Purpose.

I nervously gripped the steering wheel as I navigated rush hour traffic. My appointment was in five minutes; I was ten minutes away. Deep breaths. Change the radio station. Remind myself it's okay. I'll get there when I get there. But my therapist had gone to great lengths to set me up with another of her colleagues; tardiness would be a poor first impression.

“I'm so sorry I'm late,” I apologized. “Last week's appointment was an hour earlier. I completely forgot about traffic.”

She smiled. “Oh, it's fine. I don't have anyone scheduled after you. We can take our time.”

I sat in the middle of the leather couch, which squeaked underneath me as I shifted to cross my legs. She sat across from me, in a green upholstered chair with deeply scratched wooden arms. She readied her pen and pad.

“So...” she began, “I've heard a bit about you, but I'd like to hear more in your own words. Tell me about yourself.”

I sighed. “Well, I'm twenty-eight. I'm a college graduate, and I work in customer service. I still live with my mother. And I'm single, but I do have a cat.”

She looked up from her notes. “That's all?”

I shrugged and looked around the room, as I tend to do when formulating my thoughts. “I'm not sure what else there is.”

She furrowed her brow and tilted her head. “Is that why you're here?”

“I came initially so I could learn to cope with my anxiety...” I hesitated for a moment as I realized where this line of questioning might go. “But yes. I suppose you're right. That's why I'm here.”

“Great,” she nodded. “What do you like to do?”

“I don't do much, to be totally honest. I like to watch TV and listen to music. I like food and sleep. I guess I'm just not that exciting.”

“Mmhmm.” She paused and leaned forward. “Heather, what brings you joy?”

I scowled. It suddenly felt like everything was spinning. I went through a flipbook of memories in my mind, trying to extract the single moment that had brought me the greatest happiness. My stomach gurgled, my mouth went dry, and the only thing I could say was...

“I don't know.”


I'd never really had time to think about that. Not as an adult, at least. Growing up, I'd go through phases like every other kid. I'd see a puppy and be absolutely certain animals were my passion. I would be a veterinarian, and that would bring me joy. A week later, I'd read a really good book, then spend my every waking hour doing writing of my own. I would be a writer, and that would bring me joy. By the time I reached an age where my desires would be considerably less capricious, I was already entrenched in an adult life. I was a gifted student, to the point that the standard school curriculum bored me. The older I got, the less interested I was in academic pursuits. Nothing challenged me, therefore nothing kept my attention. I longed for something that would keep me occupied, so I was thrilled when I was given the opportunity to begin a part-time job. I was fifteen.

At seventeen, I was hired by an international home furnishings retailer. I remained with the company throughout the rest of high school and all of college. And I was a workaholic. I coasted through my education, just as I'd done when I was younger, and made my job my priority. I preferred being there to being just about anywhere else; the changing environment of retail provided the challenge I'd sought, and I found a family in my coworkers. I was exhausted, never on time for my classes, and I eventually cut my course load in half so I could take a promotion. At one point, I even took on a second job. Finally, I finished my degree at the age of twenty-five. I was ecstatic to be finished with my education. The focus could be solely on work, and that was all I'd ever really wanted.

I left that company in the summer of 2010, after ten years, and accepted a position with a wireless provider in a retail location. The atmosphere was different. I was faced with a lot stagnancy; things didn't change as much, and I found myself with a great deal of downtime. Additionally, this group of people was not, and would never be, a family. Just being there became progressively more difficult. After a particularly hard day during the spring, I came home and fell apart. I sat on the edge of my bed and cried. I finally had the chance to slow down and think about my life, and I realized that I'd merely opted for the first thing that gave a frustrated teenager any kind of satisfaction, neglecting the fact that I was no longer that teenager. I got stuck, then fooled myself into spending more than a decade of my life doing something I actually hated. That epiphany was bad enough; even worse was not knowing what I liked.


And that's how I found myself in therapy. I've dealt with anxiety most of my adult life, but the stress of my recent revelation had broken me. I was questioning almost everything about myself, including whether I ever actually knew who I truly was or what I wanted. I arrived in that office completely lost. As introspective and analytical as I'd been all my life, it seemed I'd only scrutinized the most trivial aspects of myself. I had deep thoughts about superficial things. Now I was faced with the reality of my own discontent, and I had no idea how to change it.

Where do I begin finding my passion? How do I determine what is of the most value to me? What am I meant to contribute to this world? And how will I ultimately define myself?

But now I wonder... What if all these questions are actually the answer?

A two-year-old amen from the congregation.

I was giving thought to my internet presence earlier and decided to Google myself. I discovered some interesting bits of information of which I was unaware. Apparently I'm a Republican. And a Protestant. And I like investing. Someone who is not me has my full name registered on Twitter, but they've never tweeted. And there are a million records of me being on the honor roll in high school.

I also found a blog I attempted a couple years ago, with only two entries in it. I'll have to figure out how to delete it, but in the meantime... I wanted to bring over something I wrote.

Please understand before you read this that I mean no disrespect. My intent was not to mock anyone; I was simply seeing humor in what was, for me, an uncomfortable and somewhat frustrating situation. I do get that others take this seriously, and they are perfectly entitled to. I disagree with the beliefs outlined, but I do not condemn them.


This was written March 19, 2009. I titled it "Heather Goes to Church."

I am, definitively, an atheist. I was baptized Catholic, and forced to attend catechism for a short time when I was young. But after spending three consecutive Sundays in the back of the room crying, then having a Little Golden Book about Jesus shoved in my face, six-year-old me told my mother there was no way I was going back to that terrible place. My parents never made me participate in any organized religion after that. As I got older, I realized I just...didn't much care for it. I'm a sucker for logic, I don't find religion logical, and therefore I choose to ignore it. So my experience with church has been limited to weddings (two Catholic, one Unitarian/lesbian) and wondering why, in my corner of progressive New England, we've yet to put a gay club in an old church and call it "Hell" (though putting an Urban Outfitters in a church is about 75% of the way there, and we've done that).

My mother, a lapsed Catholic, now works at a retirement home run by Catholic nuns. And lately, I think she's being Jesusified by osmosis. Everything around her is "blessed" and "holy" and Biblical. And the people she deals with every day are, well...on their way out. Death is close to home now, and death plus Jesus equals religious re-awakening. So when my mother asked me a a while ago if I'd so much as entertain the idea of going to a church service, I think the "Are you fucking kidding me?" look on my face gave her the answer. She persisted, telling me how one of her co-workers swears she's seen healings take place at her church. And given my not-so-fantastic health over the past few months, she was not-so-secretly hoping I'd put my heathen ways aside and be open to a healing. It was a "hell no" then, and it was a "hell no" when she asked me at the beginning of this week. Alas, this time I was aware that if I didn't at least show up, I would never hear the end of it. Sometimes there are things we must do so as not to incur the wrath of our mothers.

We pulled into the parking lot, and a decent number of people were filing in for the 7 PM service. We waited for her coworker, but when 6:55 rolled around and we hadn't seen her arrive, we went inside anyway. In the concrete of the steps in front of the church was etched, "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here"... er, no, that's Dante. Not the Bible. Whatever. That's pretty much what I saw. Either way, I snorted and said to my mother, on the sly, "Oh yeah, this is going to be good. You know I'm not going to be able to control my laughter, right?"

Once inside, we met with my mother's coworker, A. We used the bathroom, then went into the...place. You know, where they do the sermons. See? I don't even know what it's called. Though whatever the correct term is, it still wasn't quite that. It looked more like a college lecture hall. There was a stage, with stools and instruments lined up. Flowing white fabric, being illuminated in purple, was the backdrop, along with a triad of of wooden crosses. A large projection screen was above the stage, and the podium from where I assumed the pastor would speak was clear lucite. The floor was a rainbow berber carpet, with a sea of mauve upholstered chairs upon it. The ceiling was covered with hundreds of flags, which A. explained represented the countries the congregation had visited on missions. Given the modern appearance of the place, I was wondering if this may not be so torturous after all.

We sat with A. and her husband in the second row, much to my dismay. See, I was trying to be respectful. I knew I was going to stand out (I may as well have a sign on my forehead that says "heathen sinner"), so I didn't want to be front and center. Regardless of whether I agree with what's going in, I don't want to look like an asshole. But so much for that. A. introduced us to the youth pastor and his kids (who had great hair, as a sidenote). He seemed like a nice enough guy. Pretty soon, most of the room had filled up (probably a solid 200 people - on a Wednesday), and the youth pastor and the band got up on stage.

The congregation was asked to stand. I have an aversion to standing, but again...heathen sinner in the second row. So I stood. Little did I know the first forty-five minutes of the service were going to be standing. And swaying with eyes closed and hands outstretched. Not me, of course. But...just about everyone else. While the lyrics were displayed on the projection screen above, he sang a variety of gospel songs (none I'd ever heard - surprising, I know), all of which seemed to last inordinately longer than the average pop song. Probably because the chorus was repeated approximately fifteen times, and there are relatively few ways to say "God is great" while not stretching for rhyme. But I digress. I spent that period switching from foot to foot, scanning the crowd, and trying to fit the words, "Can I sit down? Is it time to sit down? I'd like to sit down," into the melody of the song.

At this point, my mother and I both notice the woman standing directly in front of us. She's dressed modestly in a blazer, an ankle-length skirt, and black flats. The church has, at the front door, an umbrella holder full of colorful flags. This woman had chosen a bright blue one, and was waving it rhythmically while the band played. Not far into the second song, she did something decidedly different. She shook. Frantically, from side to side. Full body shaking, like she was about to bust into a grand mal seizure. And she continued to do it, harder each time. I thought she might suffer a concussion from all the brain-rattling, honestly. To her left, I watched the positional progression of a guy, probably only slightly younger than I. He started out standing and swaying like everyone else. Then he was on his knees and swaying. Very soon, he was flat on the floor, face down, his forehead pressed against the floor in a way that I can't imagine was comfortable. To the right of me, two women were kneeling, with their eyes open, staring straight up and looking as if they were close to tears. This was all too much for me.

Finally we sit, which is good because my feet are tired, and also the chance I'll get seasick from all the swaying has decreased. The senior pastor approaches the lucite box with his Bible and begins the sermon. He's talking about the book of Jude. And since I'm no Biblical scholar, I have no idea what Jude's deal is. I know Jude as a character from a Beatles song. Or, conversely, a charming British actor. So, sure, Mr. Pastor. Tell me about Jude. Apparently the theme for the sermon is "Jesus vs. the Lord." "People love Jesus," he says. "But they don't like the sovereign Lord." He goes into a speech on etymology, telling us the roots of the words "sovereign" and "Lord." I'm amused by mentions of the Greek root "despotes." Then I glance over my shoulder to the Bible my mother has borrowed from A., and am amused by seeing the word "snatch" in the book of Jude. Am I multifaceted or what? Anyway.

People these days think they are in control of their lives, he says. Which is entirely false, as the Lord is in control, and our purpose on this planet is to exalt him - not to please ourselves. He claims Christians love Jesus for his sacrifice, but do not accept the role of the Lord because they cannot bear to give their life to him. People must accept that their actions reflect their feelings on the Lord, for if they are true Christians, they aim to live more like him, and do only that which will bring them closer to God - contained within the Bible. Therefore it's important to prove that living by the word of God is not "legalism," but "liberty." So you're telling me "liberty" is doing what someone else, no matter who we're talking about, says? Huh. I knew the church made things up, but now they're redefining words. (Upon independent research, further reading on this concept found here. In case anyone wants a dose of the crazy.)

Mr. Pastor and his fellow Pastorettes went to a luncheon recently, hosted by a local college professor, where the discussion centered around the conflict between modern culture and conservative Christian values. "And at this luncheon," he says, pacing around the makeshift pulpit, "there were men with their husbands, and women with their wives. All claiming to be good Christians." Audible gasps came from the crowd. Heads shook disapprovingly in unison. My eyes widened and my mouth fell open. He continued, "But of course they asked, with regard to homosexuality, 'Who does it hurt?' Who does it hurt? It hurts the Lord. It hurts his feelings. This is not how he created you. It breaks his heart." From there began the "hate the sin, but never the sinner" discussion. To which I replied, while sitting directly behind the youth pastor, "That is such a crock." I promptly received a swift elbow from my mother. I told her we should have sat in the back.

He goes on to talk about what it is to live according to the word of God (paraphrased, of course; the memory ain't what it used to be). "If anything has a hold on you, whether it be homosexuality or fornication, drinking or smoking... If anything controls you, if there's anything you are unable to break away from... You are not living according to God's word. The Lord is in control. And as long as you continue that behavior, you are offending the Lord." I smirk, bemused as I look around and consider the idea that none of the people in this room had sex before marriage, have had an alcoholic drink, or have smoked a cigarette. I begin to snicker as I spot at least five men in the crowd who are setting off the bells and whistles of my gaydar. Hypocrisy, how I love thee.

He sums up Jude, who, I imagine, was not from whom the Beatles took inspiration. Then he begins to speak about a training session held this past weekend at the church, with an emphasis on prayer for healing. He describes what went on, and what was learned, and took testimony from those who claim to have been healed. He announces that, once again, the congregation would worship. But this time, if you wished to be healed, you should come to the left side of the stage, and a prayer leader would pray for you. He launches into a quick tutorial of how to catch someone who may fall backward upon being "touched by the Lord." I scowl, wondering precisely how useful he thinks this will be. I know people do that. I've seen it on TV. But here? Now? Surely you jest, Mr. Pastor.

But he wasn't kidding. The music began, and people funneled to the left side of the stage. At this point, they'd removed the first row of chairs, meaning my mother and I were standing directly behind what was going on. Prayer leaders, with their laminated name badges, approached and asked the people to the left what their ailment was, then began to pray over them. And one by one, people fell backward. Children. Middle-aged men. Old women. Anyone, everyone. The prayer is finished, and they fall in a heap on the ground, laying motionless for minutes at a time. They slowly get to their feet and stumble back to their chairs. And it continues. A. approaches me and asks if I'd like to go up there; she and her husband will pray for me. Taken slightly off-guard, I somehow find it in me to spit out a respectful reply. "No thank you," I say. "I appreciate it, but no thank you."

I then turned to my mother and told her I needed to leave. I took the car keys from her and sprinted to the parking lot. I got in the car, found some evil heathen music, and turned it up as loud as the radio would go. About ten minutes later, my mother emerged. I told her she owed me. Big time.

Rock bottom?

So this is what it feels like to be angry with the world. Anger is not an emotion I feel terribly often, but I'm feeling it now.

Since this is a public blog, I can't go into too much detail. But I'm uncertain of what the next few weeks are going to bring. I still don't think I'm where I need to be in terms of my health (mental, physical, emotional, all of it). So I'm not sure I'm ready to resume normal life. But I suppose that's neither here nor there, considering I might not have a job to which I can return. Once again, circumstances have shat upon me, and I'll probably lose the one thing in my life I actually felt confident about more than 50% of the time. But that's how it always works for me. I can't have anything good for too long. Fate just doesn't allow it.

I have a hypnotherapy appointment on Thursday so I can start to conquer my subconscious issue with driving. You know, provided I can get there. I tried to drive yesterday, and I made it one way, then started to have a panic attack in Target, so my mother had to drive home. I'm going to venture out to put gas in the car tomorrow and see how I do, but I have a feeling I'll be asking my grandparents to give me a ride to my appointment. After this weekend, though, I'm out of luck. My mother's schedule doesn't allow for her to help me out, and my grandparents are going to stay with my aunt. If I go back to work on Sunday like I was planning, I'm just going to have to...struggle, I guess.

This is bordering on agoraphobia. I'm not afraid of driving. I'm not afraid of leaving the house. I like going places and doing stuff. Honestly. And I've been going nuts not being able to. This is not a conscious thing. My body has a negative reaction to it and I do not know why. I've been on the Zoloft for three weeks as of today, but I've only been at a therapeutic dose (50mg) for a week. So I'm not at the point where I can expect to wake up tomorrow morning and realize everything's fine. It'll be a couple more weeks, and probably another dosage increase. And this week has been even worse because my anxiety skyrockets when I'm on my period.

My mother's lack of understanding is frustrating. She didn't get it before and I don't expect her to get it now. But she still doesn't quite grasp that I don't really get it either, and if I did, I'd take care of it. If I knew why this was happening, I'd be able to solve the problem. But I don't. She made a comment the other day about not being able to do what she needed to while we were out because I was having a panic attack, and it pissed me off. I wanted to say, "I'm sorry this is inconvenient for YOU. I'm the one who has lost all my freedom, my sanity, my friends, maybe my job... So you'll have to excuse me if my heart doesn't bleed for YOU."

And this work stress, and spending every day on the phone with the insurance company... Not exactly conducive to the healing of someone with an anxiety issue.

Still lonely. Even more frustrated that my problems seem to be unacceptable to some people. I thought I was connecting with someone from a dating site, then once I talked about my anxiety, they stopped replying to my messages. It's always been so easy to say, "Well, if they don't like it, fuck 'em." But it's different in practice, when you have no one, think you never will have anyone, tell yourself you're being ridiculous, then find out you might've actually been right in the first place.

This isn't me. I feel like I'm being forced into a body, into a life that isn't mine. And I don't know how to get out. I do everything right, and I'm still trapped.

I can't wait to get to therapy.

Pity, party of one.

Yeah, I'm being upfront about what this is.

I've been out of work for two weeks. My anxiety was overwhelming me. I tried to get back to normal life after my vacation, and it took one day for me to realize it wasn't going to be possible. I went to my doctor to attempt the medication thing again, and I filed a short-term disability claim at work.

I've been on Zoloft since the 7th. That was the last antidepressant left that I hadn't tried. I haven't had any horrible side effects (it made me extremely hungry at first, but that's gone away), and I was doing really well for about a week. Symptoms are starting to creep back in, so I went to the doctor again today and got cleared to increase the dosage. It's too soon to see a lot of improvement anyway, but at this point, the worst thing that could happen is for it not to work at all. I'm optimistic, given the fact that this one hasn't made me want to crawl out of my own skin like the others. I'll be genuinely devastated if I have to start over, though.

I still don't know if my disability claim has been approved. If it isn't, I run the risk of losing my job. I only had enough vacation and personal time to cover being out seven days. Anything beyond that can be considered unexcused, and I could be terminated. That knowledge isn't helping my situation one bit.

I'm supposed to go back to work Sunday. I'm terrified that I won't be ready. Actually, I know I won't be ready. I still can't drive without having a panic attack. Hell, I'm iffy on even leaving the house. I've been out twice in two weeks. I'm supposed to have been looking for a therapist, but if I can't get there, what's the point in making an appointment?

And I'm so alone. I wake up around 11AM, watch TV, make a little small talk with my grandparents. My mother gets home at 3:30PM, we talk here and there throughout the night, I watch more TV. I take my pills and go to bed at midnight, but I lay awake until 2:30 or 3AM playing games on my iPhone. I sleep fine, and I'm surprised I don't actually sleep more, since I have nothing else to do. My family is here, yes, but they don't understand what I'm going through, and they're often a source of greater stress, if I may be so honest.

I haven't been able to unload. I'm isolated and I feel like I have no support. I appreciate the two or three people who have reached out to me, but overall I'm hurt and I'm sad. I'm trying to stay upbeat and not put my dirty laundry out there, but maybe I'm being too convincing at being okay. I know I have a hard time asking for help, but it isn't even help that I want. I just want...consideration. I want a, "How are things?" or a, "Hey, if there's anything I can do, let me know." I've been down this road before. Sometimes all I need is someone to listen. But that's so hard when I feel like no one even cares to begin with.

I don't want anyone to take this personally. And I don't want anyone to feel obligated to start "being there" now. But this is my reality over the past couple weeks, and I need to get it out.

This is a low point. I've been lower, and I don't want to go back there. But this is still hard. And it's a longer and more painful process when it's done alone.

For right now, time is running out on me, and I'm not at the point I need to be. That's all I know.

Survival of the fittest.

The past week or so has been...a struggle.

First of all, my anxiety has been through the roof lately. I've had three fairly significant panic attacks over the past week or so - two while driving, and one at work. My anxiety is never not present; I've accepted it as part of my life. And I will have periods of time when it's very mild, and periods of time when it's quite bad... But it hasn't been this bad in a long time. I don't know if it's just that I'm under a lot of stress with all the potential changes in my life, or if it's the weather (I'm really all set with it being 90 degrees already; I'm barely functional in this heat), or if I'm just chemically off right now, but... It's getting in the way. I'm back at the point where I'm letting my anxiety keep me from things, and I haven't done that in months. I can't let that continue.

I am stressed. I'll admit that. Things aren't great between my mother and I at the moment. We had a huge argument last week, and we're acting mostly normal now, but there are things I don't feel like we can talk about anymore. She's had far too much to say about my moving out, and she keeps telling me she's only trying to help. But if I wanted help, I would ask for it. What I want is to make my own decision, and she's making that very difficult for me.

I saw a place yesterday that I really liked. It was more what I pictured for myself, honestly. Second floor, pretty open floorplan, quiet complex, decent rent. And I'm meeting with a leasing consultant tomorrow who's going to show me quite a few available apartments. Plus I'm feeling the pull to get a roommate even more than ever lately. So I'll have a lot to think about over the next few days. Good thing I'm on vacation from work this week.

Moving on...

I joined a gym again. I already feel apathetic about the whole deal. Maybe because I've been anxious and I'm already mentally noting all the reasons I don't want to attempt to actually go to said gym. Maybe I'm in too much of a funk to make that move right now.

I'm just...really frustrated with people in general. Stupid question ahead: Why are people so fucking fake? I've encountered so many people in the past couple weeks who say one thing and do another, or have gone back on a promise... And I'm not perfect. I've done those things. But all of a sudden, it feels like everyone's flaky or inconsistent or even inconsiderate. "Everyone" is an exaggeration. I'm being dramatic. But I'm in this weird limbo right now where I want to be social, but at the same time...why? People are frustrating, disappointing, and annoying.

Something's missing for me at the moment. And I may very well be doing this to myself. I usually am. But somehow I don't feel a whole lot of support right now.

Maybe I need to go back to therapy.

Maybe that hurts my pride a little to say.

Doesn't mean it's not a good idea, though.

I think not being at work might drive me more crazy than being there. Who would have thought?

Movement.

I've been a sort of...miserable person lately. I'm getting really frustrated about a lot of things, and I may not be showing it when I have to be around people, but I'm just...annoyed. Really annoyed.

I'm not gonna lie; I've felt pretty much invisible to, well, just about everyone lately. I feel like I haven't really talked to anyone who wasn't my mother or a coworker in a long time, and I wonder if anyone misses me. This is probably my paranoia talking, because that happens fairly often, and I do go through this on occasion. But there's so much going on in my life, and I'm having this moment where...I haven't really said anything, because I don't think anyone cares about it. I'll try to let it out at work, but they really don't care, and that makes the whole thing even worse.

Usually there's some blame to be placed on me when this happens, because I won't say I've never isolated myself before. But I only do it as a defense mechanism. I can't be disappointed if I don't put myself out there.

Anyway.

My biggest issue right now? The moving out thing. After losing one place, I got back on the horse and started looking again. There isn't too much around here in my price range, so I've been relying mainly on individually-owned properties on CraigsList, since they're more likely to be on the less expensive side. I found a couple places I wanted to take a look at, and I told my mother about them. That was the first mistake. Without seeing any of them, she found something wrong. Instantly.

The first place was an efficiency, about a half hour from here and fifteen minutes from work. $625, all utilities included. The second place was a one bedroom, fifteen minutes from here and a half hour from work. $575 plus utilities. Before seeing either, her reaction was, "I'd rather see you live in the first one." Because of the location. Okay, great. Opinion noted. But I was still going to look at them.

I brought her with me to see it the first place. It was in an old Victorian house, divided into seven apartments, in a decent area. We walked in and it was...way too small. I would have had to put my bed in the kitchen. It was the kind of place someone would go if they absolutely needed a place to stay. It's a roof over one's head; not exactly meant to be "home," if you know what I mean. We talked about it after, and while I agreed that it wasn't for me, my mother couldn't leave it at that. "That was gross. I can't believe you went to see that." No...it's just not for me. It wasn't dirty or anything like that. It simply wasn't what I was looking for. But I need to see it to know. There's absolutely nothing wrong with shopping around. And let's remember... Before laying eyes on it, she wanted me to live there.

I went by myself to see the second place. It's in a house with four apartments, in a residential neighborhood, but also sort of in the woods. The layout of the location is a little strange (dead end dirt road and such), but I really liked it. The size was right, the landlady seemed cool, and I liked the idea of living in the same building with some people, but not dozens. I came home and told my mother about it, and her reaction was, "That's too far away. Have you thought about how you'll get to work when it snows?" (In my car, I'm guessing...) She was in the area today and drove by to check it out. Her response was a lovely passive-aggressive, "Yeah, it's...interesting."

This morning, she set up an appointment to see a place that's literally two minutes from our house. It's an in-law type apartment, owned by a woman in her 90s. It was tiny. And it came furnished, but all the furniture was from the 70s. It reminded me of a hotel rather than somewhere I'd choose to live. When I told her I didn't like it, she looked disappointed.

She's also trying to get me to commit to moving to the complex her boss owns, also two minutes down the road. The place really isn't bad, but I'd be waiting for a vacancy (for who knows how long), and it's electric heat, which can get really expensive and push it well out of my price range. Tonight, my mother says, "Well, if it comes to that, I'll help you with the heating bill."

NO. HELL TO THE MOTHERFUCKING NO. The point of moving out is to not have anyone's help. And if I'm going to move out, I'm going to move out of this town. I'm paying rent to live here, but why pay three times as much to live down the street? I might as well just stay where I am. And that's not what I want.

I like the second place. I filled out the rental application and I'm meeting with the landlady again on Tuesday. She's had other interest, and I may not be the candidate of choice. But I think I'd be happy there. This is not my mother's decision to make, and I'm well aware that whatever I choose, it won't be good enough for her.

I don't know why she won't just say she doesn't want me to leave. That doesn't mean I'm going to change my mind. But I'd rather she be honest.

This is all very stressful. Needlessly so, in my opinion. I'm supposed to be happy about this, but I'm too busy trying to justify my decisions to someone who insists, when prompted, that they don't care, but continues to nitpick every little detail...

Yeah. So that's what I'm going through. I guess...we'll see.

Getting started is the hardest part.

Self-explanatory title is self-explanatory.

I feel like the last couple weeks have gone fairly quickly. Which is strange, considering I've really done nothing with them. Work and sleep, man. Work and sleep.

Still no apartment. I'm back to looking, and I have a couple places to call about tomorrow on my day off. The financial constraints are making this incredibly difficult, but, for once, I'm not letting that stop me. But I seriously do wish I had a roommate. That would make finding an apartment so much easier - location, rent, the whole shebang. But it's a goddamned shame that it would be even harder for me to find a roommate than it is to find a place to live. If I can't make friends or get a date (which I can't), it stands to reason that I can't find someone to live with, either. I know a handful of people I could stand, but could they stand me? Ay, there's the rub. That's why I'll fly solo for now and see where it goes.

Abrupt topic change!

In a recent conversation about life experience, or the lack thereof, I was presented with the idea of "making up for lost time." Now... I'm not going to say I've never thought about it. Flipping a switch and deciding I'm going to climb mountains and jump out of planes and fuck everything with a pulse for a few months until I feel like I've sufficiently "lived." But that's not really me. As evidenced by the fact that I never did any of that to begin with. So as much as I feel like there are a lot of things I haven't done, or at the very least didn't do at a more "normal" time, I don't feel the need to pack them all into a shorter window just to say I did them. I'm pretty comfortable with skipping all that entirely. It'd be lovely if that's how it worked, but instead I have the 16-year-old awkwardness at 28.

I'm too tired for tidy resolutions at the moment. I might be too tired for that always. Keeps things interesting. Or something.

Anyway. This was rather pointless. And now I'm going to bed.