Only Two More Weeks: “Penniman: Virginia’s Own Ghost City.”

In about two weeks, the long-awaited book on Penniman will be arriving at my home. That’s the very good news.

As dear friends and faithful readers know, there’s a lot more to this story. If you’re interested in reading the back story, continue on.ย  If you’re here to read about the Sears Homes, click here.

If you’d like to pre-order a copy of “Penniman, Virginia’s Own Ghost City,” click on the Paypal button at the bottom of the page. This first printing will be only 200 copies, each of which will be signed by the author.*


Almost 14 months ago, on April 10, 2016, my husband and I met with the editor that I’d hired to do the final edit on my manuscript on Penniman. It was a Sunday afternoon. The editor was confident that the completed manuscript would be returned to me in about two weeks. After that, it wouldn’t take long to incorporate the changes and send the book off for printing.

Five years of research and study and digging and effort was finally coming to a close. The book was finished. During those long days, when completing this comprehensive tome looked impossible, I’d close my eyes and imagine the finished product resting in my hands. In my vivid imagination, I’d caress its beautiful cover, pull it open to a center page and listen to the soft sibilant sound of the book’s spine being unfurled for the very first time. Next, I’d plunge my face into its bright-white pages and take in the aroma of that fresh-off-the-press smell.

There were many times that I got so overwhelmed by the enormity of the research that I started to think that this was an impossible task.

In August 2015, I kicked it into high gear and boldly announced to my husband that I was going to sequester myself and finish this book. “This means,” I told him, “that I won’t be much company for a time. I’ll be working morning, noon and night, literally, until this is done.”

“You shouldn’t work so hard,” he said half-heartedly. At the time, I assumed the “half-hearted” part was due to his knowing that once I set my mind on something, it was done and done.

I was wrong.

On April 11th, my husband came home from work and after I gave him a big hug, I posed him in front of all the research materials, filed, organized and boxed up, ready for storage.

“Look erudite,” I told him with a big smile, as I stroked his silver hair and kissed his cheek. He struck a delightful pose and I took many pictures of my beloved, and posted the best one on Facebook.

Looking “erudite” was no problem for him. He had an IQ well north of 160, and a flawless eidectic memory. I was in awe of his intellectual prowess. As a person with a natural love of learning, I thoroughly enjoyed just listening to him talk.

And he knew it.


Through the years, Wayne had been an integral part of the Penniman book. He’d been the preliminary editor on every bit of it, and many an evening we spent an hour or two reviewing a page or a chapter, discussing phrasing, word choices, and historical accuracy. He read every chapter and I was excited to read his edits and commentary. It was just one more place where his shockingly high IQ shined through.

“You’re a ten-talent man,” I’d frequently tell him (a reference to Matthew 25). “You’re brilliant, gifted, discerning, charming and beautiful. God has blessed you with so many gifts and abilities.”

Wayne always responded the same: “It’s good that you think that.”

Wayne’s “fingerprints” were all over that book. And unfortunately, because of that, every paragraph, every sentence and every word within its pages would become a painful memory of my husband.

My husband. The man with whom I intended to grow old. The man to whom I entrusted my extremely sensitive and delicate heart.

On April 18th, 2016, one week after he “looked erudite,” Chief Deputy City Attorney Wayne Ringer left City Hall and ended his life. If I live to be 112, my life will always be divided into two compartments: Before April 18th and After April 18th. The old Rosemary died that day, eviscerated by the holocaust of a spousal suicide. The new Rosemary is now, and will be for some time, a work in progress, but is still largely an emerging, amorphous form, and most notably, chronically dehydrated. I’ve yet to experience a single 24-hour period without soul-wracking crying jags.


I don’t remember the date, but a few days after Wayne’s suicide, the editor contacted me to let me know that the manuscript was completed. In those early days, I was in deep shock. It was ugly and hellish. I don’t remember details, but I know that the blue notebook – which contained the editor’s marked-up copy – ended up in the trunk of my Camry and remained there for many months.

For at least five months, I lived out of my car and spent the nights at a friend’s house about an hour from Norfolk. Each morning, I’d drive back to my home in Norfolk, pick up clean clothes, and then run around during the day, visiting doctors, lawyers, bankers, or friends, trying to sort out the surfeit of legal, financial, medical and mental problems that I now faced.

I kept granola bars, Boost (liquid supplement), Funyuns and Gatorade in the trunk, along with a Bible, some inspirational books and spare clothes, together with a manila envelope which contained the important papers that I needed constantly. During this time, I was losing weight and suffered from fainting spells. If I stood up too fast, I’d sink right back down.

When I would open that trunk, the very sight of the word Penniman made me nauseous. I kept hoping that repeated exposure would make it easier. It didn’t. In time, I covered the notebook with a beige towel and buried it in a box in the hinterlands of the trunk.

Every few weeks, I’d carry the notebook into my friend’s house (in a canvas bag) and try to read through the edits. Still, I couldn’t do it. Back into the trunk went that tired blue notebook.

In January 2017, a caring friend invited me to join him at dinner. He asked many questions about the book. By now, I had given up on the manuscript and decided it was a dead project. My mental health was more valuable than a book on regional history. As far as I was concerned, the manuscript died with Wayne. I just hadn’t buried it yet. I made a plan to donate all the research materials and the unfinished manuscript to a local library.

I knew what my friend was doing. He was trying to re-invigorate me, and re-ignite the passion I’d once felt for this topic. But now, I had no passion for anything in any direction. I was the walking dead, slogging through the moments and the days, eating enough to stay alive and not much more. Two simple thoughts dominated my waking hours, which were, “Why did Wayne do this?” and secondly, “Why does everyone keep trying to save me?”

That dinner with my friend was such a blessing. He showed me “no little kindness” and when I looked in his eyes, I saw love looking back at me. I was loved. Maybe I really was lovable. Maybe I was worthy of love. Maybe my husband’s last text – blaming me for his death – wasn’t a burden that I should carry for the rest of my life.


Even the people at the periphery of my life were showering me with love. Today, the very memory of that love stirs my soul and lifts my spirits.


A few weeks after Wayne’s suicide, my eldest daughter gave me a shake and told me, through tears, “Mom, the only way we’re going to survive this hell is by focusing on light and love. This darkness is so horrid and the truth is so awful that this trauma could easily destroy us. I need you to stick around and I need you to stay focused on the good. Promise me you’ll focus on light and love. Promise me.”

I promised my little girl that I’d try.


That night, the dinner with my friend, I felt the love. It was as though I was being given a mental hug, and it fed my hungry soul. The love in his heart and the warmth in his eyes was a laser-beam of light that pierced the heavy blanket of psyche ache that had engulfed me. His kind words and the love behind them reached right into my heart. I felt something stir inside of me. The next day, I pulled the blue notebook out of the trunk and plopped it down on the desk beside my computer. I told myself, “Just do one page. Just one page. And if you can’t do one page, do one paragraph. And if that’s too much, just do one sentence.”

Opening the book, the dizziness and nausea returned. I paused, closed my eyes and said the simplest of prayers. I kept my eyes closed for a couple minutes. I decided that maybe one sentence would be plenty for the first day. And then I did that first sentence. And then another and another, and then one page was finished but then I hit a bad bump, and an intense memory of a discussion with Wayne washed over me and dragged me down under the waves. I slapped the book shut, closed out the computer screen and flopped on the nearby couch to commence the daily crying jag.

The next day, I made it to the end of the first chapter. When the tears came, I took a deep breath and said, “One more page. Just do one more page.”

And so it went, day after day. Getting through those pages was an act of divine grace and sheer willpower.

In about three weeks, I had incorporated all of the editor’s corrections. After that, three friends gave of their time and brilliance to help me finish up all the “dog work” of incorporating photographs, creating captions, and putting it all together. Next, I had to read the manuscript from beginning to end.

Again, many tears flowed. I was so weary.

That was several weeks ago.

Now, June 8, 2017, we’re drawing mighty close to the finish line. As of June 2nd, the Penniman manuscript is in production, 14 months later than expected. When I chastise myself for the delays, I remember, it’s a miracle of grace that this book will even see the light of day. It may not be exactly how I wanted it to be, but it is finished.

In about 10 days, the “new baby” will be born. And as fast as freight can move those boxes, they’ll come to my home in Southeastern Virginia. At some point in the not-too-distant future, I’ll have the final product resting in my hands, where I’ll caress its beautiful cover, pull it open to a center page and listen to the soft sibilant sound of the book’s spine being unfurled for the very first time. Next, I’ll plunge my face into its bright-white pages and take in the aroma of that fresh-off-the-press smell.

And then, I’ll put it back in the box, and turn the box label side to the wall, so I don’t have to see the word “Penniman,” and hope and pray that one day, the pain associated with that lovely name will ebb a bit, and that this unknown story will garner much interest, and will bring a blessing to every reader and to the community and to the country.

As my friend George said, “Sometimes the biggest ugliest dogs are guarding the loveliest of treasures.”

In other words, sometimes the greatest blessings are lurking right behind the greatest sufferings.


In 1875, 54-year-old Mary B. Eddy wrote her seminal work (“Science and Health”), a book that was prefatory to creating the first church in America founded by a woman. In 1908, a congregant lovingly returned one of those early books to Eddy. According to Eddy’s secretary, Eddy carefully took the small book, examined it, and handed it back to the secretary and said, “Put it away, Mr. Dickey. No one will ever know what it cost me to write that book.”

Every book comes at a cost to its author, but sometimes the cost far exceeds what the author was intending to pay.


Less than nine months before his death, Wayne and I had picked out a “dream appliance” – a fancy side-by-side refrigerator with all manner of bells and whistles. It was a fine thing. We’d spent the prior three years planning this purchase. There was much discussion about options and colors and features and prices. And then one day, we went to Sears and made our selection. It was a happy day.

“How is it,” I thought to myself recently, “that we spent three years discussing a major appliance purchase, and yet he never said one word about his final exit plan? How could he think it was okay to destroy our marriage and destroy his wife and destroy our family with a nuclear detonation, without any discussion? How could my husband, an officer of the court and brilliant communicator, take a gun and murder my best friend without even a clue being proffered?”

It is a question that still plagues me, and yet it’s an intractable question. Like so many other aspects of this nightmare, the answer died with him.


Several months before his death, the veneer of civility began to peel away from his persona (which is Latin for “mask”). While struggling to write a single paragraph explaining the composition of a WW1 155-mm artillery shell, I frequently turned to him for help. It’s hard to believe that any historian at any college or museum could possibly know more of early 20th century military history, munitions and armaments than he did. His eidectic memory and brilliance shown in this arena, too.

After my 9th attempt to write a simple explanation of this shell, I handed him the freshly printed text and said, “Does this sound right to you?”

With his eyes glancing down through his bifocals, he read the paper. He shook his head in disgust as he thrust the papers back at me.

“What kind of dumb-ass doesn’t understand the difference between a shell-casing and a cartridge? How many times must I explain this to you? I don’t have any interest in writing this book for you.”

And with that, he stomped out of the room.

More than a year before his death, we sat at breakfast and chattered away as we did every morning. He mentioned a female colleague, and went on and on about his great admiration for her intellect and mental acuity.

“Wayne, I think I’m just as intelligent as she is, and perhaps even a smidge more.”

He replied, “You write these little history books. She’s a lawyer with seven years of schooling. It’s okay though. You’re smart when it comes to Sears Homes.”

It was a slice that cut me to the marrow. Throughout our marriage, he’d never been able to tell me that I was beautiful. And now he couldn’t even offer reassurances as to his pride in my intelligence.

In January 2016, after proofreading my preface he said, “This isn’t a good preface. It’s more like a first chapter.” He then urged me to try again. I brought him a pen and paper and said, “You just read my very best effort and that was the result of 12 months of writing. I’ve given it all I can. Why don’t you write a preface for me?”

Surprisingly, he agreed and for the next 60 minutes, he sat at the dining room table and wrote a four-page preface. He summoned me when he had finished and said, “This is a good preface for the book. It will explain your background.”

Eagerly, I sat down to read his writing. Below is a snippet.

I know relatively little about World War One. I’ve seen “The Blue Max,” part of “Gallipoli,” and part of “Sergeant York.” I’ve never read “All Quiet on the Western Front” or seen the movie, but I know they’re out there. I’ve seen “Downton Abbey” and its treatment of Matthew, Thomas, William and Archie. Efficient 20th century warfare required artillery, great guns that would hurl great shells great distances, and would explode doing great damage…

After reading this, I looked at him and said, “Are you serious?”

He sternly replied, “Yes, quite. You need to explain to the reader that you have no academic background or specific expertise.”

“You’re right, Wayne. I have no academic background or specific expertise, but I’d be willing to make a bet that I know more about early 20th century munitions than 99.9% of the people in the United States. In the last five years, I’ve now studied more than 25 books on the munitions of World War One, and that doesn’t include the many other World War One books on more generalized topics. And I think we’re going to have some trouble finding a vet from The Great War that can offer ‘specific expertise.'”

The conversation did not end well. I retreated to my room and wept. I loved him dearly, but I was beginning to wonder if he was preparing to leave me. Something was off, and at the time, I had no idea what was going on.

About six months after Wayne’s death, I sat down and read through a dream journal that I had kept for several years. In the 12 months before his death, I had a recurring dream that he died suddenly, and I had to move out of my beautiful home into a depressing rental home. I’d often awaken from that dream with tears still flowing. More than once, after this recurring dream, I’d awaken Wayne and wrap my arms around him and say, “Wayne, I had this horrible dream that you died. It was terrifying. I don’t think I can live without you.”

He would hug me back and say flatly, “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise me?” I’d say, still feeling very emotional.

“Yes, I promise.”

We had this conversation several times. The last time was less than a week before his death.


In the last seven years, two of my dearest friends collapsed and died in the blink of an eye. In 2001, my mother passed suddenly as well. Every morning, as Wayne left for work, I gave him a proper hug. I’d hold him for at least a minute, and during that time, I asked God and His angels to surround him with love, to keep watch over him, bless him, and protect him, and keep him well, strong and healthy. And then I’d visualize the very angels of heaven surrounding Wayne in every action and in every moment. I’d always close with, “God, please bring him back home to me, safe and sound, at the end of this day.” Nine hours later, when I saw his green truck pull into the driveway in the evening, I’d always whisper, “Thank you, God.”

For reasons that should be obvious, his suicide has been a very hard slap down of my once-strong faith. It’s hard to imagine that any 63-year-old man was the recipient of more prayers than Wayne, and yet, it ended so horribly.


When I sequestered myself in August 2015 to finish the Penniman book, I had no idea that those were to be the last months of my husband’s life. “Come snuggle with me,” he’d often say as the sun set in the western sky, and most nights (thank God), I’d reply, “Okay, give me three minutes to finish up a paragraph,” and then I’d save my work, arise from the chair and spend time with him. Thank God for that.

But now that’s another painful memory. The Penniman manuscript took up much space in my life and my mind and my heart. I convinced myself that telling the story of the “Canaries” at Penniman was God’s will for me, a utilization of my best talents, life experiences and passion for telling a story forgotten by the rest of the world. But was that correct? It doesn’t feel like it today. Perhaps in a few years or decades, the reception and success of this book will help me sort it out.

I do know that – if I let it in – this devotion of my energies to a book in the last months of his life, could be another source of crushing guilt. Those were the last breakfasts, lunches and dinners I’d ever have with Wayne, and I spent many of them buried in a manuscript.

“You need to turn off that computer and come pay attention to me,” he’d say frequently. Was that one of the clues that I missed? Looking back, how did I miss that? And more important, how do I forgive myself now?

And there was the more haunting comment – almost a mantra in those last weeks: “I’m old, and I’m going to be dead one day and you’re going to regret spending so much time on a book.”

I’d grab him and say, “Please don’t say such things. Not a day goes by that I don’t pray my best prayers for you. You are the beloved of God, and you’re going to live a very long time.”

“You’ll find someone else,” he’d say, as though he hadn’t heard a word. “You won’t be alone for long. Someone will snatch you up.”

“Wayne, I don’t want anyone else. You’re the love of my life. Please – don’t say such things. We’re going to grow old together.”

If I permitted it, the review and rehearsal of those excruciating conversations could lead me to insanity.

When I find myself circling that mountain again, I use every iota of willpower to “focus on the light and love.” It’s an act of great will, and I tell myself, “It only takes 12 repetitions to form a habit. Focus on good thoughts. Stop thinking about the horror of this.”


I’m so very grateful that the Penniman book is done. If it had been left wholly to me, the unfinished manuscript would have been tossed into a bin and carted off to a local history room at the closest library. But thanks to so many dear friends, that did not happen. And today, I’m actually feeling a little joy and hope, looking forward to sharing the story of Penniman with the rest of the world.

The book that cost me so much may well be one more thing that helps to lift me out of the mire. I find myself earnestly hoping that this book is well received, and accomplishes its purpose of showcasing the amazing sacrifice of the men and women who gave so much to help win The Great War. Their story has been largely forgotten by time. This new book of mine will correct that gaping hole in local, state and national history, and for that, I’m truly grateful.

In the following weeks or months, I’ll go out into the world and give a few lectures and sell a few books. That will be very good for me. And focusing on future happy thoughts rather than depressing past events helps promote the healing of my shattered heart.

When my quivering hand struggles valiantly to write out a daily gratitude list, some iteration of this comment appears every day: “The Penniman book is done. Thanks be to God for that.”

It’s a good book, and it’s an important book, and hopefully, it will bring many blessings to its readers.

Please leave a comment below, or you can contact Rose directly at


To pre-order a copy of “Penniman, Virginia’s Own Ghost City,” click on the Paypal button below. Price is $29.95 plus $6.00 shipping. This first printing will be only 200 copies, each of which will be signed by the author.



Did I miss something

This photo was taken seven days before his death. I've often studied this photo and wondered, did I miss something?



I knew those eyes better than anyone, yet I had no inkling that he had a plan.



Front cover of the Penniman book.



The rear cover - just as it will appear.


This Penniman worker has traversed a great distance to buy the new book.

This Penniman worker has traversed a great distance to buy the new book.


To pre-order a copy of “Penniman, Virginia’s Own Ghost City,” click on the Paypal button below. Price is $29.95 plus $6.00 shipping. This first printing will be only 200 copies, each of which will be signed by the author.





  1. Lori Jackson Black


    There is a problem with the paypay link.

    This is what it said when I tried to check out:
    “The server encountered an internal error or misconfiguration and was unable to complete your request. Please contact the server administrator at webmaster to inform them of the time this error occurred, and the actions you performed just before this error. More information about this error may be available in the server error log.
    Additionally, a 500 Internal Server Error error was encountered while trying to use an ErrorDocument to handle the request.”

    Thanks, Lori.

  2. Sears Homes

    Lori, I sure hope it’s fixed now. If anyone else has a problem, please let me know!

  3. Gemma

    Just ordered my copy. Hubby’s a vet. Hopefully, he’ll take some interest in the book.

    Thank you for persevering with this project. Now pray I can complete my book on Knoxville Old City Hall.

    I’ll try the “creative visualization” you did for Penniman, although all timing is God’s in the end.

  4. Dale Wolicki

    Paypal worked for me. I want Teddy to autograph my copy!

  5. Sears Homes

    @Dale Wolicki
    Found the problem with the “re-direct” and got it squared away. Thanks to everyone who ordered a book!

    BTW, Teddy said she’d put a muddy pawprint on Uncle Dale’s copy for free! ๐Ÿ™‚

  6. Lara Mortimer

    I’m not one to use Paypal, but I do want to buy a book from you when they come in!

  7. Clyde Nordan

    My Dear Rosemary,

    It was so good to see you at the Memorial Day Observance. You appeared so calm and collected.

    I hope it’s not like the smooth sailing Swan above the water with feet below paddling a hundred miles per hour.

    So many things have transpired since we last spoke. I’d like to catch up on a few things when you’re up to it.

    I remember when you started doing research on the Penniman Ghost City. Congrats on getting it pasted together.

    I’m anxious to see how it came together.

    Clyde ๐Ÿ™‚

    Ps. Please autograph my copy in BIG letters.

  8. Sears Homes

    @Clyde Nordan
    Thanks, Clyde. That “calm and collected” thing is an act, but it’s one that takes a great deal of energy. I liken it to the Romulan cloaking device. I can hide a lot of stuff, but it takes so much effort.

    Thank you so much for the kind words. I’m very grateful.

  9. James Manser

    Rose, I know you can’t see it right now, but he did you a favor by leaving this world. You’re better off without him.

  10. Milton Crum

    Rose, I was there for two of those episodes, and on the periphery for the third, and I remember how hurt you were by his total lack of sensitivity, and how it made you feel as a person.

    No one who professes to love someone would say those things or write those things, and it was clear from those comments that he had stopped caring.

    You always said that he was intelligent, but when the social filters come off, intellect and grace seem to go out the door.

    His love for you, and his respect for you as an accomplished writer and historian seemed to dissipate into thin air. It’s so tragic.

  11. Beverley Pinkerman

    I am looking forward to reading this book.

    My limited knowledge of the world wars is from the other side of the pond so it will be fascinating to read of things that happened here.

    Somehow I don’t think the episodes of the Waltons I watched growing up were the whole story.

    You were in effect groomed to doubt yourself and your amazing abilities. Personally I have known you as the amazing person you are, with Wayne as a background player, from what I have come to know of him he would have hated that!

    As I have come to do in my life, you must keep telling yourself you are not responsible for the actions of others, because damn it all, it’s true.

  12. Melissa Burgess

    You have worked so hard and been through the unthinkable. I am happy the book is finally coming to fruition.

    Here’s to a new chapter, so to speak, ready to open. I look forward to seeing the book in print.

    Thank you for sharing your expertise and tireless research with the world. It was such an honor to be asked to contribute with illustrations.

    I hope for you all the best, and cherish you as a friend.

  13. Janet LaMonica

    His words and actions toward you were incredibly self-serving. To say you were taken advantage of is a giant understatement.

    He manipulated the world around him, and those friends of yours who were exposed to his seedier side didn’t know how to share those stories with you before his death.

    It gives me great pleasure to see you coming back to life after the awful months you have had to live through. In the immortal words of Helen Reddy, “you are strong, you are invincible, you are woman!”

    Oh, yes, and you are loved by many.

  14. Janet LaMonica

    Milton, I loved your comments.@Milton Crum

  15. Rhonda LaPointe Frazier

    I read through even the painful blogs. I ask myself why, and that answer is because I care. I want to understand what you have experienced.

    โ€œSometimes the biggest ugliest dogs are guarding the loveliest of treasures.โ€

    I’m glad that even though Penniman was your biggest, ugliest dog, it turned out to be a lovely treasure for you to be proud of! Despite Wayne, as well as thanks to Wayne.

    You’re on quite a journey.

    You are so strong and I admire that more than the fact that you’re the Sears Homes Lady!

  16. Susan Schnittger

    Well I, for one, am checking my mail every day in anticipation of another book for my Rosemary Thornton collection. There are so very many aspects to your new book that it sometimes overwhelms me to bring them to mind.

    Sears houses, munitions, workers, illnesses, and WAR.

    You don’t take down your blogs, do you? I do go back to interesting articles and re-read them. This has been a very busy time of year for more reasons than one. People will get to it. Then they will regret it took them so long. Some things can’t be helped.

    Life interrupts. …more on this later.

    I’m gonna copy this over there….

  17. Jan

    Rose, it was painful to read some of this regarding Wayne and his treatment of you.

    Don’t ever doubt yourself and your abilities.

    Congratulations on completing the book and may it be well received by all who open its pages!

  18. Linda Ramsey

    Lara, I was able to click the PayPal link but pay as a guest using my credit card.@Lara Mortimer

  19. Sandy Pilarski

    Wow! Just reading this was hard to take in; I can’t imagine living through it.

    I also know there’s not much heroism in moving forward in situations similar to this; it’s more of a matter of just hanging on.

    My mother said as much after her husband, my dad, died at age 55 years of a heart attack. I was the 12 year old daughter he left for her to take care of by herself; she never in her life had to do anything by herself.

    First she had her parents, then her older sister and then her husband. I can attest it was a rough first year past his death.

    That doesn’t make it any less amazing when one makes it through, whether it be a year, months, days, hours or mere minutes.

    You, Rosemary, are amazing, for not only have you gotten past the year’s “date” that changed your life, but for getting through the roughest part of a project, the editing.

    And you endured moving through an edit that had Wayne entwined through every paragraph. I cringed when I read how he demeaned you; as others have commented, that behavior is not love.

    I’ve read so many times that this type of behavior is not about you; that you should not take it personally. This type of behavior is all about the OTHER person and their inadequacies.

    I have been in that uncomfortable, unbelievable place when I wondered how it WASN’T personal. I mean the wrath was being directed AT ME. How is that not personal?

    However, as has been noted by several of your other friends, there was certainly something wrong with Wayne. Something that you had no control over and should take no blame in.

    I look forward to receiving your new book. It is a testament to your strength, whether you realize just how you made it there or not.

  20. Missy

    I’m just a random person on the internet… but I wanted to say how moved I was by this story.
    Also: It’s not your fault. Any of it.

    I don’t know the history of your marriage, but I can speak to the breakdown of my own.

    Sometimes, people become ill, physically or mentally or both, and they change. And we love them so much that we won’t let ourselves see it, and at the same time won’t let anyone but ourselves bear the responsibility for it.

    My journey was a long one, but your daughter is right: When you have nothing left to lose, it’s worth learning how to become an optimist.

    Force yourself and eventually reality will follow your behaviour.

    It got better. Time passed and I gained perspective. And actually the strange behaviour and cognitive dissonance of the situation freed me from feeling that I was at fault, once a clearer head prevailed.

    I even bought my own little house, just like I see you’re planning to do.

    Do that, it will be good for you ๐Ÿ™‚

    Sometimes it takes a long time to understand life. Be proud of your achievement.

    As time passes you will see that it was an act of hope to finish publishing the book.

    The first of many new acts of hope.

    I am sending you blessings and hugs.

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