"If you do not wish to be prone to anger, do not feed the habit; give it nothing which may tend to its increase."  —Epictetus (55 A.D.–135 A.D.)

This is the way that I have been trying to live. It seems that out of all of this — the sadness, the despair, the desperation, the lonlieness, the worrying, the anxiety — that the anger has been the one emotion that no matter how hard I try to shake it off, it continues to hang on.

I've written so much about how angry I am at Levi. How I'm angry about what he's done to me, to us, to our son. How I'm angry that this divorce left me bare, stripped of all of my innocent beliefs of true love and Prince Charmings.

But what I haven't written too much about, haven't even really realized on a conscience level myself, is how I am angry with myself.

How could I have been so stupid? is something that often comes to my mind. How could I have not seen the forest through the trees?

I told my therapist that if I met Levi for the first time today, I know that I wouldn't even like him. In fact, when I first met him, I didn't really like him...at all.

It was the idea that — this man loves himself so much there must be something great about him — that kept me coming back for more.

Last night I got home after working for 12 hours, my kid had pink eye, the house was a mess, and my cat had puked all over the floor. It's nights like these that I become angry with myself for ever even believing in Prince Charming and happily-ever-after in the first place.

Except now, as I feel the anger washing over me, I give it nothing, I do not feed it and I feel it fade away faster and faster.

I hope maybe if I keep this up, I will find a way to let go of the anger.

Speaking of personal growth, here we go. Rob and I are heading to the Kripalu Center in western Massachusetts for a weekend of yoga and meditation. While I wasn't willing to do a workshop specifically for couples, our time there will no doubt bring transformation of some sort. Everyone who goes comes back changed.

I'm already dreading it, which is weird, because I'm a yogi who usually welcomes the opportunity to study with new teachers. I love how the steadiness and equanimity cultivated on the yoga mat make meeting life's challenges off the mat easier, and how each teacher brings unique insight to that process. 

But I have big resistance toward growth with Rob. I guess that's what I was getting at in my last post. If you can muster enough compassion and forgiveness for a difficult or mismatched partner to get over your most serious conflicts, does that mean you have rendered moot the reasons you should not be together, end of story? 

Can you forgive your way out of marital strife and into martial bliss? 

Sure, but my question is: Is that the ONLY path? It's the only one any therapist has seen fit to send me down, and that has been bugging me. How about forgiving but still breaking up anyway? What about those couples who are like best friends and divorce without an ounce of acrimony? (Forget Date my Ex: Jo and Slade. There really are couples like this out there, right?)

That seems more like the path before me, though readers of my blog know I'm dragging my feet, too attached to my cozy life, fearful of separation.

I'll be back next week. Hopefully the Kripalu Center will be fantastic. I'll take the advice of a friend who said to have fun, just don't drink the Kool-Aid. 

Tomorrow is my second unmarried birthday.

I hate my birthday. It's been a bad day for years — a day to be disappointed. A day of promises that your partner will come home, only he won't. Or he'll forget. Or he'll blow the whole thing off as not a big deal, anyway.

Plus that whole Husband Moving Out the Day After thing — that will kind of taint your birthday — well, forever.

What was I thinking? How was this in any way a good idea? For the rest of my life, no matter how happy I am, no matter how good a place I'm in, November 14th will always be the anniversary of this, so far, hardest day. My birthday will always be the anniversary of the day before: the Day Before the Hardest Day. The Last Day.

That first birthday alone — it wasn't bad. It really wasn't.  But boy, did I work for that. The effort that went into not making it a big deal, making sure there were no expectations, making sure it was just any other day — it was a lot.

This year, I just can't muster the energy. I'm tired. The last couple of weeks have been hard. The effort involved in being that nonchalant, of steeling and girding and getting myself together so Thursday won't be crushing — the very thought exhausts me. To the point where I'm thinking one day of suck might be better than the week of prep.

The thing is, I used to really like my birthday. Not that anything big or important would ever happen, and not that I wanted that. But it was a nice day, and usually nice things would happen. Now, though, it just leaves me lonely and sad and wondering why no one will ever love me as much as my cat does.

I wonder what it's going to take to make that go away. I guess if something really amazing and magical happened on my birthday, that might knock the other associations into second place. Like, I don't know, Josh Groban showing up in my kitchen to make me pancakes. But I'm not holding my breath.

I read Inner Work by Robert Johnson, a book about using your dreams and active imagination as a pathway to finding your "true" self. It's definitely not a novel; as a matter of fact, it's a pretty intense book, but it's one of those reads that you absolutely cannot put down.

It's packed with a lot of Jungian psychology; which to me, made it ten times better (I find that stuff fascinating).

Anyway, it's really a workbook for understanding and listening to your subconscious self by way of your dreams. I figure that since the majority of us bloggers here have mentioned a strange dream at least once, that I'd share the info.

According to the book, everything in your dream — people, places, objects, food, colors, etc. — are all symbolic representations of yourself, and knowing this is the first step to cracking your dream's deeper meaning.

A dream interpretion looks like this:

1. Write down your entire dream.

2. List every object and person.

3. Next to each object, write down what it means to you.

4. They say to use the "it clicks" method, which means that as you are writing down the meanings you will eventually stumble upon one that will make you say, "ahhh ha!" The more and more that you do, this the more natural it will become.

I tried it out on a bizarre dream I had the other night. In my dream I was in a big old house that I was not familiar with. Levi was there and we were getting along, but it was awkward. I was in the living room changing Adrian's diaper when Levi said to me, "Something is different about you. What's changed?" I looked at him and replied, "I'm not insecure anymore." As I was saying this to him, I noticed his cousin in the corner and it made me feel awkward that I said that in front of him.

I promised a report on my latest trip to upstate New York to take of my father who has Alzheimer's Disease, and the level of support Rob mustered around it. In a nutshell: Dad is much sicker, Rob is more supportive.

My father isn't the only one transformed by his disease. I'm enjoying spending time with him, the man who made my childhood miserable. And Rob is stepping up with phone calls to me while I'm away, flowers upon my return home, and the composure of a good listener and sincerely concerned friend.
Maybe being needed brings out the best in us.

My father's need opened my heart and allowed me to see things between him and me in a new way. I no longer resent his past mistakes or withhold my assistance.

Rob sees me sad over my father's messy decline, and he bolsters me up.

It's a ripple effect — the waves gently wash over our resistance, softening us toward each other.

There are moments when Rob is just the husband I need. 

"Sometimes I fantasize about getting married again," I said to my friend Rachel. We both looked at each other stunned — even I couldn't believe the words that had just come out of my mouth.

"But," I continued, "I don't really see the point."

Both statements are true.

There is a part of me that dreams of sharing that bond with someone again. This is the more emotional part. But the other part — the more cynical part — says, why even bother?

Consider the cost of marriage (which can really be anywhere from fifty bucks to fifty thousand bucks — and even more if you're totally insane), factor in  the sky-high rate of divorce, then throw in the cost of getting a divorce. Truthfully, marriage can seem like nothing but a bad investment. And that does even cover the emotional energy that you'll spend, the heartbreak that you'll endure, or the cost of your therapist.

It's 2008, and the rules have changed. People live together for years without being married — something that once upon a time was frowned upon. Now, single women give birth to babies every day. Quite simply, times have changed and sometimes it seems that marriage is becoming more and more outdated.

But then why does that other piece of me yearn for it?

What is it about marriage that despite the obvious pain in the ass that it can be, that keeps up coming back for more? 

Hindsight is 20/20, or so the saying goes. Another way of saying that is "Monday morning quarterback," meaning someone who opines on just how the quarterback could have won the game, after the game is over. Or, to get hoity-toity, as the philosopher Soren Kierkegaard said, life must be lived forward, but can only be understood backward.

Last weekend I traveled to New Hampshire to watch my oldest son's rugby club play their final games. They got hammered, yet at game's end I was caught offguard when several of the players (including my son) suddenly turned red-eyed while hugging, weeping, and sniffling.

These six-foot, 240-pound young men, lurching toward their adult lives, seemed to think nothing of slamming into the other team's players, only to break down in sobs after the fourth quarter.

They were bummed to lose, and to see the season come to a close.

Lunching together after the game, my son was sweetly reflective and swept both of us up in a tide of sentimentality. I never know exactly what he is thinking, except for a hint here or there. He's 19, so there's always a certain amount guesswork involved. But he kept saying how much he loved me and how much he missed the family.

I found myself unexpectedly longing for the good old days (I'm sure there were some) at the beginning of my marriage and in the years leading up to my son's birth. When my son alluded to his childhood, I guiltily remembered how brief that period really was.

My ex was at the game last weekend, and had spent the previous evening touring the campus, and hanging out with our son.

Our brief greeting on the rugby field was awkward. We seemed more like a strangers than two people who had spent 18 years married. I assured myself that distance was a good thing.

Still, there have been times during the last few days when I've thought how much lovelier things would be if we could all just live together as family again.

By September I had tuned out the rehashing of the campaign's policy stances and the reporting on insignificant campaign minutiae as if each detail was an important political development. I made up my mind months ago who I would be voting for. So had all of my friends. Who were these "undecided voters"?

In an October Daily Show skit Jason Jones and Samantha Bee scream at a focus group of them: "Obama wants to socialize healthcare, McCain wants to buy your house. Tax cuts for seniors, or tax cuts for the middle class? One uses a Sharpie, one uses a ballpoint pen. One's black, one's white. One's young, one's old!" Clearly, totally different.

Sam Bee finishes: "Why. Can't. YOU. DECIDE!"

It's comedy, not political analysis. But the point remains: It's not like they are similar. They are nothing alike. Why, then, the waffling?

When is comes to choosing life with or without Rob, the vast differences in circumstances paralyze me. Change is scary, and familiarity comforting. But clearly, sticking with the status quo is not always best. Just ask the millions who elected Obama! 

When times are tough, there's nothing better than a trusty pick-me-up. No, I'm not talking about partaking in vino or vodka — though a glass of Chardonnay is always nice — but using the power of film to empower you.

I'm serious. By flicking on my DVD in my comfy PJs, I have been transported to exotic lands, met hunky men who made me forget the jerk du jour, solved mysteries, and laughed so hard that my tears dried up and poof, my problems were put on pause.

Instead of a shrink, my therapy has always been movies. Not only is it cheaper, but hey, laughter really is the best medicine.

Let's face it. Late night S.O.S. calls to friends can't be too frequent. But feel-good movies are reliable pals any time of day or night.

Putting on — ok, I admit it — Rush Hour and watching the madcap adventures of Jackie Chan and Chris Tucker just cracks me up. My mood immediately improves.

Sometimes my movie cocktail is a doubleheader of any Harry Potter film — what can I say, I'm a kid at heart and believe in magic. On dateless Saturday nights when I felt sorry for myself, You've Got Mail sent the message that love was a click away. And it was. Soon after that film, I met my true love and married him.

Other friends have different films they rely on as their trusty pick-me-ups. I just love hearing which ones because my mind has so much piled into it that I forget some of the good ones — like Notting Hill. Loved that one.

With that in mind, FWW has devised a contest for you to share the movie that most helped you through the rocky days of your divorce before you found your happily ever after again. We want your list.