“You’re a miserable person. I don’t even know who you are,” he had said to me. He was right. I am miserable, and I don’t know who I am. I stared out the living room window trying to figure out how I lost myself in these fourteen years of marriage. Tears rolled down my cheeks.

Nick left town to avoid the drama of me packing and moving out. I volunteered to leave because I couldn’t afford the house anyway. My friend Teresa said she’d love to have me live with her, so that’s where I was headed.

I couldn’t believe I was leaving my home. As I watched the cars drive by, I hoped his car would pull into the driveway and he’d rush in and tell me how sorry he was and how much he loved me and he’d beg me to stay. The cars just kept passing by.

Then a big yellow school bus full of children drove by.

Feelings of failure flooded over me as I stood up to finish packing. I took many breaks in my favorite chair to look out the window and cry over memories. I was still in shock over what was really happening—we are getting a divorce.

I should have realized there was a problem when I started researching getting a facelift. People kept saying things to me like, “You look tired.” or “Are you feeling okay?” Even Nick kept asking me, “What’s wrong?” or “You look so sad.” I just assumed my face was sagging and I needed a facelift; it never occurred to me that I was tired, I was not feeling well and I was deeply sad. I had also noticed that I didn’t stand up straight, and my shoulders seemed to slouch forward. I felt old, run down.

As I walked into each room to sort through my things, my wedding ring felt heavy on my finger, but I wasn’t ready to take it off. You’re a miserable person. I don’t even know who you are, kept replaying in my mind and the tears blurred my eyes while I pulled shoes out of the closet by the front door. Then I saw my rollerskates.

When I was young, I used to love to roller-skate. So about a year ago, I tried to pick it up again. I ordered these beautiful white skates with red wheels and red laces. I was so excited when they arrived. Skating was my attempt to find myself again. The day they were delivered, I laced them up and took off down our long driveway. I was happy; I felt like a fearless teenager without a care in the world. The driveway was more sloped than I had realized and I was gaining speed. I didn’t remember how to slow down, so I quickly turned backwards to use my toe brakes to stop but I was going too fast and I fell hard on my hip and arm. The pavement scrapped the skin off my arm, side and butt and I was bleeding like crazy. I took off my skates and walked stocking foot back to the house. I never put the skates on again. I rolled them out of the closet but couldn’t decide if I should pack them or leave them behind.

I sat down by the window and imagined myself skating down the driveway and falling. I knew what that fall did to me. I lost another small part of who I was. I wondered if I would ever get the happy me back, if I would ever find her again.

It wasn’t Nick’s fault, I did it to myself. I let myself go. I stopped liking myself. But I did like Nick; for some crazy reason, I liked Nick. Please drive up the driveway. Please drive up the driveway!

Am I really that awful?

“You’ll find somebody who likes to do the things you like, whatever that is,” he had said to me.

I went upstairs to take a shower, and sat by the drain on the tile floor crying until the hot water turned cold. “Who am I? Who am I?” I cried.

The long shower and hard cry helped. I realized that although I didn’t know who I was or what exactly I liked, I knew what I didn’t like. This gave me hope that by the process of elimination, I could find out who I was.

I knew I didn’t like the same things Nick liked, but yet, I did almost everything he wanted to do. The last year or two I cut back on doing what Nick wanted, so he had to go with friends or alone. I didn’t even feel guilty about it anymore. I was glad when he left to do something without me. I felt off the hook and free for a couple of hours.

I was worn out from doing things that, if I were single, I would never want to do. When we met, he didn’t smoke, but he’d picked up the habit again, and I found myself married to a smoker, a habit I despised.

Nick bought a motorcycle, then expected me to ride with him even though he knew how much I disliked motorcycles. My old boyfriend had had a terrible accident on his motorcycle and I’d hated them ever since, and yet there I was, hopping on the back of his bike every time he wanted me to.

Nick liked country music and wanted to go to country music concerts. I didn’t like country. I didn’t like Vegas or gambling either, but every time he wanted to go, I went. He loved to be outside, but only to lie in the sun. I didn’t mind occasionally lying in the sun but for the most part, if I was going to be outside, I wanted to be active, playing catch, going for walks or swimming laps, not just lying there doing nothing. I was bored and annoyed every time he wanted to lie in the sun with me.

“I’d like to get you a bike so you can ride it while I run. I know you can’t run with me because of your bad feet, but you could ride with me. That might be fun,” I’d say, and he’d follow with, “You get yourself a bike; it sounds like something you’d enjoy.”

“I’d like to go to a concert coming up. Will you go with me?” I’d ask, and he’s say, “I have a better idea. Why don’t you find a friend to go with you?”

“Let’s take a weekend road trip and go someplace we’ve never gone!” I’d suggest and he’d say, “You know I can’t stand to be in the car that long.”

Our whole marriage was like that. I went his way but he didn’t come my way. And maybe it was my own fault because I didn’t force him to meet me half way.

I walked into the kitchen and stood in front of the refrigerator. The tears came back when I saw the fridge stocked full of Nick’s favorite bottled water, favorite pop and favorite beer. There was just enough room for two bottles of my favorite sparkling water on the door shelf. Each time I took one, I had to remember to replace it with one from the pantry. He said there wasn’t enough room, and because he made most of the money in our marriage, the fridge should be stocked with his favorite drinks.

I had convinced myself he was right. He made most of the money, so he dictated what we did, he chose what we watched on TV, he decided where and how we vacationed. Nick’s idea of travel was staying at a different hotel every time we went to Las Vegas. My vacations came whenever he went out of town without me—the TV was always on the Travel Channel or one of the health and fitness channels. I took better care of myself whenever he was gone, and I liked myself more. I pulled a bottle of my sparkling water from the door and didn’t bother replacing it with a warm one from the pantry.

The phone rang, startling me. I checked caller ID and saw it was Teresa. “Well, Amanda, your room is cleaned out and ready for you. Hurry up and get here. We are going to have so much fun!”

I wasn’t scheduled to start sleeping there for a couple more days—when Nick came back—but I could tell she was trying to give me something to look forward to and her enthusiasm helped. Teresa and I had been friends for a long time. We weren’t close, but she had just gotten a divorce and she was looking for a roommate. The thought of having a roommate at forty years old was unsettling, but in some ways exciting. She was in a partying mood, trying to recapture her twenties that she missed out on because she was married. And in some ways I wanted to let loose a little, drink and party.

Teresa kept telling me that I needed a nice quick rebound, but I wasn’t sure. I wanted to keep the door open with Nick just in case he missed me. Maybe he could change. Maybe I could change.

The thought of having sex with somebody besides Nick was somewhat thrilling. I was faithful to Nick but often felt lonely, sometimes even wishing for an affair. I wanted to be rescued from Nick, and I thought a man could save me.

Our sex life had fizzled out, too. For the entire fifteen years we were together, I asked him to do one simple thing while we made love: I wanted him to keep his hands on my breasts because it was the key to my orgasms, but he refused. I’d beat myself up, not understanding why he couldn’t do that for me. I just assumed my breasts were too small for his liking, not worth holding on to. And I guess neither was I.

Due, Becky (2011-12-10). Traveling for Love: Searching for Self, Hoping for Love (Kindle Locations 132-141). Telemachus Press, LLC. Kindle Edition.

~~~

Get your copy here http://www.amazon.com/Traveling-Love-Searching-Hoping-ebook/dp/B006KWT724/ref=sr_1_6?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1326976389&sr=1-6

He sits outside overlooking the yard

but he doesn’t see the trees are leaning.

He’s outside

as the morning comes alive

with his newspaper, cigarette and coffee.

He doesn’t want to talk to me.

I sit and stare and wonder why

and I see the trees are leaning.

Later, when the phone rings, he goes outside.

With his friends, he talks.

He’s happy.

He plans.

He laughs.

He doesn’t talk to me like that.

I look past him

and see the trees are leaning.

I still love him.

He is still the best part of me.

But the spirited me,

fun me,

happy me,

free me,

like the trees,

are leaning.

He used to hold my hand,

and he’d hold on tightly.

He used to want to kiss me,

hold me,

touch me,

love me,

and I want to hold on tightly.

I can feel that he doesn’t feel the way he used to feel.

It’s just not the same,

and I can see the trees are leaning.

I don’t stand tall.

I feel so small.

My feelings are least important.

I’m not his partner

his lover

or his friend.

I really don’t know who I am

and I can see the trees are leaning.

How much wind can the trees take?

How long will they stand?

What if the wind blows the other way?

What if he holds my hand?

Does he want to know my dreams and help me make them come true?

What if what’s important to me becomes important to him, too?

I don’t know…

I just don’t know…

I see the trees are leaning.

In the evening, he watches TV

and still doesn’t want to acknowledge me.

I seem to be in his way.

So I look out the window to the trees,

I don’t know what to say.

At night, before bed, he goes outside.

We’ve stopped trying.

There’s no point.

There is no meaning.

It’s took dark.

He can’t see the trees are leaning.

I have not been sleeping well on our soft, thick, pillow-top mattress, and I wake up with a stiff lower back. Sometimes I sleep on the floor to test what a firmer mattress might feel like, and I wake up like a new woman without the stiffness. I think I sleep better on the floor, too.

This is something new for me, it has probably been the last 6 months to a year that I’ve noticed this problem. I loved the soft mattress when we bought it a couple of years ago, and my husband loves the softer mattress… although I don’t think he’s ever tried a firm mattress and I wonder if he would feel better on a firmer mattress, too–I might have to send him to the floor tonight.

So, is it time for a Sleep Number Bed?

What are your thoughts on the Tempur-Pedic Mattress?

Or, even though I’m healthy and in good shape, is there something wrong with me–my back–and I need to see a doctor, yoga instructor, chiropractor, personal trainer, etc?

Please let me know your thoughts and opinions, and I’ll keep you posted on how this turns out.

~~~

http://www.beckydue.com

As soon as I turn my attention to everything good in my life and everything good in the lives of my family and friends, I realize how lucky I am… how happy I am…

and how ridiculous I am to have negative thoughts in the first place.

~

http://www.beckydue.com

YOU DESERVE BETTER!

Quick Inspiring Novels
for
Women Going Forward
in Their Lives

—————————————————————-

We’ve had unhealthy relationships…We’ve been alone and lonely…We’ve had bad jobs…We’ve felt stuck in life…We’ve made terrible decisions…Never again!

Start with my first novel, The Gentlemen’s Club: A Story for All Women then work your way through… You’ll find every answer you need.

Congratulations on your future success and happiness!

Sincerely,
Becky Due

Searching for Self, Hoping for Love

When her husband tells her, he wants a divorce, Amanda realizes she no longer knows who she is – her life revolved around her husband. At forty, she finds herself divorced, childless, living in an apartment with a roommate, with little education and no career path. Amanda starts dating, finds employment as a travel agent, and begins the search of finding herself and – with a little luck – the right man.

Nick left town to avoid the drama of me packing and moving out. I volunteered to leave because I couldn’t afford the house anyway. My friend Teresa said she’d love to have me live with her, so that’s where I was headed.

I couldn’t believe I was leaving my home. As I watched the cars drive by, I hoped his car would pull into the driveway and he’d rush in and tell me how sorry he was and how much he loved me and he’d beg me to stay. The cars just kept passing by.

Then a big yellow school bus full of children drove by.

Feelings of failure flooded over me as I stood up to finish packing. I took many breaks in my favorite chair to look out the window and cry over memories. I was still in shock over what was really happening—we are getting a divorce.

I should have realized there was a problem when I started researching getting a facelift. People kept saying things to me like, “You look tired.” or “Are you feeling okay?” Even Nick kept asking me, “What’s wrong?” or “You look so sad.” I just assumed my face was sagging and I needed a facelift; it never occurred to me that I was tired, I was not feeling well and I was deeply sad. I had also noticed that I didn’t stand up straight, and my shoulders seemed to slouch forward. I felt old, run down.

As I walked into each room to sort through my things, my wedding ring felt heavy on my finger, but I wasn’t ready to take it off. You’re a miserable person. I don’t even know who you are, kept replaying inmy mind and the tears blurred my eyes while I pulled shoes out of the closet by the front door. Then I saw my rollerskates.

When I was young, I used to love to roller-skate. So about a year ago, I tried to pick it up again. I ordered these beautiful white skates with red wheels and red laces. I was so excited when they arrived. Skating was my attempt to find myself again. The day they were delivered, I laced them up and took off down our long driveway. I was happy; I felt like a fearless teenager without a care in the world. The driveway was more sloped than I had realized and I was gaining speed. I didn’t remember how to slow down, so I quickly turned backwards to use my toe brakes to stop but I was going too fast and I fell hard on my hip and arm. The pavement scrapped the skin off my arm, side and butt and I was bleeding like crazy. I took off my skates and walked stocking foot back to the house. I never put the skates on again.

I rolled them out of the closet but couldn’t decide if I should pack them or leave them behind.

I sat down by the window and imagined myself skating down the driveway and falling. I knew what that fall did to me. I lost another small part of who I was. I wondered if I would ever get the happy me back, if I would ever find her again.

It wasn’t Nick’s fault, I did it to myself. I let myself go. I stopped liking myself. But I did like Nick; for some crazy reason, I liked Nick. Please drive up the driveway. Please drive up the driveway!

Am I really that awful?

“You’ll find somebody who likes to do the things you like, whatever that is,” he had said to me.

I went upstairs to take a shower, and sat by the drain on the tile floor crying until the hot water turned cold. “Who am I? Who am I?” I cried.

The long shower and hard cry helped. I realized that although I didn’t know who I was or what exactly I liked, I knew what I didn’t like. This gave me hope that by the process of elimination, I could find out who I was.

I knew I didn’t like the same things Nick liked, but yet, I did almost everything he wanted to do. The last year or two I cut back on doing what Nick wanted, so he had to go with friends or alone. I didn’t even feel guilty about it anymore. I was glad when he left to do something without me. I felt off the hook and free for a couple of hours.

I was worn out from doing things that, if I were single, I would never want to do. When we met, he didn’t smoke, but he’d picked up the habit again, and I found myself married to a smoker, a habit I despised.

Nick bought a motorcycle, then expected me to ride with him even though he knew how much I disliked motorcycles. My old boyfriend had had a terrible accident on his motorcycle and I’d hated them ever since, and yet there I was, hopping on the back of his bike every time he wanted me to.

Nick liked country music and wanted to go to country music concerts. I didn’t like country. I didn’t like Vegas or gambling either, but every time he wanted to go, I went. He loved to be outside, but only to lie in the sun. I didn’t mind occasionally lying in the sun but for the most part, if I was going to be outside, I wanted to be active, playing catch, going for walks or swimming laps, not just lying there doing nothing. I was bored and annoyed every time he wanted to lie in the sun with me.

“I’d like to get you a bike so you can ride it while I run. I know you can’t run with me because of your bad feet, but you could ride with me. That might be fun,” I’d say, and he’d follow with, “You get yourself a bike; it sounds like something you’d enjoy.”

“I’d like to go to a concert coming up. Will you go with me?” I’d ask, and he’s say, “I have a better idea. Why don’t you find a friend to go with you?”

“Let’s take a weekend road trip and go someplace we’ve never gone!” I’d suggest and he’d say, “You know I can’t stand to be in the car that long.”

Our whole marriage was like that. I went his way but he didn’t come my way. And maybe it was my own fault because I didn’t force him to meet me half way.

I walked into the kitchen and stood in front of the refrigerator. The tears came back when I saw the fridge stocked full of Nick’s favorite bottled water, favorite pop and favorite beer. There was just enough room for two bottles of my favorite sparkling water on the door shelf. Each time I took one, I had to remember to replace it with one from the pantry. He said there wasn’t enough room, and because he made most of the money in our marriage, the fridge should be stocked with his favorite drinks.

I had convinced myself he was right. He made most of the money, so he dictated what we did, he chose what we watched on TV, he decided where and how we vacationed. Nick’s idea of travel was staying at a different hotel every time we went to Las Vegas. My vacations came whenever he went out of town without me—the TV was always on the Travel Channel or one of the health and fitness channels. I took better care of myself whenever he was gone, and I liked myself more. I pulled a bottle of my sparkling water from the door and didn’t bother replacing it with a warm one from the pantry.

The phone rang, startling me. I checked caller ID and saw it was Teresa. “Well, Amanda, your room is cleaned out and ready for you. Hurry up and get here. We are going to have so much fun!”

I wasn’t scheduled to start sleeping there for a couple more days—when Nick came back—but I could tell she was trying to give me something to look forward to and her enthusiasm helped. Teresa and I had been friends for a long time. We weren’t close, but she had just gotten a divorce and she was looking for a roommate. The thought of having a roommate at forty years old was unsettling, but in some ways exciting. She was in a partying mood, trying to recapture her twenties that she missed out on because she was married. And in some ways I wanted to let loose a little, drink and party.

Teresa kept telling me that I needed a nice quick rebound, but I wasn’t sure. I wanted to keep the door open with Nick just in case he missed me. Maybe he could change. Maybe I could change.

The thought of having sex with somebody besides Nick was somewhat thrilling. I was faithful to Nick but often felt lonely, sometimes even wishing for an affair. I wanted to be rescued from Nick, and I thought a man could save me.

Our sex life had fizzled out, too. For the entire fifteen years we were together, I asked him to do one simple thing while we made love: I wanted him to keep his hands on my breasts because it was the key to my orgasms, but he refused. I’d beat myself up, not understanding why he couldn’t do that for me. I just assumed my breasts were too small for his liking, not worth holding on to. And I guess neither was I.

—

From Traveling for Love

http://www.beckydue.com

Wednesday 5:38 am

Rebecca hung up the phone. She took a deep breath and tried to relax. She couldn’t. She decided to call her mom because it wasn’t that early in New York. “Hi, Ruth. It’s Rebecca.”

“Hi, Rebecca. How are you?”

“Well, to be honest, I’m not doing that well. I feel like I’m going crazy. Remember I told you all about Roy and the trouble I had. Well, he’s been released from prison and I’m home alone and I’m just… nervous.”

“Oh, yes, I remember.”

“I know you don’t like to hear about it, and you think I’m making a big deal out of nothing, but I guess… I just wish I knew that he wouldn’t bother me.” She paused. “Strange things keep happening, and I get the
feeling that he’s watching me.”

“Well, I’ll tell you, Rebecca, he won’t bother you. Too much time has passed. He doesn’t care one bit about where you are and what you’re doing. Plus, he probably feels sorry for everything and knows the best thing to
do is to leave you alone. Really, Rebecca, you have to let this go. It will destroy you if you always live with this hanging over you, being afraid.”

Rebecca took a deep breath. “Thank you, Ruth, I needed that. I wish I didn’t get scared, but I do.”

“Rebecca, I understand, it’s fresh. Time will pass, nothing will happen and you will start to forget about it.”

“You’re right.”

“How is work going? You know, diving into work always helps me feel better.”

Rebecca smiled. She knew Ruth well. “Yes, I have some work to do.”

“Well, good. You get back to work and you’ll forget all about this Ray guy.”

Rebecca didn’t correct her. “I’ll do just that. Thanks, Ruth.”

—

From Becky Due’s Novel Returning Injury: A Suspense Celebrating Women’s Strength

Have you ever had a stalker?

http://www.beckydue.com