Welcome to the Nut Hut

Part of me always suspected that one day I’d end up in some sort of mental health facility. I said it jokingly to friends and family but inside part of me thought it was a bit prophetic. When I thought about it, it would be like a nice mental vacation. I’d sit in the day room and look out of the window onto the beautifully manicured lawns. On sunny days, I’d walk though those lawns. I would take in the nature, and my mind wouldn’t race. I could breathe.

When I got here, I knew it wouldn’t be like that. After my suicide attempt going home from the emergency room wasn’t an option. I needed to go to another facility, a facility for people like me. After a day on suicide watch, I was transported in the ‘prison van’ to Queen’s Valley Psychiatric Hospital. I had to strip down, bend over and cough before putting on my new hospital clothes and wristband. I wasn’t allowed to have my journal because it was wire-bound. I could use that wire to hurt myself or someone else. Likewise, I had to give up my tennis shoes (laces) and the ponytail holder I had used to pull my hair back (still not sure what I could have done with that).

My roommate was an attempted suicide like me. Amanda was suffering from depression that was exacerbated when she gave birth to her now eight-month-old daughter. She was nice though. She had a fragile look about her and a big Southern drawl. She reminded me of a Tennessee Williams heroine.

The real deal was nothing like my psych ward daydream. There was no view to speak of. My room overlooked the parking lot. In the ‘day room,’ where we spent most of our time, there was no view at all.

Instead of walking the lush grounds, for exercise, we could walk up and down the hall in our socks. This was real. I was in a psych ward because I tried to take my own life. I was there with attempted suicides and others on some sort of drug detox. A few older patients suffered from dementia. One was paranoid schizophrenic/manic-depressive and in drug withdrawal. All of us needed help and after one group session, we affectionately refer to this place as The Nut Hut.

I liked group sessions because they were helpful and because they offered a break from the monotony. On the second day, I got the ‘workbook.’ It covered coping skills and stress management techniques. I delved into it reading every article and completing every exercise.

The Beginning

All there was to do was my workbook and think. I thought a lot about how I’d gotten there. The incident that drove me to such an extreme was not that bad in retrospect (not like anything should be that bad). Yet, it had been building for years. In the back of my mind, the thought was there, only my Dad really gives a damn. If I died tomorrow, after I was in the ground for a week, it would be like I had never been here. Everyone, but Dad, would immediately move on and not give Karyn Beach a second thought.

Hell, even Dad was remarried with college-age daughter and three stepsons he considered his own. I’m sure Natasha would make a better daughter than I would. She would give him a family with grandkids of his own. I would never do that. Hell, I couldn’t even get a date never mind a husband. Kids? I wanted them, I wanted them badly, and always thought I would have one (never wanted more). I just didn’t want to do it on my own. I was not cut out for single motherhood. I wanted a child but more than that, I wanted a family of my own. I wanted to give my kid what I had had, two loving parents.

After my mom died, the thought that carried me through was that one day, I would have a family of my own. There would be a man who loved me. We would build a life together. Two would become one and all that crap. And those two would create a new one: a boy. This was the dream, the goal, the ideal.

What I got was nothing. I had none of it. The things I wanted most of all had eluded me. My successes had been lopsided: all professional, no personal. I was very good at my job – whatever it was. News producer, corporate trainer, communications associate, freelance writer, author. If I put my mind to it, it got done. For me, it was easy.

Through work, I had traveled from Los Angeles to London to Johannesburg. On my own, I had developed a successful movie review website; I had written a screenplay that was made into a short film starring Danny Glover; I had self-published several books and turned a profit; I won $100,000 on Who Wants to be a Millionaire. Part of my winnings went to buy the house I live in and love.

Yet, the only love I had was my Dad and my dog, Marty. How pathetic. I jokingly referred to the men in my past as The Cavalcade of Clowns. These were men who never appreciated me, men who never went out of their way for me, men who expected me to give and give and give but had no intention of giving in return. In a word, they were losers. Of course, the only consistent thing in those relationships was me. I own my collections of clowns because I selected them, tried to make it work with them and was legitimately hurt when it didn’t work out.

My Major Depression

When I met Les, at the age of 40, I thought all of that was about to change. I thought he was The One. I thanked God for him. He was an educated, professional man. He was attractive, well-travelled, had a successful career. He was also the only man who had ever taken the time to read anything I had written. We just clicked.

When he said he had planned a trip to Europe for the holidays, I didn’t bat an eye. His mom had recently passed, and he didn’t want to spend the holidays alone in the States. I waited patiently for his return. I thought we’d just pick up where we left off. I was wrong.

When he returned, he informed me that his job was moving him back to Atlanta and, here’s the kicker, he had run into an ex-girlfriend in Germany who had a three-month old son, his son. Over the next month, he got the paternity test that confirmed his fatherhood. A month afterward, he told me Hanna was moving to Atlanta. A month after that, she was in Atlanta and had already landed a job as a nurse. They were a family.

What the hell? Here I am thinking I’ve met The One only to watch him ride off in the Atlanta sunset with a woman (a wife) and their baby. This was supposed to be my happy ending and it ended up a total nightmare.

It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. This was my last chance, and it was gone. There was not going to be a husband and there certainly wasn’t going to be a child. It was going to be me, just me, just like it had been since I was 15. What the fuck?

This became my first official foray into depression. Looking back, there had been other episodes, but I got help, professional help for this one. I made an appointment with a therapist. She asked if I wanted medication and I declined. I couldn’t be that bad off, could I? But months and months of sessions didn’t help. I was getting worse. I got to the point where I’d cry at work. I would come home and look down from my office loft and wonder if jumping would kill me. I decided it would just cripple me and I’d be even worse off.

I didn’t pray as much as I yelled and cursed at God for hurting me. I thought He was cruel. Who puts a dream so strong and bright in someone’s heart and then deny it to them? Who lets someone, after years, get so close and then yank it away? Why did I get a front row center seat to watch Les walk away with an instant family? He won. She won. His son won. I lost. I lost. It was never going to change. I was always going to be alone. No man to love me. No son to call me mom. Just me … me and an old dog.

When I wasn’t yelling at God, I was lying in bed asking him to take me in my sleep. When I looked at my future, quite possibly another 40 years on my own, I knew I didn’t want it. I knew I couldn’t do it. Every day I was getting worse. I got to the point where just getting through the day was difficult. I felt like I was walking through molasses. I admitted defeat and got on Zoloft. After a few weeks, I started to feel better, like myself again. After a year, I stopped the meds because I didn’t think I needed them.

Yet, nothing changed. I dated two guys, both mistakes. The first, Prince, was a true mama’s boy; she lived with him and his two delinquent teen sons. The second, Julian, ended up being a sociopath and manipulative liar. Before I met Julian’s other girlfriend, he had convinced me to ‘help’ him by taking out four payday loans that he swore he’d pay back. It took me a full year to pay that debt off. All of this was confirmation for me. Things would never change. I’d always be alone. No decent man would ever want me.

Business as Usual

I’ve been told that working and staying busy is how I cope with things. My therapist told me that my major depressive episode was long overdue. She theorized that I had kept it at bay for several years because I was always doing something. When the Les thing happened, it stopped me in my tracks. The tsunami I’d been running from finally caught up with me and almost drowned me.

But it is my go-to coping mechanism because it works. I can be distracted easily with my projects and to-do lists. I threw myself into writing my Get It Together Girl workbooks. I worked hard at my new job. I started a couple of blogs. I published my book on Amazon Kindle and people started reading it. I had success at work. I got fans for my blog. This was the successful Karyn Beach that everyone (including me) knew and loved.

I focused on my professional success and not my personal failures. When I did talk about the things that weren’t working with Dad and friends, they told me to think positive. They assured me that I was strong, and I could endure. Inside I knew they were wrong. I knew I had a breaking point and one day I would reach it. I just didn’t know when.

2012

The year started off well. I got a decent bonus and things were looking up. I also went to the doctor to figure out why I couldn’t lose any weight. After running a battery of test, I was told that I had a pituitary adenoma – small growths on my pituitary gland that made my body think I was pregnant. These were easily treated with medication. The adenoma explained my inability to lose weight. I needed an MRI to confirm it.

The MRI did just that, but it also revealed several ‘white lesions.’ These are normally associated with multiple sclerosis. I imagined the worst and, going through the worst alone. There would be no one to help me or tell me things were going to be okay. There was going to be no one there to help me confront this mammoth hurdle.

The second MRI confirmed the lesions but, since I wasn’t exhibiting any MS symptoms, we decided to hold off on any treatment.

I went through the summer date-less. I blamed my weight. Even though the pituitary adenoma was under control, I couldn’t discipline myself to stick to a diet. By August, Kristy, a co-worker had lost 50 pounds since the beginning of the year. I had barely managed 15. I knew what I needed to do to lose weight and as much as I hated what I looked like, for some reason, I couldn’t do it.

I always make a big deal about my birthday and 2012 was no exception. It was an amazing birthday and birthday week. Because I had lost some weight, I bought to pairs of jeans in a smaller size on my birthday. I also treated myself to a Pandora bracelet. My friends and I went to dinner and had a great time singing out hearts out at Howl at the Moon.

The next day, I drove down to Edisto Beach, South Carolina to spend a week at my Dad’s time share. On my first full day there, I sent photos of my upgraded condo to a few friends. I also sent a photo of me in my bathing suit to show my girls which suit I had selected.

Since I had gone by myself, I had time to think and reflect. I journaled a lot. I took a lot of photographs. I spent hours walking on the beach. By the third day, I had gotten up the courage to walk on the beach in my two-piece bathing suit sans long cover-up. I didn’t love my body, but I was starting to make peace with it. This was progress.

On the way home, I was positive and optimistic. This was the best birthday week ever. I felt good. I felt like I could do this – finally lose the weight and take control of my personal life. I was ready and I hadn’t felt this ready in years.

All of that changed when I got to work. My co-worker informed me that Kristy, who I thought was a friend, and who received the photos I’d texted, had walked around, and shown the picture of me in my bathing suit to everyone on my team and several others. They had a good laugh at my expense. I was horrified and humiliated. The truce I had made with my body while at Edisto was over. These women (including my boss) had laughed at me, confirming everything negative I had thought about myself. I really was a hideous, fat, ugly mess. I was worthy of ridicule.

When my boss found out that I knew, she was mortified. She apologized profusely, which is more than I could say for Kristy. When I confronted her, she shrugged and said, “Oh well, it’s over now.” It wasn’t over for me, though. Every time I saw one of my teammates, I relived the ridicule in my mind. I shut down, staying at my desk all day, and then leaving. I couldn’t trust these bitches.

After about a week, I had to do something. Confrontation didn’t work. Keeping to myself wasn’t working. I needed a major change. What I needed was a new job. I went home and did that thing I do. I got to work. I updated my resume and started applying for jobs. I was not applying for any job; I wanted to move up in responsibility and income. After over 15 years in training, I wanted to finally be a training manager.

Out of the first three jobs I applied for, two weren’t interested but the third was. It was a dream job. I’d be building a training department from scratch, and it was less than 15 minutes from my garage to their door. After a very good phone interview, I was even more interested. Before my face-to-face interviews, I put together a portfolio of my best work. After my interviews, I knew I had it. Both interviews were flawless. I couldn’t have done any better if I tried.

I prayed. I asked family and friends to pray. I started planning what I would do with the $20,000 of extra income. I mentally rehearsed what I would say to my boss when I quit. The light at the end of the tunnel was getting brighter and soon I would walk away from those catty women and the toxic work relationships.

Less than a week later, I got a voicemail. They’d gone with another candidate. I didn’t get the job. They went with someone else. How could that be? How could they choose anyone else? I was stuck at my current job. I was stuck working with that bunch of catties, toxic bitches.

I was stuck.

I was stuck in my job. I was stuck alone and without a partner, child, or family of my own. I was stuck in this fat body. I was stuck. I couldn’t stop thinking, I’m stuck and nothing will ever change. It’s always going to be like this. Nothing will ever change. It’s always going to be like this. I’m stuck. I’m alone. I’m trapped. Nothing will change. Nothing will ever change.

By this time, tears were streaming down my face. I was screaming. I fell to my knees and tried to pray. I couldn’t calm my mind enough. My thoughts were screaming even louder. Nothing will ever change. It’s always going to be like this. Nothing will ever change. It’s always going to be like this.

Then, it became clear. I went to the loft, got a notebook, and started writing. I was half-way through it when I realized I was writing a suicide letter. I apologized to my Dad. I explained that I was just tired. I was tired and I didn’t want to do this anymore.

I drove to CVS to pick up a prescription for Ativan my doctor had called in for me. I’d been dealing with the stress of having a mouse in my house. Even after I’d called an exterminator and caught it, I couldn’t calm down. With every noise or move the dog made, I jumped. I couldn’t take it anymore and I thought the meds would help. Now, they were going to help me do something else.

On the way back, I called my Dad. I had to talk to him, the note wouldn’t be enough. I told him about the job and how tired I was. I explained that it was all getting to be too much. He told me to be positive and to pray. I knew that wouldn’t work. By this time, I was home. I assured him I’d be okay. After I hung up, I poured a big glass of Moscato and took a handful of pills.

It is strange to say but I felt a feeling of accomplishment. I finally had the guts to do it. I’d thought about it often when I’d gone through that depressive episode, but I didn’t have the guts. Now, I did. The last thought I remembered having was that the pills didn’t seem to be working.

Before I’d written the letter, I had told my friend Paulette about the job. She knew I wasn’t doing well and said she was coming down from Concord. I’d called her back and told her she didn’t need to come. She came anyway. When I woke up, I was in emergency, and she was there. She’d read my letter and implored me to tell the doctors the truth about what I’d done. Less 24 hours later, I was headed to The Nut Hut.

Talking to the Girls

Amanda was freezing cold at night. Although she slept closest to the heater, she’d turn it all the way up and cover herself with blankets. I love warmth and almost never get hot, but it was like sleeping in a sauna. The mattress was a joke, super thin and laying on top of a piece of metal. If you weren’t crazy before, you would be after a few nights on that contraption.

They put me on Trazodone instead of Ambien. At lights out, I would lie there, in the heat, and wait for the pill to take effect. I was with my thoughts all day and they were there in the dark too. Together, we waited for sleep.

Normally, I don’t dream. However, on my third night there, I had a dream so vivid and so clear that it scared me. In fact, part of me wonders if I was dreaming.

I woke up aching from that sorry excuse for a bed. It was light in the room and Amanda wasn’t there. Sitting on her bed were two Black girls. I was a little freaked out since kids weren’t allowed and I didn’t know how they got into my room. They looked familiar though.

“Who are you?” I asked.

The girls just smiled and the youngest one, about eight years old got up and walked to the door, peering out into the hallway. As she walked back to sit next to the teenager, I realized exactly who she was.

She wore jean shorts and a white 1976 Olympics tank top. Her hair was in two small ponytails. She smiled at me, and I could tell she would eventually need braces.

Her companion was around 14. Like her younger counterpart, she was a brown-skinned girl. There were a few pimples on her face and braces on her teeth. She had short hair and needed a haircut with some style. She was wearing a light slate blue dress with a Peter Pan collar. It was a church dress. I always hated that dress – but I ended up wearing it for our last family portrait.

So, there I was, 44-year-old Karyn Beach staring at an 8-year-old and 13-year-old versions of herself.

The girls hadn’t answered my question. I answered it for them. “You guys are me?”

Kiddie Karyn just smiled, and Teen Karyn spoke, “We’ve been watching you and we’ve wanted to talk to you for a while. After this, we knew we had to.”

“What about Mom?” I asked. Kiddie Me broke into a broad grin and I knew they had seen her.

“Doesn’t she want to talk to me too?” I continued.

“She does. But she knows you aren’t ready for that yet.” Teen Me said.

I knew she was right. I almost never dream of Mom and when I do, it scares me. I wish I could see her and talk to her in my dreams but the thought of it is just too much for me. In fact, the fear of it is one of the reasons I’d always struggled with sleep.

“What do you want to talk to me about?”

“We want to know what you’re doing,” Teen Me said matter-of-factly.

“What I’m doing? What do you mean,” I responded.

“What are you doing here? What have you been doing?” Teen Me said with a mixture of annoyance and anger.

“Well, do you know why I’m here?” I asked. I wasn’t sure I wanted to have to explain it.

“Yes, I know that” she said, with that air of impatience that teen girls often have. “What we want to know is what happened to you. What happened to us?” she pointed at Kiddie Me who was fidgeting next to her. “We had a dream about what it would be like to grow up. You were supposed to make those things happen.”

Unable to sit still any longer and wanting in on this conversation, Kiddie Me came and sat next to me. “Nobody is going to tell me what to eat, what to watch on TV and when to go to bed!” We laughed because I recalled that memory very clearly.

“At least I made her dreams come true,” I thought. Looking at her, I said “Well, no one tells me when to go to bed; I go to bed when I want to. I watch anything and everything I want to watch on TV and, the reason I’ve gained so much weight is because I’ve eaten exactly what I want to eat!”

Kiddie Me laughed and I even managed to get a smile out of Teen Me.

I continued with a more serious tone, “Now about the eating. We’re still going to eat what we want, but we are going to have to find healthy things we like, because we don’t want to be fat, do we?”

Kiddie Me shook her head vigorously. We both know how she’d treated one of our overweight cousins and the girl who lived on the corner. The Kiddie Me did not want to be fat.

“Okay?” I asked.

“Okay.” She agreed, but the way she was scrunching her nose up, I could tell she had some reservations.

“And I promise not to eat anything yucky.”

She laughed and she decided to investigate the contents of my little closet. Satisfying her was easy. Teen Me would be a lot harder. She was upset and I thought I knew why. She’s had a lot to contend with.

I started, “Is it mom you’re worried about?”

“It’s everything,” she said, as tears filled her eyes. “It’s Mom. It’s boys. It’s my stupid face. It’s everything!”

“Well, the good part is that your skin will clear up.” That much I knew was true.

“What about everything else? Mom isn’t going to get better, is she?”

I knew exactly what she was about to go through and there were no words that would prepare her. There was no way she could escape the pain. There was silence between us as I searched for something remotely encouraging to say.

Since I couldn’t think of anything encouraging, I opted for the truth. “No, she’s not.”

The tears that had welled up in her eyes streamed down her cheeks. I sat next to her and put my arms around her.

“But I’m here now, so you know that you’ll make it. You will get through it. I’m living proof.”

She jumped up and spun around. “Okay, but what about everything else?”

“Everything else?” I asked.

“You know what,” she said angrily.

Kiddie Me came back over wearing my pink sweatshirt.

Teen Me continued. “Where is our family? Where is our husband and our kid?”

I stammered because I didn’t have an answer.

“Look at me!” Teen Me implored. “Braces, bad hair, bad skin. ‘Black and ugly,’ you know that’s what some of the boys call me in gym.”

Ouch, that was still a painful memory. The truth of the matter was that I’ve never stopped identifying with the teary-eyed teenager in front of me. Those boys said it and I embraced it as a truth. I never let it go.

“We were supposed to prove them wrong. We were supposed to show them. Why didn’t you?”

She wanted an answer, but I didn’t have one.

“Look at you! You don’t have braces. Our teeth are straight now. You’re right. Our skin did clear up. You weren’t always heavy. I thought things would change for us. We’d grow up and be pretty. We’d have boyfriends. We’d get married and have a family. I’ve been here all this time, watching, waiting. I need to know. I deserve an answer.”

I sighed. What could I say? Did I tell her that in a lot of ways I was still her, 30 years later? Do I try to explain that I grew up and never felt like that pretty girl she wanted us to be? How do I tell her that I never felt like I could get a decent boyfriend so I settled for what I could get? How do I admit to her that eventually, I stopped trying?

“I’m sorry. I let you down. We grew up but I never stopped feeling like you feel right now. I never got that confidence. So, I worked. I worked at school and then I worked at work. We’re smart. We’re funny. When it comes to work, I have that confidence. You must be happy with what I’ve managed to accomplish in that area. It sounds silly, but I figured that other stuff would just work itself out.”

“Well, it didn’t,” she said to me while staring at the ground.

“I wish things would have been different. I wish I had learned to love the girl, and then the woman, looking back at me in the mirror. I wish I had learned to see something besides flaws and shortcomings. Maybe if I had things would have been different.”

She didn’t say anything. She just sat there crying and staring at the floor. She wouldn’t even look at me.

“I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me,” I uttered.

Finally, she looked at me with red eyes. “I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. I don’t want you to hate you.”

Now, it was my turn to cry. This teenager who thought she knew everything was right about this. In some ways, I liked the woman we’d become. We were smart, funny, and successful. We had good friends and family, and, of course, Dad. Yet, when it came to my appearance and how I had handled my relationships or lack thereof, I did hate myself. It was true.

I acknowledged her truth. “You’re right and it needs to stop. I want to stop. I just need to figure out how.”

She came over and held my hand. We were both crying now. “It’s not too late. We still have a chance to have something good. It doesn’t have to be like this. We don’t have to be alone. We don’t.”

I wanted to be able to tell her that I could do it. I could be better. I could change over 30 years of thinking. I could learn to love myself, whatever that means. I wanted to say that I could develop enough confidence, courage, and self-esteem to venture out into the brutal dating world. I wanted to believe that I could still make our teenage dream come true.

What the Teen Me would never be able to understand was how 30 years of flying solo could take its toll. I always felt so alone. I was very tired, not just physically tired but truly soul tired – tired to my core. I really didn’t think I could do what she was asking me to do, no matter how much I want to.

Kiddie Me came and sat on my other side. She was happy and confident. She was determined. She was me before the insecurities set in. I wondered what Teen Me would be like if this little girl grew up without the limitations of low self-esteem and doubt. What would Teen Me be like? What would I be like? If Kiddie Me had had her way this whole time, I wouldn’t be in The Nut Hut, in a hot room, having a dream or hallucination about younger versions of myself.

I wanted to live a life that would make Kiddie Karyn proud. I wanted to live a life that would make Teen Karyn happy with the choices I’d made.

“What happens now?” I asked.

“You’re the adult, shouldn’t you be telling me.” Teen Me said sarcastically. She was always a bit of a smart ass.

Again, I sighed. “I guess I have some work to do.”

Kiddie Me smiled and said with the confidence that is her hallmark, “You can do it!”

Teen Me agreed. “Yes, you can.”

Teen Me then grabbed my hand and added, “Mom thinks, no I know, that she knows you can. She didn’t raise us to give up. She told me to tell you that if you need her, she’s always there. We all are.”

And then, I woke up. The room was beyond hot. Amanda was curled up in several blankets. I had been dreaming. As I laid there and recalled it, it felt more like a memory. Whatever it was, I knew I needed to honor those girls. I needed to honor myself and be the woman I was meant to be.

When a Plan Comes Together

Morning came quickly. It would be another long day at The Nut Hut. I worked on my workbook and began to plan. Initially, my goal was to learn coping skills that would keep me from making a return visit. I did not want to ever come back here again. Now, I realized that this was just my first step. Staying out of here was a good idea but I needed to do more. I needed to make the girls proud of me. I needed to remember what they had wanted for our life and make it happen. They were counting on me. I was counting on me.

I needed to learn the skills that would help me cope. I needed to figure out how to love myself … and how to like myself. I needed to figure out what I wanted and find the courage to go after it.

First, I had to admit to myself that I suffered from depression. It was okay to take medication or speak with a therapist. Then, I mined that workbook for all the tools I could find to help me handle my emotions better. There were affirmations I could use, questions I could ask myself when negative thoughts began to take over. There were stress management techniques I could learn. I spoke with the doctors, social workers and even the techs in the psych ward. I got their advice and their tips as well.

I shared everything I’d done with my doctors. I wasn’t getting out until I had a plan in place. I shared with them my completed workbook and the plan I had developed. I told them who was in my support group and how I needed each of them to support me.

Armed with my plan and a 100mg Zoloft prescription, a week after my suicide attempt, I left The Nut Hut.

Next Steps … Baby Steps

Once at home, it was best to reach out to my support system and offer each of them the sincerest of apologies for what I had put them through. While I was away, I had tons of time to think. I realized that while I didn’t have a husband or child, it didn’t mean that I didn’t have love. I had discounted the love and support of my family and my friends. I overlooked them and for that I was truly sorry.

I waited about a week and then went back to each of them and admitted that I suffered from depression. For some of them, I gave them articles and tried to educate them on my disease. I spoke to each of them about how specifically they could support me and what I needed from them.

Strangely, while talking to family and friends, they showed more emotion about my actions than I showed for what I did to myself. I can’t explain nor do I understand why my emotions are so muted when it comes to my suicide attempt. It’s some sort of coping mechanism. I don’t know. I just trust that one day, I’ll be able to connect with my emotions regarding this dark act.

For now, I will do what I always do. I’ll get to work. I’ll work at learning to love myself. I’ll work at losing weight and taking care of myself. I’ll work at getting control of my finances. At some point, when I’m feeling stronger, I’ll begin working at dating. I realize now that I must tackle this like I’ve tackled everything else I’ve acquired – by developing a plan and working that plan.

I will make myself and the girls proud … and happy.