Sleeping with a Stranger

This is the second long-term relationship of my life. I was with the girl's father for 10 years. Steve and I have been together 13 years, married 12 of them in May.

One thing that I have noticed with long term relationships is that the person you are involved with continues to evolve. It's perfectly normal, but no one ever tells you when you are about to commit your life to a person that a few years down the road you'll be married to a virtual stranger. (Or, that you will be a stranger to them as well.)

There is no time limit on when or why a person adjust and changes; be it their personality, wants, or appearance. It's just part of life. But take my dear husband, Steve. When Steve met and committed to me he was getting a woman in her early 30s who liked to dance and party, who "needed" to make something of herself, dressed to impress, laughed way to loud, had just quit smoking, and thought she could do and be anything she wanted . . . she was also about 130 pounds soaking wet.

Thirteen years later and Steve is married to a woman who has stayed at home so long she actually has a fear of interacting with others. Doesn't like to go out in public. Works from home. Spends all her time with a 4-year old; which definitely affects your ability to carry on a conversation. Seldom wears makeup or dresses up. Wants to live in the country and raise animals and grow plants. And would squish a 130-pound woman flat should she have an occasion to fall on one.

This doesn't even begin to list or describe the changes we go through in our life. It's sort of like your children: if you spend every day with them you don't notice the change as much, but don't see them for a week or two and you hardly recognize them.

It's not just a matter of time that causes changes in people. It can be sickness, job loss, unhappiness, medication, dealing with death or illness of a loved one. There are no end to the things that impact and actually change who we are. And when we change who we are; we affect the others around us.

Something I've seen happen in both my long-term relationships is a change in interests or dislikes. I'll be at a get together and someone will go to give my husband some ???. I'll stick my hand up and stop them, "Sorry, ___ doesn't like ???" Then get the shock of my life when I hear, "Yes I do. I'D love some."

Food taste, taste in clothing, interest in sports, music choices, attention to personal appearance. It all changes and when it does, the other spouse is left going, "What the shit just happened?" It's always the non-changing spouse that is left in the dark, taken by surprise.

I've spent several years deeply depressed and sinking further and further into a state of despair. During that time, Steve had to step up and fill a lot of my responsibilities, make a lot of my decisions. I just didn't care. Then I finally got the help I needed and I spent the next year (off and on) on anti-depressants. Which mostly left me mellow but with no real desire to change the world or make decisions. But the longer I am off of my medication, and not depressed, the more "me" I can feel coming back to life.

I thought Steve would be happy to see me again. My sense of humor is coming back, my desire to conquer projects and make things happen. My love of a simple walk or playing in the back yard with Will. My intense disLIKE of watching TV. I"m me again; and I like me.

But it's not that simple. After years of living one way, without a change in flight plan or any notification, I have rewritten the guidelines for our relationship. Almost overnight. As a result we are going through some strife right now. Nothing bad.

Just the uncomfortable readjustment to realizing a stranger is sleeping in your bed.

What I want to be when I grow up

We've all met them, those people who know from birth what they are going to be when they grow up. They don't need time to find themselves. They don't flop majors in college. Hell, they go to college; and not because they have nothing better to do.

Then there are those people that just do what they are told. Their family or counselor tells them what they are good at and they just go along the chosen path with no complaints. They go to college, get a job in their appointed field, and put in 20 years and retire.

The first group end up being the overachievers of the world. Working 60-80 hour weeks and fighting retirement like it's death, and to them it may well be. The second group work their 40-hour weeks, take two weeks vacation a year, participate in 401k, and don't shit the small stuff . . . because they just don't care. They retire early and enjoy their life.

I'd be happy to count myself in either group, but I'm not. I'm a "when I grow up kid". I still have no clue and I'm 42. If there was a sign along the way, I missed it. And there wasn't anyone who cared enough in my youth to guide me. Mom told me to find a husband before I was out of high school or the good ones would be all gone. Got to love life in a small southern town, or having a psycho for a mother; I'm not sure which. Not a single teacher or councilor ever spoke to me about college or choosing a career.

I have felt a reoccurring "buzz" throughout my life, a draw to writing, to putting a story down on paper. I wrote a complete story by longhand when I was 15 and it was the most amazing experience of my then very-young life. My characters took on lives of their own and wouldn't always act or behave in ways I tried to make them. Yeah, I know, now who's the psycho?

I also wrote TONs of poetry back then as well. In fact, I used the pseudonym of Lynn Collins and read my own poem at a UIL competition. Then when something so horrible I thought my life was over happened, and I can't even remember what it was, I burned everything I had ever written. And forgot about writing.

I spent almost 13 years working in the publishing industry in different capacities; but mostly associated with the editorial staff. I know, a hoot hu? While working for a map making company in my late 20s, I actually got to write up small filler articles, help compose text for atlases, and come up with different hightlight-text for pullouts. It was fun and fulfilled a side of me I hadn't even thought of in years.

In my middle thirties I once again started writing. I typed a complete novel in about 4 months. I had it critiqued and made edits. I submitted it to competitions. I even started a follow up novel. And it was wonderful. I was fulfilled and felt like I was doing what I was suppose to be doing. But then life happened; computer crashed and files were lost, laid off my job, new baby.

While relatives have gone on to pursue an actual writing career, I have not. I have placated myself by posting to places like e.how where you get paid for writing artifices. Hey, I actually get to claim royalties in my tax return . . . there are a lot of writers that will never experience that. I write up instructions for my patterns that go all over the world . . . there are a lot of writers that will never experience that.

Then I started this blog to help cope with the loss of my sister and to have a place to throw-up stuff I needed to just get out of my body. Then it became more. Now, it's my passion at the end of the day. The determination to write, to enjoy putting word to paper -- or in my case, finger to keyboard.

I've said all my life that when I grow up, I want to be a writer. Maybe I haven't turned out to be the writer I expected to be, but you can't be much more grown and I do write.