On My Own

     I have been alone for two years now.  Initially the flavor was a taste of sweet, blissful freedom.  No longer confined to the constraints of an unhappy marriage, I truly felt that I was ready to soar.  It was bittersweet, in that the most important person in my life, my hero, my father, passed away the same week that I asserted my freedom, but I no longer felt that I was suffocated by the constant bickering and fighting that was the hallmark of my 17 years of marriage.  Soon thereafter I began to suffocate, once again.  The air in the house was full of bad memories.  The community in which I lived was stifling me.  I needed a change.

    I moved to a new community.  I sold my huge beautiful home and moved into a tiny one bedroom apartment.  I was pleased with my decision.  My new living space was cramped, but it was all mine.  It was a blank space with no memories of my former misery.  A year ago I upgraded to a two-bedroom apartment so that I could have slightly more living space.  It is easily the happiest home I have ever inhabited.  While space is still tight, it is mine in every way and I feel at peace there.

    Although I am much more at peace and fulfilled than I have been in many years (if not ever) there are still some things in my life that are missing.  I still sorely miss the close relationship that I once had with my oldest daughter, who is now a teenager.  I missed out on some pivotal years of her life and development, and nothing in the world can make up for that.  When I am completely alone, I can't help but yearn for a partner with whom I can share my life.  But I am beginning to feel like that is something that may never happen.  I am learning to be OK with that.

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