I distinctly remember the pills. When Levi left me, I couldn't sleep and my doctor prescribed me some pretty powerful sleeping pills — even though I was pregnant...

Sometimes when I have a calm moment, which are few and far between, I find myself thinking of all the things that have changed in my life over the last year. It reminds me of that quote, "The only thing that ever stays the same is change." I had never realized before how true that really is. Nothing stays the same — even the best things.

My divorce practically started on the eve of my son's birth. Several emotions all crammed into one — all conflicting — rendered me an absolute mess.

I remember thinking I would never be happy again. I remember worrying about how I was going to support a baby by myself. I remember scrounging for change in between the couch cushions for diapers, thinking things couldn't possibly be any worse.

I remember feeling abandoned and hopeless. I couldn't see the light.

I remember one night — which I haven't told anybody about until now — I was lying in bed, in a house all by myself, totally exhausted from being up all day and night with an infant, all by myself.

I remember realizing that it was cold and walking over to the thermostat to see that the temperature was dropping. No heat, no money for oil. I dressed the baby in warm clothes and put him in bed with me. I remember lying there, wanting to cry, but nothing would come out. I was too exhausted for tears.

It was then that I remembered the pills. My doctor prescribed me some pretty powerful sleeping pills when Levi took off — even though I was pregnant. He also gave me an anti-depressant.

I hadn't taken very many of them, but for some reason I still had them in the cabinet. I remember thinking to myself that I should just go downstairs and take those pills.

I wanted to give up.

I hadn't had any time off in 15 days and was really looking forward to my weekend as I got into my car to leave work. I picked Adrian up from daycare and he was happier than ever to see me.

He gave me this huge smile and came rushing toward me, arms wide open. That boy makes my heart melt. Every time I see him it's magical.

We went home, had dinner, and crashed early with plans to meet some friends at the beach the next day. The next morning, birds were singing and the sun was shining.

We arrived at the beach, got a prime spot, and Adrian began to play in the sand as I read a magazine. Watching my sweet little boy, I reflected on how truly blessed I am.

It was shaping up to be a fabulous day.

Then, mid-afternoon, Adrian plopped down in my lap so I could put sunscreen on him.

That's when I saw it — a nasty, whitish bug running around in my son's hair. I gasped and parted his beautiful blond locks to reveal another one ... and then another.

At that point, I shouted an expletive, and called my friend Rachel over. She confirmed it. Adrian had head lice.

Gross.

So, the day at the beach was now ruined. I was in hysterics and on the phone calling Adrian's doctor. Rachel was picking through my really thick, really long hair, in search of the disgusting bugs. She didn't find any.

The doctor told me the name of what to put on my son's head, and added that I should calm down. I shoved Adrian in the car and we drove to the drugstore.

I got the treatment and read the directions, which say that it's ideal to have someone (a buddy) look through your hair with a magnifying glass to locate and remove any of the nits, or little eggs.

Well, I'm Adrian's lice buddy, but who is mine? No one, that's who.

Rachel lives way too far away, and there's no way in hell I'm calling up anyone else and asking them to remove lice eggs from my hair.

What's a single mom to do?

I've done another number on myself. This time I did it to my eye. I wear contacts — all the time. I despise wearing my glasses. Things have been busy, I forget, and oftentimes I find myself falling asleep still wearing my contacts.

This was happening more and more, and my eye was becoming red and redder. I started taking them out at night, my eye was looking better. In my busy single mom book that means the problem was solved.

In reality it was not. When I went outside to start my car, and my eye wouldn't open. I was telling it to open, and it just wouldn't do it. I freaked out. I called the eye doctor — finally — and they agreed to see me right away. Awesome.

So, I walk in and I'm handed the standard stack of paperwork. We all know the questions: Your name, Your address, your birthday — and then, your MARITAL status.

Okay, I have a question about the marital status question. Why is it that the answers aren't simply, Single or Married? Instead they have five boxes — Single, Married, Divorced, Seperated or Widowed.

I would understand if I was going to a therapist or any other kind of mental health provider, but why the hell does the eye doctor need to know if I'm divorced?

I didn't feel like checking that box. I'm sick of seeing that word all over the place — especically when I can barely see — so I checked Single.

The eye doctor gave me a lecture about how stupid I was, took my contacts away for six months — he actually physically confinscated them — and made me buy very expensive eye drops which I can ill afford.

With that, he sent the dumb, single girl on her way.

Realizing over the past year that my marriage was a sham — a giant smokescreen — was hard enough to come to terms with. Realizing that my husband never loved me, only loved the way I looked — and in turn the way I made him appear to other people — was absolutely gut wrenching.

When Levi and I were married, I was a 20-something, skinny, big blue eyed, blond girl. He was an almost 40, tall, skinny, bald guy. I never cared what he looked like — well, OK, to be honest, I did in the beginning — but I fell in love with him, and none of that crap mattered.

He, on the other hand, insisted that I stay skinny — he bought me memberships to the gym, even though he wouldn't go himself — insisted that I continue to dye my hair blond, insisted that I wear my contacts all the time, etc. He loved showing me off to all of his friends.

Anyway, looking in the mirror the other day, I saw myself — the same — exactly the way Levi wanted me all of those years.

Upon that realization, it took me all of three minutes to throw some clothes on, hop in my car, go to the drug store and grab some hair dye.

I've been dying my hair blond for at least 10 years. I don't even know what my natural hair color is anymore! I picked the closest thing I could find — a medium brown — went home, dyed my hair, and 45 minutes later, my hair was entirely grey.

Four bottles later, and I was back to natural, or as close to natural as you can get from a bottle.

I feel great. I'm so happy that I can look however I want now. I can look like me.

It's Thanksgiving again, and I can't help but to think about what I was doing last year on this day.

My marriage was falling apart — or it already had fallen apart, and I was still in denial. Levi was in the city and I was upstate. He asked me to come into Manhattan and we would "figure out something to do."

He rented a great hotel room, and we planned on having Thanksgiving dinner at the restaurant downstairs. It was probably the pregnancy hormones — they do funny things to you — but I was actually feeling pretty happy, pretty hopeful. I was still thinking that everything would be OK, that we would work through this.

That afternoon, Levi started to feel sick. He had a slight fever, and said that he felt achy. We decided that we'd have dinner early and take it easy the rest of the evening, maybe just watch a movie. A few hours later, we were getting ready to go. Levi was in the bathroom about to get into the shower, when I heard him scream. Then he started throwing up.

Naturally I went in to see what was wrong. Although I won't go into all the gross details — and they were pretty gross — I can sum it up by saying it was at that exact moment that Levi discovered he had contracted herpes.

He had been online dating and hooking up with random women and you might say, he got what he deserved, although he doesn't feel that way.

This is my memory of Thanksgiving 2006. There I was, almost nine months pregnant, attempting to console my husband because he had contracted herpes while cheating on me. Wow. That memory isn't going to fade anytime soon.

I guess I should sum this up in the classic Thanksgiving, I'm-thankful-for vein. So, here it goes. Obviously I'm thankful that I do not have herpes. I'm thankful that Levi does — it secures my belief in Karma and the universe in general.

I'm thankful for my son and I'm thankful for life in general.

Adrian is still in the hospital and I hate to say it, but the majority of the nurses here are obnoxious.

Case in point: Adrian had been screaming inconsolably for hours. It was because he was in so much pain — he's not normally a screamer. He was refusing to be put down, so I was holding him the entire time. A nurse walks in and asks me if Adrian has any brothers or sisters at home. I say no, and she walks out. I thought that weird.

I then overheard her say to another nurse, "He doesn't have any siblings at home, that's why he's so spoiled". Spoiled? Excuse me? I must admit that I went a little ballistic, not crazy, but I got a little harsh with her. "My son is not spoiled, he's in pain!" I wanted to add "you f***ing bitch," but I refrained.

Fast forward a few hours. A different nurse comes in to take Adrian's temperature, vital signs, and such. Adrian is still screaming and she says "My, my, somebody has a temper."

Oh my God! Now keep in mind, I've been holding a screaming baby for close to four hours at this point, so I'm not exactly calm. My reply was something along the lines of "He doesn't have a temper, he's in pain...but you're right. Somebody here does have a temper, and its me."

These types of things kept happening until the doctor finally arrived and gave Adrian some medicine to calm him down and ease his pain. The doctor was fabulous — caring and kind — and for that I am very grateful.

It was finally quiet in our room when I overheard the nurses talking at the nurses' station. One nurse asked the other if my son was circumcised. The other nurse replied that he must be, because due to this last name, he is clearly Jewish.

My baby is sick. He's been throwing up for days and today his doctor admitted him to the hospital with Rota virus, severe dehydration, and possible intestinal blockage.

The poor baby has been screaming in pain for hours and finally after getting IV fluids, a shot to stop the vomiting, and a good dose of Tylenol, he's managed to fall asleep for the first time in 48 hours.

As I write this, I am sitting in a very uncomfortable wooden rocking chair — the only chair in the room — looking at my son attached to an IV in a hospital crib.

I'm exhausted, and it's times like these when the reality of my situation really hits home for me. We are in this alone. I am a single mother in every sense of the word, and right now, that's a devastating fact to me. I guess I'm overtired because at the moment, everything is making me weepy.

I didn't plan this. I never wanted this. I never wanted to be this angry, overtired, overstressed, overbearing single mom. I never wanted to be this woman — never thought I could be this woman — but here I am.

I remember how naive I used to be, how naive I was when I met Levi. I remember thinking that from that point on, my life was going to be perfect. Thinking I had found my "prince charming", my soul mate, my other half. I remember how I thought that I would never feel alone again. I felt like I was complete.

I never saw this coming.

Sometimes I just want to scream. I want to kick myself for being so f***ing stupid. But I won't, because I've come to realize that feeling sorry for myself is just an exercise in futility that won't get me anywhere.
I know we'll get through this. I just hope it will get easier.

I've been trying to quit smoking for months and recently called the New York State Quit line — for anyone that is interested, they have lots of nice people on staff and a plethora of ingenious and helpful tips to aid in the quitting process.

They sent me a bunch of tips in the mail — one of which is to avoid triggers. If you're a smoker, you know what those are. They vary from person to person, but the big ones are apparently drinking, the after-dinner smoke, and talking on the phone.

So the other day, I'm in my car listening to the radio — smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee — when this great song comes on. It's a great song, but I hate it. I hate it because it reminds me of Levi.

Levi, as most of you know, is in the music management business. During our relationship I was privy to the development of a bunch of great music. This song in particular was one of my favorites, and one that Levi welcomed my advice and opinion on.

So there I am, driving down the freeway and listening to this song — memories of Levi and I working on it together flashing in my brain. I felt such a rage bubbling up inside of me. Why the hell am I still thinking about him? When am I going to stop being so pissed off?

It was then that I realized that music is my Levi trigger. As I lit another cigarette, I had my second epiphany of the day — Levi is my biggest smoking trigger.

I have to give up on both of them.

One of my goals is to be better to myself and take my health more seriously: try to eat right, sleep right, exercise, and the big one, to quit my occasional smoking habit.

Since I've decided that this may be tough to do on my own, today I'm going to look into joining a gym. I want one that offers a variety of different classes: Yoga, Tae Bo, Pilates. I find that schedules and structured classes work best for me — if it's up to me, I always find an excuse to not go. I'm also hoping I'll meet more like-minded people.

I think the smoking thing is going to be a bit more difficult. Levi smoked like a fiend, about two packs of cigarettes a day. I never smoked much when we were together — I could have a pack of cigarettes for a week or more. When I got pregnant I quit all together, but after Levi left for good, I started again, and this time I'm smoking more than ever. A pack of cigarettes lasts me two or three days tops — I just have to stop!

I've been thinking about trying the patch, but I've heard horror stories from some of my girlfriends. One friends suggested acupuncture (she says it worked for her), so I'm going to look into that too. If anybody here has any suggestions, I'd love to hear them!