Independence

At seventeen I escaped Mom, the abusive dictator, and ran into the arms of a gentleman who was kind and generous. Thank God Gary was kind and generous. Still, for various reasons which I will not go into here, I grew increasingly unhappy until, after twenty-five years of marriage, I gradually sank into a clinical depression in which I began to pass time in suicidal ideation.

I felt trapped, buried, and hopeless.

Gary was still kind and generous and gracious, so he agreed to set me free. He has since remarried and his new wife of five years, Julie, and I get along so well, we love each other and she calls me (affectionately) their ex-wife. I am so happy for them both, and thankful to God that she is as kind and gracious and generous as he is.

So, for seven years out of fifty I have enjoyed independence.

Divorced, I’ve learned how to provide for and depend upon myself. I’ve dated, had a boyfriend for three years, and been in love. I have been in unrequited love; it is the kind I write most often about.

Being independent at fifty can be a little scary at times, but I am not afraid to be alone; I just get lonely sometimes. An introvert, I nevertheless enjoy the company of intelligent, compassionate, creative minds and love meeting people and learning about them. I fall in love with the intellect of people, especially if they are brilliant and humble.

I am happy you found my first blog post; I’m not sure how often I’ll post. Most of my writings the last few years have been short poems; occasionally (rarely) I’ll write a nonfiction short story when some memory or idea will not let my mind rest, when it demands to be set free, to be heard.

I am thankful you are here.

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