If You Like Me, Back Off!
Health Magazine, October 2005

My new best friend Nan and I are driving down Market Street in Nan’s brand-new car, bought to celebrate her sold-out show at the hottest art gallery in town. The sunroof is open; the city sparkles under springtime sun. We drive by a wall of posters advertising Nan’s show. Suddenly I’m overcome with excitement–about Nan’s triumph , our blossoming friendship, this glorious day. I jump up, stick my head out the sunroof, and shout, "This is my friend Nan, the best painter in the world!"

I beam down at Nan. Her jaw is set; her knuckles are white on the wheel. "I know you mean well," she says through clenched teeth. "But please. Sit down. You’re embarrassing me."

Fast-forward ten years. Nan and I are taking a walk to talk about our friendship. In a recent flurry of emails, we’ve both acknowledged that despite the good times we’ve had, the friends and values and passions we share, the milestones we’ve seen each other through–one gut-wrenching divorce (mine), two traumatic breakups (hers), one wedding and one major career shift apiece–our friendship is in trouble. For the past few months we’ve been talking on the phone weekly instead of daily, seeing each once a month instead of once a week. When we do spend time together, I often come home feeling lonely.

We trudge along, our shared sorrow as palpable as the scent of eucalyptus in the air. I tell Nan how empty I feel when we talk about superficial things. She tells me she feels invaded when I pry into the intimate details of her life.

"How would you feel," Nan asks, "if the first thing I said when I saw you was, ‘Did you have sex last night?’"

I answer without hesitation. "Loved," I say.

Nan and I stop and look at each other, aghast. "We really do have different boundaries," Nan says.

Damn boundaries. My ambivalence about "the B-word" affects every relationship I have. My sweetheart, my friends, my relatives, my colleagues joke about their need to protect themselves from my incursions, reminding me that their confidences are not for publication, interrupting me when I’m saying more than they want to hear. I’ve always seen my lack of boundaries as a writer’s occupational hazard and a personality quirk, one of many that serve me well in some realms, not so well in others. But now I’ve got a tough choice to make. I’ve got to make a boundary attitude adjustment, or risk losing my closest friend.

In the nick of time, I find a just-published book that’s just what the doctor ordered: Your Boundary Style: What Boundary Intelligence Is, How it Gets in Our Way, and How We Can Use it to Improve Our Lives, by social psychologist Jane Adams, PhD. "Boundaries," I read, "regulate distance and closeness…controlling not only how open we are with others but also how vigilant we are in protecting our real selves from intrusion or encroachment." Hmm. Intrusion. Encroachment. Both words that Nan, among others, have used with me. Eager for a miracle cure, I skip to the chapter called, "Are boundaries a women’s issue?" and learn that indeed, they are. Because women are socialized to define ourselves by our relationships,. Adams writes, we "tend to confuse the absence of boundaries with real intimacy."

And what does the book prescribe for this condition, which sounds a tiny bit like mine? The development of what Adams calls "boundary intelligence:" one’s ability to open, close, or leave ajar the doors that separate oneself from others. Mastering boundary intelligence, Your Boundary Style promises, "can make you a more loving mate, a wiser parent, a better friend."

I decide that I need some boundary intelligence, pronto, and it’s going to take more than a book to get it. I arrange a consultation with. Adams and tell her what’s been happening with Nan.

"The issues you’re experiencing are quite common in friendships between women," Dr. Adams tells me. "We expect our women friends to understand us completely. But it usually doesn’t work that way."

I explain that it’s not just understanding I’m looking for with Nan. It’s intimacy.

"Women tend to confuse the absence of boundaries with real intimacy," Dr. Adams replies. "Even in the post-feminist world, girls are socialized to value relationships over autonomy and independence. We tend to dissolve ourselves, to lose ourselves in someone else. That can happen in our friendships as well as in our romantic relationships."

"It could never happen for Nan," I say gloomily.

"Nan could never lose herself in me," I say gloomily.

"Some women are on your end of the boundary continuum," Dr. Adams says. "They’re driven by the urge to merge. Others, like Nan, only let people in to a certain degree. Their boundaries are very firm."

I ask Dr. Adams if a boundary mismatch like Nan and mine can be fixed. She assures me that it can be–if I’m willing to do one of my least favorite things: compromise.

"Nan’s a private person," Dr. Adams says. "It’s important for you to acknowledge that you’ve trespassed on her boundaries. You won’t get more from her by demanding more. By insisting on the level of intimacy you want, you’re saying it’s not okay for Nan to be the way she is."

"Isn’t Nan saying it’s not okay for me to be the way I am?" I say, doing my best imitation of a nine-year-old.

"Don’t you think it makes sense to maintain the connection," Dr. Adams asks patiently, "but dial it down to a level that’s comfortable for Nan?" After a pause, she adds convincingly, "Especially when you consider the alternative."

The doctor has a point. I decide to try her approach. So instead of bugging Nan for us to get together, I wait for her to call. When she does I ask how she’s doing. She says she doesn’t have time to tell me now. I say "Okay." I almost mean it. We make a date.

Nan greets me at the door and tells me dinner will be ready soon. I wait in the dining room instead of hanging out with her in the kitchen, the way I used to do. We sit down to eat. We’re both being very polite. My jaw is so tense I can barely chew.

My questions bubble up. I swallow them back down. I tell Nan I like the food. She says, "I’m glad, sweetie." I let her endearment roll around in my heart.

For two hours Nan and I make small talk. Nan shows me her new easel, tells me funny stories about people we both know. My loneliness bubbles up, and my anger, and my fear. I tell myself that Nan and I are going somewhere, that every step we take is getting us there, even though I don’t know exactly where that is.

Two hours later I find myself curled up on the couch with Nan. I’m listening, because she’s talking. Even when I don’t ask probing questions. Maybe, Dr. Adams would say, because I’m not asking probing questions. Then Nan asks about me, and she listens while I talk. For the first time in months, we don’t discuss what’s wrong with our friendship. For the first time in months, I leave Nan’s house feeling happy.

I report the good news to Dr. Adams. Sounding pleased, she says, "You decided, ‘I can get this much intimacy from Nan, and that’s okay, because we’re both doing the best we can.’ You understood Nan’s boundaries and you were able to adjust yours."

"It wasn’t all that hard," I say modestly, feeling like an "A" student.

"It sounds like your boundaries are more flexible than you thought they were," Dr. Adams replies.

Make that a "B" student. Because now, for the first time ever, the "b-word" doesn’t sound like such a bad word after all.