One person's sanctuary is another's asylum. 

I returned to upstate New York last Thursday after six weeks of the NYC job search scene — a grueling, merciless, yet necessary torture.

While I did cut commuting costs, the lack of space to breathe and recoup at day's end in the city surely did nothing to prepare me to get up and go it all over again the next day.

So what does that mean for me now? Where do I go from here?

I am halfway through my fourth month of unemployment — with less answers than I had in the first. Having followed every bit of direction and bartering every pearl of wisdom given to me, it seems that I have come full circle, with no alternative but to go the cycle again.

Remember Sisyphus?

At this point, perseverance and insanity have but one thin, heavily smudged line betwixt the pair, and I find myself on most days doing a very peculiar dance: one that involves great endurance. At this point, I've got enough energy to keep up the fight — for now, at least.

I know that I must can't give up — even when the odds are not in my favor.

What keeps me going? I remind myself of how great that victory dance is going to be. 

A few months after leaving Sam, I reclaimed my name professionally. I was on the verge of filing for divorce (which I never did) and I was starting to write again (which I'd done very little of in the second half of our marriage) and I didn't want his name in print above my work.

I was on deadline one afternoon, reading back through a story and there it was at the top: "By Elaina Blacksmith." I thought: That's not true. That's not me. Felt like his name was sticking its tongue out at me.

A few quick keystrokes and I was back to the woman I'd been forever, the woman I swore I'd always be. Sure, it was just a symbolic change. But there's a big lot of truth in symbolism.

When I got married, I didn't give much thought to giving-up "Goodman." I figured I'd always write under it, so no big deal if I became Blacksmith for everything else. Huh! What total crap. Or as my good friend says, TFBS — you can figure what it stands for.

I had the foresight to recognize and to tell Sam my writing comes from all the people who came before me. Even if they didn't publish or do this for a living, I come from generations and generations of writers and the name on my work should honor the family it comes from. "Blacksmith" had nothing to do with it.

Funny thing, though: The further I got into marriage, further I got from myself, the less it mattered. "Goodman" became "Goodman-Blacksmith" in print and eventually, when I discovered it wouldn't fit over a single newspaper column, I dropped Goodman. By then, I was so far away from my original self, I didn't care what I was called.

I know a lot of women who regret taking their partner's name, and a few who have recently taken back their own. They've incorporated it with a hyphen or reverted to it for professional purposes while keeping their partners name for personal matters.

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.

"Marriage makes you soft," I once told my female co-workers. This was a few years ago, during a very active hurricane season here in Florida.

My husband, Ed, was spending time in rehab, so it was up to me to get the house ready for an approaching storm. I was not handling the task very well.

I'd been doing okay working full-time at a new job, taking care of our many pets and, when I was permitted, driving 15 miles through traffic to visit Ed. But I quickly wore myself out hauling in the lawn furniture, the plants, the grill and all the other stuff we kept outside.

In a hurricane, that stuff becomes projectiles.

And then there was that little matter of the steel storm panels, the ones that are supposed to be secured across the sliding glass door. I'd donned high-top sneakers and leather work gloves to give it the old college try, but by the time I'd hauled 3 of the 12 heavy panels from storage, I was exhausted.

Surprised and frustrated to find that I really couldn't do it all, all by myself, I burst into bitter tears.

Surely I had not been such a wuss before I became a wife.

Wuss or no, I still had to secure the house.

The next morning, as insistent breezes announced the proximity of the storm, I was back at it, determinedly ferrying the storm panels to the front of the house. Two of my neighbors, Bob and Joe, were outside, so I stopped for a few minutes to chat. As I prepared to get back to work, Bob asked, "Do you need some help?"

Do I what?

I almost said no. I'd always thought of myself as independent and completely capable. But common sense prevailed.

Bob and I got the panels up in a matter of minutes, during which I realized it is a two-person job. Duh.

When we finished, I barely managed to keep from crying as I thanked him profusely.

"It's nothing," he said. "That's what neighbors do."

Is the term "cougar" really that bad? As my FWW colleague Debbie Nigro points out, the term is used to “describe a woman who chooses to play/date/carouse/befriend a younger man.”

Debbie thinks the term is demeaning to women because it “makes it sound like older women are pouncing on innocent young men, when truthfully we are treating them” to our wisdom, experience, and an occasional expensive dinner.

“Neither side in this romantic pairing initially embarks innocently and without agenda,” Debbie wrote. “Both find it curious.”

Debbie, however, thinks there should be a new word and is offering radio stations, newspapers, and TV shows the opportunity to run a contest to find a better term. We’ll use their results and then take a national poll.

But here’s the thing: I like the term “cougar.”

First of all, at least men aren’t invoking another animal analogy, like “hog” or “rhinoceros.” A cougar is thin, feline, beautiful, and strong.

It’s also sleek, smart and pursues a wide variety of prey. Variety is always good especially when you’ve lived a life being loyal to one person who then either dumps you or disappoints you.

In fact, this cat has the greatest range of any wild, terrestrial mammal in the Western Hemisphere.

Note: Wider than the wolf.

It’s solitary and doesn’t need to stick around, like those herding animals. Nor does a cougar want to stick around, which, natch, makes them more appealing.

Bellevue is called "The Birthplace of Nebraska," and there could not be a better place to exemplify the Heartland of America. What is it like to be a divorced woman in this small city, surrounded by farms, churches, a neighboring Air Force Base, a place where folks are friendly, patriotism is abundant, and conservatism reigns.

Sara Muse, 23, knows what it is like to endure a divorce in this conservative part of the country, and she knows what it’s like to do it with a 3-year-old daughter, Rhyanne, in tow.

"I was married for about a year and a half before she was born," Sara says. Her eyes light up when she speaks about Rhyanne, whom she has essentially been raising by herself since her divorce a year ago.

"He sees her a couple of times a month … at my house, not at his. He'll come over for a few hours and then leave. He doesn't take her overnight."

Sara does not fit the stereotypical image of a divorced woman, and a single mother. She’s a Staff Sergeant in the U.S. Air Force and a semester away from earning her bachelor's degree in marketing management.

She volunteers, and is active in her church. "When I first separated I was 21 with a small child, and I was walking around with no ring on my finger,” she says.

“People will look at you and the child, then your hand and there’s just this, 'How old are you? Did you get pregnant in high school? Did you make a mistake? Did you not play by the rules?'"

She’s also heard people say, “Oh you are so young to already be divorced.”

She says, “Like I’m starting on this path to five or six husbands."

Check back tomorrow for the story of Sara’s marriage

I am about a month into my new life — and I am slowly losing my mind.

Actually, it’s not that slow.

Since leaving school, I have traveled back to the West Coast to present some research, moved — to the suburbs, no less -- and have not managed to find a job. I cannot tell you how badly my nerves are frayed. If not for the fact that I am afraid of lightning storms, I would probably be able to run about 100 miles fueled by nervous energy.

I know life changes are not supposed to be easy. I have been through enough of them to know this is the case. But that doesn’t keep my insecurities from welling up and overriding my rational mind.

I think the thing that bothers me the most is that so much is out of my control. Nothing chafes me as much as being without a job. Living in a country where people are defined by what they do, (I’m an investment banker, I’m a teacher, I’m a dog trainer), doing nothing leaves them feeling like they have nothing, like they are nothing.

I hate labels, always have, but that doesn’t fill the cavernous hole in my soul that not having a job has created.

There are a lot of men in my life who are telling me what to do.

I didn't realize it until recently. I was driving home from a session with my therapist and I started to wonder why I sought his approval so much. I mean, it's great that he's there for me to unload all my problems on, but it wasn't until that drive home that a light bulb came on in my head and I realized that just about everything my therapist says, I take to heart.

When he agrees with something I say, I'm pleased. When he disagrees with something I say, I start to wonder what I can do to fix my way of thinking.

I look for approval from my pastor a lot, too. We'll have conversations where a lot of the time my sentences end with, "...don't you think so?" or "...but what do you think?" Then when he tells me what he thinks, I mull it over for quite some time.

I look for approval from my husband. Even though he wholly ignores my writing I still mention some of my new jobs to him once in a while, hoping that he'll take a look on his own and tell me what he thinks. When something happens that I'm proud of — paying off a bill, getting a big project around the house finished, or whatever other good things I may do — I hope that my husband will give me a pat on the back for it.

How did I get so needy? It's not like I had an absent father growing up or anything like that. Is this something that most women just innately do?

When I was readying myself to leave my husband, all I really wanted was for someone to tell me it was the right decision. When my pastor told me he thought a trial separation might be a good idea, I felt empowered. When my therapist didn't like the idea, I began to rethink the whole thing. When my husband said that he didn't want to separate, it was like the wind was taken out of my sails.

What do I have to do to start thinking for myself?

In my preparations for graduation, I have come to realize that I am not making a big enough deal out of this. Ironically, it's for the same reason I have heard from people going into a second marriage. Mind you, not everyone shares this sentiment, but I have heard it enough to pose this question:

Why is it that the second chance is always downplayed?

I know that the fear of failure is always in the back of people's minds, also that the second "whatever" is testament to the fact that the first time didn't work out as planned.

Finally finishing my BA at the tender age of 32 is bittersweet. While I am thrilled that this day has come, and I am proud of what I have been able to accomplish — in spite of life's curveballs, there is a rather large part of me that wishes my mother didn't ask me to buy announcements, wasn't flying in for the ceremony, and that I didn't have to buy the commencement garb.

Thank goodness for those people who more or less make you celebrate the good times. Otherwise, not taking advantage of celebrating one of my biggest accomplishments — and certainly one of the happier milestones of my life — might in fact have turned out to be one of my biggest regrets. Celebrate the second time. Celebrate the third, fifth, ninth time. Just celebrate for Pete's sake. Be happy in the moment, and for the moment. Rejoice in the fact that you have another chance to be happy in life. I know I will.