I made it to my thirties without ever being alone. If I wasn’t in a committed relationship, I was juggling multiple romantic prospects. I’m just an extrovert, I reassured myself. I didn’t feel afraid to be alone, after all. My relationships just happened back-to-back because I was a relationship person. My permanently tied-up status wasn’t hard to rationalize because it is such a common condition. We live in a culture that promotes the Wine hat Santa the glue holding this 2020 shitshow together shirt in contrast I will get this fantasy that being partnered will complete us. But there was a thought lurking that kept making me flinch: I should take a break. How would I know if I was afraid to be alone if I was never alone?
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When I finally resolved to be alone, I knew I would have to be intentional if I wanted it to stick. I decided to take three months off from any kind of sex or dating. I’d been in recovery from drug addiction for more than a decade at that point, and understood that 90 days as a solid unit of measurement when it comes to abstinence of any kind. I did not consider myself addicted to sex or love—I had attended some recovery meetings for such addicts and come to quickly understand that I didn’t really qualify. My situation hovered in the Wine hat Santa the glue holding this 2020 shitshow together shirt in contrast I will get this gray area between inclination and addiction—and the lack of a clear diagnosis made it, in some ways, more challenging to address. I couldn’t apply a clear prescription.