Something strange happened to me last year. I finally became whole again.
It had been three and a half years since separating from my husband, the man I'd been with on and off since we were teens. After we separated I was a raggedy-edged mess of a person, unsure of who I was, or how to be in the world. I didn't know how to be a single person. I'd been in back-to-back relationships since the age of 17.
Being single felt like an aberration, a problem which needed an urgent solution. People aren't supposed to be single! And so I launched into a series of disastrous affairs, anything to avoid being alone with my raggedy-edged self.
I did this for years.
Finally, a few months ago, I decided to call it quits. I sat with myself, and the discomfort of not having a partner. I stopped searching. I resigned myself to just being alone.
And something happened. Something surprising. Within a very short time, I noticed that my raggedy edges were healing. I began to feel like a whole person again. And I've continued to feel whole ever since.
But here's the thing: I have changed, and I recognise my wholeness, but many other people don't. I am constantly being asked by married friends how the dating is going, or if I'm seeing someone. To paraphrase my great mate Jane Austen, a single woman in possession of a few more good years must be in search of a husband.
When I say no, I'm not seeing anyone, they have one of two reactions.
"Oh," some say, and then diplomatically change the subject. They are being considerate, of course. They don't want to remind me of my sad situation.
Others offer reassurance and support. "Don't worry!" they exclaim. "You'll meet someone soon!" I know they mean well, but the assumption is the same: being single is dire, but with any luck, it will soon pass.
And I get it. This is our culture's attitude towards singlehood. I'm certainly not the first person to notice. The author James Friel once described being asked by single friends, "Why don't you have a partner?"
Single people can also feel this way about other single people, and about themselves. You see, no one is supposed to be single. If we are, we must account for our deficiencies.
And it's true. People are not supposed to be single! Not in this society, anyway. Our culture views the romantic coupling as the ideal way to live, and anyone who remains unpartnered is a pariah. Singleness is regarded as an undesirable, transient state, not a fully realised life. It's a bus stop where you wait to get on the coach of love; you don't settle in there for the long haul.
For a long time after my separation I bought in to this paradigm, thinking of my singlehood as a temporary state. I was standing at the bus stop, waiting alone, watching other people ride off into the sunset.
Then last year happened, and my raggedy edges healed, and I realised I'm not at a bus stop at all. I'm on the bus. We're all on the bus. There are many ways to ride.
You might be travelling with your spouse or partner or dogs; I'm riding my bus with my kids and family and friends. But I'm not in transit. I'm living fully, and far more happily than I've lived in years.
This doesn't mean that I don't want a partner again. It would be lovely to meet a man whose company I enjoy, one who has my back and cares about my day. But I don't feel like a raggedy-edged mess without one, and I'm not prepared to settle for someone I don't love. People settle when they see singleness as a problem, the very same reason they stay in relationships that cause them pain.
Unlike James Friel, I don't think that couples are mean to me, but many do see me as less than complete.
But it's time for all of us – singles and couples – to change our thinking. There is nothing wrong with being alone, and it is not a deficiency or incompletion. Being whole is not about merging with another person; it is about being OK with yourself. I was a raggedy-edged mess until I was healed, and I healed myself on my own.
A single person is not in transit until they meet a partner, any more than a married person is in transit until their partner dies. Remember that there are many different ways to ride that bus. Mine, like yours, is travelling now.
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