Having learned how to establish some boundaries in my relationships, it’s challenging to invite someone to share my life.

Previously, my space was his space, because I really had no space of my own at all. He was my reason for existing, and I couldn’t wait to become “one.” I had no Self. I not only wanted him in my space – I needed him there. And I wasn’t going to let him leave.

I adapted to his lifestyle with vigor. With Mr. N/A, I traded washcloths for soap-and-hand, Jiff crunchy peanut butter for Skippy smooth, and Protestantism for Catholicism. I gave up television shows and music and my geographic residential preference. I drank things I didn’t really want to drink, and I went places I really didn’t want to go. I smiled and made conversation with people I didn’t like, and I pretended to be okay with his cigars in my cedar sweater chest.

I can’t DO that shit anymore.

I’m finding it nearly impossible to share my space with the Rock Star. He obviously has a Self, and he’s not too interested in compromising that at all for my needs and wants. I don’t think he’s a nasty person – just a little oblivious.

I feigned interest as he took out every one of his 20-some guitars and explained to me the features and differences. The whole time, I was thinking, “When is he going to touch me?” I sat through a few too many adult cartoons as I quietly resented missing the only two shows I bother to watch on television anymore. I lay cuddled up next to him thinking, “When is he going to touch me?”

My sex drive is dwindling and being snuffed out like a pathetic candle at the end of a boring dinner party. Since my Self is not being cajoled by raging hormones, and since I’m now acutely aware of my own needs, I don’t feel compelled to compromise anything at all.