I would have been married eight years today.

When the new year loomed large and unavoidable before me, I knew I had to take it as an opportunity to move my life forward. I knew I'd spent months in an unhealthy place; or rather, that my sadness and frustration and sense of incredulity were spiraling into an unhealthy place, and I knew I had to do something (anything) to pull myself out.

In the three months since the new year began, I have moved to a better place. I don't know exactly what makes it better beyond the fact that the sadness no longer threatens to eat me alive. I have put all my effort into therapy, into seeking perspective and understanding, into spending quality time with people I love - my family, my friends, and most especially, the small boy of my heart. I haven't valued my family and friends as much as I have this last year. But it is their words, their perspectives, their support that have greatly helped me process and basically survive all this. For every conversation I have, every friend that takes me out and hears me out and offers me their own experiences, I am that much better off.

But on a personal level, if I'm honest, there isn't much that I've done that is thoughtful and precisely considered (except matters relating to my son) so much as it is quick and decisive. I haven't wanted to think, haven't allowed myself any extended amount of time to delve into my feelings. I know what I feel, and my thoughts make themselves known whether I want them to or not. So I have not allowed them to really take over me or my time, choosing instead to give them 15 minutes before I slam the door on them and forcefully move on to something else.

I have not thought this a poor move on my end. My time in therapy is the space I allow myself to dig deep and search for answers, meaning and healing. To allow myself any more, to keep being "Tere" and doing this shit non-stop, has felt sick and crazy.

Regardless of what excuses I might give, the truth is that I have felt too exhausted to keep thinking. I haven't wanted to think. I haven't wanted to keep crying and feeling like shit. I've wanted to feel normal. I've wanted a taste of life where I am good enough as is, where I can breathe a little easy and not have to justify my thoughts and opinions and feelings to anyone. I've wanted to be around people who think nice things about me. I've wanted to enjoy the peace and quiet of my home, to feel good in my own skin.

And I have. As best as I can, as much as I am capable of right now, I have. And I've enjoyed it. I've felt grateful for every moment where all I feel is normal, or like I'm closer to being my old self again.

But for all this, there is no forcing away the sadness, the continued sense of utter disappointment. Of course, I did not expect these feelings to just disappear. To an extent, my expectation is that a part of me will always feel sad about this; I will never be 100% o.k. with my marriage ending. If I think that this ending was inevitable under the strain of what our life had become, if I think that given everything, the ending was for the best, it still has no bearing on my deep sense of loss or my sadness or my heart break. The mind is one thing; the heart is entirely something else.

And this last week, my heart has been heavier than it's been in months. The knowledge that today was nearby, that I could do nothing to prevent today from coming, nor push back and not think about today and everything it symbolizes has had me feeling very anxious and upset and tense.

I would have been married eight years today.

I don't know that there's any way to avoid thinking about this, and I hate how irritated I end up feeling when I do. It is a feeling born out of frustration and disappointment, out of feeling so completely damned if I do and damned if I don't that I'm left up against a corner. I feel like a caged lion.

A year ago today, I was happy. While we had been going through some big ups and downs over the previous two years, I still felt happy. I felt like we kept facing challenge after challenge, each one making us stronger. I thought we were both happy to be approaching 10 years together. If nothing else, I felt very in love with my husband.

But what I kept pushing aside was the fact that there were no new problems we were solving, just constantly rehashing the same old ones; I was fighting against the growing feeling that he was not happy, that my marriage had turned into something where each and every day I had to prove my love and fight for trust. As in love as I was, I was also constantly on the defense; I was deeply frustrated and sad. The roller coaster between "happy" and these feelings was getting too insane.

Did I romanticize it all? Was I so wrapped up in the wonder of "10 years", so desperate to finally feel that sense of peace and satisfaction I felt was owed me and us, that I was in partial denial? Where was I that I could see all this good and potential, and at least aim to have my actions reflect that, even as I felt so alone in that feeling? What made us so disparate in our approaches? What prevented me from having better solutions?

I don't know. All I have today is this: I would have been married eight years.

And I wonder if it would have been any better, or any worse.

When we last left off with my seemingly never ending weight struggle, I had learned that some medicine I'd been on might be the culprit.

That was last August. In October, I finally changed doctors and started from scratch, trying to find some answers to this problem. By then, I'd gained about 20 lbs. and was freaking the hell out. During my first visit, my doctor did not think my medicine was the problem (too bad, I'd stopped taking it!), but thought it could be my thyroid. He ordered a battery of tests to figure what was going on inside me.

At the same time, October was turning out to be a hellacious month. Between then and November, I suffered the most I had during my entire "marriage gone bad" ordeal. So emotionally, I was in a crazy place, and this problem was just added stress. If I'd ever been at a breaking point, it was here, with my ex-husband putting me through hell and my body acting like a bitch on me.

When the results of my bloodwork came back, the answer was clear as day: my insulin was through the roof, what the medical people call "pre-diabetic." I'd had hypoglycemia since I was a teenager, something I had under control and was mindful of, given my family history of diabetes. Hypoglycemia, though, can turn into diabetes, and it looked like the same was happening to me. When you have PCOS (as I had for years and was re-diagnosed with last February), all your hormones are out of whack, and it's very common to be hypoglycemic, diabetic, or insulin-resistant. In October, the diagnosis was that I'd become insulin-resistant, which caused the weight gain. It all made so much sense. I mean, looking at my medical history, this is practically textbook.

You can't imagine how relieved I was to finally have some concrete answers.

So, what options did I have? Reviewing my diet, there were changes I needed to make, none of which was news to me. I have to go easy on the bread and pasta, and frankly, this is my biggest challenge. I swing between being really good and then having some bad days. With this diagnosis, though, I had to stick to a proper diet and get serious about exercise. However, my elevated blood sugar levels were serious enough that my doctor felt I needed to get on medication to get it under control, stop the over-production of insulin, and help me lose the weight. I took him up on that; after researching the medicine and realizing I was comfortable taking it, I went for it.

Now that you sat through that medical lesson - here it is:

The weight is gone. GONE, people, gone! In fact, the last time I was this thin was when I was breastfeeding like crazy and was back to what I looked like in 2003 (which was a good year for me in this regard). And now, now I'm there again!

YAY!!!!!!!!!!

I mean, I am wearing a size 2. TWO! I'm back to "small" in tops. EVERYTHING in my closet is big on me! This is both good and bad, you know, since now I constantly look like a hobo. Of course, there's just no way that I can run out and buy a new wardrobe (and yes, I've cried over this a few times), so I've got to alter about 85% of my clothes. Which I will gladly do!

Of course, there is no replicating a pre-baby body, not unless I invest tens of thousands of dollars into reconstructing it, so the flaws abound. Mainly, I need to tone up. Love handles, I has them (but I prefer to think of them as extra Tere softness for you to love). And I have to make physical activity a real part of my life (having a work-out/activity partner would be a great help, but apparently, I surround myself with equally lazy and unmotivated people). And of course, while the clothing size says "skinny!", looking at me, you would never guess. My Cuban thighs and butt are deceptive, but they prevent me from looking emaciated.

But finally - finally! - I feel like myself again.

But underneath this joy and relief, there is this: I knew something was wrong. Even as I knew that I should be exercising regularly, I could sense that something was wrong with me. And there was. I was ill. My body was not functioning. And it's very hard to not think about how - as I watched the weight come on and felt sick and odd and unhappy - I was so alone in this struggle. Sure, I had someone with me - but it was someone who dismissed my concerns and insisted the only thing wrong with me was my unwillingness to hit the gym. I think of myself a year ago, staring at myself in the mirror, feeling all these awful, confusing things - all of it compounded by how incredibly alone and dismissed I felt. I may not dwell on this unfortunate aspect of the situation, but I can't say that the sting is completely gone.

At least there is what I have now - better health, and a better general state of being. And little by little, I am getting over the damage and am more and more myself again.

The fact that I look smoking hot is just a nice little bonus.

Is that too bold a way of stating I'm ready to date? Because I figure, coyness is not my strong suit, so I may as well be my usual blunt self about even this.

So, bring it. A man. Bring me a man.

But - I do have moments where I really feel like I want someone sweet and kind and fun in my life. I get home from a long day at work (I tend to put in an extra hour or two on the days I don't have Max), and I can't help but wish there was someone there who would greet me with a big smile and hug me (also: make out with me like a crazy fool, but that's another topic, for another day. Or really, a topic I will never discuss here), and then insist that I just relax, making sure I listen and obey while he finishes whatever needs to be finished before he relaxes with me. Really, that's what I want: to be able to relax with someone.

God, I'm such a sap. I can't believe I just admitted that.

Well. I suppose this is better than being sucked in the depths of despair, feeling nothing but pain and misery. I consider it progress.

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I fly today - have a short business trip to Georgia - and as you well know, this blows as far as I'm concerned. Same fears, same dread, and an utter lack of medication for it. Wish me luck and pray for my safe return.