I feel like everything I'm doing, I'm doing in a daze. I don't want to do anything. Work, household duties, phone calls, socialization -- I want nothing to do with any of it. It all seems like too much to handle, even though I know I'm stronger than I give myself credit for. I don't know where to picture myself anymore when I think about the future. I used to see Brian and myself in northern California or the Pacific northwest. Now...I see myself, but all the other details are blacked out.

What would I do? I don't have many options at the time being. I had the misfortune of losing my job, and though I managed to find another one the very same day, it takes time to train and actually start making money. As a result, virtually all the money we have right now is Brian's. If I left, I couldn't do anything except go back to Colorado and move in with my parents. I would feel like such a disgusting, horrible failure if I did that. I'll be twenty-four years old this summer; I can't stay with my parents. They would love to have me there; I would feel like a complete loser.

What the fuck am I going to do? I'm on a lease here; it will cost at least $1600 to break it. I still have mountains of debt from when Brian and I were in our fucked up poverty situation. How am I going to fix all this? I have about $15,000 in debt that needs to be paid off, and I'd consider declaring bankruptcy except that I talked to a financial advisor and was told I actually don't qualify; that I would need a lot more debt in order to declare bankruptcy. So there's that massive weight on my shoulders. Add to that the fact that I don't have any money to start over somewhere else with, and I'm right back where I started -- my parents' house -- except that I'm even worse off than when I was there before.

Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.

I don't know what to do. I just want to hide for weeks and sleep and cry, because that's about all I have the energy for anymore.

I woke up this morning with a feeling of foreboding. It was gray and gloomy outside; I could hear the occasional raindrop hit the windowpanes. The lack of sunlight filtering in through the blinds made it feel much earlier than nine o'clock. The cat, who had been sleeping beside me, yawned, stretched, and licked my hand in a morning greeting. Brian was still asleep next to me. I lied there in the gray silence of the room, listening to the sound of my breath and Brian's, watching the numbers on the clock slip by and feeling like shit.

I'm beginning to think that I'm just being an idiot for believing that Brian and I can have a good, healthy relationship. It's not a thought that comes easy; it makes my stomach churn and my heart rate accellerate. I've been trying to ignore it for quite some time, denying it was even there, but now it's grown stronger. I don't know what to do.

We went to the city the other day; it was 4:30 in the morning and neither of us could sleep, so we decided to catch the train to Chicago in lieu of our useless tossing and turning. It was such a beautiful day -- everything about it was perfect. We had coffee and breakfast in a diner across the street from the Sears Tower, and afterwards we walked for miles, covering the city on foot. Eventually, we reached the water, and we lied down on the empty path along the shore and napped next to each other. Later, we had a delicious sushi lunch, visited the Art Institute of Chicago, and spent time ducking in and out of all the various little oddball shops you can find in a huge city. We didn't return home until midnight, and we were exhausted but happy.

I keep playing that day in my head, like a film without sound, over and over again. We have the potential to be so happy together, as days like that prove, and that's what makes this whole thing so hard.

He's worried I'm going to get fat again. I understand his concern; it's well warranted. After all, I spent a large portion of my life stuffing my face, and though my eating habits are much more under control now, it takes more than just a few months to erase a lifelong pattern of overeating. I see where he's coming from; all the same, it hurts me more than I can even express to know that if I were to gain ten pounds, our relationship would be over. I'm working out five days a week, running four miles during each session. I'm constantly hungry because I'm not eating enough food. And yet this is what I have to do in order to save my relationship. It didn't used to be this way -- Brian made sure I knew how important it was to him that I look good, but now I feel...I don't know, moderated. Like he's constantly watching, waiting for me to fuck up. Last night, about an hour and a half after dinner, I still felt hungry, so I got a container of yogurt out of the fridge. Before I even opened it, however, Brian saw what I was doing and said incredulously, "You're eating again?" I constantly feel like a heifer around him; I constantly feel fat. But realistically, all I ate yesterday was some granola with blueberries for breakfast and a salad with shrimp, avocado, spinach, broccoli sprouts, and a balsamic vinaigrette for dinner. I didn't even end up eating the yogurt because I didn't want him to be disgusted by me.

I have a vague awareness that this is very, very, very fucked up, and that any person who doesn't love me for who I am, regardless of how I look, doesn't really love me at all. It's not that he doesn't love me, though -- he just says that love isn't enough to keep a relationship going. If he's not physically attracted to somebody, he will not be in a relationship with them. And he's not physically attracted to me unless I starve myself.

I know this sounds ridiculous, and if I was reading this exact post by somebody else, I'd leave a comment with my two cents, telling her to have some self-respect and self-esteem, to not ever let anyone try to change her, to tell her boyfriend to fuck off and let her eat whatever she damn well pleases. I'd tell her that as long as she was happy with the way she looked, no one else's opinion even mattered. I'd say all those things if it was somebody else, but it's me, and I can't seem to feel that my own advice is valid.

I love Brian...so much. So intensely. We've been through so much together; he's my best friend. I hate this feeling so much: the feeling that trying to be the girlfriend he wants me to be is like trying to squash a square peg in a round hole. Sooner or later, it's going to fall apart. I'm going to eat a cheeseburger at a restaurant one day and it will all be over; if it's not that, it'll be because I left my water glass out on the counter and neglected to put it in the dishwasher, or because I spent the afternoon on the internet instead of getting something done. I feel like I'm constantly on this precipice, the very edge, the fine line between having and not having a relationship, and all it's going to take is one little tiny mistake -- something that's hardly a mistake at all -- to push me over the side.

I fucking hate this.

It's been ages since I last posted a single photo, and I'd like to start where I left off. This set was taken when Brian and I were living in Illinois the first time around, under much less favorable conditions. (I apologize, but I can't seem to get the lj-cut function to work properly. Not sure what I'm doing wrong...anyway, sorry I can't get these under a cut.) ( more )

Things with Brian are much, much, MUCH better. I've been trying as hard as I can to see things from his point of view, to be the best girlfriend I can possibly be, and to constantly display, in small ways as well as overt ones, just how much I love him. We haven't fought since I posted the last entry, actually -- we've had nothing but clear, open, honest communication, and that feels so good. I feel very, very lucky.

Next order of business: I quit my job. It sounds unexpected, but believe me, I couldn't wait to get out of there. When I started, I couldn't believe my luck at landing the job, but after being there only a few weeks it started to eat away at my soul. (Ok, so that's a bit dramatic, but.) The reasons why:

1. For starters, servers are allowed no more than three tables in their section, simply for the fact that we have SO MUCH stupid shit to do -- responsibilities that don't normally fall upon servers in any other restaurant -- that taking any more than that would be impossible. This, of course, limited the flow of cash, and I missed the days at Cheesecake Factory where I had six or seven tables in my section.

2. The dress code for female servers was as follows: skintight, low-cut black v-neck shirt displaying the maximum amount of cleavage possible without actually being topless; black miniskirt that ended at least six inches above the knee; black pantyhose; and last, but certainly not least, high-heeled shoes no lower than two inches in height. If any of you have ever waited tables, you'll sympathize with me on this. Asking a server to work in two inch heels is the stupidest, most asinine, abusive rule I've ever endured at a place of employment. It was commonplace to walk into the locker room and find a fellow female server huddled on the floor, crying in pain. As a result of this, my feet, which were pretty and dainty before, are mangled and misshapen, and painful even on the days when I'm not wearing heels.

3. Thanks to the afore-mentioned dress code, I have been groped by every single member of the kitchen staff at least once. They seemed to all be of the mind that any girl in a short skirt was fair game. What's more, when I brushed their hands away and shouted at them -- in Spanish, no less, so that they'd definitely understand -- they'd chuckle and shake their heads, only to come back and try the same damn thing the following night. The day before my last shift, one of the prep cooks actually propositioned me; he heard me complain to a coworker about the lack of money to be made in the slow season, and he came up to me later and told me that if I needed money, he'd pay me to have sex with him. Management never really seemed to give two shits about the rampant sexual harassment, though I brought it up frequently.

4. Management there was severely lacking. There was Kerry, the Killer Bitch from Hell, who would flat-out ignore you if she was in too bad of a mood to actually do any work (which was most nights). And April -- I had at least a shred of respect for her, until she stood up in the pre-shift meeting one night and proclaimed that she would no longer be helping servers at all. "I'm not going to refill coffees at table twelve; I'm not going to help you clear your six-top; I'm not going to help run food. I'm a manager -- I got out of serving for a reason." Hearing that made me so mad, I was surprised flames didn't start shooting out of my ears. I've had some fucked up restaurant managers in my day, but not one of them has ever been on such a power trip that they felt they were above helping everyone else out. Restaurant work is about teamwork -- period. Any half-decent manager will, for the good of the restaurant, jump in and see what he or she can help with if the servers all seem ridiculously busy. Management at this particular restaurant was full of self-important, arrogant elitists, and it drove me insane.

5. When I was hired, I was told by the GM that getting good sections and good shifts depended not on veteranship, but solely on merit. I came to find that this was a huge load of bullshit. On a slow night, the hosts are instructed to seat certain servers first -- the servers that are veterans, that have been there for years. Last week, I had five shifts. Three of them, I went in, hung around, and did a lot of side work, only to receive absolutely NO tables in my section, while the sections of the veteran servers were full. Last Monday, I got one table and made $15, while Beth, who has been there for two years, got a total of eleven tables and made $300.

6. And a lot of other bullshit that I don't feel like going into, but suffice it to say I'm so fucking thrilled to never be going back there again.

I was searching for jobs, but I'd planned on giving notice when I got hired somewhere else. I received two job offers on Saturday -- one at a steakhouse, very corporate, quite similar to the place I was already at, and the other at an upscale family-owned Italian restaurant. I accepted the job at the Italian restaurant and was all set to give notice at work. That evening, I was running late getting ready for my shift, and I called to let management know I might be a few minutes behind. My mind was obviously elsewhere, though, because when I spoke to Kerry, I couldn't stop the words from coming out: "I'm never coming back again." It felt SO good.

And then, I called my new boss at the Italian restaurant, who had been disappointed that I'd have to wait two weeks to start, and told them that the old place no longer needed me and I'd be available to start whenever he needed me. My first day is tomorrow.

I've been trying very, very, very hard not to admit this to myself, but I can no longer live in denial. I'm having problems in my relationship, and I hate so much to say that. It's hard to explain the problems, but I'm going to give it my best shot. I haven't spoken a word about any of this to anyone, and I'm starting to feel like a powder keg ready to explode.

When Brian first met me, I was a mess, in the following ways:
-I weighed 230 pounds, binged consistently, and lived a very sedentary lifestyle.
-I never, but never, cleaned, and my apartment was beyond disgusting.
-I had horrible self-esteem and held myself to a very low standard, and I allowed myself to spend time with people who were manipulative, selfish, shady, dishonest -- the dregs of society.
-I had addictive tendencies which were already in full bloom as far as weed and alcohol were concerned, and which would later become even worse when I started using coke and crack.
-I was terrible with money. I never paid my bills, I racked up insane amounts of debt, and I spent what little I made on drugs, alcohol and food -- my vices. My mom paid my rent until she got sick of it, and then I moved back in with my parents.
-I never followed through on anything I intended to.
-I dropped out of school because I preferred drugs to diligence. If I'd stuck it out, I'd probably have a degree right now.
-I let all my friendships lapse, and the only people I ever saw anymore were those I got fucked up with.
-I was ridiculously selfish and self-centered.
-I lied all the time, to others and to myself, and eventually I began to believe the lies I told myself. It got so bad I had a difficult time separating reality from fantasy.
-I had horrible social anxiety.

And that's the short list. I'm still not sure what Brian saw in me when we first met that prompted him to be my friend. In the beginning of our friendship, I was a horrible bitch -- not because I was intentionally trying to be a bitch to him, but because that was the way I conducted my interactions with everyone and therefore had no friends. I lied to him all the time to make myself seem better somehow -- so many of our interactions during the first year we knew each other were deceitful. Unlike other people, though, he saw through it and called me on it. He told me that if we were to have a friendship, I'd need to stop lying to him. In the years since then, I've worked on it, and I'm proud to say that lying is no longer an issue.

It was obvious to Brian when we met that I was unhappy, and he wanted to help. Stopping my dishonest behavior helped, as I felt better about myself and more grounded in reality. He helped me sort out a lot of areas of my life -- I'm better socially, better with money, better at resisting my impulses, better at eating right and exercising and just generally taking care of myself...all because of Brian. He is the reason I made the ultimate decision to never use crack or cocaine again, and I truly believe he saved my life in that respect. If I had smoked crack even one more time, I am 100% convinced my life would have entirely derailed, and I'm not sure I would have been able to salvage any of it. Who knows where I'd be? Probably dead or in jail, which I don't really like to think about.

So anyway. Brian has done a tremendous amount for me. He stuck by me when I lied to him, he introduced me to Zen and meditation when I felt overwhelmed by my emotions, he instructed everyone we knew to never, ever, for any reason, ever use cocaine around me so I wouldn't be tempted by it. He helped me become the person I am today, which is a huge step above where I was before we met. He took me off the downward spiral I was clearly on and changed my momentum so that I am instead spiraling upward. Without Brian, I wouldn't have even realized how horrible I'd let my life become until it was far too late.

I got sick in 2005, some stomach thing that went unexplained for quite a while. It caused me great discomfort whenever I ingested food of any kind, so I just stopped eating. This happened right in the middle of our period of extreme poverty, where we were existing off hardly any food at all anyway, and between the combination of illness and poverty I lost one hundred pounds over the course of a year. Suddenly I was thin -- something I'd never really been before. Even when I was a child and wasn't overweight, I wouldn't have been described as "thin," either -- it probably would have been more like "strong" or "big-boned." But all of a sudden, I was really, truly thin. The stomach problem took care of itself eventually -- I never did find out what it was, and as long as it stopped inhibiting the quality of my life, that was all that mattered. I started eating healthier and becoming a bit more physically active (though I still didn't work out nearly as much as I do these days), and I managed to keep most of the weight off, fluctuating between 130 and 135.

When I was a hundred pounds heavier, Brian wasn't the least bit attracted to me, and I don't blame him for a second, as I was pretty disgusting. But as the weight came off, he admitted to growing feelings of attraction for me, and eventually this developed into both of us wanting a relationship with each other. Brian was proud of me for coming as far as I had, and he knew there was still more I wanted to accomplish: I wanted to reach 125 lbs, which I'd dreamed about weighing all my life; I wanted to become a clean person and keep the house spotless; I wanted to work out all the time and be in the best physical shape of my life; I wanted to meditate all the time and be in the best mental and emotional shape of my life. When I accomplished these things, he said, nothing would stop us from having an incredible relationship.

That was in December of 2006. In December of 2007, I had stopped meditating every day and stopped working out, and it was showing. I was getting a bit more emotionally chaotic (though not nearly as bad as I was in the past), and I weighed in at 136 pounds -- eleven pounds over the weight I'd promised Brian I'd reach. I also wasn't following through on keeping the house clean all the time. Though none of this ever got as bad as it was several years ago, it all represented one thing to Brian: I can't follow through on anything. He can't depend on me to do the things I say I'm going to do.

He talked to me about it; it was a long, drawn-out, tearful (on my part, anyway) conversation. He said he wasn't sure if we should be together anymore, because he needed somebody he could depend on, unflinchingly, without a doubt. I told him I could be that person and decided to do a better job all around. Things went well for a while, but eventually I always let the ball drop -- I'd keep the house clean and beautiful for a week, and on the eighth day it would always fall to shit. Or I'd eat super healthy for a week and then pig out on Taco Bell and frozen pizzas. Every time I fucked up, Brian would call me on it, and we'd have another tearful (me again) debate about how I could manage to stay on the right track.

Sixteen days ago, Brian told me he didn't want to be in the relationship anymore. He said he loved me very much and wished we could make it work, but he needed to be with someone predictable, dependable, and reliable -- and I wasn't any of those. At the risk of sounding overly dramatic, it was like time stopped. I cried like I never have before -- I've never felt emotional pain like that in my entire life. I had to work at the restaurant that evening, and I showed up with disturbingly puffy eyes, disoriented and distracted -- I can't even count the number of things I fucked up that night. When I got home, we talked some more about it, and I convinced Brian to give me two weeks to prove to him how important the relationship was to me. During the two week period, I was to acheive my weight goal of 125 lbs, work out at least three times a week, pick up after myself, and just generally kick ass at life.

I did pretty well. I worked out with a vengeance, more even than I'd said I would -- I've been consistently exercising every other day at the very least, which involves running two miles, lifting weights to tone my upper body, and doing a vast array of floor exercises to sculpt my abs, thighs and butt. I started eating healthy foods again and even taught myself the basics of cooking -- something I'd always been clueless about -- so that I could make delicious and healthy meals for us. These days, when I shop, I fill my cart with spinach, alfalfa sprouts, sweet potatoes, salmon and pomegranate juice, rather than boxed macaroni and cheese, frozen pizzas, and cookies. I did a pretty good job picking up after myself, though I admittedly did fuck up a couple times and leave a few things lying around -- some books I'd been reading, or a pair of shoes. For that whole two week period, though, I felt great, and things between Brian and I were awesome.

The two weeks were up on Monday. I hopped on the scale, expecting to see a lower number than ever before. My clothes fit differently, I looked better than I've ever looked in my entire life, and I'd been diligent about ingesting healthy foods and working out. The number on the scale read 128. The stipulation was, if I failed to meet any of the four goals that were set for the two week period -- one of which was that I would weigh 125 when the time was up -- Brian could leave and go find someone else to be with who was better at life than I was.

Brian, who saw how hard I'd been working, didn't break up with me based on the fact that I was three pounds over my target weight. He told me that I'd probably started building muscle mass while I was simultaneously burning fat, meaning that, although I looked a lot different, my weight hadn't changed much. He was willing to overlook that on account of how much effort I'd put into getting fit and healthy. He was, however, disappointed with the few things I'd left around the house here and there -- not because they were huge things or got in the way, but because I'd promised I wouldn't leave any of my things out -- had in fact staked my relationship on it.

We had another discussion about it yesterday. He's very frustrated, and I understand why -- it's got to be exasparating, being with somebody who doesn't follow through one hundred percent. It's like I'm capable of following through ninety-five percent of the time, but I always let something slide. I understand and sympathize with his frustrations, but I hate what they do to the conversation -- the whole time he talks, I feel criticized, attacked and demeaned. I feel as though my self-esteem has taken a horrible blow because of all this (and conversations like this have been happening for a long time, not just in the last two weeks, which adds up to what feels like an endless amount of criticism). He says something negative about my ability to clean up/keep weight off/live like a normal human being, and I instantly find myself on the defensive, which just happens to be one of Brian's biggest pet peeves ever. I respond defensively -- not on purpose, but through a sort of knee-jerk reaction -- he flies off the handle, he starts telling me all the things I'm doing wrong, I start crying, he gets frustrated that I'm crying and storms off, etc, etc, etc. After the discussion yesterday that went much this way, we decided to stay together. That's how the conversations like this always go: we end up holding each other and whispering how much we love each other and how we both truly want to be together. "Just take care of your shit," he told me, "and I'll take care of mine. I won't be on your back all the time; I won't say anything or nag you. There won't be a warning, however, if you prove you can't keep all this up. If you slack off and I break up with you, don't be surprised." This, I reasoned, was not unreasonable. I was getting one more chance to prove how important our relationship is to me.

Late last night, I finished off a bottle of blueberry juice and was going to toss it in the recycling bin, but the bin was full. I rinsed the bottle and set it on the counter to take out with the bin and the rest of the trash this morning. Today, I woke up to Brian expressing his frustration at the fact that I'd left the juice bottle on the counter. That, to him, was not me doing my best -- and he doesn't want to be with me unless I'm doing my best.

I'm really trying not to make this all sound like he's some total asshole, because he's not. And if any of you had dealt with me the way I was several years ago, you'd understand his hesitation. I'm famous for doing a few things right and then dropping the ball, and he doesn't want to waste any more time on a relationship that's not going anywhere if I'm just eventually going to drop the ball again. I can't say I blame him for any of it.

Anyway, we had yet another tearful conversation about the juice bottle today, right before I went to work (these things always happen before I have to go to work, and I hate that). His premise was, once I'm consistently picking up after myself, he can overlook a juice bottle left out every so often, but that I haven't proven I can consistently pick up after myself yet, so he's scrutinizing every little detail. The conversation ended with apologies, hugs, and "I love you"s, but I don't even want to have conversations like that, period.

This all sounds so insane. If I was reading this without actually having been here for all of it, I'd think...I don't know what I'd think. It wouldn't make sense. It wouldn't seem like a big deal. Basically, here's the problem in a nutshell: I have such a history with Brian of fucking up that it's going to take a long, long time of not fucking up just to even things out. The problem with that is, I'm human, and I do fuck up from time to time, though not nearly as often or as horrifically as I once did. Every time I slip, though, and leave the proverbial juice bottle on the counter, Brian interprets that as proof that I am incapable of following through on anything and will never be a suitable girlfriend.

I fucking hate it. The logical thing, if this is making both of us so miserable, would be to break up. But even the thought of doing so feels horribly, horribly wrong. The six hours I spent after we briefly broke up a couple of weeks ago were awful -- all I could think about was how wrong the situation felt, how it was against every natural instinct in the world for us not to be together. I love him so much...I really don't think I even understood love until I fell in love with Brian. We've shared so much. And when things are good, they're phenomenal -- I have the best times of my life with him, and I couldn't ask for anything more. I don't want to give up; I feel it would be premature, and something I'd regret for the rest of my life. On the other hand, this situation is affecting my self-esteem and my emotional well-being. I don't know what to do.

And, if worse came to worse and we did break up...what would I do? Where would I go? I could stay in Chicago, but we have a one-bedroom apartment, so it's not like one of us could move out and the other could find a roommate. If I stayed there by myself, I couldn't afford the rent. I could go back to Colorado, but my savings have dwindled due to the seasonal restaurant slump that hits every January, and I don't have enough money set aside to rent a place out there or anything. I'd have to borrow money from my family, which is something I have refused to ever do again. I've shit on them way too much in the past to ever depend on them for help anymore, though they'd readily offer it. I could stay in Chicago, work, and save money, and then go to Colorado or California or wherever the hell I wanted to go, but I'd have to find a roommate or some kind of ultra-cheap housing, considering that the restaurant rush isn't going to pick up until late March or early April. All this is swimming in my head, and I just don't know what to do. I'm a confused, distracted, foggy mess, and I fucking hate it.

All I know is, I love Brian, and I want to spend the rest of my life with him.

That's all, folks. Thanks for listening.

It's so hard, trying to pick a spot that will be my home for the next five years. I want to go back to school, and I want to do it sooner rather than later, which means I can't keep jumping around like I have been. And once I'm in said semi-permanant location, I'll need to hang around for a year or two before I even start school to gain residency, taking some community college basics in the meantime to get a few credits out of the way.

It's been really fucking cold in Chicago, and Brian and I have decided that our next destination will not have this problem. We've spent weeks studying different areas of the country, and we've narrowed it down to a few places up and down the west coast. Our options are:

1. Portland, Oregon. We love how green everything is, the proximity to the mountains and the ocean, and the moderate climate. We're concerned, however, that it rains a bit too much.

2. Eugene, Oregon. It rains less here, and the ocean and mountains are about equidistant, but Portland is quite a trek from here, and Eugene itself is only about 140,000 people. We want to be able to get whatever we need where we live without having to drive for great lengths. We've heard, however, that Eugene has a liberal, laid-back vibe quite similar to that of Boulder.

3. San Francisco. It's a kick-ass city, and I've always wanted to live in a major city. There's tons of culture and tons of schools. Of course, we're concerned that it won't be quite warm enough -- it doesn't get cold, but it doesn't get hot, either, and we do like to have a summer. Brian also worries that there aren't mountains right nearby.

4. Somewhere north of San Francisco, in the wine country area. It's farther inland, which means summers would be warmer, but we'd still have access to the city. Both the ocean and the mountains would be quite a distance, however.

5. Somewhere south of San Francisco, such as Monterey, Carmel, San Luis Obispo, or Santa Barbara. Temperatures here would be great, but as far as I know, the climate is a bit drier, giving to less lush and scenic greenery and more boring brown desert. There aren't many mountains down this direction, either.

6. San Diego -- although I'm pretty sure we've ruled this one out, based on the fact that it's a desert, and neither of us want to live in an arid climate.

Does anyone have any input on the list? Personal experiences in or around any of these places? Other destinations to suggest? We want to be able to get to the mountains and the ocean within about an hour, have easy access to a good-sized city, be in a place where I can go to school, and have 50 to 60 degree winters and 70 to 80 degree summers.

I'm off to do more research!

Life has, in a way, returned to normal. Or, at the very least, semi-normal. I know it's been ages since I updated...I haven't had internet access in so very long. I was beginning to feel permanantly removed from the world in which I live.

I'll make a very, very, very long story shorter. Brian and I stayed in Colorado for a year, in a house outside Boulder. I got a job waiting tables at The Cheesecake Factory; once Brian's leg healed, he got a job serving in an upscale mediterranean restaurant. It was nice to be near my family again, and of course, we took advantage of our close proximity to the mountains every opportunity we got. Things were much better than they'd been in a very, very long time.

So guess where I am now? No one will believe me. I'm back in good ol' Illinois -- and let me tell you, I was mighty apprehensive about it, considering that my last experience living here turned into the biggest disaster of my entire life. But this time, we've gone about things much differently. First of all, we moved to a suburb of Chicago, surrounded by people and shops and entertainment and all kinds of things to do -- everything we need is just moments away. Second of all, we signed a lease on an apartment instead of a house, and we're paying much less rent than we did in the past. It's a nice apartment, too, full of amenities -- an in-unit laundry room, a wood burning fireplace, a 24-hour fitness center. Third, we're both working this time, as Brian's leg has healed marvelously -- and we're making more money than ever before. I've got a job serving in an upscale steakhouse, where two people eating a regular old dinner can spend WAY upwards of $100, and Brian is working in a seafood restaurant with about the same price point. I still can't believe how much money can be made working in fine dining. Every dinner shift I work, I make at least $100. On a good night, I'll make $200. Brian makes more than I do, as he's more experienced and has more tables in his section, and sometimes he makes close to $400 during one four-hour shift. It's incredible. For the first time in ages, we're not hurting for money, and it feels so fucking good.

Our relationship has had its ups and downs, but we've spent a lot of time working out certain issues, and things are better now than they've ever been. We have a social life again, too -- we can afford to go out and meet people now! I've had so much fun since we got settled in here; working in restaurants is a quick and easy way to meet a lot of awesome people.

Some parts of our life still feel a bit, well, ghetto. For example: we've been living in our apartment for a month and we still don't have any furniture except for our bed. But hey...at least we have a bed. And we're buying furniture in January -- BUYING it! No more taking hand-me-downs and charity, accepting whatever ratty old crap people had to donate simply because it was free! No, this time, we're picking out what we like...and I am thrilled.

Anyway, that's the super-abridged version...but suffice it to say that things are good. Very good indeed.

It's hard to realize that your parents, the people who raised you, the people who were responsible for your health and safety and emotional well-being during the first eighteen years of your existence, are sometimes so unintelligent. It sucks when you can start to see how they create their own problems, how they would be better off if they could just figure out a few things. It sucks when you've figured these things out, and not them. What are you supposed to say to enlighten them? Mom, Dad...you're fucking up??

It's hard to open Pandora's box. I'm talking about inner demons, the things that are so deep-seated, we don't even realize they're there. It's taken a lot of intensive meditation for me to even acknowledge the existence of some of these demons; it will take a lot more hard work to counteract them and make them disappear altogether. It sucks realizing that you're not who you thought you were. It's strange. You think: I've been alive twenty-two years, and in all that time, not once did I truly know myself. You think: how is it even possible not to know myself? Trust me, it's possible. Most people in the Western hemisphere, in fact, are afflicted with the same problem. Trouble is, every single one of us thinks we're just fine, thinks we know what's going on in our own heads. Guess again. It's sickening, what you can find out about yourself.

It's hard spending the night in my parents' house. It always brings about such inner turmoil, such intense emotion that I can't quite give a name to. I'm not sure why this is.

In short, life is hard. It's hard, but we get through it, because really, what choice do we have? "Our lives unfold only in moments" -- one of the wiser quotes I've heard. It's so true. All we have is this, right here, right now. The rest is past, future, all in our heads. It doesn't really exist. So all we can do is just stay with the present moment, completely experience it, and accept it for what it is. If we cease desiring change, we put an end to our own suffering.

I think this is more of a pep talk for myself than anything else.

I've got a vicious illness -- not sure quite what it is, but it's affecting my head, my chest, my stomach, my entire body. Even my brain feels vacant and fuzzy, and my thoughts swirl around unconnected in the vast empty space that used to contain valuable information. I called in to work this morning -- no problem there, as they've known I've been coming down with something -- and spent my day prostrate on the couch, attempting to read my current book but really only just seeing meaningless words swim around on the page before me.

Just before eleven o'clock I came to the startling realization that I was hearing voices in my head, and I was horrifically fascinated by them -- a man's gruff voice, a woman's inquiry, the shout of a child, all of them saying things that seemed completely random, not at all congruent with what I'd been thinking about at the time. For example, I was contemplating the relationship between religion and war and thinking that maybe we'd be better off if religion was never a factor to begin with -- and suddenly, there's a man's voice in my head, muttering, "Just shut the damn door, will you?" The woman is quieter, but a bit stern, as though she's annoyed with something. The child's voice, I can never quite make out what he's saying, it's just a general festive trill, the kind that reverberates from playgrounds across the globe.

So I was kind of freaking out about that for a while. I mean, here I am thinking I'm finally getting my shit together, getting to a place I'm happy to be in, and I suddenly begin having auditory hallucinations? Luckily, I managed to fall asleep again, and when I woke up I realized I must just be delirious, it must be this relentless sickness that's fucking me up in the head.

I kept trying to accomplish goals today, and I kept going nowhere with them. Chess, that's one of my goals -- to learn to play chess better, in order to improve all the skills that go along with it. But with my mind in such a muddled state, chess just didn't work out. Same with reading my book on zen and meditation -- more heavy material for a barely functioning brain. Not going to happen. So instead, I just remained horizontal on the couch, drinking lots of water (because I am a firm believer in its healing abilities), watching court TV, and becoming increasingly more appalled at the situations people try to squeeze money out of. Brian was at work, and I just felt unbalanced and off-kilter and lonely all day. Not the best time I've had in a while, that's for sure.

On the flip side, however, life in general is running along pretty smoothly. Once I'm healthy again, I'll not have much to complain about.

2006...Jesus fucking Christ. What a mess it was. What a mistake. So much of it was so horrible. Some nights, as I'm right on the brink of falling asleep, I shudder awake in sudden panic, having started to dream that I'm back in certain places and situations, feeling so vulnerable, so afraid. The relief when I discover I'm safe in my own bed in my own house in Colorado is still some of the sweetest I've ever felt.

And that is why, even though 2006 was definitely the worst year I've ever had (taking into account the homelessness, hunger, and extreme poverty, to name a few), I'm still glad for everything that transpired. Yes, it would have taken a lot of stress off Brian and I both if things had worked out differently. But luckily, I can see the value in serial disaster and cruel hardships. I'm happy with who I am now, and I most certainly was not before I actually had to deal with a few curve balls. If going through some shit is what it took for me to be somebody I'm truly proud of, then it was well worth it. I never thought I'd be able to say that I'm grateful for all the hard times, but I really am.

It's so nice to be able to feel like a strong person. Maybe I am now. I wasn't before, but now, I know what I can handle...and it's a lot more than I ever thought possible.

And, the way I see it, no matter what happens in 2007, it's bound to be better than last year. After all, when you've hit rock bottom, the only place left to go is up.