No longer solo.

This afternoon Brian texts with a message not to buy the book while I'm on the road because he's picking it up (probably at the UBC bookstore near where he works) – which is very thoughtful on his part, and particularly so because I know he means it in the shared sense. Rather than both of us go out and buy our own copy, it makes sense to have one that will eventually go in our shared library (when we finally can resolve our lives to the degree that living together is a possibility). Right?

But instead of feeling grateful about it, my first impulse was to go out and purchase a copy of the book for myself. And while I didn't act on that impulse, the selfishness of my reaction to his offer surprised me. A part of it is that I am terribly covetous of books at the best of times, and I had wanted a copy of The People's History of my own to put alongside my growing collection of graphic novels. And a part of it is definitely that I don't trust the idea of "sharing books" since I lost every single "shared" book I owned with my ex-husband when he moved out.

But really, when you get right down two it – two major things are going on. One is that I am not used to the idea of sharing anything at all after six years of being primarily by myself. I own what I own. It's what I can afford, it's what I like, and barring some calamity I get to keep it all in my possession. I am posessive in particular by my book collection which is a mini-testament to my intellectual, political and artistic development over my adult life – wrapped in bookshelves I am comforted by what I have consumed as much as I hate to admit it. Bottomline – I am selfish and I don't feel particularly bad about it either. Years of taking care of myself (even while in relationships) has left me feeling pretty okay about the fact I own what I've worked for and don't want it taken away.

Which brings me to the second piece this episode exposes: the underlying disbelief in my ability to have a successful relationship that lasts beyond a year or two. That is, collecting things together is futile even if we live in the same house because at some point we'll have to separate it all anyways. This feels much worse than being selfish, a chronic failure to believe in myself. As if I don't have the ability to love and process and work through enough at this point in my life to create some longer term life with Brian. That having found someone I honestly believe I could have a future with, I am continually talking myself out of it. "He will get bored of me. I'll fuck it up somehow. We will drift apart inexplicably because of our decision not to have kids. He'll figure out soon enough that I'm not *all that* anyways." Etc. Etc.

And while all this is going on in my head, we *are* planning our future together bit by bit. I wouldn't have met his daughter if both of us hadn't believed in being family to each other. And although I've been hesitant to jump headlong into it, increasingly I can see what our life could possibly be together (and wow, I want it so much it's scary).

On Sunday Brian told me that pretty soon I was going to have a family. Him and Mica and me. And I was suddenly floored by the prospect. From single to partner and part-time kid in less than a year? Despite knowing on some intellectual level this would happen if I kept on with Brian, the reality of my "solo" life ending is finally sinking in. I find myself researching the whole prospect of becoming a "stepmother" (which I promise a post on soon), and including a teenager in my vision of the future. It's exciting, for sure, but unexpected. And rather than feel pleasure at Brian's gesture of sharing, I get concerned about the potential for failing at something I want this much.