Silicon Valley vs. Manhattan

I've been living back in New York City for just over 2 months now.

It's as if I had never left. The city's noises and mess are soothing, not jarring or rude. My social calendar is jam-packed, with dinners and drinks and brunches nearly every day. And finally, after years in the outer boroughs, I am living back in Manhattan! Not only that, I'm only a handful of blocks from work, a decent 15-minute walk at most. My friends are here, my favorite restaurants are here, my preferred lifestyle is here. I'm home!

Or not.

When the invite to move back to New York popped up, I cringed. Why now, a year after the misery is over?

This time last year, all I wanted to do was move back to New York! I begged and pleaded, and loathed my surroundings because there were no friends, N train, 8th Street, Shake Shack, etc. I felt like I had come out to California for a reason that no longer existed, and all I wanted to do was go back home.

And then I found the true reason for being out in California. Real love, the kind that makes your heart flutter, the kind that makes me want to cry just thinking about not having him near me. I was happy again, for the first time in years. My heart was full, and professionally, I was soaring.

Now they ask me go to New York. Isn't life funny?

So, after two months here, with one more to go, is New York still my home? Yes and no. A huge part of my heart is here. My friends are amazing. They're smart, sarcastic, funny, kind, and supportive. They're everything I'd want friends to be. And this city is dynamic, surprising and endearing. I feel more at peace walking down 5th Avenue than I ever would hiking on some scenic California hillside. It is home.

And so is California. While there are many reasons why I think California is awful, there is one reason why I can't wait to go back: hippies. No, not really. That reason is my boyfriend (and hippies). The cliche of "your home is where your heart is" proves to be true in this case, because the majority of my heart is in Santa Cruz, near Mission Street. There are other pieces in different places: New York and Chicago, mainly. But I want to be with my boyfriend. I want to live in California.

And that's what I came out here to find in a way. When I left New York, it was a hard decision and it did not feel entirely my own. I did it mainly for someone else, and not for myself.

And when I leave New York again (hopefully not for the last time--love does travel), in June, I will be leaving partly for someone else, too. But mostly for myself. I want to be happy, and to love and be loved. I never thought I would find someone so incredibly sweet, thoughtful, funny, smart, and sexy. It kills me that I have to wait another 3 weeks before I can be with him. I never want to be apart for this long ever again. I'm absolutely certain.

Life is funny. And it's amazing. You never know how good things can get, and how fast things can change for the better.

I can't wait to leave New York.

Celebration of Emancipation

One of these days, I'll be celebrating a year's worth of freedom.

A year ago, I asked a lot of questions, and received infuriating responses. I thought my life was over; the only solution was escape. I had nothing, and slept alone. I wondered when I'd ever be happy again.

A year later, I am thankful. Thankful that I had the strength to make the right decision, to leave my old, shitty life, even if it meant creating a new life, being alone.

Last year, I was weak, broken into pieces, defeated. I had no one.

This year, I love someone whole-heartedly, unabashedly, and am loved by someone who makes sure his love is felt, experienced.

I'm lucky, but not accidentally.

By the way, I called it, and you're welcome.

Last Poetry Assignment: Ekphrasis

Our last assignment is to write an ekphrasis, or a verbal rendition of something visual, usually art. I chose Frida Kahlo's first self-portrait, featured below. Click on the portrait if you'd like to learn more about this piece.


Persuasion
by Stephanie McLellan

Who was it that said we should not

Suppose that beauty is goodness?

Your dewy, amber eyes disagree.

The youth in your hand quivers.

Fingertips tender to touch, but hurried,

Sliding under straps, tugging until it falls.

"Listen", you say, while shrugging on that

Tattered shirt, nearly buttonless by now.

I never should have listened.

There is goodness in this beauty.

Vanish. Disappear. Run if you must.
These sweeping, sloping lines will draw
Your eyes upon me once more.

There is goodness in us.

Second Poetry Assignment - Elegy

Our second poetry assignment was to write an elegy, or a poem of mourning. I immediately thought of my father. At the time of his death, I wrote a decent amount, but it was very much stream-of-consciousness (see "Life Out of Order" post), rather than concise, athletic writing.

I'm worried that this poem does too much telling, and not enough showing. Still, it's the first thoughtful piece ever written about my father's death, so at least a good start.

Fatherless daughters

by Stephanie McLellan

Astoria awoke in muffled light, and

Unfurled itself, unshuttering its shops,

Revealing glass cases full of watches, and

Walls patterned with five dollar t-shirts.

Its people stretched and yawned,

Showered and dressed, stepped out the door.

The N train snaked its way overhead,

Shuddering and squealing around each curve.

Commuters wore foundations of exhaustion,

Over which they painted lipstick, and somber faces,

Succumbing to the rocking lull of the train, their

Eyelids falling slack, then bursting open at a jarring jerk.

Their destination, a Manhattan station, throbbed with footsteps,

Anonymous bodies shoving and slipping past one another,

Turnstiles revolving and clicking at a furious pace.

Above ground, I mimicked the crowd, darting about,

Tapping out steps in my heels, faking my morning rush

Until I stumbled on the curb, scattering my thoughts.

That's when it happened. For one minute,

You were breathing again, moving again--alive.

Your calloused hands busied themselves,

Tuning your guitar, or maybe rolling the radio dial,

Settling on conservative radio. Or maybe, you were

Thinking of me, and how we haven't spoken for weeks.

But then I catch myself, and you're gone again.

Cruel memory stings me, pummels me, and wrenches away my breath,

Unleashing an ache that stems from my chest to my arms.

How awful is it, forgetting only to remember suddenly, as if

Hearing her monotone delivery of yesterday's news all over again?

The news I always forecasted but never expected.

I paused, struck by pedestrians and the sudden realization:

The world is filled with fatherless daughters.

First Poetry Assignment

As I mentioned in my previous post, I'm participating in a poetry workshop. Today, I turned in my first assignment, and had it workshopped in class--not the most painless process, but overall, I think it went very well! I wanted to share what I wrote here.

Before I do, though, I'll talk about what the assignment was. We were asked to write a poem using twenty different prompts. We were instructed to use as many prompts as we could, and in whatever order we liked, except the first line must begin with a metaphor, and the last line must end the poem with an image.

Below, you'll find the prompts, and even further down, you'll find my poem, which is sadly still without a title.

TWENTY LITTLE POETRY PROJECTS
Jim Simmerman

1. Begin the poem with a metaphor.

2. Say something specific but utterly preposterous.

3. Use at least one image for each of the five senses, either in succession or scattered randomly throughout the poem.

4. Use one example of synesthesia (mixing the senses).

5. Use the proper name of a person and the proper name of a place.

6. Contradict something you said earlier in the poem.

7. Change direction or digress from the last thing you said.

8. Use a word (slang?) you’ve never seen in a poem.

9. Use an example of false cause-effect logic.

10. Use a piece of talk you’ve actually heard (preferably in dialect and/or which you don’t understand).

11. Create a metaphor using the following construction: "The (adjective) (concrete noun) of (abstract noun) . . ."

12. Use an image in such a way as to reverse its usual associative qualities.

13. Make the persona or character in the poem do something he or she could not do in "real life."

14. Refer to yourself by nickname and in the third person.

15. Write in the future tense, such that part of the poem seems to be a prediction.

16. Modify a noun with an unlikely adjective.

17. Make a declarative assertion that sounds convincing but that finally makes no sense.

18. Use a phrase from a language other than English.

19. Make a non-human object say or do something human (personification).

20. Close the poem with a vivid image that makes no statement, but that "echoes" an image from earlier in the poem.

______________________________________


Untitled
by Stephanie McLellan

Your alley is lined with shards of glass and old news,
Pungent with the stench of rotting fruits, and
Muted by anemic light and pervasive decay.
Why did Stefania ever live here?

Here, where sounds are suffocated by mildewed air,
And motion freezes like blistering icicles.
Here, where the brick walls lean in to intimidate,
And the abrasive blanket of misery smothers.

When we met, the blue skies burst and the sun blinded.
We promenaded hand-in-hand into happily ever after, and
Our eyes twinkled in akin delight,
Until your smile exploded into gunfire.

Tabitha from Toledo never would have guessed
How quickly our smiles dissipated, and the cracks infiltrated,
Quaking our fairytale and unearthing its faults,
Swaying us to surrender. C'est fini.

One day, another will happen upon your alley,
Tempted by the startling contrast of weeds amidst trash.
She will not think to look down, under her feet.
Stained paper, broken bottles, strewn along the path.

Poetry for Beginners: Because I wasn't bad enough the first time around

Now that I'm 28 years old, I think it's time to fall back into old habits. Which habits? Well, one in particular--writing horrible poetry.

I know what you're thinking. "Stephanie, you're such a tremendously brilliant, mind-numbingly talented writer; how could you write bad poetry?" I know, it's hard to believe, but I assure you, I am no poet.

This blog post is a perfect demonstration of this fact. As I write this, I should actually be writing my first poetry assignment. I have no idea how to write an image for each of the five senses though. And I have no idea what sort of metaphor to start out with. So, I'm writing a blog.

A short one, though, because I would like to get this assignment in on time, since I'll be one of the first "poets" workshopped in class. I'm already thinking this is a horrible idea.

Why can't I just write a short story? I don't even know if I could manage that right now. This "creative voice" is dusty and handicapped. Why'd I volunteer to go first?

All is well in California

I've been a lucky girl. In the scheme of things, I've made miraculous rebounds.

2008 was a year of absolute, impenetrable misery. In early February 2009, I broke up with my boyfriend of nearly three years, whom I moved out to California with. Life began to look up.

Not immediately, of course, but gradually. I took a trip to Switzerland in March, where I was reminded about what it was like to feel happiness and joy, to be thrilled and wanted.

The next few months after my return from CH were composed of going on dates with so-so guys. My spirits continued to climb, but there were certainly moments of doubt after some abysmal dates.

And then... I walked down the street, and saw this really handsome guy, beaming at me. It was Jared. We had a couple of pints, and talked. He grinned widely, and I blushed. All I kept thinking was, "He's so amazing!" We said goodnight, and I was smitten.

Two months later, I've freshly returned from a trip abroad, to Dublin, paid for by my employer. Greeting me upon my arrival was Jared, who then accompanied me up to Sebastapol to see two of my closest friends unite in a lawful union, in the hollow of a redwood. The next day, I met his family, all of whom were absolutely warm and welcoming; a stark contrast to some of the families I've had the misfortune of meeting in the past.

I'm ecstatic. I'm enamored. I feel like I'm the luckiest girl in the world. Things are going well at work, and my love life is brilliant. I miss my friends in Chicago and New York, but we're making it work.

I'm going to be 28 years old on Wednesday. It's a terrifying birthday, because the countdown to 30 commences, and is promised to be dramatic and painful. Nonetheless, I am enthusiastic. I'll be spending the day with a man who cares deeply about me, who will do anything to make me smile, and is absolutely deserving of all of my affection, loyalty, and care. This is all I've ever wanted. Just thought you should know.

Goodbye, Karma

I'm in a bit of a pickle. I need to decide, fairly quickly, whether to tell the truth, or tell a lie.

The truth would hurt someone, but the lie would protect him. But telling a lie is a sin, right? It's just the wrong thing to do. And doing the wrong thing now can come back to bite me in the ass later, right? Like, karma.

But I don't believe in sin, because I don't believe in God. But karma, I believe in karma. I believe that my actions today could affect what happens to me in the future. The very thought of karma comforts me when some douchebag steals my parking space. He'll get his! What comes around, goes around.

But wait. If I don't believe in God, then why do I believe in karma?

If I don't believe in some supreme, omniscient being, why would I believe that there's something else out there in the universe that is paying attention to everything we do and making sure we get rewarded/punished appropriately?

Oh.

I don't! I don't believe in it. I don't believe in karma. Now THIS is the kind of enlightenment I'm interested in!

I suddenly feel free! I can do anything I want, and the only retribution I can plan on facing is that delivered by another human being, most likely in a court of law.

Now, I'm still going to continue trying to be a good person. The Judeo-Christian philosophy of telling the truth no matter the consequence still plagues me, so no worries, I won't turn into deceitful, cheating asshole. However, when it comes to more ambiugous situations like this, where the truth hurts, and the lie protects, I might just bend my morals a bit. But just a bit.

Becoming Familiar

No longer do I feel like I'm living from one out-of-body experience to the next. I feel very much grounded now. My new life is more familiar, less puzzling.

Today, and tonight, I'm feeling serene. After staying up until 3:30am, I slept late, waking slightly after noon. I took my time getting ready. Straightened my hair, applied light makeup, wore my new True Religions (I might be crazy, but they seem like they're worth the money), and headed out to the mall.

I lazily strolled to each stop: Kiehl's for lip gloss; Aveda for shampoo/conditioner, and a complimentary hand massage; and finally, the Gap, where there was a 25% off summer dresses sale. I bought three dresses, each in a smaller size than I've ever worn, a pair of shorts, and a skirt. The dresses are remarkably beautiful. The colors, the design, the fabrics, and the flattering silhouettes. I'd look in the mirror after slipping each one on, shocked by how trim they were, and how good I looked in them. It felt amazing.

Afterwards, I drove back to my neighborhood with the convertible top down, good music playing from my iPod. Today was a sunny, breezy, perfect day. I stopped off at Starbucks for an iced coffee, and sat in a sunny spot on the patio, chatting with my mom, who seems upbeat. From there, I continued on my way, enjoying the warm sun moderated by the cool breeze. I felt at peace.

And tonight, I had two, great phone calls. One with m.g., my heart and soul. Another with t.m., someone who suddenly makes life fun again. I'm enjoying myself.

I can't wait to see what happens next.

Oddities

Each day continues to feel stranger than the next. The out of body experience continues.

I don't recognize my life anymore. I looked in the mirror today, and my reflection was surprising and foreign. Pleasing, but unfamiliar.

Right now, I'm lost somewhere between sadness and happiness. There are moments of elation, and then, when I'm alone again, I slip into my old self. It's confusing, and disorienting.

When I look back at this time in my life, I wonder if I'll be able to remember any of it? I can't even remember everything that happened yesterday. It's so strange--I've never felt like this before.

When a caterpillar is metamorphosizing, does it ever pause to admire the changes in process? If so, I bet it feels like me right now.


I'm also a bit stunned. I had a long, beautiful yet disturbing conversation with my sister tonight. We talked a lot about our family, both immediate and extended. The amount of dysfunction is horrifying. I know everyone complains about having dysfunctional families, but I think ours crossed a line, past the Lifetime miniseries stage, past the 20/20 or Dateline specials, and right into shit that just doesn't get publicized. I'm simultaneously impressed with us for turning out as well as we did, and disgusted. I'm left wondering how I can possibly attend the next family reunion without puking everywhere.

I'm sad. I'm happy. I'm horrified. I'm proud.

I'm hungry.

Out of Body

Interactions between men and women are so odd.

I feel these intense societal pressures to act pristinely. Don't curse. Don't be crass. Don't dress inappropriately. Don't be loose.

I wanted so badly to let myself go the other night, to let loose and follow my instincts. These crazy alarms that I've never heard before suddenly sounded off in my mind, these deafening reminders of my moral obligations as a woman.

So you know what I did? I said, "Fuck it." I loosened the reins an inch or two.


You know what I think now? Those rules are there for a reason. Sometimes guidelines are necessary.

Geez, do I really think that? I don't know. What the hell is wrong with just doing what you want, if it doesn't hurt someone else?

Why did I let myself be shamed? Too easy of a role for me to play, I guess. The smarter half of me knows I have nothing to be ashamed of; the dumber half is louder.


This past weekend feels bizarre. I feel ill thinking about it, and am even having trouble remembering all that happened. I'm not terribly interested in remembering.

Instead, I'm craving the familiar more than ever right now. What I'd give to look into the eyes of someone who knows me so thoroughly that words aren't even necessary. How good it would feel to surrender myself to him, tired and battered by distant shores, relieved to be home again. I thought I was looking forward to exploration. This is harder and more treacherous than I had imagined. All I want is his comfort, warmth, and ease of conversation. I miss being loved, and loving.

I'm not in search of a reconciliation. I just want my best friend back.

Again, I ask, does this get any easier?

What will today be remembered as? The day I got the brush off? The day after a great day?

It's starting again. The weakening of my foundation, my sense of security. It always happens around this time, like clockwork. I want it to stop. I want these negative thoughts to never penetrate. But they do, inevitably, and this is how I crumble.

I don't want to think or worry about the past. Why do I let people define me, and assign me a value?

I don't have a good feeling about this.

Every girl wants a pony

I ate too many Cheerios tonight. I'm addicted to cereal. I think it's the sweetness and the texture that I love the most. Or it's that they're made out of crack.

Today, I worked from 7am-8pm, which was especially brutal after participating in an 8-hour improv class the previous day. I left work ecstatic, though. I think it has something to do with how crazy these last few weeks have been. So many social engagements, meeting new people--it's revitalizing.

I think it also has something to do with the Mustang, which I've rented while my car is in the shop. This evening, on my way home, I squealed and giggled when the car suddenly sounded like a club--the depth and richness of the sound system shocked me. I've never had anything close to a decent sound system in any of my (three, used) cars, so it was quite an experience. I made sure to leave a good song on my iPod so I can continue the club atmosphere on the drive to work tomorrow.

Speaking of tomorrow...I'll likely have to return the Mustang in the afternoon. Boo! I do have meetings all day, so perhaps I won't be able to make it in time? I do love my little Beetle--or Beetbox, as I've been calling it--but it ain't no 'Stang.

The way it handles, how the engine purrs and growls, how the hood peeks up into your eyeline, the way your body's pressed back against the seat when you gun it, the lines of the car, the steering wheel, the sexiness and power, the gear shift, the side mirrors, the rear view mirror, the gigantic trunk, the power and muscle, the throttle and thrust., and finally, the way it makes me smile and lose my breath all at the same time. These are all examples of why I want one--need one. Maybe not before June, but soon. Or at least one day. This is the kind of car you make love in, with the top down, parked by the beach and under the stars (so California). I'm puzzled at the mechanics considering that the middle console is large and immobile, and space is tight. Something to tackle when the time comes--someday! Let's not get ahead of ourselves.

My therapist suggested today that I might have spent 2.5 years of my life with a closeted homosexual. Life just gets funnier and funnier.

Life would be much better if I made the following improvements:

• Lose 15 pounds
• Get a haircut
• Become wealthier
• Focus on work
• Make an effort (to eat well, be well, see well, feel well, love well, well...well)
  
• Give cats up for adoption
• Take off these dingy overalls, my glasses, and let down my hair to finally reveal that I'm not the dorky, awkward girl, but rather the hot girl
• Buy/lease a 2009 Ford Mustang GT Premium Convertible with a racing stripe, spoiler negotiable
• Move to New York City or Roma or London or Zurich
  
• Get rid of my old laser printer, Dell desktop, Dell laptop, and Gateway laptop
• Stop having nightmares about 9/11-like attacks in Mountain View, California
• Stop having nightmares about crazy earthquakes, especially when the panic stems from my plasma falling over and breaking
• Pay attention (faites attention!) at work
• Live life freely
• Learn how to meditate
• Do yoga
• Make friends
• Wash my car
• Buy a new mattress and fancy bed frame
• Cook instead of microwave
• Go to bed at a decent hour
• Stop letting smart, sarcastic persons and their silly conversations keep me from going to sleep at a decent hour
• Tell said persons to ping me pre-12am

I think that covers it?

Monday night, Question city

I don't understand California. Or its customs. Or its people. Je ne comprends rien. When are we finally eaten by mountain lions? And why are earthquakes happening while I'm not here to be petrified by them?

Why do I feel rejected by welcomed rejection emails?

I like this format. I'll continue with questions.

If I were good at math, would I be pursuing a career in the sciences?
If I were pursuing a career in the sciences, would I not hate my job?
Do I really hate my job?
If I'm smart, why am I continually fooled into believing that a non-highly functioning human person is actually highly functioning?
How come I can't see what everyone else sees?
Where can I save money on my car insurance?
Tell me, why does Twitter exist?
And why do people who despise Facebook like Twitter?
What's the difference?
Seriously?
Is social networking more acceptable within the confines of 140 characters?
And while we're on the topic, would you create a Twitter account for your pet?
I'm sorry, is that supposed to be adorable?
And why do I feel threatened by such an absurd person?
Have I mentioned that I am incessantly puzzled by my own emotions?
Is there a kind, adult way to end a friendship with someone who is most likely not even really your friend?
How long does a Chia pet last?
When will I stop feeling like a leper?
How do you know if you have contracted rabies?
Am I a bad person if I give up my cats for adoption?
Will there ever be enough money?
Why is it that nail polishes never lasts more than a few days before cracking at the edges?
Do you understand why, after a 12-hour day at work, I have enough energy to work out and then stay up until midnight (swiss chocolate)?
Is it wrong to be strongly attracted to Seth Rogen?
Do I care?
How upset would I be if I were laid off?
Do I really want to move back to NYC?
How weird is it that I have no real passions beyond writing, reading, music, and food?
And love?
Or are those enough?
Can you really put too many eggs in one basket?
How many is too many?
And how big is the basket?
How's it gonna feel when summer ends?
Is it bedtime?

I think so.

Distance and Liberation

A week ago, I was happy. I was free, alive, and satiated. Life felt exciting, new, beautiful, and alluring.

There was a moment of true joy. I was on the train back from Lugano, reading through my journal of the last few months. Each entry expressed agony, disappointment, pain, and hopelessness. Every page gasped for an end. Had I really forgotten how bad it was, how black it was? Here was the proof, my lamentations in ink.

Night and day. There I was on a Swiss train, in first class passage, traveling across some of the most beautiful landscapes ever imagined by calendars and postcards. I had just left idyllic Lugano, charming with its Lombarian Renaissance-style architecture and piazzas linked by narrow streets. I was on my way back to Zurich, my stomach fluttering with anticipatation.

How could such crushing sadness and such tremendous happiness have existed only weeks apart?

I felt elated and liberated. I resurfaced, gulping in the rejuvenating Alpine (filtered through train) air, rejoicing in the distance from my past. If I were in a musical, I would have burst into a song, bright with references to springtime, sunshine, bluebirds, and glistening mountain peaks. Instead, I smiled widely at my reflection, and beamed inside, wishing the train would move faster towards its destination.


And now?

Well, vacation is over. It's curious, thinking back to how wonderful I felt, in comparison to how I feel now. To be trite, the difference is palpable.

I expected to be disappointed upon my return in reaction to the let down of no longer having an amazing vacation to look forward to. Surprisingly, that's not how I feel. I'm excited for the next few weeks--lots of fun outtings planned, even a trip to New York. There are things to look forward to.

But I can't help myself, especially in the evenings, from looking back. I think of how I passed the hours. When will I feel as good again? When will I find someone who I get lost with for hours at a time, without the faintest idea of how it got to be 11pm, or 2am, or 4am? When do I stop missing how good it felt to be held in his arms?

The neat answer is "eventually". It's easy to brush off these late night longings as overreactive romantic tendencies induced by fairly recent heartbreak, jetlag, and stark reality.

After all, life is not a vacation, which is a lesson taught to me by my parents. Life is work, stress, hardship, with pockets of fun hidden within the inside lining. Of course we don't want the holiday to end.

But that's bullshit. Why shouldn't life be more like a holiday? Why shouldn't happiness exist beyond the confines of departures and returns? It must; that's the only right answer. I need to fix this life of mine: patch the holes, paint the walls, update the fixtures--whatever it takes. I'm not entirely sure, honestly, what it'll take, but I feel like I'm a few steps closer to figuring that out now.

I sat on a couch and talked about hopefulness, about finding and tackling love, and was called brave in response. I don't think I'm so brave after all. Idealistic. Romantic. Ridiculous. Amorous. Not brave. If I were brave, wouldn't I have said all of this, and more, aloud? What's the difference between brave and silly anyway?



As an aside, someone said that he hopes my jetlag will be gone by the time we see one another, so that I can reenact the "more exciting parts" of my vacation. I think I must have blushed.

Did I mention I'm going to Switzerland?

One week from today, I will be in Switzerland. That's INSANE. What the hell am I going to do in Switzerland, for nine days?! I need to sit down with my guide books and recommended (but vague) itinerary. Jesus. I have no idea. I guess I'll just take trains every day, going somewhere new, and then spend the day wandering around with a guide book, a reading book, and my journal. It's just crazy to think that I'm actually going. It was such a whimsical plan, and seemed so far away back when I booked the trip. It still seems unreal. I don't know if I should be happy, or scared, ecstatic or nervous. All four, really. I just hope I have a good time. After the past year, I could really use some good times.

The History of Alone

When you grow up, you're a kid going through shit, trying to be cool, make friends, have fun, survive your parents' bullshit, become someone.

Once you become that someone, that adult, you're left there silent, standing in a still night, on an empty street, wondering, "How did I become this way?"

Or your someone who is recovering from a tough break up, wondering, "Why am I so fucked up?"

Why do I find the thought of being alone so incredibly frightening? Not frightening in the smirky way that Bridget Jones-types regard singledom, but terrifying, like how'd you feel if you were standing at the edge of a steep cliff, losing footing. How did I become so afraid of being alone?

And what is alone, exactly? Alone is alone. No friends, no boyfriend. Independence. Netflix. Facebook. Those things are all "alone" for me. Filling my weekends with errands, accepting any social engagement people dare to include me in. This is alone.

I hate alone. Alone makes me want to jump out my window, hurt myself, scream, break shit, take pills, drink, etc. This is abnormal and irrational. Yet, irrational or not, this is my reality, my day-to-day life.

Which brings me back to the question: how did I become this fucked up? When did the thought of being alone begin to resonate with feelings of hopelessness, terror, and panic? I was told that it had to have begun somewhere. There was a catalyst, or were catalysts. I was charged with figuring out when, what, and why.

As it turns out, the when was a long time ago. Approximately 26.5 years ago.

The what is a lot of things. More things than I realized. Who knew.

And the why? Well, it's self-evident when you know the what--trust me.

It's comforting to have concrete, documented reasons why I suck at being alone. I feel reassured knowing that I felt the same panic and helplessness when my mom would leave the car to pump gas, at age 2, as I do now when faced with a weekend without plans, at age 27. There are reasons why I'm like this. Crazy for a reason is better than just plain crazy.

How do I get over these things? It can't be ridiculous as climbing back into that little girl's skin, and coaxing myself out of the original sadness and fear. I can't change anything. Do I beat or scream into a pillow? Do I meet with other women who faced similar challenges? Do I pen my stories in a journal (or type in a blog) in order to purge, and be rid of it forever? Do I meditate? Do I confront those who hurt me? Do I submit to hypnosis?

I have no fucking idea. Hopefully the madman leading me through this mess does, though. All I know is that it's still affecting me--the bad things that happened 26.5 years ago. That's retarded. Unacceptable, really. So I'm going to stop it. Stop being crazy. Stop wanting to jump out of my skin. Eventually.

In the meantime, I'm going to Switzerland. When asked if this were my version of Eat, Pray, Love, I replied, "I don't know what that is." It's a trip to Switzerland. It will involve exploration, mostly of the countryside, perhaps of myself as well. This is my first time traveling alone in a foreign country. I think Switzerland is the safest place to start. I wonder how I can do these things--travel by myself when I'm terrified of being alone. I guess now is the best time to do it. It's got to be better--being alone in a beautiful country than being alone in San Jose. Right? Right.

hypocrisy

I'm a hypocrite. I hate hypocrites, and am reluctant to join their club. But I am. Why is it okay for me to move on with my life, but the moment I feel like my ex is moving on with his, I'm struck blind with jealousy, sadness, and panic? It's a horrible, shitty thing to do to someone you love. I'm learning a lot about myself these days. How low I'll go, if you will.

While reflecting on my childhood, I discovered (with a little help) that I have an unfortunate history of men in my life claiming to love me, but yet moving on, abandoning me, with appalling ease. This causes problems for a myriad of reasons, obviously. It's so crippling for me because of the manifestation of feelings of worthlessness. I feel that acutely.

I wish I could be a better person. I wish I would not torture myself with conjured images of my ex making out with/making love to another girl, being able to make that girl happy in ways and lengths that he could never make me. Why wasn't I good or worthwhile enough to inspire him to change, be different? Why can't I accept the fact that it wasn't me? It couldn't have been me.

If anything, I was the reason why it lasted so long. I kept believing that it would work, had to work. Stuck with it, despite the unhappiness, misery, and torturous weeks/months/years. You know how it is. Things can suck for a while, but then you have a good week, when you remember why you fell in love with the person in the first place. Those good parts keep you hanging on, keep you hoping. Ultimately, all the hanging on and hoping is futile.

So yeah. I wish I weren't a hypocrite. I wish I couldn't give a fuck what my ex did and who he did it with. But I am, and I do. Not forever, but for right now.

I don't like right now.

Trapped in the Golden State

someone once described my life as a mobile french film. a mixture of cynicism and romanticism, a pack of gauloises, a bottle of of syrah...it made sense. these days, my life feels more like a black-and-white film about the Holocaust.

Sadness.

I'm single again, for the first time in over two and a half years. I've lost my best friend, my lover, my world. Worst of all, I'm now alone in California.

You see, I moved out for here with my now ex-boyfriend so that he could pursue his dream. I left my friends behind, my awesome Astoria apartment, the impeccable city of New York. I gave these things up in exchange for the greater hope that I would be with the love of my life, and we would start a brilliant new future together in the land of warm weather and palm trees. I would get a job at my dream company, which I did, and he would have his amazing new job.

The problem was that there were problems before we moved. These problems, I realize now, were permanent, fixed. And California sucked. Still does. Always will?

So here I am. A year and one month after moving to California, I am living on my own in a San Jose apartment. I miss New York so much my chest aches. I spend most of my weekends alone. I struggle to relate to people, to make friends.

A lot of my struggles have to do with my hating California. I mean, who wants to hang out with someone who hates the place you happily live in? Nobody. That's understandable. Also, I'm sad. No one likes sad people, either.

I'm not sure what to do next. My immediate hope is to move back to New York City, to the land of the sarcastic and street smart. My people.

In this economy, it's not as likely. I need to have a Plan B.

My Plan B: I don't have one. Survive, I guess. Try to make friends where I can, exceed expectations at work, and do my best to create a new life for myself, a life in which I can be happy. A pitiful existence, perhaps, but it's the best I can manage.

What about Plan C? Can someone rescue me?