On catharsis.

And, once again, it felt like everything was falling apart. Like this, really. And, then, it didn't. Or, rather, it seemed like there was a possibility that it might not much longer.

The phone call came. And, I'm still reeling, but with hope. And, overcome with the amount of goodness around me. I'm adjusting and trying to simply learn to breathe again.

I cry a lot these days. I'm told this is healthy.

Motherly advice

On the phone with my mother today: "Normal is a vacuum that just gets filled with more and more shit."

I'm paraphrasing, of course.

Getting it Wrong

It's been a while. A long while. More on that later (which, let's be honest, could mean never).

But, I have been thinking recently about this quote and my re-naming of this blog. An interesting Freudian slip, if you ask me. As it turns out, I'm an optimist in such matters—looking for the possibility of a fresh start in the old, entertaining the possibility that such a thing exists.

Had a long conversation about all of this with SD this weekend, who had an interesting take on things. Namely, regarding the very nature of love and attachment. In so many words she thought that you can't will yourself not to be attached to someone or not to love them, you can simply wish that wasn't the case or not be willing to address such feelings. Which is both somewhat reassuring to think about and also somewhat upsetting. In the end, I suppose, it may simply be a case for cynicism.

More on this later, when my sickness-addled brain is working.

Well put.

"Sorry—am I boring you with this fairy tale romance?"

I shake my head. "I have a feeling you're about to come to a turning point."

"You're right," Oshima says. "That's how stories happen—with a turning point, an unexpected twist. There's only one kind of happiness, but misfortune comes in all shames and sizes. It's like Tolstoy said. Happiness is an allegory, unhappiness is a story."

—Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

The more things change...

The more they stay the same.

Yes, It's a trite expresson. And, yet, I'm finding it to be true all the same.

To wit: I keep telling myself that I'll write more when I have something to say. The truth is that I have plenty to say, but it's just more of the same. Patterns repeating and all the rest of it.

So, what's on my mind these days? Something similar to this essay, which I wrote about six year ago.

I'm nothing if not consistent.

So there's that.

past all accident.

Read this immediately.

You won't regret it.

little things

Mostly still trying to sort out the past few months. Mostly.

I've started a new project in the meantime, just to focus on the good things at hand and as an attempt to stave off whatever depression may be lurking round the corner. Check it out here.

A small effort, to be sure. But, usually, I find, small things add up—in either direction. So, I'm aiming upward.

Radio Silence

Just to say: I'm taking a break for a bit and trying to clear my head. I'll be back soon, perhaps. In the mean, you know how to reach me.

Once more, with feeling

PER·SEV·ER·ATE (pər sev'ə rât'), V.I., –at·ed, –at·ing. 1. to repeat a word, gesture, or act insistently or redundantly 2. to obsess over a particular word or phrase, often in an attempt to come to terms with it; see "cervix" and "heart" 3. again, obsessing, this time in an attempt to convince yourself that things will be okay 4. and, finally, obsessing because you realize they probably won't and talking about it doesn't seem to help —per·sev'er·tion, N.

Noted. And recorded.

I mentioned it here.

Now, for the actual quote:

He made me think of home—perhaps home is not a place but simply an irrevocable condition.

Pretty close.

Ten points for me.

Long Story Short

And then it happens, despite your best intentions to the contrary.

Or, at least that's true for me.

It was mid-September, already feeling like fall, and my plans had changed suddenly—I was going home for a funeral. Nevermind that I hadn't spoken to the deceased in more than ten years; she had been important to me at one point in my life, and I needed to be there.

There was a man, N., in the picture at the time. He had stolen into my apartment in the middle of the night. I knew he was coming, but it stirred me from my sleep all the same. Then the next day, he was leaving the city in much the same way that he had arrived in my apartment the night before—meaning that he had been making murmurings, it was nothing unexpected. Yet suddenly they sounded serious, suddenly there was a time frame.

I didn't realize that I cared until it seemed to be too late.

I tend to disassociate from my emotions, or so I've been told. But, not on the day of the funeral. Instead, I was near tears. It was a number of things, really: the lack of sleep, the difficulty of going to any funeral, the trip after to see my own grandfather's grave—how we had gotten completely lost and how shocking it seemed to be to see my own surname on the headstone when we finally arrived. I grew up in a family where children didn't go to funerals and so had never been to his grave before.

In my mind, the day exists mostly in the details: the misting rain that made the ground so damp that my heels dug into it; the smoothness of the stone I placed on my grandfather's grave to signal that I had been there; the steady sound of N.'s breathing over the phone as I talked about the difficulty of it all and his suggestion that, maybe, just maybe, sleep was what I needed; the suprise to discover that I, who doesn't cry easily, was actually crying.

And, there I was, a few months later, crying again—sobbing, actually. Things were over at that point. In fact, we were supposed to be meeting persumably to talk about that. Instead, I was talking about a family health issue. Or, trying, rather. I couldn't get any words out. Couldn't do much of anything.

And, again, most of the night is in the details: the hasty departure from the bar since, clearly, I couldn't be there or anywhere in public for that matter; the scratch of his sweater against my face as he held me; how my back started to ache from the strength of my sobs; my knowing that I would forgive all else, that I had to, because I had no energy left to be angry, left to be anything.

It's easy, in retrospect, to say that these things don't matter, that hindsight is 20/20 and all the rest of it.

But, I was there.

And, months later, I find myself trying to make sense of it all. Of why things happen in the way that they do. Or, more specifically, why this played out as it did. I don't cry; I make a sarcastic comment, brush it off, and move on. Yes, this was different—and, yes, much, much worse—than anything I've ever had to (or possibly will have to) live through. But him?

Maybe it's as simple as this: he was there.

I don't know.

I'm inclined to think that's not the case, that what's important stays so.

There's this, too: I wanted to be right about him.

Something to consider

Earlier this weekend, ILS told me that murphy's law seemed to apply to my life more than most. I think that she might be right. I also think that I might be encouraging this.

I'm working on a few things, which I'll post soon. For now, I'm in recovery mode. I'll get to that later.

Going Home Again

For the past few weeks, I've been thinking about a quote from Giovanni's Room. Paraphrased here: perhaps home isn't a place, but an irrevocable condition.

Fine.

The problem is, this seems to be the only thing about the book that I remember. This is particularly frustrating for me as I generally pride myself on my recall of literature.

Out of context, it's just, well, out of context. A reread is clearly in order.

At any rate, I think that it's safe to say that these words have been on my mind simply because of my recent trip back home.

Home.

What does that even mean? To be back in a place that's at once as familiar as it is foreign.

A few years ago, my parents were getting frustrated with the house and its cluttered rooms, and I suggested they move. Now, as I pad through the halls, I'm glad they decided against it. Each time I'm back, I remember something different—perhaps I'm getting sentimental as I age. This time, cleaning out the smaller closet in my childhood bedroom, with its raised floor and sloping walls, I'm suddenly transported to the age of 7, hiding in there with a flashlight and a Roald Dahl book, quietly reading, savoring the fact that I had my own private place. I was just that kind of kid, I guess.

I still love the idea of those private spaces. But, I also love having those spaces where you're known. This occurs to me as we're out to dinner for my father's birthday. We're at a place that we've gone for years, where R., the owner knows my family quite well, even gave my sister a job at once point. Nothing's fancy, just perfectly familiar. We'll order the same things, R. will come over, say hello and make a fuss over my parents.

And, he does. It's good for them—it's been awhile since they've been here. Anywhere, for that matter, as they were trying to process the current state of things.

Right. The current state of things. Soon enough the conversation turns in that direction. They're a well-oiled machine. Clearly, they've done this before.

I watch intently, as she looks on, lets him spin his tale. How he thrives in some ways on the telling. How the telling helps him make sense of it all.

After R. leaves, there's a silence, we're all deep in our own thoughts—it's natural, I suppose—there's also a lot of the meal left to get through. So, I do what I always do. Namely, attempt to use self-deprecation as a way to get the conversation going.

The discussion before turned to their friends' children. One's getting married; one's trying to buy a house; another, still finding himself. I ask them now what they say about me when these conversations happen with their friends. There's the start of a laugh in the back of my throat, forced, but then again I'm trying to bring back a sense of levity. This is a birthday dinner, after all.

My father laughs a little, jokes. Exactly the response for which I had hoped. Then, the conversation turns serious. You're the success story. The fiercely independent one. I find myself wishing that we were back to joking about how I was going to go through the hassle of getting a hotel room for a friend's wedding just so that I could have some drinks. Anything but this.

Partially, I think, it's because I see myself as anything but a success; I'm scared most of the time—that my stubborness has prevented me from doing things that I could've loved, that the choices I've made have all been wrong, you name it. I'm sure that I'm not alone in this. I'm also sure that I could write volumes on it, if I was willing to delve deeper into this particular neurosis of mine.

There's also this: I think we see ourselves reflected in others. He tells me I'm a success because if that's the case, I'll be okay, no matter what and, by extension, he will. That if the worst happens, I'm a capable woman, able to take care of myself. Able to manage because of what he's taught me.

Mostly, I think, that I believe him.

Mostly.

On Corporate America

I'm moving offices.

Good-bye, Hudson view.

I've spent about a week or two packing up, parceling out my files, and sitting in meetings where the topic inevitably became how everyone was going to function without me. It's surreal to say the least. But, nothing compared to yesterday when my office manager told me that I'd have to let corporate services know that they should be bringing my chair down to my new office.

Apparently, I've stepped into the pages of Then We Came to the End. Weird.

As Planned

courtesy of Frank O'Hara

because, at this point, it's been well established that his are the poems that I wish I wrote. And, because, well, it's been a awhile since I've posted.

It's been a strange few weeks. I'll write more soon, once I feel like reflecting.

In the mean, herewith:

After the first glass of vodka
you can accept just about anything
of life even your own mysteriousness
you think it is nice that a box
of matches is purple and brown and is called
La Petite and comes from Sweden
for they are words not their feelings
or what they mean and you write because
you know them not because you understand them
because you don't you are stupid and lazy
and will never be great but you do
what you know because what else is there?

This Shape of Things We're In

sur·re·al (sə rē'əl, –rēl'), adj.

1. having the disorienting, hallucinatory quality of a dream; unreal; fantastic   2. the period spanning from July 2008 through January 2009, with particular focus on mid-October through early December; see also the days surrounding Christmas and the new year   3. being not-quite-sober and telling your not-quite-boyfriend that your best friend and his best friend's husband are having an affair, then watching the subsequent events unfold, not knowing what to do; finding yourself using phrases like "moral compass" in complete earnestness; finding yourself dealing with fall-out many months later and still being unsure what you should do and/or say    4. having repeated circular conversations about subjects including, but not limited to, red suitcases, the status of a relationship that has long since ended but that you are perpetuating in some ways because you are simply too raw about all of the other things going on in your life to enact the decisions you know that you need to and that would be healthier for both of you, and seats assigned at a kitchen table    5. hearing the phrase "8 to 12 months" and trying to picture what your life will be like at that point, hoping that it will be much the same. well, perhaps with more positive things thrown in for good measure    6. watching your job get parceled out before your eyes and being forced to attend meeting after meeting to weigh in    7. realizing that there's a lot more that you could add to this list, but that you don't have time because you need to work since your dead-end job hasn't been parceled out quite yet    8. realizing that you made this list in the first place   sur·re'al·ly, adv. —sur·re·al'i·ty (–al'i tē), n.

Insomnia

Easing myself to sleep, but you won't
let me. You, siren who keeps calling me back, holding my wrist.
And I obey, letting hours pass,
too much wine, thinking

beside me is too far. And, yet, you remain clever,
too close to dream of me.

I ache, you dream, but only of indian summers and nighttime
when it's at its most aggressive, pressing down, the air growing crisp.
You dream, grow wistful, woozy,
as if the alcohol's in you, instead. You wouldn't recognize me,

not in your sleep.

You sleep soundly, and we grow further and further apart.
I watch the shadows, formed moonlight. No courage.
The sound of your breathing bears down.

Couldn't have said it better myself.

It's been a long weekend. Far too long.

Perhaps it's the 30 or so hours of small talk that I've made over the past 3 days, the several panicked phone calls, misprints contended with and the countless boxes that I've unpacked/shuffled/repacked/maimed myself with. Call it over-dramatizing and/or exhaustion, if you like. Whatever it is, I'm not inclined to do much else but sit and decompress at the moment.

For me, this means revisiting old favorites. And, sharing them.

So, another quote below. It's a good one, I promise.

"Official histories, news stories surround us daily, but the events of art reach us too late, travel languorously like messages in a bottle.

Only the best art can order the chaotic tumble of events. Only the best can realign chaos to suggest both the chaos and order it will become.

Within two years of 1066, work began on the Bayeux Tapestry, Constantin the African brought Greek medicine to the western world. The chaos and tumble of events. The first sentence of every novel should be: 'Trust me, this will take time but there is order here, very faint, very human.' Meander if you want to get to town."

-Michael Ondaatje, In the Skin of a Lion

Absolutely Alice

And the Gryphon added "Come, let's hear some of your adventures."

"I could tell you my adventures—beginning from this morning," said Alice a little timidly; "but it's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then."

-Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

[untitled]

I am not the kind of girl you'd take home
to your mother. Had she seen me last night,
she would not have approved. I wandered
glassy-eyed, voice as smoky as the bourbon I sipped,
cracking from laughing too loud,
trying to get you to notice me.

What would she say? And
would you listen? Or just tilt your head back, smile,
let light catch in your hair?

Did you even see? Or, were you too busy
talking film with the woman at the bar?
Too red lips forming a question mark on her glass,
fingerprints leaving it grease-streaked.
You probably thought she was beautiful, and

I'm sure she was.
Would you light her cigarette? Lecture
her about the dangers of carbon monoxide? The thinning
ozone, how it's causing the polar ice caps to melt? The
rising cost of living and flour and gas and, well, everything?
Is that what beauty is?

If you stare at the sun too long,
is all you see blinding whiteness?
I bet you could get some great pictures.
Not like the one on your first license that
you won't show to anyone.
Do you have your passport?
I want to travel the world and
see far-flung places so that

I have stories to tell.

and, one more for the road

lullaby

I was up tonight, you
on top of me
the steady in and out
of your breathing
pressing down.

The stars were out in full force.
I watched them, and
you. Watched as you tugged at
the blanket, leaving me with less
and less.

Only, you didn’t watch
back. And, you always tell me to
ease in, but
I don’t believe in moderation.

So I watched. I am not so arrogant
as to think that
you should think only of me,

but, you should

at least occasionally, maybe
while you
sleep.

Stay with me, wide eyed and
insomniac. I don’t smile much these days.
Maybe its just lack of sleep, but
I’m taking that as a sign
of something.

From the vault

I'm hoping to get inspired to really, really start writing again.

In the mean, here is one more recent discovery:


Summer of Sam

It's an old photo, the beginnings of their
collective history.

Can you tell what I'm holding, he asks.
I think a law book, think this is when he passed the Bar,
think it's the Summer of Sam
when he would ask her to pick him up— Main Street, Flushing—
despite her long brown hair and mounting fears.
So does she.

Of course, I remember it wrong, having
never been there. Having not even been a thought
to them.

It is my fault—their child—for refreshing her incorrect memory.

I see that now;
See how I've stepped in, disrputing the chronology.

It's a checkbook, he says. I was buying
your mother her engagement ring.

He cracks a joke
about his generosity. And,
he is generous.

I am not, with my false memories
of events I
have not witnessed.

They are so young, and
they are smiling
so broadly.

He, with his checkbook,
his first major purchase.
Later, more will follow:
mortgages, children, college educations;
the buying of a life.

And, she, gazing forward
with eyes burning, fierce. As dark
as her long chestnut hair.

Later, she will cut it, shorter
and shorter,
dying it, lighter
and lighter. Trading
cosmetics for youth. Seeking
the protection she lacked
so many years prior.

15 Things

Because, well, I'm a sucker for the list format, because this sort of exercise seems like the ideal way to start a Friday morning, and because Marmoset, who is a dear friend of mine and often filled with good ideas, made me do it:

15 things you probably wish you didn't know about me

1. When I was young, I got several awards for being a nice kid, which makes my friends laugh now. My parents still have the trophies to prove it.


2. Sometimes I still dream about moving back to London, particularly when it's gray and dreary outside. But, I think that I would miss New York far too much.


3. I think that I look much, much better in my glasses. Yet, at formal occasions, I always wear my contacts.


4. My parents tricked me into going into the "friendly" haunted house at Disney World when I was 5. I hated every minute of it--especially since I didn't want to go in to it in the first place. I haven't gone into a haunted house since.


5. I love public speaking, in general, and giving wedding toasts in particular.


6. To this day, my school district requires that a sign reading "check for sleeping children" be placed in the back of each bus. I am largely responsible for this. Go on, ask me the story.


7. I eat based on texture. Anything too chewy or gelatinous is out. So, no puddings, jello, etc.


8. When it comes to relationships, I'm terrified of commitment. Ironically, every time I meet a man who I think might be worth committing to, he seems to have larger commitment issues than I do.


9. I like to pretend that I'm a big film geek. The truth is that there are shocking gaps in my cinematic knowledge. The same holds true when it comes to literature. In fact, I didn't read The Wasteland until I was in graduate school. I'm still not convinced that I missed out on anything.


10. In college, one of my friends told me that he referred to the way I spoke as "Jane Austen speak." Then, a few years ago, I started blogging for work. One of my colleagues said, "I was going to tell you to make the pieces more conversational, until I realized that was the way you spoke." I should be insulted. Instead, I like to think that I speak like someone who was properly educated. I do, however, worry that this makes me sound arrogant.


11. I didn't eat red meat for more than 12 years. When I started eating it again, I didn't eat anything else for a week straight. Clearly, I'm not good at moderation.


12. I'm afraid of falling from heights.


13. According to my sister, I get a certain look in my eyes when I'm about to say something exceptionally obnoxious or sarcastic.


14. I secretly want to be someone's one who got away. I secretly also want to be a socialite, so I'm not sure how seriously you should take this point.


15. I've been known to take 3 showers in one day when it's really, really hot out. In the winter, I'm all about taking baths.
    

Restlessness

It occurred to me yesterday that I haven't been able to get out of bed, without getting back in, that is, since at least the start of the year. This would be fine, except that I'm also not sleeping. And, cannot remember the last time that I didn't wake up at 4 am, after a few hours of restless sleep.

I spent the day fighting back tears. Especially worrying since I'm not much of a crier, really. I'm still feeling a little raw. And, by a little, I mean completely.

So, perhaps it's time to take the first step towards doing something: I'm not doing well, not sleeping well and am generally terrified of what's in store and of time frames.

That's it for the day. No musings about what it all means. Just an attempt to fill the void. And, a request: give me a wide berth. Clearly, I'm not myself these days.

Diminishing Returns

My sister and I, when we talk, talk in the language of loss, of things that haven't happened, choices that should have been made.

We don't mean to, really. It just kind of happens.

I suppose it's who we are.

Admittedly, we were raised better than this. Raised to know our intrinsic worth. Somehow that's fallen by the wayside these days. Then again, these days have been tough to say the least.

Tonight, she's talking careers. The gist is this: there was a contract, not signed for good reasons. Or, at least for good reasons when it was in the offing. You work with all of the information that you have at the time. What else can you do?

A year or so later, she's second guessing herself: What has she lost in the meantime? Was it worth it? Is it better to do without? To hope for the ideal situation, the one that may never come? Or, when it does, turn out to be a disappointment like all the rest?

Maybe the best thing is to take what you can get and work within those parameters. To compromise.

I see myself doing that very thing.

I'm making minor adjustments, but they still add up.

Perhaps it's an issue of too much change all at once. For now, I'm content to see how it all plays out.

Passive, yes. But, an option all the same.

On writing

Too good not to share:

"The writer finds himself in this more and more comical condition—of having nothing to write, of having no means of writing it, and of being forced by extreme necessity to keep writing it."


—Maurice Blanchot

words, words, words

Here's how it works:

You add up the words, string together some phrases. All in an attempt to create some coherence, a form of narrative, a why this has happened. The beginning and ending are firmly in place. But, it's the getting from one point to another that matters. We exist in our stories.

After particularly harrowing experiences, my mother used to tell me, "but, think of how you'll tell it."

Good advice, indeed.

I spoke to an editor with whom I work yesterday. She's editing a project that started out online but is now becoming a printed book. Apparently, one of the people featured within its pages decided to opt out of the latter version. The idea of appearing in print was too frightening for him, felt too permanent.

It was refreshing to realize that these things do matter, that there is still some power in the written word.

I say I do it for myself, but, really, this is why I write.

When I do so, that is.

I'm still working on the writing itself. It's something that comes with time and practice. A little like learning to drive, I suppose.

And, I remember those days all too well, perhaps because they went on far longer than was necessary (or not nearly long enough, depending on who you ask). Just me and my father in the empty parking lots of Long Island, all of them covered with a thin dust of snow. His mounting frustration as I drove through the spots, taking short cuts. The constant refrain being, "do you know how many parked cars you would've just hit?"

Yes, but there were none there.

It's hard to argue against emptiness.

So, I'd wait, still in the driver's seat, staring into the warning on the side view mirror —objects are closer than they appear —until he told me to switch seats so that he could drive back home, the car's tires making strange patterns in the powder, tracing our path back.

Fair Usage

I'm on a Bob Creeley kick.

Here's why:

The Sentence

There is that in love

which, by the syntax of,

men find women and join

their bodies to their minds

—which wants so to acquire

a continuity, a place,

a demonstration that it must

be one's own sentence.

Ten degrees fahrenheit

It's bitter. Too cold to snow, even,
and I am drinking
far more than is advisable,
yes,

but, far less than is
necessary.

It's not as bad as all that.

Adaptive Strategies

I fake it really well.

What I mean is this: I say enough to retain the appearance of openness and honesty without having to sacrifice either. Call it an adaptive strategy, if you will.

When you have things to hide, you learn what to share. It's a trade. I'll give you this much; in return, just don't ask too many questions.

In comics, there's a term called closure. It refers to the space between the panels. You read what's implied, what you'd like. It's a way of moving the story forward without having to say much.

I'm not sure what it's called in life.

Day of reckoning. Or somesuch.

1. I got my box of honeybells in the mail today. This is in no way shape or form related to matters at hand, but they're only available at this time of year and were a pleasant surprise. [Even though I knew they were coming]. For that reason alone they deserve a mention.


2. Seriously, they're that good.


3. Notwithstanding my equivocations, I went. I'm still not sure it was a good idea.


4. But, it's done.


5. Time to move forward.


6. Whatever that means.


7. At any rate, I'm attempting to be direct and address things whether I want to or not.


8. Mostly, it's the latter.


9. But, it's happening.


10. And, in some cases, I'm surprising even myself.


11. It's a good thing, to be able to surprise yourself.


12. Maybe even others.


13. I'm tired now and getting nonsensical.


14. G'night.


15. Please note: that last point was added because I didn't want to end on an unlucky number even though I'm writing this in html so cannot see the numbers.


16. Apparently, I'm becoming superstitious.


17. I've also lost count of the numbers that I should be counting but cannot see.


18. And, I'm really going to bed now.

On and on and on

It's funny, the way that when you have bad news the natural instinct is to protect the person with whom you're sharing it, to soften the blow.

Or, maybe that's just me.

In any case, I find that I've been doing that a lot these days. Putting on a brave face, smiling, making the best of it. Here's what I think: there are times when there is no "best of it", or to put it more bluntly, some things are just awful with no good reason.

This week started feeling like a bad hangover from the week before. Hell, the month before. Changes all around, and none of them feel good. So, I'm doing a lot of waiting right now. Once the dust settles, hopefully I'll have a better handle on what it all means.

And, yet, I still have the strange sensation of being lucky. Of being in the right place at the right time, career-wise at least. On the personal end of things, I'm feeling anything but.

You can't have it all, I guess.

I want simple things, really. Just stability. The ability to see beyond the immediate. Faith in the long term of things.

None of this is looking likely at this particular juncture.

So, in the meantime, I'm trying to stick to all of the other decisions I've been making. And, for now, failing miserably it seems, much to the chagrin of those affected by my choices, I'm sure.

It's a process. I'll get there. Where ever that is.

The Shit Parade Continues

My oh my, it's been quite the day here.

I'll leave it at that for now.

Same-auld lang syne

So, the new year.

I thought about posting a recap of 2008, but to be honest, I'm not sure that I really want to revisit much of it. It was a hard year, to say the least. I'm trying to look ahead now.

We'll see how that goes, I guess. Right now 2009 is looking about the same as its predecessor. But, it's early, so hopefully that'll change.

The days around the new year were, well, strange. No other word for it.

I went around as if in a fog, constantly trying to remind myself that I was seeing things as I wanted them to be, not as they were. That none of this was real. Still, the escape did me some good, at least in the moment. Which made going back all the harder. And, I'm still trying to figure out what it all means--if it means anything, that is--and where I go from here.

This much is certain: I have some difficult decisions to make in the upcoming days.

Or, more precisely, I've made some difficult decisions. That's never been the issue. It's the sticking to them. I'm not sure why knowing something is the right decision doesn't make doing it any easier. I keep telling myself that at least I should be comforted by the fact that I'm not in a state of delusion. I'm doing all the wrong things, but I'm aware. As if it really makes a difference.

I'm teetering on the edge of something, and maybe the thing to do is just give in and let go.