Twenty.

I’m not embarrassed. I’m celebrating.

Not everyone gets to see what life looks like twenty years after a suicide attempt.

This life is glaringly dissimilar to what I left in 2000.


I miss being home with my littles. I miss hearing Arthur and Zoboomafoo on one of the three channels in the living room while I worked in a tiny office. I’m glad I worked from home from 1997-2000.

I miss taking the oldest to preschool. He loved it so much.

I miss having 15 acres of beautiful rolling fields and woods to explore.

The trilliums and striped violets every May — I miss that a great deal. The little trickling stream across the property, and the wooden bridge behind the garage.

The horses, and the neighbors with horses, who I rode with just about every week. The neighbor with the chickens I fed when he went away on weekends.

I miss the little intersection of a town, with the brightly painted post office where I’d ship my eBay sales each week.

I miss our cats. Most of all my sweet tiny tuxedo girl.


There’s a lot I don’t miss about the little 14×70 trailer that was home from 1993-2000. But I miss how simple life was, even if it was simple because we were just scraping by.

There’s no sign of the trailer now. The garage and the horse barn are all that remain that’s familiar.

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