He was outside of a blues club, leaning against the wall, taking a break between sets.  I was approaching the club with a friend, sloppily dressed in shorts and a t-shirt after spending the day at an outdoor festival.  There was an instant movie-like moment when our eyes met and sparks flew, so we started to talk.  He bought me a drink, something with vodka, and a plain coke for himself.  He told me he didn’t drink, had never liked to.  Somewhere in the drunken fuzz of my brain, I heard a voice tell me this guy was a keeper.  He returned to the stage and drove the crowd wild with his saxophone solo.  I couldn’t believe my time had come. 

That was the start of my falling in love with someone who loved me back.  David was level headed but had a goofy sense of humor.  He was talented, kind, open minded and introspective.  Our sexual connection was insatiable.  I loved him but thought twenty-three was much too young to settle down.  I loved him but believed that the worst thing a woman could do was merge her life with another person.  Lose her independence.  I thought that deep down inside all women knew marriage was a cop-out, but most were too afraid to venture out alone.

I was not afraid.  I was different from the desperate Lavernes and Shirleys of the world, always chasing after the engagement ring, smug and proud when one is finally snatched.  I was different from the women in my family who had fantasies instead of goals.  I said goodbye to David and bought a one-way ticket to a city where I had never been and I didn’t know anyone.  David kept flying out to visit me until the evening I snapped, acting so crazy and throwing him out on the street that he never came back.  I won.  I wasn’t afraid to be alone.

I moved cross-country again, went to graduate school, noticed my attraction to women and lived the independent life I knew I was fearless enough to carve out for myself.  I felt smug and proud, different from my friends and cousins back home buying mini vans and living in the suburbs.  I dated women who were like me, independent and emotionally inaccessible.  I started to bloom as an artist.  I started to feel lonely.

She was taking out the garbage, startled to see I had arrived a little early for our blind date.  I was looking sharp in my leather jacket and dark blue jeans.  I saw her strong jaw line and intense blue eyes and felt a little doomed.  I suggested going out for a glass of wine.  She told me she was on the wagon and so we went to a coffee shop.  I spilled out my life story and she said she was utterly charmed by me.  The little voice in my head told me to run.  She was trouble.

I determined that I had become afraid of commitment.  Twenty-seven was a good age to face that fear and settle down.   I wasn’t going to let my fear of turning into a trapped housewife prevent me from experiencing the love I deserved.  I would make this relationship work.   Within six months, I moved in with her.  I was fearless.

Katie had a hot temper and a sharp wit.  She was strong, hard working, and funny as hell.  I didn’t love her but she felt so familiar, so much like home.  We had great sexual chemistry. She could see every speck of my soul and that seemed important.  I was determined to have a life partner and make our relationship work.   I chose to ignore her mood swings, paranoia and secrecy.  I stood my ground in the face of her rage.  I was not a cowardly woman.

My body began to belie my fearlessness.  When I heard her car pull up in the driveway, I would sit on the couch and cover my lap with a blanket so she couldn’t see that my legs were shaking.  I didn’t know what was wrong with me, why I couldn’t stop trembling when she came home at night.  I wasn’t afraid of her.  We lived together for four years before I discovered that she was bipolar.  That she had been taking meds, and then stopped taking meds.  That she was crazy.  When she left me for another woman, I panicked.  How would I support myself?  Where would I live?  I was relieved to be away from her but terrified that I could no longer make it on my own. 

I faced that fear, living alone for the past ten years.  Surviving, thriving and raising a child on my own.   As I approach middle age, old and new fears are starting to surface.  The fear of being a lonely old cat lady. The fear of sharing my space with another adult.  The fear of being really seen.  The fear of being overlooked. 

Depending on how I tell my story, I am either a courageous woman living my own unconventional life, or someone who is afraid to start dating again.  Either I have faced my fears or been consumed by them.  Only my heart really knows.