Thanks to everyone!

By the time I've lugged all my supplies from the car into the cabin, a thin sheet of sweat drips ungracefully down from my temple. Exhaling deeply, I wipe the droplet with one raised shoulder, wishing I had the forethought of buying a fan when I was shopping earlier. When I arrived at the cabin yesterday, it was overcast, and I hadn't paid much attention to the heat. I had slept comfortably with a window slightly open, the overnight chill seeping into the cabin the perfect temperature to sleep in.

Now, as I dump the last bag onto the wooden floor, it's almost unbearable without some type of cooling source three inches in front of my face. Looking around, the cabin drenched in a natural light I hadn't seen before now, I know, despite the sweat that runs down my back in the afternoon sun, that I'll love it here.

It's drastically different than the house I left behind, barely a quarter of its size and more rustic than modern, but it's something I can easily adjust to. I have everything I need here: a small kitchenette with a vintage refrigerator and freezer, a tiny but functional stove, a cute table for two nestled in the corner near the window next to the sink. Above the sink rests dark blue and green plaid curtains, most certainly sitting up there for who knows how long, that match the aesthetic of the wood cabin but not the feel of where I want my new life to be heading. Regardless, curtains aren't exactly essential at the moment, so I put them in the back of my mind for now and start on my task of unloading these bags and officially moving my own belongings into my new home.

I make sure the windows are open in hopes of a breeze coming in off the lake behind the cabin as I slowly begin to turn this place into my own. I unload the groceries first, enjoying the minute tasks of deciding which cabinet will be used for what and watching my refrigerator fill with foods I like instead of only the food he liked. It's a small thing, really, but it's the tiny facts like that which make me think maybe my escape was worth it.

Time flies by without my knowledge, and before I know it, I have new sheets and a blanket on the bed in the small bedroom off the living room. I have my limited wardrobe placed in the drawers and hung on hangers in the closet. All my toiletries are in their proper place beneath the bathroom sink and the shower. The throw blanket I bought is folded on the top of the worn brown leather couch in the living room, and the air fresheners I've placed around the cabin do the job of covering the smell of stale air. Tomorrow, I'll break out the cleaning supplies and fix this place from head to toe.

But for now, I think to myself as I circle the shared living room and kitchen, I'm satisfied.

Satisfied and sweating more than I ever have in my life.

I hesitate for only a moment, but before I can stop myself, I'm walking off my front porch and heading straight for the lake. Twigs and grass crack beneath my feet as I make my way towards the small secluded sandy area near the edge of the lake, and maybe I'm crazy, but I don't let it stop me. Even when I slip my shoes off mid-stride, I continue walking straight into the water, not caring that the clothes I have on will need to be washed right away.

The water against my skin cools me down instantly, and not only that; I can feel years of abuse and vulnerability wash away with the flowing current. Sighing in complete peace, I purposely fall backward and float in silence. Complete bliss. I hear the rumble of the water when my ears dip below the surface and the sound of birds chirping and trees rustling against one another when I come up for air.

I can do this. I survived a lonely marriage for years, and though I'm still alone, it's the kind of solitude one needs to cleanse the soul.

And I am in desperate need of a cleansing.

Being alone is something I know too well; I'm an expert.

It's when I catch the eyes of my copper-headed neighbor that I remember it's not the solitude that terrifies me. What rattles me to my core is the fear of human interaction.

See you tomorrow!