I knew there would one day be a time where I would have to think about this: What would I say in my last posting to the FWW community? I have pondered this question often enough, to no avail. So true to the form of life itself, I am going to have to wing it.

I will say this: During the 14 months I have spent as an active voice among the community, I have spent a lot of time thinking about the conundrums of life. Sometimes, I feel as if I have spent too much time thinking — obsessing, if you will — about the snafus of life, instead of actually doing anything to change its course.

To this end, I must say that I am happy to be moving on, as this will give me an opportunity to take a more active role in my life — to be the captain of this vessel, as opposed to a mere crew member.

This is perhaps one of the most monumental points of my life, and I will allow nothing to get in the way of my future success: lingering unemployment, lack of my own private space, etc. None of these things will stand in the way of my future achievements, for they are not worthy.

And I advise you to do the same. Do not let anything stand in the way of being the stellar individuals you are capable of being. And should you find yourself falling short of your projected selves, take the time to look inward and find out what it is that is not allowing you to move forward. Once you've identified it, cut it loose and move on.

I promise, you will be better in the end.

And so I leave you now, with these words and my best wishes, as I go in search of my phenomenal self.

My best to you all,

Akillah

How do I know if I'm on the right track? Sometimes there's a sneaking suspicion that I may be going off the deep end. As I pack my bags for one last solo getaway, all I can think about is my old life, even though I know how important it is to keep moving forward.

I am totally committed to coming out of all this on the other side.

Probably the best thing I did this month was to commit to another six sessions of therapy. My therapist has been an on-and-off integral part of my life for more than 30 years.

Now, in the post-marriage phase of life, I'm looking for signs, talking to angels, seeing a therapist, journaling, going to Buddhist retreats, and saving time on Sundays for church.

Oh, and I make time for lighting candles, drinking champagne, reading, and celibacy.

All bases covered?

Yikes! Especially since, when I first moved out on my own, I didn't even know where electricity came from. I don't mean which electrical company. I mean where the circuit breakers were, or even what they did.

That's how long I'd been married, pregnant, nursing, and ill.

Ok, get a grip, Joy.

I keep telling my friends, "I am going to be the last 50s housewife."

Not sure exactly what that means, except there's no excuse for disempowerment.

Practicing deep breathing, calming the mind, "ommmm-ing" for peace, I'm treating this weekend as a launching point.

The new school year is going to herald big changes. The kids will get out of bed with no hassles. They may even have my morning caffeine ready. I will find myself, minus the dot on my forehead, and without curry.

Ooops. Wait. This is a reality blog, and my kids don't even know where the stove is.

That's it for now. More thoughts after the retreat and, hopefully, ensuing clarity!

I almost got bombed by bird poo early this afternoon. In some cultures, this is considered to be good luck. I can only hope this proves to be true. It seems nowadays, it's going to take a bit of luck to get things to pan out, as hard work, perseverance, merit, and networking don't seem to be flushing anything out.

Talk about turning a negative into a positive.

As comical and bizarre as it is, I can't help but wonder why it is that people are able to take bird excrement in your hair and turn it into something positive, but things that are less disgusting — like a break up, or job loss et al. are seemingly insurmountable and always perceived as negative.

The answer seems quite simple: Bird poo washes out. I'll take it one step deeper — it's a quick fix and can never be misconstrued as a personal assault like the other things in life.

The things in life that leave us in a vulnerable emotional state are the things we work the hardest to protect ourselves from. Conversely, when something or someone actually penetrates the barricades we've set up, usually because we've allowed them to have access, it's always more difficult to recover. 

And when we do start to rebuild, the fortress is constricted with thicker walls. This is not a healthy way to go about life, I'm sure, but it is the human condition.

So what does that mean for the state of humanity?

What do you do when your best isn't good enough?

I have asked everyone in my Rolodex of life whom I suspected might be capable of giving me an insightful answer. They all replied, "You keep going."

No shit, Sherlock — but how?

No one seems to be able to tell me how I'm supposed to go about this. In theory, I understand this rationale completely, but in practice, this proves to be much more difficult.

Of course, the cynic in me also has to wonder whether these people would be able to persevere themselves, should they happen to lose their entire foundation while having to complete a 180-degree life change.

They're all in very comfortable niches in one form or another. Many of them have admitted to never facing a set of circumstances as dire as mine. It's not every day that one's entire life changes virtually overnight.

I never thought that this would happen for me, but I am beginning to lose faith. Unfortunately for me, that's about all I have left.

About a month before Levi and I were married, he decided to get a tattoo. It was a tribal sort of tattoo and was of a circle that came together at three points. Somehow this circle was (maybe still is) very symbolic to him, and he told me that it was symbolic in terms of our relationship, our coming together.

I found myself thinking about that tattoo yesterday as I was driving on the freeway, alone. Since I've had Adrian I have found that I have all of my epiphanies, realizations, and profound ideas while driving — that's also where I do all of my problem solving. Driving to and from work, daycare, etc. is the only "me" time I really get anymore.

But, back to the tattoo. So I found myself thinking about his stupid tattoo — what it represented to Levi, what it represented to me — and I began to wonder what he must think of that tattoo now? (I mean, I've always said tattooing somebody's name on you is probably the stupidest thing you can do [unless that someone is your child], but I've never thought about a symbol.)

That's when my new epiphany happened. That tattoo looks like a cyclone. Our relationship was a cyclone. We came together in a frenzy, ran circles 'round and 'round until we spun totally out of control wreaking havoc on ourselves and everything around us. Then we broke apart, each person forever changed, each on a new path.

I'm a firm believer in everything happens for a reason, that there are no coincidences, that we are each put here for our own unique purposes; and every epiphany I have like this one brings me closer and closer to finding mine.

I've hit several bumps along the way to reinventing myself. It's hard to keep in mind that this is quite necessary and unavoidable when you're in the thick of things.

Being a control freak, I've tried to get around these issues. It's easy to get caught in the maelstrom caused by bucking convention and listening to your heart or going with that gut feeling, especially when doing so does not give you the results you wanted or expected.

I am in the process of trying to recover from a hat trick of seemingly debilitating setbacks: personally, professionally, and physically.

I am not ashamed to tell you that there were quite a few times where I handled each of these incidents with self-pity, tears, or alcohol. Or all of these things.

Always the multitasker.

I guess the point I am trying to make — to myself, if no one else — is that these things happen often and usually simultaneously. It may seem easy to roll over and take it. But I'll have to be prepared to live with that decision — for the rest of my life.

For someone who allegedly doesn't like to gamble, I sure seem to be doing a lot of that these days.

And it seems that I only engage in high-stakes ventures. I have always loved a challenge. Unfortunately, this time around, I am on a serious losing streak.

For the past three months, I've been hedging my bets in the professional world, to no avail. Recently, I've been wagering my personal life, too, with the same dreaded results. Just when I think I have a winning hand and that the cards are in my favor, the house rules.

I've been wondering why I even bother to take risks at all. In the midst of such a volatile market, wouldn't it be far easier to just take the safe road, at least until things stabilize a bit?

The problem with that rationale: the safe road is boring. Taking risks involves stepping out of one's comfort zone — something many people are afraid to do. This fear keeps many people from going for what they ultimately want, jeopardizing their happiness in the process.

I have never been one of those people, and I can't justify becoming one of them now, just because life has taken a rather rocky turn.

In my ongoing quest to spend a month happily living solo, I decided to spring for some fresh, fanciful fare.

I've just finished reading French Women Don't Get Fat. It seems the French drink a lot of champagne and that, somehow, ingesting quality ingredients keeps their women from over eating.

I scored beautiful local goat cheese at the Hastings Farmers Market and picked up a lovely pink Brut for under $40.

I don't usually drink alcohol while I'm alone, but I'm in survival mode and the kids don't get back until after Labor Day.

Popping the cork and pouring the Brut into a pink marabou martini glass, purchased at the TJ Maxx bargain rack, life seems sort of okay for the moment.

This was not a reward for spending a month in isolation. I don't need a reward, because I know that a workshop or trip to the Omega Institute is coming up.

However, I'm convinced that every night I spend alone is going to help me be a stronger person.

Admittedly, as I'm having these thoughts, there is a strong craving for a Valium or something else that will make me feel numb.

I used to feel desperate if I didn't have a man in my life. I still feel desperate, but when I compare the relative peace of my little blue house in Hastings to my married life in the mansion, with my over-the-top, angry ex-spouse, I'm satisfied with my decision.

But when I think of the things I gave up to be a hermit, I want to cry. Family and friends from the last 20 years are gathering on Fire Island this month to swim, laugh, and sail together.

Flirting with single guys, and sometimes even the husbands of my friends, chatting with the hunky lifeguards, and making the rounds to Saltaire, Fair Harbor, and Kismet were all part of my married life.

Feeling popular, rich, and loved seemed ingredients for a perfect life. But they're not.

OK, it's a weekend...and my "Guilt-O-Meter" will begin to rise from LIGHTLY GUILTY on Friday night to HOLY MOTHER OF GUILT by Sunday night.

Here how's it works:

Friday:

It all starts mid-Friday for this single mom, with thoughts of weekend "possibilities". It's a running battle of Guilt vs. Pleasure, and it's played out like a really sadistic game show.

Beginning about midday, thoughts of the approaching night swirl through my head... Friends? Romance? Exercise? Romance? Family? Romance?

If I wait too long to make a decision it gets dark out, and I get pooped out.

But Friday night is supposed to be the start of a breather and, with a little extra caffeine, I can gear up for pleasure. Unless it happens to storm, my hair’s too dirty, or I'm too fat...all of which even I can mostly get past these days with my new free wheeling thinking.

If I miss the caffeine, I land on the couch.

If I make it out, I am usually already guilty when I wake up on Saturday.

Saturday:

The GUILT-O-METER starts at "PARTLY GUILTY" the minute I open my eyes and steadily rises. As I zoom around doing errands , thoughts of Needs vs Desires thrash around in my head.

The Needs: things like a car wash, household fixits, food shopping, laundry, manicure, etc., etc., etc. are all pitted directly against…

The Desires: laying at a pool, going on a boat, buddy time with my daughter, and lust. No time for sitting down here. Whichever I choose, I start feeling guilty about not doing the other.

Saturday Night:

The GUILT-O-METER holds steady at "MOSTLY GUILTY" because there's no way I completed everything on the Needs list earlier, and I am either out thinking screw it or I am home on the couch passed out.

Busy people, who surround themselves with four kids, a husband, a wide social circle, a dog, two cats, and countless gerbils, do it because they don't like to be alone. I am one of those people.

My girlfriends, therefore, called me crazy when I told them I was going to go without a date for the next month.

I had no idea it was going to be so hard. Unplugging the phone and suspending the match.com account has not been without ramifications. The first night was horrible.

It reminded me of the first weeks of being separated.

The first thing I did Friday night after work was turn the lights down and turn the radio up. With the scent of candles wafting through the house, I ran a bath and decided to concentrate on "me" time.

Normally the kids would be watching TV in the living room, asking for second helpings of dinner. On nights when the kids are with their Dad, I'd be out for drinks with friends.

Weekends post-divorce, I'd usually be juggling a man, or two.

But not this month. This is solo month and I'm determined to find out what makes me tick.

There is no choice but to succeed. If I can't wrestle some quiet time into my hectic life, then nothing is going to change from the days when I was married.

By 8 o'clock I'd downed two glasses of wine and was feeling weepy. Wine churning around in an empty stomach, and the silence of a childless house, were enough to make me run screaming from the suburbs.

When the divorce was first under way, I'd thought about getting an apartment in the city. My ex told me that he'd make life with the children impossible if I did that, so I'd reneged, a good choice for the kids, but a tough sacrifice for a middle-age woman alone in a house in the middle of August, with nothing but the crickets chirping outside.

It might as well have been Stephen King's Maine.