A few months ago I attended my 35^th college reunion. I had been looking forward to this reunion for a few months. For the first time since graduation I felt accomplished and happy; genuinely happy. I didn’t get to see some friends I would have liked to because they didn’t come, but I did see a few I didn’t expect to see.

I was very proud of my class. We looked good! I admit I bought a dress last year specifically to wear to one of the events. It was a little tight at the time. I lost some weight and got into it and I ended up not going to the event I bought it for!

I had a small circle of friends while in college and a few of them live in Atlanta, as I do. I talk to them maybe every few months. I can’t say that we keep in constant touch. We have that connection where we don’t see each other for months, but when we do it’s as if we just saw each other yesterday. We have our own mini reunions when we can. They showed up at my husband’s funeral. I lend support when one of them has family or medical issues. These are my “sisters from another mother”.

A few days after all of the festivities were over some classmates starting posting messages about the next reunion in five years. I look forward to this one too. I will be there.

I’ve been sitting on this blog post for months. I originally wrote it when the Ray Rice domestic abuse incident was a major topic in the news.  I added my comment to #WhyIStayed on Twitter and I was going to let it go at that. Then, I thought why was I stopping? I kept thinking, is this too much? Should I let it go for now? Did I want to put my business in the street; even though this is the topic of my book. That’s also the problem with domestic abuse. The victim keeps quiet and no one knows. Women (and some men) are getting the life beat out of them and telling no one. The blog has sat for months, but now I’m posting.

Why I Stayed. I stayed because I was ashamed. My marriage was supposed to be great; maybe not perfect, but it was supposed to be great. On the outside he treated me well. We looked good. On the inside there were little things going on that no one else knew about; and to be honest, I didn’t think it was abuse. Sure, there were red flags in the beginning, but I took them all down and hid them away.

He alienated me from my friends. Most of them he didn’t like and they didn’t like him. He lied about himself to my family and I knew it. Whenever we had a big argument he would ask me if I had told my mother about it. I told no one.

He controlled where I went because he thought that when I wasn’t with him I was with another man. The only place I really went without him was to work. If I had to travel for my job, he went with me. Or, he told me he didn’t want me to go; and I didn’t.

He didn’t want me to talk to other men. I was accused of having sex with the mailman, our next door neighbor, my son’s baseball coach. Any man I talked to or interacted with was suspect.

I tweeted that I didn’t think I was abused because he didn’t hit me. Maybe everything was leading up to that. I don’t know. Words hurt as much as fists. He got into my head. I walked on eggshells around him. Why was I wearing perfume or makeup and who was I wearing it for. Who was calling the house from an 800 number and hanging up when he answered. He would tell me he saw me places with men when I wasn’t with him. The last few years of our marriage he probably called me out of my name more than he called me by my real name.

He left and it was probably the best thing that could have happened. I can’t say why I didn’t just pick up my children and go. I didn’t know where to go. Shame stopped me from going to or telling my family. I went to visit my mother without him once before he left. I was so close to telling her, but I never got it out.

After he left I eventually picked myself up and continued my life. I had to. I had to take care of my children. Then, he got really sick. I helped him through it. Why? I was still his wife. He told me he loved me before he died. I stated in an earlier post that I still loved him. I loved who he used to be. He would never go back to that and neither would I.  I felt sorry for him. He may have had other ideas during our marriage, but I knew I had honored my vows to him.

I have moved on and I’m trying not to carry this baggage into another relationship. I’m trying to remember that not all men are close-minded and accusatory. There are some good guys.

I begin this year starting anew in pretty much all things. I retired my job of 34 years on January 2^nd. I’m trying a healthier lifestyle in what I eat along with more physical activity. I’m working on my book and I plan to blog more. Last – and not least – I’ve started a relationship with a new man.

I’m 56 years old and sometimes I feel like I’m 26; more like I act like I’m 26. I still feel 56. I feel invigorated though. My 35^th college reunion is this spring and I can say I’m excited about going to this one. I actually feel good about ME. If I could have, I would have done this years ago. Here’s to 2015.

I attended a webinar last week presented by a couple of authors. They offered tips on writing and self-publishing. One of them said something that really hit home for me. She said she does not believe in writer’s block. She said it is actually fear; fear of what others will think.

I also saw this same topic on my Twitter timeline. The tweet was “Fear stops most people from writing, not lack of talent, whatever that is…”

I admit that fear has stopped me in my writing. Stepping out with this blog was a chore for me. I really didn’t want to put myself out there. Writing a book will be even more challenging. Who wants to hear what I have to say? I guess I’ll never know till I put it out there. I won’t give up. What’s the worst that can happen?

It’s after one in the morning and I’m up trying to think of something to write; watching Bette Davis in All About Eve. I watch this movie every time I see that it’s on. I love the sarcasm in old movies like this.

Anyway, here I sit. I can’t sleep and I can’t write. Instead of playing Spider Solitaire I decided to write this. Not much, but at least I’m writing something.

Here’s a topic – character development. I need to figure out how to better define my characters. Right now the main character is parts of me and a few other women I’ve known. She has no real characterization or meaning. I really don’t like her. I think I’ll write a short bio of her. Right now I don’t know who she is.

Guess I’ll go now. Bette Davis’ character has gotten drunk at her party and she’s insulting everyone. Maybe I should be making notes…

Twenty-one years ago I gave birth to my daughter. She is beautiful, creative and intelligent. She is my daughter, my friend and my confidant. I find myself telling her things I tell no one else and things I shouldn’t tell her at all. With no effort or coaching from me (that I am aware of) she has become an extraordinary person.

I can only hope that she continues on the path she is now forging. I hope that she does in life what she loves to do. I want her to work at her passion. She is creative and artistic. I hope she can use these talents to support herself in life.

I hope that she can find someone who loves and works with her, not against her. I hope he worships and appreciates her and that they are best friends first. I hope that he enhances her and does not tear her down.

To My Daughter: I hope that you become a happy, accomplished, successful woman.

I love you.

I will never be 55 again and I can’t go back to 25. I can only question the what-ifs and coulda, woulda, shouldas. I did what I did and I am what I am and I accept that.

I can’t say that I regret anything I’ve done – or haven’t done – in my life. Well, maybe I should have gone to prom when I was asked. Or, maybe I should have actively pursued that job at Hallmark Cards after I graduated from college. Again, coulda, woulda, shoulda.

I plan to retire from my job of almost 34 years in about 6 months. I’m not second guessing it. It’s time. It’s not as if I’m done and awaiting my last days. I feel the need to move on to something else. In retirement I want to write, learn to play guitar, learn to speak Spanish, do some volunteer work, travel, etc., etc. I still have children at home so I’ll still be involved with them, but this will be about me. I just want to wake up in the morning and make my own plans; not report to an office for 8 hours doing something I really don’t care about.

This is my next chapter; writing it as I go.

I’ve been hearing a lot lately about being true to yourself and following your dreams. Follow your dreams and do what you were truly meant to do. I’m sure this isn’t something people have just started to say. They’ve probably been saying it and I just started to listen.

I wasn’t sure of what to write about this week. I’m still trying to define this blog. I can proudly say that I am writing. I’m finally listening to that voice in my head – and the voice of a friend who continues to challenge me to “just do it”.

I’ve actually stepped into the pool, waist deep, not just dipping my toes in to test the water.

When I was a little girl, my sister and I would spend hours playing with Barbie dolls. This was before the Barbie townhouse and convertible. We built homes on our twin beds with furniture we fashioned from objects in our room. Their cars were shoeboxes. We named the dolls and created scenarios for them. We would play for hours during the summer while our mom was at work and pick up the story the next day. Children don’t play like this anymore. They want to see life-like images on computers and television screens.

My mom would take my sister and me to the library and read to us. When I was old enough to go on my own, I’d walk to the library almost every Saturday and spend the day browsing the shelves and reading. I got caught up in the adventures of Little Women, Little House on the Prairie and Encyclopedia Brown. I even tried to understand Shakespeare but I didn’t really appreciate his work until college.

When I was in college I would write letters to my mother at home. This was during the 70s. There was no internet or cell phones so I actually had to write the words. I wrote about my friends and (some of) the things we were doing. When my mom met my friends she said she felt as if she knew them already. I had given her such vivid descriptions of them in my letters.

I have tried to instill the love of the written word and imagination to my children. I don’t know that they’ve ever gotten it. My daughter was never a Barbie girl and my son may lose his thumbs to Xbox. They’re all caught up in social media and instant access via the internet. My daughter has come closest to realize there is a world outside of the internet. She’s introduced me to books I would never have thought to read (Hunger Games!).

I try to tell them that you can lose yourself in a good book and actually imagine yourself there and see the characters. For some reason the first thought that comes to my mind is Jack Torrance hearing the “metallic rattle” of the curtain rings moving across the shower rod in the bathroom in room 217 in The Shining; and OMG, the moving hedges! I couldn’t stand to be in my apartment by myself for days after reading that book.

Broken hearts and severed relationships are on my mind. One of my friends just went through a bad break up. I wrote this and thought of her, my younger self and the show Once Upon a Time. Where did that come from?

He tore out my heart
And put it in his pocket.
It was such an
Insignificant thing to him.
He tore out my heart
And let others look at it,
Laugh at it.
It didn’t matter that
I may need it later.
He laid claim to it himself;
Although he never planned to appreciate it.
He tore out my heart
And hid it somewhere.
He’s probably lending it out;
With no assurance that it comes back the same.
He tore out my heart
Though he is the heartless one.