I've done another number on myself. This time I did it to my eye. I wear contacts — all the time. I despise wearing my glasses. Things have been busy, I forget, and oftentimes I find myself falling asleep still wearing my contacts.

This was happening more and more, and my eye was becoming red and redder. I started taking them out at night, my eye was looking better. In my busy single mom book that means the problem was solved.

In reality it was not. When I went outside to start my car, and my eye wouldn't open. I was telling it to open, and it just wouldn't do it. I freaked out. I called the eye doctor — finally — and they agreed to see me right away. Awesome.

So, I walk in and I'm handed the standard stack of paperwork. We all know the questions: Your name, Your address, your birthday — and then, your MARITAL status.

Okay, I have a question about the marital status question. Why is it that the answers aren't simply, Single or Married? Instead they have five boxes — Single, Married, Divorced, Seperated or Widowed.

I would understand if I was going to a therapist or any other kind of mental health provider, but why the hell does the eye doctor need to know if I'm divorced?

I didn't feel like checking that box. I'm sick of seeing that word all over the place — especically when I can barely see — so I checked Single.

The eye doctor gave me a lecture about how stupid I was, took my contacts away for six months — he actually physically confinscated them — and made me buy very expensive eye drops which I can ill afford.

With that, he sent the dumb, single girl on her way.

Realizing over the past year that my marriage was a sham — a giant smokescreen — was hard enough to come to terms with. Realizing that my husband never loved me, only loved the way I looked — and in turn the way I made him appear to other people — was absolutely gut wrenching.

When Levi and I were married, I was a 20-something, skinny, big blue eyed, blond girl. He was an almost 40, tall, skinny, bald guy. I never cared what he looked like — well, OK, to be honest, I did in the beginning — but I fell in love with him, and none of that crap mattered.

He, on the other hand, insisted that I stay skinny — he bought me memberships to the gym, even though he wouldn't go himself — insisted that I continue to dye my hair blond, insisted that I wear my contacts all the time, etc. He loved showing me off to all of his friends.

Anyway, looking in the mirror the other day, I saw myself — the same — exactly the way Levi wanted me all of those years.

Upon that realization, it took me all of three minutes to throw some clothes on, hop in my car, go to the drug store and grab some hair dye.

I've been dying my hair blond for at least 10 years. I don't even know what my natural hair color is anymore! I picked the closest thing I could find — a medium brown — went home, dyed my hair, and 45 minutes later, my hair was entirely grey.

Four bottles later, and I was back to natural, or as close to natural as you can get from a bottle.

I feel great. I'm so happy that I can look however I want now. I can look like me.

It's Thanksgiving again, and I can't help but to think about what I was doing last year on this day.

My marriage was falling apart — or it already had fallen apart, and I was still in denial. Levi was in the city and I was upstate. He asked me to come into Manhattan and we would "figure out something to do."

He rented a great hotel room, and we planned on having Thanksgiving dinner at the restaurant downstairs. It was probably the pregnancy hormones — they do funny things to you — but I was actually feeling pretty happy, pretty hopeful. I was still thinking that everything would be OK, that we would work through this.

That afternoon, Levi started to feel sick. He had a slight fever, and said that he felt achy. We decided that we'd have dinner early and take it easy the rest of the evening, maybe just watch a movie. A few hours later, we were getting ready to go. Levi was in the bathroom about to get into the shower, when I heard him scream. Then he started throwing up.

Naturally I went in to see what was wrong. Although I won't go into all the gross details — and they were pretty gross — I can sum it up by saying it was at that exact moment that Levi discovered he had contracted herpes.

Adrian is still in the hospital and I hate to say it, but the majority of the nurses here are obnoxious.

Case in point: Adrian had been screaming inconsolably for hours. It was because he was in so much pain — he's not normally a screamer. He was refusing to be put down, so I was holding him the entire time. A nurse walks in and asks me if Adrian has any brothers or sisters at home. I say no, and she walks out. I thought that weird.

I then overheard her say to another nurse, "He doesn't have any siblings at home, that's why he's so spoiled". Spoiled? Excuse me? I must admit that I went a little ballistic, not crazy, but I got a little harsh with her. "My son is not spoiled, he's in pain!" I wanted to add "you f***ing bitch," but I refrained.

Fast forward a few hours. A different nurse comes in to take Adrian's temperature, vital signs, and such. Adrian is still screaming and she says "My, my, somebody has a temper."

Oh my God! Now keep in mind, I've been holding a screaming baby for close to four hours at this point, so I'm not exactly calm. My reply was something along the lines of "He doesn't have a temper, he's in pain...but you're right. Somebody here does have a temper, and its me."

My baby is sick. He's been throwing up for days and today his doctor admitted him to the hospital with Rota virus, severe dehydration, and possible intestinal blockage.

The poor baby has been screaming in pain for hours and finally after getting IV fluids, a shot to stop the vomiting, and a good dose of Tylenol, he's managed to fall asleep for the first time in 48 hours.

As I write this, I am sitting in a very uncomfortable wooden rocking chair — the only chair in the room — looking at my son attached to an IV in a hospital crib.

I'm exhausted, and it's times like these when the reality of my situation really hits home for me. We are in this alone. I am a single mother in every sense of the word, and right now, that's a devastating fact to me. I guess I'm overtired because at the moment, everything is making me weepy.

I didn't plan this. I never wanted this. I never wanted to be this angry, overtired, overstressed, overbearing single mom. I never wanted to be this woman — never thought I could be this woman — but here I am.

I've been trying to quit smoking for months and recently called the New York State Quit line — for anyone that is interested, they have lots of nice people on staff and a plethora of ingenious and helpful tips to aid in the quitting process.

They sent me a bunch of tips in the mail — one of which is to avoid triggers. If you're a smoker, you know what those are. They vary from person to person, but the big ones are apparently drinking, the after-dinner smoke, and talking on the phone.

So the other day, I'm in my car listening to the radio — smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee — when this great song comes on. It's a great song, but I hate it. I hate it because it reminds me of Levi.

Levi, as most of you know, is in the music management business. During our relationship I was privy to the development of a bunch of great music. This song in particular was one of my favorites, and one that Levi welcomed my advice and opinion on.

So there I am, driving down the freeway and listening to this song — memories of Levi and I working on it together flashing in my brain. I felt such a rage bubbling up inside of me. Why the hell am I still thinking about him? When am I going to stop being so pissed off?

One of my goals is to be better to myself and take my health more seriously: try to eat right, sleep right, exercise, and the big one, to quit my occasional smoking habit.

Since I've decided that this may be tough to do on my own, today I'm going to look into joining a gym. I want one that offers a variety of different classes: Yoga, Tae Bo, Pilates. I find that schedules and structured classes work best for me — if it's up to me, I always find an excuse to not go. I'm also hoping I'll meet more like-minded people.

I think the smoking thing is going to be a bit more difficult. Levi smoked like a fiend, about two packs of cigarettes a day. I never smoked much when we were together — I could have a pack of cigarettes for a week or more. When I got pregnant I quit all together, but after Levi left for good, I started again, and this time I'm smoking more than ever. A pack of cigarettes lasts me two or three days tops — I just have to stop!

I've been thinking about trying the patch, but I've heard horror stories from some of my girlfriends. One friends suggested acupuncture (she says it worked for her), so I'm going to look into that too. If anybody here has any suggestions, I'd love to hear them!