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I'm Single On Purpose —And That's Not A Condition That Needs Curing

Whether temporary or indefinite,
can a woman ever just be single
without being a pity case?
I can't even begin to count the number of
times people have said to me, "Dori, you
need a boyfriend," after learning that I'm
single. What's worse is their reaction
when I don't chime in with a disgruntled,
"Don't I know it!"
I easily accept the reality of my
relationship status — single — and this
seems to perplex people. That my life
doesn't revolve around nailing down Mr.
Right strikes both friends and strangers
as odder than should be allowed, and
drives them into frenzied trances of
speculation. Between the doubt and the
advice they're just dying to give, it only
takes but a few moments for them to
vault me up on to the platform of their
projected pity where they can lavish me
with counsel.
I can always see it coming too. The
furrowed brow of concern, the gentle
hand of commiseration resting cautiously
upon my own. Sometimes their solicitude
will come in the form of a shy comment;
something to the effect of, "I just worry
about you. You deserve better."
"Better than what?" I might ask them,
knowing full well what their answer will
be.
"Better than being alone, of course.
Nobody wants to be alone."
But is being alone — whether temporarily
or indefinitely — really all that bad?
When I explain to those who care that I
have come to a place in my life, post-
divorce, where I feel more comfortable
with detachment rather than attachment,
the result of their friendly psychoanalysis
is always the same: I'm either kidding
myself, in denial, on some kind of head
trip where I believe I'm superior to
others, or I'm just too lonely to admit
that I'm shut down and afraid to fall in
love again.
After all, who could be happy in such a
state of non-attachment? The Buddha?
Well, I'm not the Buddha, nor do I aspire
to be the Buddha. I'm just me, a woman
who's been madly, desperately in love
before; a woman who's had many great
loves and many great losses. I've felt the
all-encompassing warmth of being in
love, and I've lived for years and years in
full acknowledgement of love's infinite
healing qualities.
I have loved love, and have spent a life
knowing that by being in love, I was living
a full life, a human life. The act of loving
someone and being loved in return,
without a doubt, allowed me to feel like I
was a complete person. Love is what
made life worth living.
Until of course, I was pulverized by
love.
While the old adage, "once bitten, twice
shy," has meaning, the reality of the
slogan—for most of us—should read,
"85,000,000 times bitten, twice shy." We
don't really get the point until we've been
squashed, annihilated and eradicated by
love—and even then I'm not sure we get
it. When we finally ask ourselves, "Hey,
whoa...do I really want more of this love
stuff?," ironically, most of the time the
answer will be, "Why, yes. Yes I do. In
fact, give me another helping. Even
though my heart has been charred into
cinders, I believe there's still something
inside this old cage of bones that's worth
destroying."
What a bizarre bunch of Buddhas we are,
this human race of ours.
So, why do we crave this attachment
when we know from experience that
it has the potential of delivering so
much pain?
I think if we had even the slightest hint of
what real, permanent separation from the
person we love felt like we'd never
venture forth to seek love in the first
place. It's like marriage; we don't marry
to get divorced, we marry because we
want to achieve the ideal, and that is to
stay in love forever. Not only that, but I
suspect we also marry because we think
we can grab the 'brass ring', that it's ours
for the taking so long as we believe.
Oh sure, at the dawn of a romance, we
pretend to be all grand and worldly about
the reality of being in love. We tend to
shoo away any hints at our own weakness,
which, in a way, is like creating a
disclaimer that acknowledges failure as
an option. But it's nothing we can't deal
with because, well, we're such advanced
souls and naturally we can take it should
something as silly as failure happen.
That's why we glibly say things like,
"Yeah, I know it's not going to be
perfect." But the truth is, we're not always
prepared for it to be anything less than
perfect. Because once we're in love, we're
sunk.
As soon as that attachment takes
hold, even the slightest variance
may be interpreted as a threat to the
union.
For those of us whose sensitivity levels
are off the charts, we become neurotic,
paranoid and possessive. We are so
involved and invested in the security of
this thing that if for some reason we
detect even the slightest breach in the
unspoken contract of love, we start to
break down, bit by bit. For every ounce of
pleasure that we derive from the
coupling, there is now an equal amount of
worry and fear. The fear isn't so much
about the present state of the affair as it
is about what the end will feel like should
the worst of all possibilities come to pass.
Breaking up with someone, being left,
being lied to or betrayed — it's a shock to
the system. The end of a love affair is a
pain that somehow rules out all other
pain. How is that even possible? Can one
compare a broken bone to a bruised ego?
And a black-and-blue ego is precisely
what we get when we are suddenly faced
with the idea that everything we were
once plugged into has now abandoned us
to float like a satellite in space.
After we've suffered a bad breakup,
we mourn the lost attachment like a
phantom limb.
We were used to doing things a certain
way and now that way is gone, maybe
forever. We feel irretrievable. The
attachment we once had gave us an
identity; we were part of a couple. It felt
so good. Losing the attachment also
brings up much self-conflict: "How did I
ever trust that person? What kind of fool
am I?" "How could they do this to me,
and what does that say about my own
sense of judgment?" "Can I ever love
again?" "Should I ever love again?" "Am I
an idiot, or are they?" Once we get past
being angry with them, we really start
becoming angry with ourselves.
So when people ask me why I'm not
dating or why I haven't made express
efforts to get a solid relationship going in
my life — it's not that I don't adore the
idea. I do. And I would never advise any
person on Earth not to go for it with all
the gusto they can muster up, because on
many levels, love really is worth it. Love
may equal pain, but thems the breaks, eh?
I'm no Buddha.
I'm just a woman with a little less need
than many, a lot less desire for
attachment than most, and an open heart
for whatever might come my way along
the road. The only reason I'm not
actively trying again is because, well, Mr.
Right hasn't knocked on my door lately
with a dozen roses and a note that says, "I
promise not to psychoanalyze you for
being single." Should that guy happen to
materialize, then by all means I'll let him
in. After all, I'm fairly sure I can still hear
a heartbeat within this old cage of bones.

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