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That morning I’d gone to the gym in my condo for a normal workout. But as I was warming up, with one leg stretched out on a bench, somehow I lost my balance and fell over. For no more than a few seconds I must have blacked out. When I opened my eyes, I was flat on my back on the floor. I tried to get up but couldn’t move my left leg. Hearing me groan, a woman at the other end of the gym called out, “Do you need help?”

I croaked, “Yes,” and managed a thank you.

Soon, two security guards appeared with a wheelchair, helped me into it, and took me to my apartment. All I remember thinking was, “Guess I won’t be going to the mall today.”

Six months earlier, my husband of many years had died. Seeing him through his progressively worsening illness wrenched me daily. I did everything I could for him, but he kept sinking. Numb and disbelieving, I watched that vibrant life-loving man fade in stages. Facing the inevitable, I knew what I had to do and, strangely dispassionate, made all the necessary arrangements. Then, like an automaton, I carried them out. Afterwards, very gradually I came back to life.

The apartment, of course, was uncharacteristically silent. I kept listening for his voice and footsteps. But then I remembered, and each day faced my new reality a little more. Slowly I started to rearrange and then discard things, especially those that had always annoyed me (decorations, some books, many files he’d held onto like gold).

Almost with shock, I realized I could spread out everything—my clothes, papers, files—go to bed late, watch the TV programs I wanted to, and sleep until I was really rested (I work at home). No one would remind me to come to bed or prod me to get up. I could eat whenever I wanted to and whatever I wanted. I evolved a schedule—only coffee when I get up, breakfast at noon, heavier meal (lunch-dinner) at 4 or 5, and much later a light snack in front of the television.

But even now I hobble painfully around. Recovery has been arduous and, at this writing, still not complete.  I go regularly to physical therapy, which is helping.

I’m unable to stop replaying that moment, and I remain aghast that I’d lost control, something that had never happened before. Chewing it over, I realized something else—by falling I had punished myself. But for what?

Incredulously, the answer came: for loving to live alone.

I know other women who live alone in my building; some are widows, some lifelong singles. I’d always been proud of my “couplehood” and liked having my husband by my side when we went out, as if I/we were somehow superior to those other women.

Once recently, a neighbor met me at the mailboxes. Her husband had had a special bond with mine, and she had expressed great empathy when she’d heard of his death.

Now she said, “Hey, you look good! How are you doing?”

I smiled and thanked her. And something impelled me to whisper, “I like living alone.”

She burst out laughing and rolled her eyes. “I know what you mean!” Her response almost absolved me.

As I entered the apartment, I thought about what my neighbor had said. Looking around, I noticed as if for the first time the floor-to-ceiling terrace doors, the light, the view, and (not that the place was that big) the sheer space. And more—what I can only describe as a quiet presence. I could leave the doors open without fear of a corrective comment, throw my afghan haphazardly on the sofa without a disapproving look, keep the lights on, turn them off; not always be aware, as if with a second sense, of what room he was in. I could relax.

I looked around and sighed. It was quiet but rarely lonely. I started to contact other women in the building and go out with them. I kept up email correspondence with some favorite people and explored Zoom classes and connections.

Had I finally forgiven myself?  If I had, the loving years with my husband weren’t negated at all. I am immensely grateful for his steadfast love, companionship, and leadership. But now, despite the inconvenience of my leg injury, maybe I am finally ready to acknowledge that it is all right to live alone, and to admit that I like—no, I love—it.
 

Locked in the Psych Ward: A Memoir of Broken Promises and False Confessions

by Jamie Lyn Weaver

    A struggling woman is admitted to a prestigious Chicago hospital seeking help for her compulsions. Instead, her unethical psychiatrist ignores her actual problem and "treats" her as a victim of satanic ritual abuse. He uses powerful drugs and discredited forms of therapy to convince her she spent years in a cult where she sacrificed babies and committed other heinous acts.   Every page of Weaver’s riveting memoir shows how she struggled to maintain her sanity through one terrifying experience after another.   Learn more about the book and its author at jamielynweaver.com   Available from Amazon, Bookshop, Barnes and Noble, or ask for it at your local independent bookseller.

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