"Rake over there!" My ex pointed to a patch about 100 feet from where I'd decided to amuse myself with old leaves. I bristled almost immediately.

"I'll rake where I please," I answered, lifting my chin a little.

It's a backlash effect, a reaction to the way things used to be. There was no reason for me to be upset. My daughter and I had come to the country to have a nice day in the sun with Dad, and we were all in a good mood. My ex hadn't meant for it to sound like an order; he was just telling me which area needed raking the most.

But I can't stand being told what to do. The last eight years of our relationship were full of control and possession, and I'm afraid I wasn't the one running the show.

My ex was extremely controlling. He told me who I could see and when. He would time my outings down to the last minute and explode if I was home late — even when it was just a grocery run or I'd been held up by a slow tractor on the road.

I don't blame him. He operated out of fear of losing control. He knew things were rocky. He loved me, I loved him, but we were so mentally separated from each other that he felt he had no other way to hang onto me.

So he'd rule with an iron fist (thank god not literally) and I would comply to his every wish in the hopes of accomplishing peace and affection. I dropped all my friends. I did what he wanted. I went where he told me. After a while, it became too much trouble to even go out.

For a long time, I lived in fear. He scared me. I felt worn down and beaten. I was tired. I was afraid to leave and needed to leave like the desert needs rain. I thought if I told him I wanted out that he would hurt me.

But I did it and he didn't do it.

Now, we live apart and love together. We're a couple under two roofs. We have our bad times still, but we have good times more often — enough to make it worth it.

I just had a very odd moment.

Sometimes I get lonely. I'm never quite sure what it is what I want when this happens, I just get knocked a little flat by the reality of my solo flight.

I'm up too late. When I finally tear myself away from the computer, flip off the reality TV I watch when I'm grading papers, start to straighten up for the night, I'm hit with a wave of lonely.

Normally, when this happens, I curl up in my comfiest chair and just sit in the feeling for a while. So I figured, okay, well, I'll do this for a bit. I'll have a contemplative little 15 minutes.

But then — and this is the odd bit — it just went away. I looked around my living room, the apartment that's just mine. It's neat, because no one else is here to mess it up. There's a cookie left on a plate on the coffee table, and it's still going to be there tomorrow, because no one will sneakily eat it when I'm not looking. There is nothing in this place that is ugly, that I don't want, that I keep around because I have to.

Tomorrow I'm going to a job that I choose to have. I will be wrestling, all day, with what I'm going to do with my life next, but that choice, when I make it, will be mine, too.

I was all set to have my little moment in my comfy chair, feeling sad and alone and such, and I just can't do it. I don't want anyone else here. I miss the boy, it's getting harder to say goodbye to him each time I do, but — I am loving having my own life. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


All right, I admit it. I'd like to be a drunk. 

I don't honestly mean that, of course, because when you're a lush, you don't have any life at all. You're bankrupt, you're boozing, and you're probably in bad need of a shower.

But boy, I would so like to ditch the responsibilities right now and just feel sorry for myself.

My neighbor called me not long ago. "I think you're having a depression," she ventured carefully. Actually, scratch that. She wasn't careful about it at all.

But no. No depression for me. I wish. I've had six of those depressions and I know exactly what it feels like when they start to creep into your life. It's like you're in a shoebox and the lid is closing slowly down on you.

No, what I'm feeling these days is just rat-tired and sorry for myself. I'm tired of my ex who breezes in once a week to provide daycare to his daughter. I'm tired of my other ex who just breezes in whenever he wants. I'm tired of my kids.

It's been three years and five months since my last (very last) daughter was born. I spent a year and a half nurturing her while clinically depressed and I spent two years getting my feet back under me after leaving my husband.

Now I want to have "me" time. And by this point, I don't think a day will be enough. I want a week. Three weeks. A month.

I just want to ditch all consequences for a while, so I can appreciate what I have in my life once I'm ready to be a single parent again.

Whining? Oh yeah. I'm whining. I'm a woman. Aren't I allowed?

Lately, I'd lost my feeling of being settled and getting into the groove. I felt disjointed, tired, and fed up over my situation.

My mortgage application is still pending approval, and I'm tired and stressed over it. So close, and so far... yet I received some unexpected encouragement.

"You really should congratulate yourself no matter what happens," the bank manager said. I was confused. Congratulate myself on barely qualifying for a mortgage?

"You've come a long way in two years," she went on. "You left your husband. You had to grieve. You were alone with two kids, and you found a place. You built a successful business by yourself."

"Look at you," the woman stressed. "You're back on your feet and doing fine. If it's not this house, it'll be another. You're almost there, and you're on the path back to a healthy life. So congratulate yourself."

She's right.

I was lingering on what could have been instead of focusing on what's to come. So I want to tell other women reading this - the ones who are still in what could have been and who aren't yet ready for what's to come — that there's hope.

It may be hard and it may be long, but it can be done. I've had my ups and downs and my heart-wrenching moments missing being a family, but honestly? I wouldn't trade what I have now for the world.

I made a decision to find something better. It sounds hokey, but there is better out there. Maybe not with someone else or a new partner, but there is a really good life if you can get up the courage to say, "Enough. This far and no further."

So take a deep breath. Start thinking about what's to come. You'll be okay.

I admit it. Some days, my life is a complete mess — and I mean literally.

My house is littered with toys. My home-cooked meals are usually warmed-up leftovers. My laundry baskets overflow. The cats are shedding like mad, and the floors need vacuuming. I'd mention the windows, but they're more like sun filters right now, what with all the residue the outside elements have left on them.

I need a babysitter, a break, and a drink.

Needs aside, my biggest priority has been keeping up appearances that I'm a Good Mother. I've had a few comments from people lately, jokes about how it's hard to walk across the floor or comments about it being 8 pm and how could I possibly just be sitting down to supper?

For all you people that believe single moms have to be Superwoman, read this: I don't care what you think any more.

Here I am, working like a devil to make ends meet so I can pay the bills and have some leftover. I'm coping with dealing with a teen and a toddler at the same time. I'm desperately trying to hang onto a relationship I actually left, and I'm working very hard not to regret having done so.

Regrets? Oh sure, I have them. I have them when I could use that extra support or someone to say, "Hey, I'll take over." I have regrets when I look at my microwave meals and think about how I used to make such beautiful suppers when we were a family. I have regrets that we used to be a double-income household, not a struggling single one.

Relationships shouldn't be about sharing the workload. They should be about sharing affection and time together.

But boy oh boy, I sure wish I had a man around the house some days.

I'm going to buy a house. Not any house, either. I want to buy the duplex I live in.

After extensive talks with my mother about selling the family home, I realized that much of my emotional instability comes from the fact that my current situation is, indeed, unstable.

I rent. I could be thrown out at any time. The monthly payments could shoot up beyond my means. The landlord could sell to someone else who could throw me out or jack up my rent. Where would I go? Back to Mum's? Back to my ex's?

Enough.

I'm going to put my own two feet on the ground and get myself a damned good Plan B. I've called my landlord and asked if they're interested in selling. They are. And the price is right, too.

I've called the bank and listened to them hem and haw about me not being very solvable because I'm self-employed. I have good income, fantastic credit, a nice history... With my heart in my hands, I waited for them to say no.

They said they'd make an exception and lend me the money.

I'm excited and terrified, but I'm thinking logically. The apartment upstairs brings in half the mortgage. My rent would actually go down and we'd be better off financially. We could even move to a better place, rent both apartments out and the place would pay for itself.

We could stay for years. We could renovate a little, put up some more insulation to cut down on heating or finish the basement into a nice room. We could rent the place upstairs out to my Mum. She's been saying she wants an apartment in town.

And if it doesn't work out? I'll stick up a "For Sale" sign and hand the keys back over. No harm, no foul.

I won't get rich. I won't get poorer, either. But most important, I sure as hell won't ever have to depend on someone else's good nature to put me up while I get my feet back on the ground.

Do you know of, or are you part of, a couple who are divorcing but can't move because you can't sell your home? Please let me know immediately as we are interested in speaking to you!

Contact: dnigro@firstwivesworld.com

Thank You,

Debbie Nigro,

Chief Executive Girlfriend, First Wives World

A while back, I blogged about how I felt like I had no firm footing in life. I don't own a place to live. I've always depended on others to keep me warm and sheltered. My true Home (with a capital H) belongs to my mother.

She wants to sell.

We've talked. We've pleaded with each other, both approaching the issue from different views. I feel like she's selling my memories. She feels like I'm trapping her from creating new ones.

It's been more than difficult, emotionally, for me to let go of Home. I knew the day was coming and it's here - and I can't turn it around. So, in true Julie style, I embraced the change.

Mum and I have talked at great length about her desires and needs. Where would she like to live? What kind of support and supervision do I need to provide in her senior years? What sort of income does she require? Where would she like to live? What sort of house would she enjoy?

The importance of these questions goes deeper. We've both realized that the situation doesn't just involve my mother. It involves my life and the life of my children, too.

Mum's not getting any younger, and she'll need increasing help, care and supervision. Too spry for the old folk's home, too old for solitary living, and stubborn enough to make us wonder more than once how we'll figure this all out.

I realized that the situation is strange — there's no man involved. She has no husband and I don't have one either. I don't even have boys as children. We'd be four women coming together to tackle this new phase of life.

Separate? Together? We don't know yet. We don't even know if four women under one roof could get along past the first week or whether living apart longer will only add to the difficulties.

But what I feel pretty good about is that we're four women taking decisions for ourselves. We're making calls, gathering info and exploring the options. Men? Who needs them!

I have the opportunity to buy a house — the house I currently rent, in fact. I've been moping about feeling like I have nothing to show for my life yet (except two beautiful girls), and I've been feeling like I'm still not settled enough. I really have nothing to show for over 20 years of work.

So I did some calculating, checked out the online bank information, and figured out that I could — barely — afford to buy my own home. I looked around at the listings and real estate values. I went through the pros and cons. I took a chance and asked my landlord if he'd be interested in selling.

He is — at a fantastic price, too.

I let myself get excited for all of five minutes, and then I called the bank.

"Can you give me the company name of your employer," the woman asked while filling out my application.

"I'm self-employed, actually," I smiled. "I own my own business."

"Oh." The flat tone of that one word said it all. My heart sank. "You don't have any assets, either. We'll need three years of tax returns in that case."

I don't have three years of tax returns. I haven't been in business for three years. And before the business, I only worked a few months. Before that, I was on maternity leave for a year.

It didn't matter that I was self-sufficient now and well able to support three people. It didn't matter that I have an excellent credit rating. It didn't matter that my projected income reports for the next three years looked great. Nothing mattered.

And in the blink of an eye, I felt like I didn't matter. I was just chasing another crazy dream.

But I'm tough and I'm resilient. I grabbed onto my determination. "Well, there's a 50/50 chance, right? I'll take that chance. Let's try anyways."

We did, and I'm waiting for an answer on a mortgage approval — with my heart in my hands.