I'm a lively, fun-loving lady with a dramatic view of life-that is, I tend to be a dramatic person. I cry at sappy commercials and at touching scenes in movies. I'm somewhat selfish with my time. Actually I've come to a place in my life where I delight in being alone, especially if I've got a good book to read or if I'm feeling particularly inspired or excited about something I'm writing. On rare occasions I miss the me I used to be, but to feel safe and comfortable surrounding myself with solitude seems to work well, and I am healing.
I wasn't always such a recluse. There was a time when I loved being in the limelight hostessing a party, teaching a class, even speaking confidently to large groups of women at luncheons and retreats and such. Experiencing four frighteningly traumatic life events every other year for eight years caused my panic level to pull me back into a shell of myself. My husband died in a freak automobile accident; my father who had dementia died in my arms from skin cancer; I moved from my home of 33 years without any help, and finally I was forced out of my teaching job by a power hungry principal who got rid of one teacher a year.