Steps forward in real life tend to make the imp that lives in my brain backpedal frantically. "Run, run!" he yips, waving his arms about, Kermit-like. "It's too much! Ruuuun!"

I've gotten much, much better at shutting him up. He shrills away, but I've learned, mostly, not to pay attention. But when it's a hard week, when I'm feeling overwhelmed, when I'm sad — that's when his voice gets harder to ignore.

This moving thing, for example. It's big. Sure, I was thinking about moving anyway. Sure, it's not all about the boy. But part of it is. Taking this step says we think we're actually going to make it. On my bad days, this is what I worry about: What if we're not? What if the magic and wonderfulness and perfection of what this actually hinges on is the fact that it's long distance?

It didn't help that our cohabitation experiment wasn't a success. That I handled it badly. That he's backtracked since then.

Then there's this month: finalizing the legal documentation of my inability to make a relationship work. Just when I think that I am past this, that I've come to terms, it rears its head and reminds me that I don't have a great track record. 

"What about this?" crows the imp, waving legal papers at me. "Why would you think anything ever works out?"

Normally, I know, deep down, that my fears are largely unjustified. That I'm worrying about something that is so "might be, maybe," that I really shouldn't worry at all. This, though, this feels more real. It feels immediate, and it feels scary, and it's hard to talk myself down.

There's nothing to do, I suppose, but do — imp or no — and see what happens.

Well, it's Thankgiving again, a time when we reflect on all of the things that we have (rather than what we don't have) and remember to be grateful for them. 

This year has changed me in so many ways; molded the clay of my being in ways that I would not have imagined, but now, cannot live without. I've met a lot of amazing people and I've been moved beyond belief by the kindness that these people have shown us. I'd like to take a moment to thank some of those people now. 

To my very best friend Rachel: Thank you for standing by me for all of these years, but especially this year. You are my angel. 

To Adam: Thank you for showing me the way — "my way." 

To all of the wonderful people at Adrian's daycare center: I cannot find the words to express how truly grateful I am to all of you. Putting my son in daycare was a very scary thing for me, as I'm sure it is for most mothers. The support, encouragement, and general help that you've given me is astounding and I am nothing short of exceptionally thankful. The kindness, love and respect that you have shown my son has helped us both to grow. You feel like part of our family now. Thank you, thank you, thank you from both of us. 

To all of the First Wives World readers:  The community of women gathered here are all unique and all equally amazing. Thank you for sharing your experiences with me and thank you for allowing me to share mine. 

To Maureen, FWW editor: Thank you for fixing my punctuation. (You have no idea how much this means to me!)  

To everyone I've dated, even if it ended badly: Thank you for the experience, thank you for your interest and (maybe) thank you for putting up with me. 

I’m as traditional and nostalgic as anyone, and a damn fine cook. But even though l love setting a beautiful table, and making Thanksgiving dinner, my Thanksgivings have been a series of unpleasant experiences. When I think back, this is what I remember:

● I was a child at my grandmother’s house in Minnesota. The uncles hung out in the living room, watching TV. The aunts worked in the overheated kitchen. My mom and dad both came from families of seven, so there were lots of aunts and uncles and cousins, only one of whom went to prison, later, for killing his stepfather. The Thanksgiving meal was served, with all of its strangeness: green and black olives, or that odd cylinder of cranberry. Dinner over, the Canadian Club whiskey would come out so the men could relax. The women cleaned up as my uncles, red-faced and swearing, played poker at the kitchen table. They were loud and scary and we were devout Methodists, who didn’t believe in drinking, smoking, gambling, dancing or going to see movies (except The Ten Commandments). The aunts, armed with leftovers and sleepy children, had to drag the men away. Result: Fear of drunken uncles, fear of drunks.

● I was older, a teenager, and I helped my mother at her grocery store, open seven days a week, 12 hours a day, except for Christmas Day. We closed on Thanksgiving, too, but only between noon and four. Thanksgiving meant racing back and forth between the store and the house, tending the turkey, making sure the house hadn’t burned down. My half-brother, brother, uncle, dad, mom and I would eat around 3. Then we’d race back and open the store, so other people could get ice cream, sugar, pickled herring, coffee, pies, Tampax... whatever it was all those Scandinavians needed for Thanksgiving. Result: Class resentment.

Guess what? Like Madonna, I am stumbling, shaking, smashing, and dancing my way through the effects of my divorce. From the interviews I've read, she's not having an easy time of it.

Even though it seems she'll hang onto most of her cool hundreds of millions, someone recently told me that prosperity isn't how much money you have, but how "well off" you feel. Honestly, if that's the case, then I'm rich!

The holidays can be a crazy time. Self-sacrifice and stress can lead to negative emotions, and leave you feeling vulnerable and tired. People like Madonna keep their heads screwed on straight by staying creative and expressive. They always remember to make time for themselves, because if you're not good to yourself, then you won't be good for anyone else.

This month, Madonna's on tour with her band. She says that keeps her from feeling too sorry for herself and all the messy divorce proceedings.

My band's on break this fall, because my keyboard player just had throat surgery and is on vocal rest. So the only tour I'm going to do right now is the one I'm taking with my kids on Thanksgiving.

We're not quite the Partridge Family, and we're not riding on a bus, but the shrink-wrapped, pink Housewives On Prozac-mobile will head north toward New Hampshire tomorrow for a week of family fun. The kids and I will be singing at the top of our lungs all the way.

This is a trip we really look forward to. The only difference is, this year, there is a new man in my life. He's my prize for sitting tight for five long years and not jumping into another full-time relationship, or marriage.

I know I'll catch some grief. What would a family get-together be, without the teasing?

They probably feel I've introduced them to thousands of men through the years. I'm afraid they'll be whispering behind my back: My goodness, here she is with another one!

I want to personally thank each and every one who voted for my entry in the RE-DEFINE DIVORCE Contest. I can't believe that I won. The last time I think I won anything other than a 20 oz. soda was in fourth grade. I'd read the most pages during the school year and for that achievement I won the boxed set of Beatrix Potter's Peter Rabbit. It was perfect timing. School was ending and I could lounge around and read to my heart's content all summer long.

The timing of this win is perfect too. I've been kind of paralyzed for a while. My husband leaving and the ensuing divorce had numbed me. I was like a book when the title and picture on the cover had been removed. You couldn't really tell if there was anything interesting there or not. For the longest time no one knew that I felt completely wiped out on the inside too...Blank.

At first, I thought this was a horrible injustice that could never be rectified. My life as I knew it had been taken away. It was literally erased in the space of one day! But I'm rethinking my former assumption that my life was over; just another tragic life with an even sadder ending. Now, I sincerely believe and know that just the opposite is true, MY LIFE IS JUST BEGINNING!

I am feeling more energetic. I am actually looking forward to tomorrow and the future in general. I've made some plans and I've taken some action towards making those plans a reality.

The First Wives World site and the many wonderful women I've met and befriended here have made such a difference in my life. I am reminded through the blogs, comments and discussion replies from each contributor that it is indeed my life and I do have control over it. I can give permission for others to define who I am, or with courage, boldness and renewed love and belief in myself, I can redefine my own life!

"If you do not wish to be prone to anger, do not feed the habit; give it nothing which may tend to its increase."  —Epictetus (55 A.D.–135 A.D.)

This is the way that I have been trying to live. It seems that out of all of this — the sadness, the despair, the desperation, the lonlieness, the worrying, the anxiety — that the anger has been the one emotion that no matter how hard I try to shake it off, it continues to hang on.

I've written so much about how angry I am at Levi. How I'm angry about what he's done to me, to us, to our son. How I'm angry that this divorce left me bare, stripped of all of my innocent beliefs of true love and Prince Charmings.

But what I haven't written too much about, haven't even really realized on a conscience level myself, is how I am angry with myself.

How could I have been so stupid? is something that often comes to my mind. How could I have not seen the forest through the trees?

I told my therapist that if I met Levi for the first time today, I know that I wouldn't even like him. In fact, when I first met him, I didn't really like him...at all.

It was the idea that — this man loves himself so much there must be something great about him — that kept me coming back for more.

Last night I got home after working for 12 hours, my kid had pink eye, the house was a mess, and my cat had puked all over the floor. It's nights like these that I become angry with myself for ever even believing in Prince Charming and happily-ever-after in the first place.

Except now, as I feel the anger washing over me, I give it nothing, I do not feed it and I feel it fade away faster and faster.

I hope maybe if I keep this up, I will find a way to let go of the anger.

Tomorrow is my second unmarried birthday.

I hate my birthday. It's been a bad day for years — a day to be disappointed. A day of promises that your partner will come home, only he won't. Or he'll forget. Or he'll blow the whole thing off as not a big deal, anyway.

Plus that whole Husband Moving Out the Day After thing — that will kind of taint your birthday — well, forever.

What was I thinking? How was this in any way a good idea? For the rest of my life, no matter how happy I am, no matter how good a place I'm in, November 14th will always be the anniversary of this, so far, hardest day. My birthday will always be the anniversary of the day before: the Day Before the Hardest Day. The Last Day.

That first birthday alone — it wasn't bad. It really wasn't.  But boy, did I work for that. The effort that went into not making it a big deal, making sure there were no expectations, making sure it was just any other day — it was a lot.

This year, I just can't muster the energy. I'm tired. The last couple of weeks have been hard. The effort involved in being that nonchalant, of steeling and girding and getting myself together so Thursday won't be crushing — the very thought exhausts me. To the point where I'm thinking one day of suck might be better than the week of prep.

The thing is, I used to really like my birthday. Not that anything big or important would ever happen, and not that I wanted that. But it was a nice day, and usually nice things would happen. Now, though, it just leaves me lonely and sad and wondering why no one will ever love me as much as my cat does.

I wonder what it's going to take to make that go away. I guess if something really amazing and magical happened on my birthday, that might knock the other associations into second place. Like, I don't know, Josh Groban showing up in my kitchen to make me pancakes. But I'm not holding my breath.

I read Inner Work by Robert Johnson, a book about using your dreams and active imagination as a pathway to finding your "true" self. It's definitely not a novel; as a matter of fact, it's a pretty intense book, but it's one of those reads that you absolutely cannot put down.

It's packed with a lot of Jungian psychology; which to me, made it ten times better (I find that stuff fascinating).

Anyway, it's really a workbook for understanding and listening to your subconscious self by way of your dreams. I figure that since the majority of us bloggers here have mentioned a strange dream at least once, that I'd share the info.

According to the book, everything in your dream — people, places, objects, food, colors, etc. — are all symbolic representations of yourself, and knowing this is the first step to cracking your dream's deeper meaning.

A dream interpretion looks like this:

1. Write down your entire dream.

2. List every object and person.

3. Next to each object, write down what it means to you.

4. They say to use the "it clicks" method, which means that as you are writing down the meanings you will eventually stumble upon one that will make you say, "ahhh ha!" The more and more that you do, this the more natural it will become.

I tried it out on a bizarre dream I had the other night. In my dream I was in a big old house that I was not familiar with. Levi was there and we were getting along, but it was awkward. I was in the living room changing Adrian's diaper when Levi said to me, "Something is different about you. What's changed?" I looked at him and replied, "I'm not insecure anymore." As I was saying this to him, I noticed his cousin in the corner and it made me feel awkward that I said that in front of him.