Identity crisis! Send inspiration!

Growing old is very like growing up.  You have ideas about what will be, and then life just runs over you like a steamroller, and nothing you planned happens.  I expected that at this age, an august 68, I would have a life partner to look back on years of holidays and summers and vacations and children blooming into parents themselves, and a couple of grandchildren to bounce around.  Not happening here.  Three strikes and the husbands are all out.  One is dead.  I didn't do it, really.  But the other two have been married to their current spouses (both two away from me) for many moons now.  And I live here, in a tiny, rather funky little yellow house, with two obnoxious small dogs and the yard of shame out front, now happily knee-deep in leaves.  My friends teach me that I am okay in most respects.  Some are silly 60, giggling like 12 year olds.  I didn't giggle then, certainly not starting now.  Some are cranky and spend every moment arguing for their limitations, certain that they can never be happy in their circumstances, not ever.  Some are very, very spiritual, constantly working on improving their spirits.  Now, those I admire, sort of.  Somehow, though, even their aspects seem out of balance.  Moi, I am just trying to float to the surface after a long, long, long time bottom feeding.  My aspect is healing, an eternal process because the wounds live at the core of my persona.  They scab over, but are capable of being ripped open in a blink and actively bleed again.  When I heal, and please, HP, let it be soon, who will I be?  There is the art.  Thank HP for the art.  The moments I spend painting are those when I feel closest to my spirit and closest to the Divine.  Compassion.  That is my keyword right now - for myself, for my friends and their wonky little selves, even for my aged mother.  And let HP send me a grandchild or two, and I will settle in and just be OLD.  Old is good.  Vertical trumps horizontal any day.