I've written about Rob's proclivity for binge drinking and playing computer games when I'm out with friends or away for the weekend. It's both a cry for attention, and my punishment for leaving him alone.

That he does it when I leave belies a fear of abandonment, which is sad, but after trying to help him for years to no avail, I can't support this unhealthy response to his problems much longer.

And the pattern has taken a dark turn. Rob recently binged to the point of terrible sickness. Looking back, we realize he had poisoned himself and needed medical attention.

I was away for only a few hours, during which he drank heavily. Soon after I returned he was heaving in a strange way. I asked him if he wanted to go to the hospital, and all he could do was sway and try to focus his eyes on me, and say "no" weakly.

We both abided the sickness, waiting out the vomiting. I cringe to think what could have happened, and I wonder why I asked a devastatingly impaired person if the hospital was in order and did not proactively seek help for him myself?

What a complete lack of judgment on my part. Our marriage may be on the rocks, back and forth one way to the other as we try decide our ultimate path, but hopefully in the meantime we can commit to better health and safety for him and for me. Starting immediately.

I had a pretty bad case of the so-called baby blues after my son was born. My daughter wasn't even 2 years old yet, my husband's work schedule had him going out of town quite a bit, and I didn't get much help at all, since both our families live in other states. From what I've heard, my mom dealt with post-partum depression to the point where she felt suicidal, so I knew that when I started to have the feelings of depression it was no joke. I figured I better tell my husband and we could figure out a solution together.

"I think I have some post-partum depression," I told him.

"Oh yeah?" he asked.

I didn't think he was getting it, so I let him in on an embarrassing fact. "Sometimes I fantasize about getting into a car accident just so I can spend some time in a hospital recovering. Maybe then I could get some rest and a little time to myself, as weird as that may sound."

He gave me a concerned look, and we made an appointment with my doctor. She agreed that I had some PPD and we decided together that I would combat it with exercise and wait it out to see if my hormones would stabilize.

The thing is this: After I intimated to my husband that I was so desperate for some time off from the kids that I was hoping for a debilitating injury, he still didn't step up any efforts to help me. I still got up every time the baby cried in the middle of the night. I still woke up every morning with the kids. My husband didn't offer to take the kids so I could get a nap once in a while. He never jumped in and took over some chores. In other words, the only thing that changed was that I had an actual diagnosis.

I eventually bounced back from my depression, but my marriage took a huge hit. It really opened my eyes as to what my husband assumed my role was, as well as his. I felt more alone during that time of my life than any other, and it shouldn't have been that way.

When I finally bottomed out on feeling crappy last week, I came back around to the same old thing I've always known. It's time to take care of myself and take responsibility for my outlook.

If I see it getting better, it gets better. If I see it getting worse, it gets worse.

When I take care of myself, my outlook improves, my attitude improves, my energy improves, my parenting improves, my work improves, my income improves.

So this week, I'm recommitted to the gym, been there three days in a row and I know the everyday thing won't last, but as long as I keep going, I'll keep going.

I'm eating three meals a day, drinking lots of water and trying to sleep normal hours.

Sounds like basic stuff, huh? Eating meals seems so simple it's hardly worth mentioning, until I realize I'm not eating regularly. It's that spiral where I make my kids a hot breakfast with sides of juice and fruit, eat the unwanted PB&J crusts while packing their lunches and call it good.

Darkness, depression, bad relationships: They're all the same that way — hard to see the depth of it for what it is when you're in it.

If you'll excuse me, please, I'm off to the gym for my date with the elliptical.

I thought I knew what I was doing here. "Here" meaning here in my life, not here on this blog. Though they feel like one in the same these days and I just want to strip myself all the way to honest.

The closer I come to reconstructing my relationship with Sam, the further I want to run from it. He's been doing almost everything right these days, comes to my rescue anytime I call.

Paid my Internet bill last weekend when the WiFi was disconnected, even though he can't pay his own bills this month. And I let him. And I hate myself for it.

Took care of me and my 102 degree fever on his birthday when I'd been sick and broke all week. I showed up at his house with nothing, didn't have a dollar to buy him a card or the strength to make one.

Next morning he gave me flowers for Roxie's birthday, like he does. Always gives me a gift on the girls' birthdays. I couldn't get out of bed that day, but it was only half flu — the other half equal parts depression and self-loathing.

When I finally fully awakened, all I really wanted was to go home. When I got home all I really wanted was to go back to his house. Followed that misguided instinct right back across town.

Just keep circling round, restless and running on a fuel tank of indecision. Thing is, my decision's made, been made for years, and I keep refusing it. I just keep trying to one day wake up content.

I'm sitting here eating lunch looking at a picture of Lisa Marie Presley eating lunch, in The New York Daily News. The difference between us is that someone took a picture of her eating and put it in the newspaper.

Obviously she's gained some weight, which is NEWS in celebrity land. Its such a tacky move. I hate when people make fun of weight. The Weight game has been a running theme my whole life, so I'm sensitive. I am staring at the poor girl's face noticing how extra weight distorts a woman's beauty.

Then I started thinking about these steroids I am taking this week to continue to offset the allergic reaction to the prescription drug problem I had last week... And how the pharmacist said I'd probably bloat a little and be hungry... And how I am sitting here eating like my fourth meal already today for no real reason, and how I am grateful that I will not land in The Daily News like Lisa Marie. I actually lost a few pounds, but that could revert back hourly the way these steroids are making me eat.

By the way, Lisa Marie was snapped chowing down with husband number four, Michael Lockwood. I must be busy because I never realized she went for a fourth hubby. Bet she could share a few stories with this crowd. Lisa Marie has two teenagers, Riley and Benjamin, from her ex-husband Danny Keough.

She was also married to Nicholas Cage and Michael Jackson, the latter of whom you just know she didn't have a whole lot of fun eating with. She's probably been making up for lost time. I personally think life is a lot about finding your "eating" partner.

(Photo: New York Daily News)

I don't think it matters whether a gal is 16, 36 or 66. When somebody makes a remark about one's weight, it tends to shatter every bit of self-esteem we have collected over the past month, year or decade and all of a sudden we are back at square one scrambling to dig out of that hole words shouldn't but often push us into.

We all remember the playground chant, "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words may never hurt me." Unfortunately rarely are sticks or stones wielded. Words, however...

Listen, fat ass. Hey, there wide load. Do you really need another donut? If you'd just get off the couch and exercise, you'd feel so much better... You have such a pretty face, if only you would lose ten or twenty (or 30) pounds.

I have come to believe that size doesn't matter. I don't think the size two girl is that much happier than the size twenty girl. In our last few months together the Dick told me he didn't want to have sex with me because my weight disgusted him. This was after I had lost fifty pounds. Joe, however, loves my ass. Can't get enough of it, and that makes me feel wonderful.

It doesn't make me want to go out and gain weight, nor does it make me want to go out and lose weight. It makes me feel sexy...desirable. It makes me want to dress sexy for him. And the way he looks at me and touches me, makes me feel vastly more self confident about the way I look.

Words hurt like hell. They are invisible sticks and stones. Find somebody who loves you for who you are and learn to love you for who you are...because you are beautiful...you are a woman and THAT makes you beautiful!

I was sitting in the doctor's office yesterday and was privy to the conversation of two women sitting next to me. Okay, I was eavesdropping and eventually I became part of the conversation.

It began like this...

"Well, I just spent half the morning in court with the bastard."

"Why?"

"He is trying to gain full custody."

"Really? On what basis?"

"He doesn't have a basis. He just wants her SSI money."

I think at this point I snorted, which caused both women to look at me.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation."

A large percentage of our community lives off government funds, whether it is family assistance, food stamps, WIC, Social Security or SSI. We also have a high teen pregnancy rate and the "in" thing to do seems to be have as many kids as possible because the more kids you have the more assistance you can get.

The second woman in the conversation is raising a child belonging to her son's girlfriend. Apparently the girlfriend lost custody of the child because of abuse. A second child resides with her and a newborn resides with her mother. Crazy, broken family!!

The first woman and I recognized each other but could not connect where we knew each other from. Her daughter has Downs Syndrome. She was never married to the child's father. The father, now married, is trying to for full custody of this 6-month old child after having no contact with the child thus far. The reason? He wants her money. His father lived with him and recently passed away. There was money connected to that man and now it is gone. It needs to be replaced, and so he is going after the child.

Let's hope the judge can see the truth of this custody challenge for what it is — greed — and make the correct decision in the best interest of the child.

I have to get off the couch. It's killing my back and it's killing my hips and it's killing my spirit. For the entire 16 months since I left my marriage I have been sleeping in the living room of a one-bedroom apartment with Roxie and Lila sharing the only bedroom. Sixteen months.

It's actually a futon, not a couch. I claimed it in the furniture split thinking it could do double duty. Couch by day, bed by night. But more often than not it doesn't make the journey down from its full up right position. With all the other end-of-the-day things that need doing, making the bed every night takes more energy than I can muster. Unmaking it every morning requires time that I don't have. Most nights, I don't bother.

And because I don't bother, there are also too many nights that I also don't change into pajamas. Or shut out the lights. I've fallen into the horrible habit of sleeping in my clothes with the lights on. The other morning my hip was so stiff it took two days of stretching and long walks to stop limping. What it's doing to my body, it's also doing to my spirit.

It's seven steps from the futon to my desk. The longer I live in this tiny apartment, the less I care for myself, the crazier I feel. When I moved in it was supposed to be temporary. I thought sharing tight quarters with two kids would provide more than enough motivation to make something happen financially so I could move on to bigger digs. Six months. I said I'd be out of here in six months.

I'm typing this, 16 months later, in my couch bed, wondering the same thing I did at the end of my marriage. I wonder why I can't make changes until my life becomes too uncomfortable to bear.

I've already revealed that I don't have the strongest libido right now, and we've already ruled out any medical issues as the root cause. Since this is obviously a problem that is based in my head and my feelings, I once tried to just toss my feelings aside and get into sex like a willing participant would.

What a disaster.

I shopped for lingerie and bought two different pieces — one romantic and one naughty — and then asked my husband to choose one of them for me to wear. He chose the naughty piece, and so I went into the bathroom to get gussied up. As I was putting the outfit on I kept telling myself how this night would be the rebirth of our sex life. This would be the night my mind would click back to wanting to have sex, and if need be I would separate my emotional feelings from my carnal ones. Essentially, I was my own sex cheerleader.

I tried, I really did. Our sex that night turned into some bizarre situation where I found myself taking on a character as though I was an actress. I know some people role-play in the bedroom, but that's not what this was. It was more like a disassociation from myself in order to get through it. I couldn't shake the thought that I was sending mixed signals to my husband by acting as though I was having a roaring good time in the bedroom when all was not right in our relationship.

I'm sure none of these thoughts were going through his head. I'm sure he was more like, "Woo-hoo, we're having some great sex here!" and that was the end of it. Sometimes I really wish I could separate my feelings like that, but so far I haven't had much luck.