain physical proximity.” I swore off the possibility of long-term relationships—until this started with him.
But looking back to the series I did last year on what I value in myself, in a partner, and in a relationship, there was no question that Bumblebee more than meets those criteria. He is brilliant and kind, humble and funny. He is extraordinarily patient, especially with me, and he is deeply and readily passionate. Even with the distance and the circumstances of our lives, the apprehension of love again after divorce, he acknowledges his fear and chooses to be open and available to me anyway. We maintain regular contact and conversation, although sometimes our schedules make it hard to have more than a few minutes of talk on a given day. He is physically and emotionally the safest partner I’ve ever known. The girls have welcomed him as a part of our family, and vice versa. We are slowly moving forward, together, even if we aren’t sure what exactly that will look like.
The difficulties of the distance were outweighed by the reciprocity and depth of emotion and care that we share, and we decided we could not let this relationship go.
But… long distance relationships are hard. We don’t get impromptu lunches or random Tuesday nights together. When I wake from a difficult dream, or just rouse to the Litany of Bullshit that Might Go Wrong, I don’t get to reach for him in the middle of the night. I don’t get to comfort him with a hug after a long day at work, or to care for him when he’s sick. Even if the physical distance of 180 miles isn’t that difficult to overcome, visitation schedules and divorce logistics and family commitments often interfere. Given the still-budding nature of our relationship, almost none of our mutual friends know we are dating, and our time together rarely includes anyone but us.
The inconsistency is both cause and effect of our current posture, and it can be frustrating. For me, it can drive my anxiety to ridiculous levels. For a girl who hates to feel like she’s trapped in a box, the necessary compartmentalization that comes from a long-distance relationship can be terrifying. Not being an active, open part of his day-to-day life can sometimes leave me feeling like an option. On the worst days, I feel like a dirty little secret, which can trigger years’ worth of trauma around shame. The parts of my internal system get conflicted, imagining different outcomes that almost always end in despair. Some days, I break up with him in my head a dozen times or more, simply out of fear that he might one day leave me.
But… the distance does give us opportunity to practice communication. Unless we can manage a FaceTime call, we are limited to text and voice chat. Without the benefit of non-verbal cues, we have to make a very concerted effort to listen to the other. Misunderstandings do happen, but we tend to address them very quickly. Having lived the damage caused by unspoken resentment in relationships, we are usually quick to politely air our grievances and move on, not allowing small scrapes and bruises to fester.
It’s impossible to foresee every twist and turn our relationship may take—and we have been sideswiped more than once by some pretty ugly unexpectedness. But we are both sensitive to not repeating the same patterns and mistakes that caused other relationships to fail.
“You know,” I said to him over breakfast on Sunday, at the end of a 15-hour visit, “maybe it’s good that we’re not in the same city. If we were, we’d be seeing each other every day and just doing what we do--”
“—settling into a groove.”
I shook my head disdainfully. “You know I’m never going to let that happen, right?”
“Baby,” he replied evenly, holding my gaze, “I’m counting on it.”
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