People in recovery (of the alcoholic variety) like to talk about how God has a “great” sense of humor. They say this with teeth clenched and faces flushed, fingers rapidly turning a Styrofoam cup into a lap full of confetti. They say it with anger and confusion and resignation, and you can see it in the way they sit: oh, how they want to run and scream and throw plates into walls but they are instead going to sit there and surrender every cell of their being if it kills them. It usually goes something like this:

“It turns out it is so difficult to feel life without using alcohol to help numb me out a bit. Even the little things feel like big things and I nearly cried in the bathroom this morning because I thought I lost my toothbrush. I can barely take how much I feel the little things. And then today, someone rear ended my car and now it’s in the shop for a week and I have no idea how I’m going to get to work in the meantime. Oh ho ho, God, aren’t you funny.”

It’s kind of a beautiful thing to witness, watching these lumpy, gnarled bits of humans start to turn into people again. It’s like a rebirth of sorts. Listening to them talk in meetings gives me the same feeling as when my kids were babies and starting to do something important for the first time, like walking or holding a spoon. It’s an overwhelming sense of awe, realizing that you are in the presence of some huge evolution. In my experience, the only thing that really changes as you start accumulating years of sobriety is being able to sort of master a sense of objectivity. The little things still feel like big things most of the time, and the big things still feel like they will most likely kill you in your sleep, but you have experienced enough healing to realize that at some point things will feel different. Not better, necessarily, but different. I worry that I come across as bitterly cynical when I say things like that; to those of you who didn’t nod your heads as you read that last sentence, just understand that for some of us, life is heavy. It’s not bad, it’s just heavy, like trying to carry a giant box of your most precious belongings up a long flight of stairs. You want to be doing what you’re doing, you like doing it, but damn the box is heavy.

I spoke with my friend Lauren last night. We talked about how weird it is to feel things all the time, and how most people probably don’t talk about things like this, and how it’s not fair for things to be so hard so often because honestly, we’re really very nice girls. Lauren was telling me how frustrating it is to be so aware of everything, and what it feels like to have this awareness about your own imperfect self. Then she said something that makes my top-ten list of favorite statements of all time.

“I like to picture this section of my brain as though it has been ravaged by wolverines. Then you just shove everything back up under your skull and hope for the best.”

“I LOVE THAT,” I said.

“That’s what the wolverines said, baby.”

Another friend and I were talking once about insight, and how having the ability to read people well feels like a huge responsibility. When you are able to see who someone really is, behind their walls and masks, they suddenly become very vulnerable. You sometimes see things they don’t want anyone to see. Possessing a keen sense of intuition can be a wonderful gift, I told my friend, but only if it is paired with great, great compassion. When you see someone for who they truly are, the only good and right thing to do is to love them in all of their glorious imperfection. The same can be said for self-awareness. It’s so rough to be aware of your weaknesses, your fallibility, your soft spots. It’s hard to sit in traffic on a road that’s under construction and know that there isn’t any shortcut- the road isn’t finished yet. You just have to inch along, a string of cars ahead of you and a string of cars behind, with the understanding that this particular patch of roadwork is only temporary. If you are aware of these things as they are happening inside of you, the only good and right thing to do is to love yourself in all of your glorious imperfection. Pair the awareness with great compassion and great love, like a mother watching her child clumsily grasping the spoon in her fist.

If all else fails, kill the wolverines.

I have had some fairly rotten luck when it comes to dating. It is difficult and not fun, and it makes me wonder why the divorce rate is so high in America. Marriages failing- that I can comprehend. But what I don’t understand is how all of these people survived dating long enough to actually meet someone they wanted to marry in the first place. The thing is, there is so much fear. Everyone is so scared all the time. We are scared of being hurt, scared of being forgotten, scared of caring too much or not enough, scared of people seeing how scared we are. And that’s on a good day. On a bad day the fear transitions into warp drive, and it makes people do crazy things like walk away from someone they love or cease eating bread because he might love you more if your calves look smaller. Humans, as a general rule, are a stupid, clumsy, nearsighted species who (almost without exception) desperately want to be loved. It’s truly an unfortunate combination.

And everything is made so much harder when there are little ears and watchful eyes; small, precious people whose dials are tuned in to Channel Mom at all times. It’s hard to slog through confusion, dress up and feel sexy, or stumble your way through a heartbreak when your children’s faces mirror even your most secret, hidden emotions. They watch you stumble and fall and curse and cry and then, I imagine, they take all of this information and file it way back in their brains, in the ever-growing section labeled: To Be Brought Up In Therapy. The sucky-lame-awfulness of dating is hard enough to bear on its own, but with these constant witnesses to your failures, witnesses with quick and impressionable minds, the pressure to figure your shit out is incredibly intense. Being raised by a single mother must be a little bit like living on the set of The Bachelorette- only the torsos aren’t quite as chiseled and most of the bachelors don’t actually seem to be very interested. Which is terribly sad, really. Mothers are such wonderful people. We have been changed by our children, for the better in most cases. We are creatures of habit and compassion who will listen to you and kiss your face when you’re sad, and we hardly ever mind if you fart in the shower or leave nose hairs in the sink because we are comfortable being close to bodies that are not ours. We are soft and patient and funny and interesting, and yes, we are also stretched beyond our limits and tired most of the time. But if a mother is putting forth the effort to make space in her busy life and full heart for you, she must think you are pretty damn special. And it’s ok to feel proud about that one, guys.

When I became single, I made the decision never to bring a man into my childrens’ lives unless he showed great promise. So the past couple of years haven’t been as crazy and confusing for my daughters as they have been for me, because I have yet to be involved with someone who shows even a hint of promise (or at least they’ve kept it very well hidden). Anne Lamott wrote, “The world is filled with weak, shitty little men,” so try “not to take it too personally.” But on the same page she also wrote: “[Love is] hardly ever that clear, that black and white. So you get confused and your pride gets hurt, but that’s the risk, that’s the game. And sometimes it’s worth it.” I believe both of those things, in the abundance of shitty little men but that love is also sometimes worth the risk. So out of stubbornness or naivete or something else entirely, I have tried to remain open, even when that hurts. Sometimes this makes me feel very stupid, but most of the time it feels like the right thing to do.

I have received two very helpful pieces of advice that I repeat to myself often. One was from my dear friend Bob, who told me, “You will most likely find only one person who is good enough to keep. That’s why they call it ‘dating’ and not ‘relationshipping.’” The other was from a client, a gorgeous seventy-year-old writer/mother/divorcee who said, “Just do your life. If the right person shows up somewhere along the way, that’s great. But if not, you’ve still had a good life.” This life business is tough stuff, and love complicates things even more. But that’s the game. And it’s the only game we’ve got.

Every few days I take my rugs outside and beat them, channeling my inner wizened, kerchiefed babushka. I was out in my front yard this afternoon, shaking the life out of the rugs and desperately craving a cool, creamy borscht, when a man who works for my internet provider walked up the driveway and started talking to me about upgrades. He asked me what I was currently paying for my TV, internet, and phone, and I explained to him that I don’t have a land line, nor do I watch TV. He was baffled.

“Wow, so… what do you do for entertainment?” he asked me.

“I read,” I told him. “I’m kind of a dork.”

My decision not to have television in my house is a spectacularly controversial one, considering it affects no one but me. People are either impressed, confused, or immediately uncomfortable- worried, perhaps, that I will judge them for this sweetly benign vice. I could never judge someone for watching TV, just as I will never be able to judge my daughters when they inevitably get in trouble for smoking pot in the high school parking lot. I have been there, and I understand the purpose that it serves. Watching television was the main activity I shared with my husband. We were so very different. We loved different things, thought about different things, talked about different things. He was maddeningly cerebral, a former debate team champion, and always interested in playing the devil’s advocate in order to spice up a discussion. I, on the other hand, am passionate to a fault, only able to voice my opinion on an issue once I have been given time to understand how I feel about it. We found it difficult to communicate. But at the end of a long day the one thing we could do together was park ourselves on the couch and watch shows we both enjoyed. It sounds sad, but I think it was one of the things that held us together for so long.

The last two years have been deeply introspective. The amount of mental energy I have put into to trying to understand who I am and where I belong could illuminate a small country. Cutting television out of my life wasn’t something I really thought about, it just sort of… happened. At first I was so overwhelmed by the details of the divorce and by having been flung into the world of single-motherhood, that I barely had the wherewithal to change into pajamas before falling into bed at night, much less decide what I wanted to watch on TV. But after awhile, after emerging a bit from the fog, I realized how different I felt without television. I felt calmer. I felt more aware, more present. My thoughts were so beautifully clear and uninfluenced. I started reading again, something I loved to do but never seemed to have the time for. My mental world expanded- I stopped dreaming about hidden cameras and action scenes and dreamt instead about lovers and families and far away places. Beautiful words began to float around in my mind, and I found ways to use them. I believe that words, along with other forms of art, are one of the few true ways of describing and understanding the world. So, you see, removing television from my home wasn’t a decision that I made. It was the result of becoming more authentically me.

It’s hard sometimes, especially with my clients, to not have that instant topic of surface conversation. (Did you see the last episode of “John and Kate?” I KNOW! Oh my god!) But I find other things to talk about, and the results are usually so wonderful. I have to admit though, I do like the reactions from people when I tell them about it, whether they are good or bad. It’s nice to hear someone tell me they admire my decision, and it’s hilarious to see the expressions on the faces of people who clearly just don’t get it. My favorite so far came from one of the girls I work with:

“Hey Karli, do you ever watch ‘The Hills?’”

“No, I don’t have a TV.”

“Oh my god, you are so depressing.“

It’s troublesome being a night owl. My daughters have been asleep for hours, their sleep-breathing heavy and deep, echoing off the wood floors of the hallway. It’s quiet in the darkness outside. I can feel the neighborhood settling in for the night, my street vacant and somnolent, lined with sleeping cars and darkened windows. Even my house seems deep in slumber; the creaking and cracking of beams brought on by the coolness of evening grow fewer and farther between until the walls around me are still and silent. My cats purr softly as they doze, one on my desk and one at my feet, and my skin has turned pale from the glow of my computer screen, the only light in the room. My brain is achingly, mutinously awake, although my body is leaden and sore from a long day spent on my feet.

There is a moth fluttering across the letters on my keyboard. I brush him from the Q and he disappears before settling again on the P. There is nothing beautiful about the creatures that live in the night. Bright colors and lilting, delicate songs are saved for sunlight-lovers and early risers, all of whom are hushed and burrowed and hidden in invisible backyards until the sunrise calls them out again. I envy them the peace that night brings. I envy them their carefree, cheerful mornings and their witness to the damp innocence of dawn. I share these nighttime hours with ugly things, with blind, snuffling mammals and ne’er-do-wells whose engines scream as they barrel down the highway and with insomniacs kept awake by their secrets. I don’t want to be part of this derelict group. A mother, a lady, a Good Girl should be sleeping now, ready to start tomorrow with a fresh face and a well-rested smile. But though I have trained my body to beg for sleep at ten and stumble out of bed at seven, I know I’ll be unable to think clearly again until this time tomorrow night.

I know I am not alone. There are people like me, I am sure, mirror images of myself hunched in white puddles of computer-light. I wish we could communicate somehow, convince each other that it’s not always the early bird that gets the worm, and make the darkness feel less lonely. Maybe I could start a secret club of nighttime dwellers- we could wear yellow wristbands and when we pass each other on the street we could clink our coffee cups together and nod in recognition and never once mention the bags gathered under heavy-lidded eyes. We could start midnight book clubs and play moonlight Scrabble and as our movement grew we could create entire communities who are never required to rise before eleven in the morning and where our favorite restaurants always stay open all night. Maybe I should buy a transistor radio and make friends with the nocturnal truckers. We could talk about how they miss their families and they could read me all the road signs that they pass and we could discuss the pros and cons of ordering biscuits and gravy at three in the morning.

People who think they are funny try to warn me about thinking too much when it’s dark outside. They say, Watch out! Your head is a dangerous neighborhood where you should never go alone at night. But they don’t understand that I have no choice. There is no one here to talk to and nowhere I am able to go and trying to force myself to sleep when my mind is so awake is like asking Lady Gaga to tone it down a bit. It’s crazy-making, and can’t be done. So instead I let myself think. I drink tea and read lovely things to try to keep my spirits up. I’ll lie in bed and wait for things to settle down up there before I set my alarm and turn out the light. I’ll regret it dreadfully in the morning, but I’ll repeat the process again as soon as night falls. This is when I really miss living with another grown-up. Without someone else here to balance out my pattern, I’m free to fall into a cycle that is most incompatible with the rest of society. I hate it, but I seem unable to change it.

If you’re reading this, wear a yellow wristband for me tomorrow.

I bought a giant white hat. It’s the kind of hat worn by ladies in the movies, during a garden scene with sunglasses, butlers, and mimosas. I wore it to a friend’s birthday party yesterday, and it was perfect. We sat under the trees in his backyard while we ate lunch, and his roommate taught me how to play songs by blowing on blades of grass. It all felt so grown-up.

In the evening, my friend Pamela and I met up with some folks we know and walked down to the lake to watch the fireworks. We spread out on blankets, laughing and talking and being quiet and watching the crowds. There was an old man in a white suit, wearing a straw hat and walking with a wooden cane. I wished I was still wearing my wide and shady hat, but I had left it at home.

They played the national anthem as darkness fell, and everyone stood. The boys we were with removed their baseball caps and held them over their hearts and an angry drunk man screamed as police held him down, cuffed him, and swiftly carried him away. We sat back down as the fireworks began, and my friend Marcus put his arm around my shoulders. I watched the explosions in the sky and I watched the people around me. Everyone was quiet. Everyone was still and sat with faces upturned and eyes fixed to the sky above the water, and with each explosion the colored light reflected off of our skin, thousands of faces turning green and purple and blue.

How could you not love everything in a moment like that?