A few months ago, I had an “aha” moment. I was riding the bus when I noticed the friends I was with who were dating had dark circles under their eyes, were maniacally checking their phone, and otherwise showing signs of anxiety, while the fourth friend, who was not dating, sat serenely as if she was on a cruise to Mexico. In that moment, I decided I too wanted to be on a pleasure cruise for one, so I took a break from dating.

Self-containment has proven to be more delightful than I ever could have imagined. I’ve become clear on my next memoir and sent it to agents, my writing classes are full, I sleep well, I am present and focused with my kids and friends, and I rarely, if ever, check my phone. I had a few friends who helped me with my physical needs, but never expected more from me, and life was quite pleasant.

But then one friend found a girlfriend who was not interested in sharing and the other friend moved across town and so I was left to my own devices. I am perfectly able and happy to scratch my own itch, but after doing so for several weeks, my wrist became so sore I had to start wearing a brace. And when that didn’t help, I had to see my massage therapist.

“What’s up with your wrist?” she asked.

Several lies floated through my head, but before I could formulate any of them, I blurted, “I keep cocking it at an awkward angle.”

“Well stop doing that,” she laughed.

“I try, but…”

She laughed again, because she knows me well, and therefore didn’t make me further humiliate myself.

Ice, the brace, and shorter stints being cocked eased some of the pain, but then I started to paint the kids room. I ran out of money to pay the contractors, plus I was trying to prove I wasn’t a wimp so claimed painting forty strips of trim and three hundred square feet of wall space would “take no time at all.”

Instead, it took days and days and aggravated my wrist and shoulder as well.

“Uh, I may not be able to finish all of the painting as planned,” I confessed to hunky contractor #1.

“That’s cool, we can do it. What happened to your wrist?” he said pointing to my brace.

“Over extension,” I blushed.

This was minutes after he apologized for all of the drywall dust, some of which was coating my toothbrush, and I said, “That’s OK, I’ve swallowed worse.” I didn’t trust myself to explain what caused the “over extension,” so I distracted him with coffee and changed the subject.

The sore wrist is cumbersome enough, but an even larger concern is my inability to not blurt out the cause of it. It appears that I’ve come down with a mild form of Tourette’s due to spending too much time by myself. When I signed up for my self-contained pleasure cruise for one, I thought it was going to improve my health and emotional state, not harm it.

Corbin Lewars is a writing mentor and author of Creating a Life: The memoir of a writer and mom in the making, which has been nominated for the 2011 PNBA book award. Her essays have been featured in over twenty five publications including, The Seattle PI, Mothering, and Hip Mama. She teaches memoir and personal essay writing classes in Ballard.