Now that I have turned in my thesis, I rather miss it.

Yes, I am a masochist.

There is something to be said about the level of discomfort experienced at various times in a person's life — it reminds you that you are in fact, alive.

Honestly, I think it has more to do with the fact that the process of writing, which has helped me to figure out where my niche lies, and what avenue might mead to a fulfilling and stimulating career path. I love theory, research, data and network analysis, and writing.

I am a nerd. Let's move on.

Though this last year has been stressful because of this process, it has helped me learn about myself, and my limits. It has also given me an insight to what it really means to be dedicated to a career that you love — more than for the sake of it paying your rent. I am very grateful to the process, and to the people that helped me navigate through the tough times.

I also came to realize that it was not the thesis that had me wrapped as much as it was that I had to deal with the other things in life that monopolized my time.

But that's — unfortunately — what life is about. We all have to learn to deal with everything that our lives encompass, whether we want to or not. It's not always about doing what we love — we have to deal with it all.

I have just come to the realization that I am a workaholic.

I was having a veg-out evening last week with a friend of mine. We indulged in wine, pizza, and a movie. I guess there is a limit to how long I can "veg-out," because I grabbed my laptop halfway through the movie and began returning emails and scheduling meetings. She looked at me half-crazed.

"Don't you ever stop working?"

Apparently not.

The following morning, my department advisor echoed the same sentiment, stating that I need to slow down and specialize, or risk premature burnout.

This afternoon during a conversation with my mother, she asked me how I was, and I replied that I didn't know, now that things are beginning to wind down. She laughed at me, as she does often, noting that if I am not wound up like a spring, I have absolutely no idea what to do with myself.

All three of these women are right.

This is a sad state of affairs.

My problem: I don't have a balance. I don't know how or where to find one — or what one would consist of. This brings to the forefront myriad questions, with the most prominent being, "Am I overcompensating for something?"

This is the first time this thought has crossed my mind. This is a very real possibility. Problem is, I have no idea what to do about it.

Have you ever planted a garden and followed all the garden etiquette and made sure that the soil was fertilized and softened to encourage the growth of the new seed or tiny seedling? Have you pulled your children out from their warm beds to rush barefooted and still in their PJs to see the first tiny tomato bursting forth before all the others?

What is it to grow a garden? To till the soil and fight the rocky ground and force the it to make something grow from next to nothing?

As I came into the spring of my first year away from my crazy ex, I decided that the children and I must grow a garden. I took them to the farmer's co-op and together we selected our tiny plants that would entrust their miniscule lives to us for the next several months.

We chose Big Boys (I'd heard they were very good tomatoes) and Earlies and Tommie Toes (what we called them when I was a child). We picked peppers and cucumbers and squash. I let my children decide.

Caty and Joe became excited and began to pick flowers and leafy green things that would help make our tiny house a home. And...I let them. \No rational evaluation of what would or would not grow. They picked their flowers and their vegetables and together we took our bounty to the check out stand.

And when the total came to well over a hundred dollars, I paid the bill with a smile on my face. We were putting our hands in rich dirt and fingering green leaves of various plants. And it all felt so good.

In Middle Tennessee, the ground is filled with rocks. We sit on top of limestone, I think, and the first few inches of soil usually yield a dead end in the form of hard, impenetrable bedrock.

Springtime in Middle Tennessee is beautiful. The house I live in had flowers planted already, but for two springs they haven't bloomed. My landlady tells me that they are Irises. But, as I said, they haven't bloomed, so how would I know?

Irises come in many colors. The prettiest I think is the periwinkle blue (don't you just love that word — periwinkle — I love saying it). But for two springs, I've seen no blooms.

That changed this morning, a morning of my third spring. I'd seen it coming because I watched some green leaves sprout, thicken, and become stalks. Every morning, the stalks grew a little taller, and eventually I began to see the tips begin to swell. There was something good coming. I could see it, and I could feel it. 

Your recovery from a divorce is much like my Irises. The roots are still there, and the plant is living, drinking and growing, but simply not producing a flower. It may take a year, two years even longer, but as long as you're still there, standing and living, you're okay. 

What you will discover along the way is that you eventually will not feel quite so forlorn. You will notice that you are smiling a bit more, and that what used to bring you joy seems to be gradually easing itself back into your heart.  

A beautiful sky painted in dozens of colors that nearly moves you to tears. A sudden breeze that waves branches of trees and makes your hair blow around your face like an actress in a movie. A butterfly. Four-week-old kittens. Your favorite song suddenly playing on the radio and so you turn it up and sing along and feel alive and free and, dare I say it, happy. 

After Hurricane Katrina blew my life apart, but gave me the opportunity to escape my prison sentence with Stinky, I was in what some people call a bit of a state of shock. I was traumatized. Yep, that storm blew my house, my children's school, and my office away, and Stinky had knocked me clean stupid.

So, though it's been two and a half years, sometimes I long for those first months (okay, it was actually a year) of being so confused and unhappy and scared that I couldn't hold down a full time job and was afraid to really do anything more than get up, get the kids to school, and brush my teeth.

That's when I found my new friends: Crown Royal and Mimosa. Mmmm. I had no money, but I actually bought the complete collection of all six seasons of Sex In the City and after the kids were in school, I would come home and I would put in the next DVD open a bottle of Frexinet Brut or Extra Dry, mix a mimosa and sit down to plunge into complete oblivion watching four hip chicks living their lives in the Big Apple.

Ahhh. Those were the days. By noon, the champagne was gone along with a king sized bar of Hershey's dark chocolate, I would lay down and sleep for two hours, awake refreshed, brush my teeth, again, and go get the kids.

Then after baths and homework and giggles and stories of their day, and once they were both snuggled in for the night, I would shower, slip into my bed and put in the next DVD and hit play. I would also begin drinking the four Crown Royal highballs that would lull me into a deep sleep, so deep that I would not have the nightmares that had plagued me the first few weeks after my departure from the coast of Mississippi.

I am excited by the thought of life on the other side: 9-5 jobs, no homework, time for a social life.

A social life? Really? The horror...

This unnerves me more than just a little, for it has been a long time since I have had one of these — a real one. For the last four years, my life has revolved around school. My friends were people I met through school, and most of what I talked about — you guessed it — school.

I find myself thinking about the time immediately after leaving the military - another large part of my life, which, much like college, has a way of defining who you think you are. When it's all said and done, and you have to assimilate back into mainstream culture, it is quite possible to feel a bit gun-shy.

Already being a bit socially awkward (I'm a geek, what can I say? We're all awkward), this is something that I am more than a bit concerned with. Will I be able to become a social chameleon, rolling with the punches and make the transition with ease?

Or will I live in a tiny universe, filled with books, empty Cheetos bags, and overgrown houseplants? Okay, so that may be overstating things a bit, but the fear — and the possibility is still there. I can't say for sure what things are going to look like, but I am sure it will make for some interesting times.

Parenting is tough, but parenting alone is nearly impossible. Unfortunately, we can't give up. I mean I guess we could, and obviously some parents do. But the bottom line is that, once divorced, we have to keep on parenting. And it is definitely a job better shared by two.

My daughter flipped out on me. She is almost 13, and she has simply gone over the deep end. What went wrong? Don't know. Hell, she's just a kid. But she has gotten an idea in her head that she's in charge of her life and that I do not have any right to tell her what to do.

How does this happen?

You give and you give and you give of your time, your love, your compassion, your understanding. You try to give them most of what they need and some of what they want. But somehow they still feel deprived. Somehow they are completely convinced that you have ruined their happiness.

Ah, there's the rub.

And how do you change this?

She threw her brother's $400 Wii on the ground (twice) to prove to him what it feels like to lose something you love. In her case, it was DirecTV. But she'd been behaving so badly that I had to take away something for punishment. The following morning she was acting like someone who was demonically possessed and was refusing to go to school. She was practically foaming at the mouth. No, I'm serious.

I can't exactly manhandle her; she's my child. But I did threaten to spank her (something that almost never happens), and eventually I did. I got "the belt" and I popped her a few times. She was still uncooperative, so I called the school and she ended up talking to the counselor. The counselor told her she didn't have to go to school, but would need to return tomorrow.

So the school counselor helped her get what she wanted. And worse, when she went to school the following day, they asked her about her spanking and whether or not she had any marks. Good God!

Funny thing about not having time to think about the rest of your life: that's usually when you can't keep those thoughts from invading your brain.

I am sitting in my peapod of an apartment, trying feverishly to finish all of my assignments, and feeling quite giddy about the fact that next weekend seems rather non-committal. By the end of the week, the thesis will be no more, and there will be just one more paper and two finals to go.

For the most part, this week is all that stands between me and guilt-free napping and cable television. Problem is, my ADD won't let me focus on getting my work done.

My mind is plagued with thoughts of life on the other side. What does one do with gratuitous amount of free time? I know for a fact that I don't handle copious amounts of unscheduled time well. Most of the silly things I have done in life have come because I had more free time than I knew what to do with.

Ironically, I can't wait to see what kind of trouble I can get myself into. Humans make mistakes, after all, and this school business has left me with very little time to be human. I am ready for a change of pace...

Keep the ring! Wear it, don't wear it. But for God's sake, keep the ring! Sell it, have it made into a necklace.

Was your ring important to you? What does a wedding ring mean? You belong to someone? Wait, that would make it more like a dog collar and a rabies license wouldn't it? If lost, please return to Mr. so-and-so at such-and-such address.

Okay, now I may just puke. Did I say keep the ring?

But, you can throw away reminders, photos, papers. I tossed and burned those, too. It made me feel good. It was like shaking off the last really awful memories of a very painful and disappointing marriage. I was glad I did that. 

Of course, what about the photos with your ex and your children? What's that old saying, oh yeah, "that's like throwing out the baby with the bathwater." Yeah, I held on to those photos. It used to hurt to look at them. It doesn't anymore.

When you can look at the photos or the items that came into your life while you were married without feeling pain or sorrow or regret, you are healed.

I don't seem to care about anything related to that part of my life anymore. I am moving forward and onward and upward. I am no longer "anyone's" possession. 

Nobody owns me. I am my own person. I am free.

And, my fellow FWW visitors and bloggers .... me likey, me likey a whole lot! 

No one to judge me. No one to bitch because there isn't any tea made. No one to expect, demand, blame, cage.

We went to see "Menopause, The Musical" in Nashville last week. The four women in the play were talented, good singers, good actresses. It worked.

But I wasn't overly fond of it. I'm not sure I'd recommend it. Even though it had a few good lines and one very good Tina Turner impression, it was slightly annoying — four women singing new lyrics to old songs playing off the fun and the misery of going through menopause.

Had this musical come out in the 1970s, it would have been much more effective. The topic of menopause wasn't polite table talk then. Today, you can't even turn on the TV (day or night) without hearing about our periods and birth control and erectile dysfunction — please! 

So, four women singing and dancing and making fun of menopause just didn't do it for me.

Another problem with the play was that it offered up four female stereotypes that are very, very tired. The corporate executive (sure, she was African American), the Susan Lucci aging-actress type, the Iowa housewife visiting the Big Apple, and the hippie Earth mother.

The audience was filled with what we used to call "gray hairs." It was mostly women and only a few brave men laughed and seemed to find the play hilarious. So I wondered what was wrong with me.

Jaded, I suppose. That and the fact that women are so wonderfully complicated, yet simple and unique. Every woman I have ever truly loved had her own special offering for this Earth. No woman I ever loved remotely behaved as any one of the four women on stage.