I have done everything I can to embrace this new life of mine, starting over at sixty.  I try to be in forward motion as much as I can.  Husband won’t leave the house…move. Don’t have a lot of single friends…make some new friends.  Nothing to do this weekend…go visit a friend.  That’s just how I have propelled myself forward, trying to will myself into happiness and hoping for no setbacks, no bumps in the road.

But, no matter how much I try to move forward with blinders on, not letting anything deter me from being happy again, those demons can still creep up and bring me to my knees.

That happened a couple of weeks ago.  I just hit the wall.  I couldn’t pretend my life is great one more minute.  I felt like everyone around me was living life and having a blast, but me.  I wanted my family back, I wanted my house back, I wanted my life back. I wanted to be thinking about a great trip for us all to take for the holidays: not to think about whether or not I would be traveling alone.  Or think about how the kids would be joining me later after they see their father.  I didn’t want to be thinking about how we’ll all be split up over Thanksgiving. Hate it hate it hate it.  And, with fall around the corner, the dread just came over me.

And then…it passed.  I cried for about two days, and then it passed.  It didn’t resolve itself, it just passed through me.  I started to feel like maybe the worst is over.  It doesn’t get better and it doesn’t go away.  It just passes through me and washes over me then drifts out the window.  And when it comes back, it isn’t as bad anymore, isn’t as intense.  I can handle it.  Progress has been made. Not forever, but for now and for today.