Right now I am stuck in mud. 

For the record I am a 41 year-old divorcee with three teenaged girls.  On the upside I own my own business and my professional life is good.  I absolutely love my job and I am good at it.  My children are more than wonderful.  They are healthy, well behaved, and have excellent grades and we have fun together.  I have my health.  I know I am smart.  I have some wonderful friends.  I am told I am attractive.  I do see that in myself.  So, you might ask, what is my issue?  What is my problem?  Why do I feel I have been hit in the stomach one too many times?  Why do I feel like I could just sleep for days listening to mellow music, drinking cheap $7.00 wine and writing lists, looking to the horoscopes and trying to figure my life out?

I will tell you my friend.  The palm reader diagnosed my fortunistic dilemma (this visit of course was out of my sheer apparent desperation).  She took one look at my right hand and said in a spooky smoky fast speaking voice, “Your personal life, my dear, is a train wreck.” 

Ok so now it’s made public.  I can’t seem to get on the right train.

Looking in that crystal ball one could say my marriage failed because I couldn’t be what my husband wanted any longer.  I changed and he didn’t like that.  After 15 years of struggling I found myself in a box of despair just trying to claw my way out wondering exactly why it was I enrolled in that class anyway.  Complicated or not it was a  failing of relationship 101.  I am a person that does not like to fail.

Then adding to my negative GPA I signed up for relationship 102 failing miserably again.  After trying to pass that three year course the teacher just gave up.   What he wanted in the relationship didn’t exist anymore.  I liken this experience to never really getting a course syllabus.  The lectures would change in succession and the topics ranged to:  Maybe I want a family or Maybe I want a boat.  Nearing year three of classes he just decided to  bail and jump overboard.

I guess he decided he wanted to swim to a boat. 

It is always heartache to have any love  discarded so easily—I found myself pondering, “Am I really a joker in this deck of cards?”  I am feeling like Miss Havisham wondering out loud, “What kind of person does that?  What kind of character takes love so easily and just throws it away?”  But after months on the dating scene I still can’t get out of this sink hole or out of that wedding dress.  I need some chains on my tires or a really big 4-Wheel.   Why can’t I make myself love the self proclaimed millionaire that wants to sweep me off my feet?  Why can’t I give in to that really great Catholic family man that is so thoughtful and wonderful with his children? 

I am in the middle of a game of twister– in which all my clothes remain on and intact— until I can figure this out. 

My emotions are real, naked and stripped raw.

I have got to get unstuck and I just don’t know how. 

I want to ask the palm reader, “Ok, what is next for me really?” 

I look like I have my shit together on the outside.  I am not crazy, letting my house go to crap, and still really wearing any wedding dress.  I can get my ass out of bed.  I haven’t committed malpractice.  I am up on my case load.  I beat my partner on receivables for the 2010 tax year.  I do have some of my shit packed and in that samsonite suitcase.   I am licking my open wound—- I know.

It’s that personal duffle bag that has been re-routed and lost in transit.

My soul is more than badly bruised and tattered.  I am Michael Berg finding out my lover left the flat and  now it’s me lying on that empty bed.   I don’t know the hidden reason my lover left nor do I understand why he can’t see my soul and it’s value. 

I, my friend, am love sick and I can’t get over it.  I have never been this struck.  Taylor Swift could write my song.  I really am sick of humming the tune but can’t get it out of my mind.  Someone or something please help me change the station.  I need voo doo, a potion, leeches, something. 

I need to write and get this poison out.  I need ink therapy. I need anything and everything that can take my pain away.  I need my own support group. 

I need Amy’s box of tin foil mixed with that cymbal clashing monkey and a string of chili pepper lights.