Ramblings of a Middle Aged Lunatic

                I’m not comfortable expressing anger.                 Like many women, I’m like Dr. Jekyll and Mr.   Hyde.   If I was the weather, I’d have only two forecasts, sunny and thunderstorms.   There are no mediums with me.   I’m either happy or I’m in a rage.This is not because I’m bipolar. (or is it)?   It’s because, like many women, I’ve been taught to swallow back my anger until I erupt in a volcanic rage.   Probably most of you had mothers that were 99.9% Donna Reed but a memorable .1% was Incredible Hulk.   And usually the transformation happened over something slight.   After all, the woman smiled bravely while your baby brother vomited all over her and then flew into a blinding rage over a forgotten Lego that migrated under the couch.                   That’s why we women have an unfair reputation for being crazy.   Because we suppress our anger until it boils over, and the tipping point is usually something ridiculous like forgetting to bless someone after

This is a story that needs to be told, because I’m fed up with being judged by people who have never walked in my shoes and think they know everything. What I’m about to say won’t be a surprise to anyone that has read my novels; this situation crops up several times with mild variations.   I’ve held back in telling it mainly because I worried it would embarrass my mother.   Well, she’s gone now, so the hell with that.                 Long story short, in 2011, I fell in love.   The kind of love that is fleeting, temporary, and burns very briefly, but I didn’t know that at the time.   His name was Steve. He was the best looking guy I’d ever dated, blonde, blue eyed, tan, and so charming! I never thought a man like that would be interested in a wallflower like me.   I wonder now if my low self-esteem was partially the draw for him.   He enjoyed listing the ways I didn’t measure up, and the improvements I needed to make.   He liked telling me that of all the women vying for his attent