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I realize I was really as naïve as a child all these years.
My divorce became final, I sold and moved from a beloved home of thirteen years, bought a fixer-upper, renovated it and moved again finally to the remodeled home.
It was a year of tremendous upheavals and closing chapters.
I had a film project that I had commissioned that was usurped from me, and I had to go to legal battle over another situation.
Staying buoyant through out it all was the biggest challenge and this was done purely for the sake of my two daughters.
I'm reading the part of Stella, which I can completely identify with, yet Blanche is the one who breaks my heart and bleeds me every time I crack open the play.
Coinciding with this reading for Streetcar is my ninth -grader daughter's school reading of . "Mommy maybe we shouldn't read anymore" I vacillate about whether we are helping or handicapping our kids by sheltering them.Colette and I get into my new wood slab bed, which is my step toward the modern masculine, away from the feminine fluffy nuptial bed I once had, and begin to start our literary voyage of terror and fascination to the island where Ralph and Piggy try to make sense of the savages. I decide that I would have been better off in the last year had someone read me this book.If I had the misfortune of being without them, I probably would have run naked into the mountains without a care if I survived.Or I would just lie in a heap in a dark closet until the basic need to survive would pull me out of the darkness and into some sort of semblance of civility.What contributed to this mild depression was the feeling of being completely alone in a world where truly to survive means you have to be tough.I think this last year, at the age of 40, I finally grew up.