I'm wrapped in the depths of these deeds that have made me
I can't bring a sound from my head though I try
I can't seem to find my way up from the basement
A demon holds my place on earth 'till I die

-- Neko Case, Furnace Room Lullaby

This is going to be one of those posts that justifies/explains my stupid quasi-anonymity.

I really hate talking to most people about depression – the disease in general, mine in particular. And honestly, the worst ones are not the dismissive buffoons who "don't believe in" depression. It's my friends, the really sympathetic and supportive ones who inevitably meet any statement about being depressed with some variety of the same question: "About what?" About what?! Not about anything. I've barely left my house in the last 3 days; this afternoon I sat on my hardwood living room floor crying over nothing. And honestly, more often than not I just feel . . . nothing. Numb. "What are you depressed about?" my ass.

Okay, I get why that seems like a reasonable response. But at the same time . . . would anyone ask a cancer patient why she was in pain?

I just can't shake the feeling that this isn't going as planned.

Earlier this year, I decided (very abruptly) to apply for a really competitive federal government honors program for next year. Although this job would be right up my alley, it was a 180 for me. I came to law school planning on beginning my career in private practice – the famed "biglaw." In fact, this was the only way I was able to justify taking on the additional (enormous) debt that law school would entail. So I did all the stuff that I needed to, danced the dance, found a firm I could live with, did my summer gig . . . got the offer. And then almost immediately began reassessing.

Okay, "reassessing" is probably not the right word, what with its suggestion of reasoned, measured analysis. Likely more accurate to say that I quietly, suddenly freaked. This is not what I want!

Beat . . . beat. . . BOOM! Here comes the guilt. It is incredibly selfish and self-indulgent to sneer in the face of an obscenely lucrative and relatively prestigious job, particularly in a year when many new JD grads may be left out in the cold and the entire economy is in the shitter. I get this.

So we have panicky aversion to the job I've lined up coupled with a deep sense of self-loathing for my failure to appreciate the depth of my good fortune. That pretty much sums it up.

And then it all seems to come together. I learn about this honors program. It's for the federal agency that administers and controls the field I've spent my whole career in. I have great credentials and a pretty decent reputation in the field. The right people come crawling out of the woodwork offering to serve as references. I have just enough time to pull an application together. My firm enthusiastically agrees to hold my offer while I wait to hear. I apply for two different positions and get interviews for both. Let there be light! My heart is happy.

So why do I feel so fucking low over my prospects? Without any objective evidence to back it up, my gut sense is that the interviews were not so hot. I really don't think I'm going to get either of these jobs. And the worst part is that I can't tell if this is a fair assessment or my usual self-doubt. I can't remember the last time that I really wanted something, went for it, guns blazing, and fell short. Of course, I'm not even going to have confirmation that I've fallen short for another month, give or take. Augh. And it's also kind of shitty that I'm beating myself up over maybe possibly not landing a job that had MLB-like odds. They were expecting 800-1000 applications and will only hire 2-5 people. Let it go. Let it go.

I think I need a glass of wine.

My heart is glad. I don't think that I have quite wrapped my brain around the fact that I now have 3 1/2 weeks – 25 blessed days – to do with as I please. And for once it's a gift that our profs take so long in grading our exams. I want no ugly news to dilute the pure joy I'm feeling right now.

It's true that I am pretty sure I did not distinguish myself this semester. At least not in the ways one hopes to. It may be grim indeed when those grades get reported. What I should remember, though, is that in 4 months I: weathered a VERY difficult 15 credit courseload, applied for (and made the shortlist for) my long-shot dream job, ran a journal with a staff of 90 and increased its output by 33%, attacked my longtime companion depression head on, and survived a bout of pneumonia. Small wonder that I'm fucking tired!

I hope to spend this time relaxing, catching up with friends, resuming my running and yoga practices, indulging my dogs, reading and writing purely for my own pleasure, drinking, cooking, cleaning my car (not that that'll take me 25 days, but it IS pretty dire. It looks like a homeless person's been living out of it), and so on. O, happy decadence!

You're a three-decker sauerkraut and toadstool sandwich
With arsenic sauce.

-Dr. Seuss, "You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch", (c) 1957

*Sigh*

It's like excising a tumor, getting rid of a man who's gotten in. It's a painful and painstaking process, whether the relationship was measured in weeks or years. Initially, you feel as though you're suffocating in the him-ness of the world around you, but you lick your wounds and carefully unweave what's been woven and slowly extract yourself from the mess and sad and wrath, and before you know it, it's been a year and he's barely a flicker in the slideshow.

And then the fucker pops up again, when and where you least expect him.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Mr Guile has resurfaced. If you'll recall, it was the Rather Brutal Ending of that short but intense relationship that led me to start this (very sparse) blog. It's been about a year since we'd last connected in any way. It's been just enough time that I'd edited the story in my mind and pretty much ceased thinking of him at all, except in the extremely abstract.

Then suddenly he's there at bloody church cavorting with MY PEOPLE! I did what any grown-up would do: I snuck covert peeks until I confirmed that it was him, then pretended I hadn't seen him. I avoided that man like he was a rat in plague season. Actually, to my credit (and dismay), I didn't even notice him at first. I don't know if that's progress or funky brain chemistry.

So, he waits the obligatory day and a half, then sends me the white flag email. Hits all the right notes: breezy and casual, remorseful and snarky. Apologizes for being a prick (his word, though I can't help but agree), drops more of the IshouldhavekeptintouchbutI'msobadaboutthat, hopetokeepseeingyoumaybewecangettogetherforcoffeesometime, blah blah type chatter. Of course I responded in kind, but there's so much else I would have loved to ask.

Mr. Guile, what are you hoping to accomplish? Are you merely trying to make a potentially awkward situation a little less so? in which case, I commend you, since I likely would have continued on the "ignore it and it'll be like it's not there" path. Are you hoping to find absolution for old demons or guilt by making nice-nice to me now? Is it friendship you're hoping for? Rekindled romance? Do you even know?

Then, while we're being honest and open, there are a bunch of other things I could tell you. Like how enraged I am that after all this time, the shock of seeing you nearly knocked me over. Like that in some ways, I'm still so terribly hurt and angry over how things went down between us. Like how I have to admit (squirming, uncomfortable) that a not-insignificant part of me immediately wondered if this was a sign that we should start things again, and how that thought simultaneously filled me with joy, foreboding, and much discomfort. Like how the chemistry between us is intense enough – at least on my end – that merely being in the same room made me woozy and wobbly-kneed.

Seriously? Go directly to hell, Mr. Guile. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Do not mess with my head or my heart again. I need this right now like I need an extra set of tits.

I've felt like journaling again lately. And if you think I have fidelity issues with a blog, you should see what kind of commitment-wary wretch I wrap myself into when there's a paper journal at stake. Self-exploration (in the metaphysical, rather than the "Our Bodies, Ourselves" sense) is terrifying, even for someone who spends as much time as I with her head lodged firmly in her own (again, metaphysical) rectum. So it's back to my poor, sparse blog.

I'm sitting here at my kitchen table, allegedly getting some work done at home before I head back to campus, but really just waiting for the effing Fed Ex truck to arrive. I finally caved and ordered RAM for my poor, much-maligned Macbook Pro. The poor thing is so dreadfully slow, and these days it gets hung up trying to do ANYTHING. Load a webpage? hope you don't mind waiting 2 and a half minutes. Lord be with you if you want to open a sizable .pdf or (heaven forfend!) run too many programs at once. Anyway, it finally sunk in that I've been stalling with the whole, "oh, I'm buying a new laptop when X" line of reasoning for over a year now - so many iterations of X have come and gone that I've made a liar and fool of myself ten times over. And memory is cheap (now THERE's a line worth exploring further) and will presumably make a huge difference. It had better! I'm going from 1GB to 2GB, and just to be safe I moved about half of the contents of my hard drive to external storage. Yes, I know that that shouldn't make a difference, but a superstitious gal like myself doesn't like seeing "5MB available" or whatever ridiculous amount I was down to in the clear space department.

But that's not what I came to talk about. I came to talk about the draft.

Hehe

No, really. Fucking Fed Ex. Nevermind that they're viciously non-union. I've sort of lost a lot of my street cred when it comes to that brand of stridency anyway. Here's what's galling me: my fucking RAM arrived in Ann Arbor at 7:30 am on Saturday. SATURDAY! And now it's nearly 3 on Monday and I'm still waiting. Fucking Ann Arbor isn't that big. The U.S. Goddamned Postal Service would have had it here by now, with a smile. Why do they even bother with online package tracking when their service is so shit-ass appalling? I'd be happier if I didn't know that my personal salvation was sitting in some stupid hangar within a 5 square mile radius of my home for the last 60 hours or so. Seriously, when you think about the amount of time I spend wedded to my computer (by necessity, mind you) and then figure out how much more speedy this is going to make everything, Fed Ex has likely cost me a couple of hours off my life this weekend. This is what I get when I pay extra for expedited shipping?

If you're thinking that this is maybe an excessive reaction to one of Life's Little Annoyances, well, then you've anticipated my next move. Which is that I am So. Fucking. Moody these days. Like, for no good reason. And don't even suggest that this is a menstrual cycle thing, a) because you'd be wrong, b) because there are only two people who ever even dream of reading this, and they're both badass women who'd kick your butt for going there, and c) because have I mentioned that I'm moody? and really, I'm as likely to bare my teeth and snarl as look at you anyway.

I don't know what my emotional mega-responses are all about, but they're growing tiresome. I spent the whole weekend past being weepy and lethargic and melancholic and misanthropic. Thank god my dogs don't judge me.

* Okay, really they're just masturbation references, and then only in the negative. Got you reading though, right?!

Sweet Jesus. A friend of mine recently told me that her brother is quite sick; she just sent an email informing us that he has a malignant brain tumor. It's an extremely treatable presentation and it sounds as though his personal prognosis is as good as could be hoped for, but still.

First and foremost, prayers of whatever flavor you prefer to her brother (and indeed to her entire family).

As soon as I saw her email, I sat to write her a response. Okay, first I did some internet research on the type of tumor and the treatment, incidence, prognosis, etc. Forewarned is forearmed and facts are my weapon of choice. So first research, then response. And before I could squeeze out a simple "if there's anything I can do...", I realized that I was crying. Initially we're talking a couple of big fat salty tears plunking down, but before I knew what was what I was in the middle of a great big silent snotstorm. I wish that I could pretend that I was feeling weepy for my friend, that I'm just that sensitive a person (and that IS part of it), but really I was crying for me.

(I mean, what kind of wretched, small-hearted shit does this make me? Snatching someone else's nightmare and turning it into a platform for more of my own drama -- but if you can't admit this stuff to your anonymous weblog, then really what's the point?)

Here's one of the descriptions I found tonight on one of the brain tumor sites while I was doing my quasi-research. It's from an advocacy piece for people with my type of tumor:

"[Another] way tumors make themselves known is in initial subtle changes in mood and mind. Patients may have a spotty memory, wide mood swings, deep depression, bi-polar behavior, or fail to recognize familiar things. They can’t remember familiar words and names, experience red-hot anger (adult temper tantrums) and some withdraw socially. There are many, many more symptoms and it differs from patient to patient. Total apathy is known to occur, so is melancholia."

Poof! Just like that I'm right back in it. A couple of not-very-eloquent words on a website, and before I know it it's close enough to touch. It's been more than 7 years now since I first learned about my little black hole and finally found some relief. Not something I spend a whole lot of time thinking about anymore, despite JL's smartass claim that I invoke it in every sentence. But wow. It's still there (and by "it" I mean both the literal, physical tumor and the "it" of all of those years) and I suppose that a little reminder every now and again is in order.

Lately I've been so critical of myself and my squandered opportunities and all of my excuses for poor past performance. I think I'm gonna try to take a rain check on that stuff.

Whee! There is now an Apple store in the West Village - and it's just a few blocks from our summer home. There is a god!

Anyway, long time no post. Whatevs. Don't say I didn't warn you. I'm actually here now to air my incredulity at how incredibly weird the interwebs can be. Argh.

So, I landed this gig (which in and of itself explains my long journal silence.) I'm, like, in charge of stuff. Queen of an infinitesimal and unimportant domain. It's the kind of post that only an uber-dork would find compelling -- but, you know, if the shoe fits... It makes me happy. It's a lot of work. It's constantly reminding me how small is this little world of ours.

{just as a few for examples, I've already come across 1) a woman who went to high school with two of my best friends, 2) a prof. who works in my field in my old city and knows all of the same people as me, 3) a bunch of other people who know this guy that knows this guys that I know, etc.}

But all of this is a big fat digression from what I really wanted to post about. Which is that one of the profs I'm currently working with at said gig sent me an email yesterday saying, "small world - I hear you know ______. She's one of my favorite students!" (He teaches at her school; he and I have never actually met.) So of course I promptly reported this exchange to our mutual acquaintance, because trust me, we all need constant validation in this strange field of ours.

But then I asked her how on earth he'd made the connection. Cuz, you know, we go to different schools in different parts of the country, and how would he guess that she's dating a friend of mine and that she and I will be working together this summer? And her response was, "You didn't tell him? I have no idea." So we puzzled this out over the past few days and realized that he must have figured it out from Facebook.

He. effing. Googled. me. No other explanation. I don't know why this strikes me as so...peculiar, and vaguely creepy. I'm damn well aware that prospective employers and dates regularly employ the google, but he's neither.

And I'm the only person with my name, or at least the only one with an internet presence, so people can learn a lot about me. Pictures of me engaged in public action from my rabble-rousing days of yore... committee notes from a governance body I sat on a million years ago in college... press releases from my first grown-up job in 2000... race results, grad school links, and on and on.

It's all fairly antiseptic. Nothing that's going to harm my future liscensure prospects or anything. I just -- well, I'm a pretty private person. The whole centerofattention thing is only half the story: I like the limelight when I like it, but then I like to go back to my corner. I'm like the toddler who covers her eyes and thinks she's become invisible. It's always unsettling when I'm fed a reminder that it ain't so. Oh me oh my, this crazy world.

Why did I wait so long to get a slow cooker?

My house smells. so. good. I have about 3 quarts of spicy marinara simmering in the slow cooker, and it's like all my worldly sorrows have evaporated. Who knew that a sense of well-being was so readily available...in a fucking crock-pot!

I haven't been big on the New Year's resolution thing for a while, probably for a whole bunch of deep dark reasons that I don't need to get into now. But I am big on milestones and symbols and celebrating new beginnings, and now seems as good a time as any to pause and take note.

A few things that I've been mulling over:

1) My resolutions will not be about weight loss (or 'gettingbackinshape', weight loss' kissing cousin.) If anything, I resolve that 2008 will be the year when I stop using my weight as a proxy for everything in my life that I'm dissatisfied with. I'll find someone to fall in love with when I'm thin, I'll go out more when I'm thin, I'll start going to the gym again when I'm thin (one of my favorites!) After all, I was almost as self-conscious and hung up about my fat when I was comfortably wearing a size 4 and running marathons. No, instead I resolve to be a little less critical about my body, whatever it may look like.

2) I resolve that this year I will honor my love for good food and good health and sustainable living. I want to engage more with what goes into my body, learn more about the kind of cooking that I like to do, and stop eating the processed crap that's gotten me halfway through law school.

3) On a similar note, I resolve to make physical activity a priority again. I miss feeling strong and healthy. I would like to run another marathon this year.

More to come on this front later. In the meantime, I'm gonna go run some errands.

And then the snow
And then the snow came
We were always out shoveling
and we'd drop to sleep exhausted
and we'd wake up
and it's snowing.
--Dar Williams

Yup, that pretty much sums it up. I returned to Michigan about four days ago, and all of the pre-holiday stuff had melted, leaving the obligatory mud and ice. But yo ho, has the tide turned. It started coming down on Sunday, and AA's been a veritable snow globe ever since. It's an embarrassment of riches in the snow department. Freaking feast or famine! The surfeit of white stuff since is pretty absurd, if you ask me, particularly since I'm the only one here to serve on snow removal duty. At least my arms are getting toned again, and I haven't even rejoined the YMCA or anything.

It's tough to be too cynical about it, though. Today's one of those disarmingly lovely winter days when you're able to forget that this will be our lot for the next four months or so. Mediterranean sky, crisp clean air, every branch sugarcoated crystalline and bowing low under the weight. The whole landscape still has that pristine look of freshly-fallen snow, probably because there's new shit falling as fast as we can get out there to mar it.

I'm still in a bit of a panty-bunch. Fer real.

It's kind of remarkable that a 31 year old woman who more or less has her shit together can be so emotionally derailed by romance funktitude. By now, the whiplash has worn off and I'm starting to accept that things with Mr. Guile are on ice...probably permanently. So, okay. We were only dating for a few weeks - I can't imagine that there'll be much of anything like the mourning process of ending a real relationship. But goddamn. Every once in a while the Sad just kind of creeps up on me, and I want to lay down and wail. For those few weeks, it was good. Really good. There's nothing quite like the bite of that loss.

Letting go. *Sigh*

So it turns out that I'm really, unexpectedly (and inexplicably) excited about this new venture. I can almost promise that it's not going to last - which is what we call a self-fulfilling prophesy. Feh. No matter, it's making me chipper now.

In other news, I'm continuing to sit in anticipation of my motivation kicking in. I figured that eventually one of two things would happen: a) my own internal, self-driven sense of responsibility would spur me to action, or b) failing that, exam panic would inspire me. Now I'm starting to sense that neither will occur. This should be interesting.