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independence day

If you ask men what they want, many will respond by saying they want a strong, independent woman. Strong, independent women laugh at this, because the minute that they act strong and independent, the men run. Fast. And far. Books are written about it. Women bitch about it. And men, well, they’re still sticking with the party line. Strong. Independent.

When I started dating A., he was one of those men. He had just gotten out of a nearly eight-year marriage where his wife was completely dependent on him. He put her through school, and she used her degree to watch multiple episodes of Law & Order and ask him, after a long day and a two-hour commute, what he had planned for dinner.

When I started dating A., I was one of those women: Strong. Independent. I wasn’t looking for anything serious. I had a life. A career. A dog. I had the world by the balls, and I wasn’t letting go.

Our early courtship was more a jitterbug than a slow dance. We’d see each other in fits and starts. A Tuesday here, a Saturday there. We didn’t talk daily, but communicated via email. When sex entered the picture, he’d stay the night – occasionally – but I was just as happy to share my double bed with the dog. Our relationship was casual, so there was none of that wow-let’s-spend-every-waking-moment-together.

I am picky when it comes to men. I don’t care how tall they are. I don’t care if they’re not conventionally attractive. I do care that they’re funny, hopefully funnier than me. I do care that they have a certain something – a brilliance, a rock star quality that shines through. In the face of extreme talent, I can be taken down with a flick of the finger. I become their Number One Fan.

It’s the first step in the loss of independence.

I remember the wrap party for Lizzie McGuire. A. was nervous, not knowing anyone at the party but I told him that I’d stick by his side and introduce him to everyone. Which I did. To the cast and crew I introduced him as my boyfriend. To the President of the Disney Channel, I introduced him as my boyfriend, who created the Grim Adventures of Billy & Mandy and who was looking for an agent.

One of the hardest skills to hone in this business is self-promotion. It doesn’t matter if you have an Agent and a Manager and a Lawyer, when you go out, you have to promote yourself. And I did.

After I was done promoting him.

Cartoon Network parties, Comic-Con, producers for his video game, I always morphed from the Strong Independent Woman to Humorous Stepford Wife. Wasn’t A. smart? And talented? Why weren’t they merchandising his show?

When A.’s deal was up and he needed someone to negotiate a new one, I hooked him up with my Manager J., who immediately signed him. J. would call me weekly and tell me how much he loved A., and he could tell my story influences on some of his work.

Because I had become A.’s sounding board. He’d sit at his computer with a tumbler of scotch and start to write. He’d email me drafts to look at, which I’d go over with him. He bounced ideas off of me. I provided him with some jumping off points. I poured all of my effort into his career, because mine had stalled. Wasn’t his more important anyway? After all, he was paying for the house.

Because by that point, we had moved in together. I reminded myself on a daily basis that I Should Not Remind Him of His Ex-Wife. When he came home, I was available. A cocktail? A three-course dinner? I coordinated the maids and did the grocery shopping and dropped off and picked up the dry cleaning. Each day I spent thinking about his needs, what did he want, how could I make his life easier?

No, I’ll pull in the trash cans. No, I’ll get the mail. No, I’ll purchase and send out your family’s Christmas gifts. No, really, I’ll do it.

It wasn’t as if I wasn’t writing scripts and taking meetings and doing the basics to get a writing job. But I wasn’t doing more. I wasn’t nurturing my own creativity. I wasn’t thriving. I wasn’t doing all the things that I had said I’d do, that I wanted to do, now that I had the time to do them. I devoted all that energy to him.

When you pour yourself totally into another human being, there’s nothing left over for yourself.

When you pour yourself totally into another human being, there’s no space for them.

I should state for the record that A. never demanded nor encouraged this behavior. Sure, he might have liked it at the beginning. But he actuallly did want a strong, independent woman. I realize now that he missed what made me me.

I was prone to crying jags. I didn’t know why I was depressed. I had everything. I was being taken care of. Everyone else had it much worse.

I was no longer strong. I was no longer independent.

I was no longer me.

And I couldn’t see it.

Saturday, March 18th, would have been our four year anniversary. I woke up that morning, feeling purposeful. I made coffee and checked my email and did some yoga. I finished reading a book that’s research for a book I want to write. And that was just one day.

In the last three months and I’ve accomplished much more. I’ve returned to the gym and lost seven pounds. I’ve addressed my health issues. I’ve become closer to my old friends, and made some new ones. I’ve realized for all their craziness, my family has my back no matter what. I’ve reclaimed what made me me.

About four weeks ago, A. came over to the new house; he had mistakenly given me a box of papers that ended up being his report cards from grammar school. I gave him a tour of the place and we sat down to lunch.

How do you like living alone, he asked?

I love it, I responded. And I do.

Do I miss A.? Sure.

Do I still love him? Of course.

Would I move back in with him if he asked me? Hell, no.


It’s Sunday, March 19th 2006.

The day I celebrate my Independence.