As a thirty-three-year old divorcee, I slept around a lot. There, I’ve committed it to paper. I own it.

I had married far too young, and I had struggled hard to realize that married (to that man, at least) was NOT what I was supposed to be just yet. I took my hard-won freedom in hand and ran it amok. I take my responsibility for that very seriously, but I know too that this was about more than being a gay divorcee discovering (or corrupting) herself.

With no father—a father who chose not to be there—I grew up thinking that something had to be terribly wrong with a little girl whose father refused her. And during a large portion of my girlhood, a relative sexually abused me, lovingly. That’s a strange thing to say, I know. But more important and unfortunate is that I learned from the abuse the erroneous tenet that sex and love—male love at least—had everything to do with each other.

My marriage taught me otherwise, but I didn’t learn that lesson very well, for there still exists the lonely, sad little girl within me. When the marriage was over, I continued my quest for the love I never had, linking that with the desire I had so terribly conflated with what it was I truly wanted. Now, at thirty-nine (hear the six-week bell chiming?), I’ve had many lovers, but very little love. I’m alone, and most of the time that’s okay with me. As Sula says in the Toni Morrison classic of the same name, “My alone is mine. Nobody gave it to me by leaving.”

But a strange thing happened this very afternoon when a well-loved ex-boyfriend popped up on Facebook with this message: I’m dying to get back between those legs. To this I responded: That’s it?! Go ahead and DIE. And there it was—one of many epiphanies I’ve had this year: I’m tired of being treated like some usable object that can be taken down from a dusty shelf occasionally and used at will. It’s my own fault, I thought through my tears. I will always be treated this way if don’t let that little girl inside me rest.

As she tried to comfort me, my daughter listened to me tell her to never give herself or her body away. She, like me, had no father to protect her from abuse or to teach her what love from a man could be. DON’T, I told her—you want love more than sex. And the two things can be mutually exclusive much of the time if you let them. If you behave like a woman willing to give her body away, you’ll always be exactly that and nothing more: A willing woman.

There’s so much about turning forty that feels good, so many flowers of opportunity in bloom on the landscape ahead. But turning around to face what’s behind me, discovering the unhappy truths of the woman I was before feels like opening the gut with a dull blade. Open it I must if I am ever to reach the forty of my dreams. I want to greet forty with the joy and wonder of a little girl finding herself in a land enchanted. As for the little girl I myself was, I am eyeing her closely and hoping that my nearly forty-year-old hand stretched to hers will appear to her as the one she can trust. I hope to lead her to the land enchanted by the gifts of responsibility and love—the true love—she always wanted.

To share your “40 story” with The Women at Forty Project, email us at contribute@womenatforty.com.

Tricia Amiel on Tricia: After ten years of teaching English, I’ve finally begun to live my dream of being a working writer.  Lucky me.  I have three children 19, 19, and 9…a little poetic.  Life is good. I’m also a freelance writer, editor, and proofreader available for work.  For additional information or to contact Tricia, email us at info@womenatforty.com.

Editor’s note: Tricia’s approaching 40 and she’s on a roll. Literally. No really, literally. She’s recently decided to follow her life long passion for writing and literature wherever it leads her. This week it’s taking her to a place of letting go of anger and a failed marriage and replacing it with forgiveness and love. All this as she approaches the age of reason…

As I count down the six weeks to my fortieth birthday, it occurs to me how my thinking has changed this year. I’ve let go of many ideas that were holding me back, keeping me cocooned in immaturity, and am approaching the rise to many others.

I’ve let go of anger toward my parents for not protecting me enough, for not being there for me when I needed guidance; instead, I now see those days when I battled it out on the streets, in the schools, and in my relationships in the Bronx as fertile ground for the strength I needed to overcome emotional, mental, and physical difficulties. I appreciate now the tools my mother gave me to survive when she was unable to teach me herself: books, and my love of the written word.

I am finally coming to that long dreamed of place in my life in which my passion for literature and writing are coming to the fore of my existence, earning me peace and contentment. To my father, I am grateful for the lesson that men are, as my mother has said, “a luxury, not a necessity,” and that I’d always had enough love. Early and consistent abuse from a relative taught me that I now have the ability to protect myself and others. It taught me, too, to look closely at my family’s dynamics, wherein I have gained revelations that feed my being.

In the past month of my journey to forty, I have let go, finally, of my failed marriage. I no longer lay blame at my ex-husband and his wife’s feet. Like so many other women in that realm, I have, over the years, gone through every phase of the healing process, only to find myself angry and bitter, tearing my soul out of its skin in the end. Now I know that really, there is nothing left to be angry about; I needed a life without that man in it, but the years I spent with him taught me some very valuable lessons about what is important to me in this life. It’s been so hard to get there, but I learned that I am an entity of and unto myself, that autonomy is the best of all worlds for me, and the freedom to be who I am is worth its weight in what I didn’t or couldn’t earn inside that marriage. I am grateful that his wife took him out of my way, lightening my emotional space so that I could exist there as I am—good AND bad.

Perhaps because I’d always idealized the age of forty, I am discovering what it truly means to grow into my elder consciousness as well as my aging spirit. No, I don’t look like I did twenty years ago, but that’s cool—beauty is different at this age. Beauty is how I feel, what I think, and how I put my thoughts into words that sustain me. My laughter is a song to me now, rather than a long, loud façade over my pain.

Forty is everything I imagined it to be, and many things I did not. Most of all, forty is the me I always wanted to be, with room to grow. Hello, forty. I’ve been waiting for you like a long lost love. We are me, and I am almost exactly who I want to be.

Is/was 40 your age of reason? Share your reflections on 40 in the comment section or on our Facebook Fan Page.

Tricia Amiel on Tricia: After ten years of teaching English, I’ve finally begun to live my dream of being a working writer.  Lucky me.  I have three children 19, 19, and 9…a little poetic.  Life is good. I’m also a freelance writer, editor, and proofreader available for work.  For additional information or to contact Tricia, email us at info@womenatforty.com.

Finally got to see It’s Complicated and I loved it! The movie stars Meryl Streep and Alec Baldwin as divorced parents of three adult kids who “reconnect” during an out of town trip. To complicate matters, Baldwin is currently married to his former mistress and Streep is being courted by her architect, played by Steve Martin.

I loved It’s Complicated because at 60 Streep is beautiful, because of her droopy eyelids not in spite of them (one of the funniest scenes in the movie.) I loved it because even in their late 50’s, adults do stupid things, are tempted to repeat the mistakes of the past and are still vulnerable when it comes to matters of the heart. I loved it because there’s a little part of me that (I’m ashamed to admit) was happy that the new, much younger wife go a taste of her own medicine.

Women all over the country looked forward to the movie’s release because it was the first time in a long time we’ve seen men in their 50’s dating and being attracted to women their own age on the big screen.  But the movie’s about much more than that. It’s about relationships ending and us wondering whether they should have. And it’s about dealing with the fallout of divorce and the reality that adult children of divorce are affected by it, even years later.

It’s also about how we sometimes re-imagine past relationships, romanticizing them and their consequences and in doing so, miss out on something fabulous that’s waiting for us in the present. It can be easy, especially when you’re single or unhappy in your current relationship, to wonder about the “one that got away” and reminisce about the good times, completely forgetting whatever valid reasons you had to end the relationship in the first place. The opposite can also be true – settling for, and into, a relationship that makes you completely miserable for fear that this is as good as it gets.

Whether you’re in something and trying to get out or watching from the sidelines and trying to get in, you’ll take your mindset with you wherever you go. Whatever your current station in life, if you’re waiting on something or someone to make you happy – whether that’s waiting to be married or waiting to be single – you might find yourself waiting a lifetime. Remember the old saying “wherever you go, that’s where you are?” It’s trite but true. Changing your status in life, doesn’t change who you are at your core, only you can do that.   The fact is, it all can be very complicated – relationships, love, happiness -  if it were easy, finding it wouldn’t be our life’s work. But at the end of the day as complicated as it all is, it is worth it.

Anyone else see the movie? How did you feel about it? Share your thoughts in the comment section or on our Facebook fan page.

My parents divorced when I was seven years old. I remember the day that my mother, brothers and I moved; it was a cold and wet winter day. I cried as I said goodbye to my swing set and my climbing tree and wondered about the new school I’d attend and whether or not there would be children on my new block. I knew the word “divorce” and I knew from adults’ reactions that it was supposed to be a negative thing, so I decided at that moment that I would never get divorced. I knew that I would one day be married, but divorce was just not option.

My grandparents, parents and just about all of my aunts, uncles and older cousins smoked. I swore I’d never do that either—and happily, I’ve kept that promise. But the divorce thing…Well, like other things, divorce happens. I used to believe that if I loved someone enough to marry him, then I could never possibly hate him enough to divorce him. The love-hate extremes in that theory expose the immaturity and simplicity of it. Hindsight is truly 20/20 vision and knowing what I know now based on my experiences, hatred is often not even part of the equation.

My parents didn’t hate one another. I know this because they were always friendly and cooperative with each other once they were separated. They seemed like friends who met every other weekend and during family functions and holidays. We sometimes enjoyed family outings together and in later years, my parents enjoyed an occasional date. Even to this day, holiday dinners are attended and enjoyed by both of them simultaneously and without drama or weird rules about Mother being in the house for an hour, then Dad and then another rotation.

Neither fortunately nor unfortunately, my experience with divorce was quite a bit different. Thankfully, there were no children involved. However, there were threats, harassment and less-than-civil behavior that made that period of my life almost unbearable. Looking back, there still wasn’t hatred (at least not on my part), but there was a distinct lack of love between us. Despite the absence of love, there was still an overwhelming sense of failure and shame for me. I had expected better of myself and my life.

At some point in the middle of depositions and hearings, I realized that I hadn’t failed myself or my soon-to-be ex-husband. I realized that I hadn’t even been in the marriage. The part of Rachel in the marriage had been played by a hollow version of me who was afraid to speak her mind, show her talents or simply be herself—my desolate, depressed and disillusioned doppelganger. That person didn’t know joy, she didn’t know confidence, nor did she know peace. She had gotten married at a time in her life when she didn’t really know herself, let alone what she wanted, needed and deserved in a husband. The marriage was destined to fail.

I now realize that my failed marriage was an important part of my development was a person, a woman and a mate for a future man. At almost forty years old, I know not only what I want, need and deserve in a mate, but what I need to offer a mate. I also know what I don’t want or need and what I am not capable of giving. There are moments when it is tough to face my own reality—my strong points and my shortcomings. However, there is a certain triumph, a feeling of victory in accepting myself and having the courage and tenacity to be that person—warts and all. As the saying goes, “You can’t love another without loving yourself.” I found out the hard way that it helps to know yourself too. Most importantly, I’m confident that I will know and love myself even more at forty.

Rachel Dachel is a freelance writer and editor, and creator and author of the blog Rachel-y Motivated Incidents.