I'm glad it's August. Now I can put the sad, summer anniversaries behind me for 10 more months.

June is the month of my parents' suicides. Mom took way too many pills and died what I hope was a peaceful death on June 17, 1982. Daddy blew his brains out on June 17, 1987. His death was not peaceful, nor was it quick; he lived, comatose, on life-support, for several hours afterward. My sister had to scream at the hospital staff to "let the old man die! He wanted to die!" They pulled the plug.

July 26 is my father's birthday. It was also the day that I left my first husband, 39 days after Daddy died. All I could think of was that I didn't want to be like Daddy, always berating myself for doing this or that or for not doing this, that or the other. I didn't want to be 70 years old and still in a marriage that I hated, with a domineering man whom I sometimes loved, but often hated. I wanted to make my own way in the world, make my own decisions, go where I wanted, when I wanted. Granted, I wasn't thinking clearly at the time. Grief had distorted my thoughts. But I have never regretted my decision, even though I came close to mimicking my parents' actions, more than once in the next two years.

But now it's August! I am happy with my life; though it would by nicer if it weren't so hot outside.