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Note to my mother who sometimes reads this blog: Please do not read this entry.

The roommate and I originally know each other via the Message Board of Note and thus ‘know’ a lot of the same people. To be fair, I know them a lot better than he does, given that I have close friends through the board. Given that my amazing friend just sent me a plane ticket.

The roommate didn’t know about me and OLB (I thought EVERYONE freaking knew about that since OLB quite publicly acted like a jerk and behind the scenes I whispered “Psst. Not only is he being obnoxious, but he also did this.” And then it occurs to me, that I guess I never told this story. (For the record, the women he obnoixously posted about were never me.)

For one, I cannot believe that was three years ago. And actually, most of it, FOUR years ago, since it was 2007 when that drive to Connecticut occurred, and it was Thanksigiving weekend of 2007 that I got dressed for a gathering somewhere, subconsciously knowing something was going to happen, even though I had no reason to think so.

I met OLB on a random drive to Connecticut, for a random gathering of libertarians, who had somehow all wound up on a random spin-off message board. We’d briefly met at a previous gathering, but I thought nothing of him. I guess those hours together in the car were important, because at Thanksgiving weekend that year there was another gathering in the city, and it was one of those nights where you know you look pretty(I had this lacy red tank top on, peaking out from my black sweater. Clearly, some part of me knew something was up even though I really, seriously Had No Idea) and you wonder if the boy next to you is actually sitting closer to you than he needs to be, or whether you’re just imagining it.

(I wasn’t imagining it)

He was smart and emotionally unavailable, so clearly I was hooked. Plus, I thought because he was older he’d be less inclined to play games. Ha. Ha. Ha.

OLB pulled me into his bed, but not his life. I was like his dirty little secret – the crazy girl he was secretly sleeping with. He took me out to dinner, but never out with his friends. The mornings after, he took me for breakfast, and for walks, and then he pushed me on the subway and basically said ‘Get out of my life’

One night a guy from Message Board of Note, from out of town, was visiting. The local contingency got together and drinking was involved. We were a few blocks from OLB’s apartment and a long subway ride away from mine, so I asked him if I could stay over and he said sure.

At the end of the night, it was me, OLB, and this other acquaintance of ours who totally knew what was up. He had known what was up at Thanksgiving – he’s not an idiot. We were all standing on a street corner on the Lower East Side, saying goodnight.

OLB pushed me away and pretended to be walking in a different direction. I was so blindsided/confused that I froze. The acquaintance saw what was up and offered to see me home safely. I was drunk (and now upset) and wound up going home with OLB anyway, where I yelled at him, called him out on what happened that night, and then later, ultimately cowered.

I’m stupid, but I’m not naive. I knew what was up. I had learned a lot of lessons from HWSNBN years earlier. (#1: Do not be with someone who won’t hold your hand in public. Literally and metaphorically) I already knew what it was like to be with someone who’s emotionally unavailable. Who will sleep with you but never tell you you’re pretty. Who will take note of the fact that you’re a headcase, point out your flaws, and later remind you that if you just hadn’t been so god damned melancholy, maybe things could have worked out. Who will constantly cancel on you at the last minute, because sticking to your plans would mean admitting to his friends that he’s seeing you.

I had a crush on HWSNBN long before he kissed me. We were sitting in my living room, and he said “You’re beautiful.” And then he kissed me and in those moments, my world was perfect. Later he told me “I don’t know what guy couldn’t fall into eyes like yours”

A total line, but he said it, I fell, and he still pushed me away. I wasn’t pretty enough or sane enough or together enough or smart enough or whatever enough.

And for all the tears over this, I let it happen and let myself continue to accept increasingly mixed signals, because hell, it was better than nothing. With HWSNBN it was because I’d crushed on him for so long and then he actually kissed me and we’d tease each other politically with “you feed my radicalism.”/”no YOU feed my radicalism”, and at 4 am we’d smoke Camel Lights on my front steps and it felt like Something. With OLB, well…I don’t have any idea. He kissed me, he brought me home, and he made me coffee. And a year later, at the same sort of meet-up, even though we hadn’t talked in months, he walked in and said “You look really nice.” And I proceeded to get black out drunk and go home with him, and engage in what David has since described as “Date-raping yourself”

Somewhere between all of that we made the trip to Chicago for the Message-Board-of-Note meetup. He made the 12 hour drive with me, shared a hotel room with me, and never acknowledged my presence in front of the others. So I coped by getting epically drunk (but behaving quite well. Ellie was driving and was thus stone cold sober and tells me I was fine. As do other people. OLB insisted I was a mess and instead of caring that I was a mess (at this point, I had admitted to him I had a total booze problem) he was just like ‘you’re an idiot and you embarrassed me). We were barely out of Chicago the next day when he blurted out “I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

I cried. He listed my flaws. I cried a fair amount of the 12 hours home.

The Thanksgiving relapse happened a few months later and ended with him screaming at me and shoving me on a street corner. And then spending the next few months on Message Board of Note, talking about his relationship drama. In public, he got away with it. In private, fellow MBON people flocked to my side, and as time went on and more stuff developed, more people were like “WTF?!?”

Don’t get me wrong, when this was all going on I was an actively alcoholic head case and no guy would/should have wanted me anyway. But OLB was such a jackass that people were still on my side. I like to think I took the high road – I never made it public, I never called him out on it. But David (x3), Timothy, Ben, Ellie, Ross, Alex, Ali, and hell, even Dru swooped in and said “Yeah. He’s being a jerk. You’re not crazy for thinking he’s being a jerk.”

And years later I am well over HWSNBN and OLB, thank god. I never thought I would be over HWSNBN because he devastated me more than anyone ever had. (“I am a cynic, you are a romantic, but you’re smart enough to be a cynic,” he told me. “And you are really romanticising this.” His dismissal of my alleged romanticism, and thus me was incredibly painful. Ages later, I wrote this. I was able to hold me head high, say ‘screw it’ to the boy I’d moved to New York for, and manage for those first 6 months when I lived in Jersey City and could basically see his building from the balcony.

I smoked the occasional Camel Light, but other than that, I was okay.

And I realize this babblefest has not even addressed The Ex, which is either worthy of a different entry altogether, or not worthy of one at all. Our relationship “changed me” because we were together 4+ years and they were formative years. Mostly though, we were too young. It’s our random friendship that was more damaging. That happened and in some ways I fell for him all over again. As far as I know, he’s in the middle of med school at Georgetown. Which means for a year, I lived no more than a mile from him. On my last day in Glover Park I was packing up some final things and was in a bad mood, and was all sweaty and gross, and thought, ‘watch me run into The Ex right now.’

I didn’t run into him. I haven’t seen him since a week after I broke up with him in 2004. But in the summer of 2006 we had a standing date to speak on the phone on Sunday nights, and texted all the time…and it was fucking ridiculous. And then he got a girlfriend. He tumbled into a relationship with this girl after a long conversation with me where he freaked out about his feelings and I advised. I was in Chicago, a newly minted UChicago student, and hundreds of miles away from everything that had made me happy. One night in October he called me and said tentatively “Oh…so…I have a girlfriend now.” I swallowed my tears (several times) and I smiled through them and told him how happy I was for him.

I loved him. I did love him. I did love him enough to want him to be happy. I do hope he’s happy.

In some way, he must have known it hurt me, because of the tentative tone of his voice on the phone, after several months of us being so close. I called a friend and burst into tears. She’d witnessed all my stupid texting and swooning and she knew I was being stupid. “He has to know that this hurts you,” she said.

It did, but it didn’t matter.

(“There’s one thing I have to say, so I’ll be brave. I know what I wanted. I gave what I gave. I’m not sorry I met you. I’m not sorry it’s over I’m not sorry there’s nothing to say.”)

The Ex is an Ex for a reason. For a lot of reasons. And it was fucked up when we were ‘friends.’ There is a little piece of my heart that will always, always love him (even though the feeling isn’t mutual. He totally hates me) and I’m completely okay with that now.

I have loved once (The Ex), THOUGHT I loved once again (HWSNBN), and once knew there was no way in hell I loved, but I was doing it anyway (OLB).

In between, I’ve had my share of perfectly nice dates with perfectly nice guys, none of whom pinged my interest.

The way to win my heart is to be emotionally unavailable. I’ll take the bait every time, and no, I never learn.

I really did not want to go into DC today for lunch. I was in my pajamas, under the covers, and I knew it was cold/rainy outside. So, I g-chatted David with “Please motivate me to get my ass out of the house  rather than cowering under the covers and crying.”

“Do it, or I’ll throttle you,” he replied. (And added “and if I have to drive to DC to kick you in the ass, I’ll be extra mean”)

I’m not quite sure why this helps, but it does. It’s been almost four years, and I can still go to David when I need someone to kick my ass and not let me get away with whimpering. He will not let me be a wuss, but he’s also always on my side.

****

A few days ago I was angsty. Totally, annoyingly, unattractively angsty, and telling Ellie all about it.

She sent me a plane ticket to visit her in December. I’m going to Minnesota in December.

“We love you very, very, very much,” her email read, “And we want only kindness and happiness for you.”

****

“You were right,” I said to Brent.

“I didn’t want to be told I was right. It’s just that I know how you are and I know why it was a stupid idea,” my best friend responded.

Well of course. He’s watched me be dumb about 87 times. I am ridiculously predictable.

He still answered the rest of my emails, and also helped push me to get out today.

****

And I act like I have faith, and like that faith never ends. But I really just have friends -Dar Williams

My brief foray into optimism ended when I didn’t really sleep on Wednesday night. I felt as if I’d been run over by a train for most of Thursday, didn’t eat because my stomach was in knots, and then didn’t sleep more than 20 minutes at a time last night.

It was probably appropriate that this invite for a meet-up with people with anxiety appeared in my inbox. I waffled about going, angrily changed my clothes 3-4 times (because I’d just look in the mirror and think I looked horrible in everything) Then I got the hell out of the house, lest I find more reasons not to go. I was early, of course, and I got out of the Dupont Circle metro stop on the wrong side and had to take a scary escalator, and then I couldn’t find the group, and I was going to just say fuck it and go home.

Somehow, I forced myself to stay at a bus stop, watching the clock on the bank. I decided if a bus didn’t come by 7:02, I would make one more attempt to go.

I was able to find the group and the people were nice and we discussed all sorts of crazy, anxiety issues, and while it didn’t make me feel less crazy, it made me feel less alone. Then, we were making small talk and discussing jobs, and this one guy was talking about some wacky-economics job, and a woman asks him “So you’re a Keyensian?” and he starts to say “…well no…” And I whipped my head around in like 2.5 seconds and said “Wait are you a Libertarian?”

He couldn’t even look at me like I’m crazy, because duh, we’re in the same Crazy Person Support Group. (yes, he’s a libertarian) Anyway, the group continued to talk, and I got quiet, and I don’t know how my train of thoughts led where they did, but all of a sudden I rudely interuppted the group with a full-scale, all out panic attack. My heart was pounding, I couldn’t breathe, I was shaking, and yeah, having a full scale nutty in front of these people I just met.

And then, the only thing I wanted to do was get out there, because I needed air. At that point, I couldn’t even remember how to get from Dupont Circle to my metro stop (which yes, involves a transfer, but its really fucking easy.)

So, two people who live an the end of the line in Alexandria walked me to the Metro (including walking the extra way to the Q Street Side so we could take the elevator). This one girl held my arm through the walk to the transfer at the crowded Galleria Place stop. I’d calmed down a little at this point, but it hit again and I collapsed on a seat. The guy sat down next to me, squeezed my hand, and just started asking me random questions, designed to distract me. At one point, I got a little hysterical about what I was panicking about, flew through a series of what-ifs, and they both just pointed out that our brains go to worst case scenarios that usually don’t exist. And they just distracted me with random conversation, and took my cell phone to put their numbers in it, because my hands were shaking too badly to do so.

By the time I got to my stop, I had calmed down some, but they got off the train with me to walk me home, even though it’d mean they’d have to get back to the station and wait for another train.

I took a Xanax so I could catch my breath.

I’m nowhere near 100% and I doubt I’ll be sleeping much tonight. But tonight, I am incredibly grateful for the kindness of strangers. And that the bus didn’t show up by 7:02.

Nearly 3am (“It’s 3am I must be lonely”). Can’t sleep (nothing new), sitting on the couch in a cardigan (my love for cardigans knows no bounds) and my undergarments, wondering how the hell I’m going to tame my hair tomorrow (today, really).

Yesterday was a bad day. Tears were involved. I cried over a 90210 episode (It involved Brandon and Kelly and The Ring. Shut up.) I sulked like hell and curled up on the couch.

I’m upset, but fuck this noise, I can do this. Take a deep breath, tilt my chin, raise my eyebrows and say I am not dumb or unworthy. I’m not giving up on DC just yet.

I woke up around 5:30 and couldn’t fall back asleep. This is ungood, given that I didn’t go to bed until around 1:00.

I am still not completely unpacked, because my bookcases really need to be anchored to the wall, otherwise I fear they’ll tip over. I also haven’t unpacked all my clothes because I need hangers, which I haven’t been able to find anywhere, and I don’t want to walk 3 miles to Target just for hangers. Yes, this is all very exciting.

I’ve also started to be social, sort of. I’m finding things to do via Meetup.com, and doing things like playing board games (a lot more fun that I expected) and tonight I’m going to a Trivia night. And last week I went to a Liberty on the Rocks event, which is basically networking for the libertarian leaning among us. I would have stayed longer but it was about 10,000 degrees in the place. However, I did wear this really pretty dress that I bought more than two years ago and never had the opportunity to wear. I looked quite put together, for once.

Anyway, so that was an update.

At this time last year, I had my last day at The-Job-That-Was, moved to DC, and started The-Job-That-Wasn’t 2.0.

It feels like yesterday that Keithers and I were sitting on the floor of our living room (we didn’t have furniture yet), eating delivery that we’d ordered using my iPad (we didn’t have internet yet).

I was always waiting for something to make me settle in. For my furniture to get delivered (so I could put away my clothes). For my bookcases to be put together. (so I could get those unsightly boxes of books out of the living room). For a dining room table, so I could sit down and eat a meal like a grown-up.

None of that made me settle into that apartment. And being a 20 minute bus ride from the Metro made me crawl further into myself, which, for an introvert is quite impressive. I would sometimes look at upcoming meet-up events, sometimes I would even half-heartedly RSVP, but I would always cancel. During the day The-Job-That-Was 2.0 just drained everything out of me (which wasn’t much).

In retrospect, maybe I shouldn’t have gone back to that apartment after getting out of rehab. Nothing good has happened within those walls.

This is what it feels like: A month ago, I quit my job, moved to DC, and started a new job. By two weeks ago I hated my new job. A week ago I got back from rehab, and now it’s time to start looking for a job.

This is what it looks like: I am unemployed with a stack of medical bills. I have boxes to unpack – I live in Virginia now. I think I gained back all the weight I lost. I have a scar right between my eyes.

I don’t have an articulate way to end this, so I’ll just default to my go-to song lyric about time going by at a ridiculous speed:

And I thought about years; how they take so long & they go so fast

You don’t write songs for DC. I lamented this, even while I searched for a job here.

There are tons of songs about New York, lest I mention the line from a New Jersey born man himself “If I can make it here, I can make it anywhere.”

I remember New York in early mornings and late evenings. I remember coffee before work, and then often, beer with co-workers afterwork. I listened to “Leaving New York” too many times to count.

DC is not a place that lends itself to songs. There’s maybe 3. And one of them is a song about visiting DC.

Still, I’m going to give DC another shot. I’m moving to Alexandria, true, but the officially in the city stigma is different here than in NYC, probably because DC is so tiny. I am moving to a place a block from the Metro, so I have no excuse to not get out.

Things I will miss about Glover Park:

1) My super awesome roommate

2) Having a car (maybe?)

3) The black squirrels. I HATE squirrels. There are not enough words to capture my hatred of squirrels. But the black squirrels are awesome

4) Delivery options galore.

5) The flight path. I still don’t know what airport it goes to, but a flight path goes right by my bedroom window.

Things I WILL NOT MISS

1) Being a 20 minute bus ride from a Metro stop

2) The D2 bus

3) Not being within walking distance of anything. My roommate, who’s from the Berkshires said he can walk to a store in freaking Cheshire, MA (the “trashy part” of the Berkshires) quicker than he can here. And I’ve been to his house there, it really feels like the middle of nowhere!

4) Leaking faucets, drains that won’t drain, and lack of lighting in the living room.

5) Navigating the steep hill from my car to front door, with grocery bags.

6) The idiotic apartment management. I highly do NOT recommend Bernstein Management.

7) The creepy trees

The creepy part of Rock Creek Park being right across the street. And the antler-rats who something wander out into the road

My Top 3 Memories of This Place:

1) Singing/dancing to Tom Petty’s “American Girl” our first night here

2) Sitting on the floor of the living room (because we didn’t have furniture yet) eating take out.

3) Making a trip to Target in Falls Church early in the morning, having not slept the night before, and yelling at my GPS on the way back. And then making Keithers unload the car because he hadn’t gone with me and I was cranky as hell.

My move to Alexandria is now definite. A block from the Metro. In-apartment washer/dryer. Plenty of space, so I’ll spend way less on storage than I thought I’d have to.

Now all I need is a job offer.

August 3, 2011

I am on a southbound train from Kingston, Rhode Island. It’s a seven hour ride to DC. My pseudo-cousin Adam will be keeping me company until we hit New York, but after 4 ½ straight days with me, he’s probably had enough.

There is so much going on, and so much I haven’t written about. At first, I thought I’d talk about the events leading up to this, but better to just be blunt: a few days before I left for vacation, I spent 4 ½ days in the hospital, detoxing. Relapse, as they say in AA, is not a requirement.

But it is a reality. Since getting out of rehab I have been more of an anxious, depressed mess than I’ve been in my whole life. We’re talking panic attacks in the shower, fear of leaving my apartment, and vague fantasies of stepping in front of a bus. I was waking up every morning with knots in my stomach and I’d lie there, sometimes for hours trying to make it go away. My doctor and I still hadn’t stumbled upon the perfect combination of medicines to keep me sane, and so I turned to what I knew would work.

Because vodka quiets my head and allows me to breathe. Of course, I wake up even more anxious the morning after, but in panicked moments when I can’t sit still for even 30 seconds, when my legs are shaking on the escalator out of the Metro, when I can’t finish a fucking job application, I don’t care.

While I was in the hospital, I also found out that my roommate was moving out at the end of the lease. We had previously planned to stay month to month through December. So of course, I freaked. I was hooked up to a heart monitor, and I watched my heart rate skyrocket on the screen.

So that happened. And there is nothing I can do but pick myself up and keep going.

The day I was admitted to ER (I went to Urgent Care that day for a completely unrelated injury sustained while drunk, which is another story, and I was clearly in the throes of alcohol withdrawal, so they sent me to ER) I had my iPad with me, so I was furiously emailing people, posting on Message-Board-of-Note, and reading stupid things on the internet to distract myself.

I offhandedly mentioned that when my iPad battery died I was going to be bored out of my mind.

Not only did I get a ton of well wishes from my Message-Board-of-Note friends, I got very pretty flowers from one of the guys in the DC area, and a visit from another guy who lives in NoVa. He brought me stuff to read and food that wasn’t hospital food. And he brought me a brand new iPad charger. And pajama pants. Which was pretty much the sweetest thing ever. My roommate also came by with my cell phone charger; he’s been really worried about me, and I feel terrible for putting him through so much stress.

My friend who visited me, also drove completely out of his way last Sunday to drive me the whole 7 minutes to my apartment. And then drove me to Safeway to drop off my new prescriptions and waited for me while they were filled when I could have easily walked home.

And I may have found a solution to my housing problem, even though it will mean a fortune in self-storage fees. I have a million things to do before the end of August, but having a project feels good. It’s helped me get back into the swing of applying for jobs, albeit very slowly.

So, a few days later I came back to Jersey, went to Trivia Night with Brent and Joe (and lost horribly, due to a Disney question), and then rode up to Rhode Island with the parents. No matter how old the pseudo-cousins and I get, we are still “the kids.” When we go out to eat there’s a kids side of the table. When there’s too many of us to fit around the dining room table, the kids eat outside, the adults eat inside. I spent tons of time at the beach (producing uneven burn lines), walked to Cumberland Farms, spent a morning at the Umbrella factory/visiting old Charlestown haunts, and ate a ton of delicious food. And laughed a lot with my pseudo cousins over memories of all our years in Rhode Island.

This train won’t hit DC until near 10:00 pm, so I’ll probably take a cab home and then collapse. This coming Saturday, a friend who I haven’t seen in about 15 years is coming into DC and we’re going to play tourist. I’m buying dinner for my friend who visited me in the hospital on Sunday. That is ridiculously social for me.

It’s probably sounds strange, but I feel better than I have in a long time. Way better than I felt when I got out of a rehab.

This won’t be posted until Thursday. Friday. By the time I get home, liquor stores in DC will be closed, so I’ll have made it another day. That’s 15  16 days. Gotta start somewhere.

Five years ago, it was the epic blackout in Astoria. I was actually on vacation the first few days of it. I’d heard rumors of no power, and then came home to an absolute blackout.

That was five years ago.

FIVE years ago. How the hell was that five years ago??? How the hell?

I’m hungry.

Lexapro made me absolutely bat out of hell crazy. Effezor is making me nauseated. Big problem when I have no appetite as it is and I’m freaking starving. I consider two bites of pasta a victory.

Medication management sucks, but it’s a reality when you have major depression and anxiety. And why am I writing this on the internet when in these days I have to worry about potential employers, etc finding my blog, right? I’ve been exceptionally lucky in the past that both the Job-That-Was would take me back and my former job in DC did say I could keep my job but the timeline didn’t work with my doctor. (When you go on Short Term Disability, your doctor has to sign off on it and then sign off on your return; with the timeline the employers gave me my doctor basically said ‘no way in hell’ and reminded me my health is way more important than any job).

Were I out for cancer, they’d probably have sent me flowers and took out a fund for me. Such. As. It. Is.

And I write about this because there is still such a stigma on mental health and alcoholism. Because if you’re reading this you know ME (and you probably know other head cases and alcoholics and don’t know it) and we are just people struggling to get through the day sometimes before we hit a point where we’re “normal”

I would not wish alcoholism on my worst enemy. And the insanity of anxiety that has followed I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t wish that on them on that either. (I don’t actually have a person in mind as ‘worst enemy.’ There was a guy who was a total jackass about the whole depression/drinking thing who behaved like a jackass in the months following. But if I DID have a worse enemy, I would never wish this on them. Because it fucking sucks and no one should ever experience it. Ever.) Would you wish cancer or AIDS or anything like that on someone? Probably not, and it’s the same damn thing. Disease. Deadly one. Kills you if left untreated and brings suffering to those around you.

So I babble about it online, because I am not the only one. And there is the off chance that someone is going to read about this and say, “oh yeah, me too.” Besides The-Job-That-Was, the internet was the other thing that saved my life. There was David, who just said “Okay, so let’s do something about this.” and since then there have been about a dozen people who only know me from this random, internet message board, and they want to help. How crazy is that? I know I’ve mentioned before about the time I had complained to an internet friend about having “only” 13 days of sobriety but he pointed out to me how many freaking hours that is, and yes I cried. Because when you’re getting sober, 13 days worth of hours is a LOT of hours.

I know amazing, wonderful, awesome people. I have no idea how I got this lucky. Every time I’ve screamed for help someone has been there to answer. Every. Time.

Does this mean I have to thank Al Gore for inventing the internet? Because my family (my dad & grandfather were total tech people) had internet way before Al Gore probably had internet).

I keep getting asked “But what do YOU want?” and having to answer with “I don’t know.”

What I want is my life in NYC pre grad school, to be the girl that warranted two good-bye parties before she went off to grad school.For a girl who didn’t make any friends in college, that was pretty damn awesome. Between the two parties, I had about 60 people who wanted to give me a hug before I left for Chicago.

My time in New York City before graduate school was the best time of my life. I was 23. I realize I can never be 23 again. In the mirror, I am 5 years older, my face is totally broken out due to all the toxins in alcohol, and half my jeans don’t  fit.

While in grad school, I used to watch any version of Law and Order  (because, it was practically a guarentee that one would be on) and see recognized landmarks in NYC, and I’d get so homesick. To quote L&O SVU “It’s so quiet here. Sometimes I get so homesick for New York that I hum the Mr. Softee song.”

I actually listened to REM’s “Leaving New York” and Tom Petty’s “Square One” about a billion times that summer before I left for Chicago. The former still makes me tear up. Leaving New York was something I’d call my biggest mistake, but how can I call it a mistake when I got an MA at University-of-fucking-Chicago, right? Still…I question.

But then I did go back to NYC after grad school and it was not the same in a million different ways

This is why I cannot go back to The-Job-That-Was, even though I’m in tears about how much I miss being Home.

When I moved back to NYC after grad school it was a disaster. Going back to The-Job-That-Was would probably feel similar.

And so on a day when I just can’t pull a job application together

I know that turning down the job was the right thing to do.

But I’m having a bad day and part of me is like “WTF was I thinking?” I should have taken the job that as offered to me, knowing I’d have basically the best co-workers and bosses in the universe.

It’s more of, I never should have left in September. If I’d just stayed on, just 6 or so more months, just been patient.I’d have found something in DC that was right instead of just taking the first thing that was offered. I’d have been safely ensconced in that job and that home.  God damnit. But you can’t go home again. And so I’m here. For better or worse.

But it’s a Saturday, and I’m trying to put together a god damned job application, and I just cried my eyes out over a god damned song that reminds me how happy I was in my stupid job in Jersey.

And for the record, I am sick of being asked if I am “over educated” for the job described. I am NOT over educated. I am educated in a completely unrelated discipline. So take a chance on a girl who has changed her mind on ‘what do you want to do with your life’ about 1000 times because I will kick ass and take names on your behalf. I am AWESOME.

Please just trust me. Please.

So I got offered a job this week. Actually, the job offer was for the job I’ve been begging to have back almost since I moved here. Yeah, I got offered The-Job-That-Was.

Last February, when it turned out my replacement was not working out and they hired someone else, I called my Ex-Boss and joked “How was I NOT your first call?”

So, this time, he called me first. This was Monday night. So I said I’d give very serious consideration to coming back. But, I did have a job interview on Tuesday and moving back to Jersey would be quite the logistical nightmare.

It’s one of the harder decisions I’ve had to make. I’ve said it a million times, The-Job-That-Was changed — and saved — my life. After the horrible Job-That-Wasn’t, after that awful 2008 summer, the Job-That-Was was one the first thing I felt good about in a long time. It gave me this confidence I didn’t know I could possess, from the most mundane tasks like putting together binders to the important, like helping to figure out this nightmare billing thing with an outside counsel firm. My Ex-Boss and I hit it off right away, and with my Ex-Coworkers, once I got over the fact that they were actually being nice and not out to screw with my head (which was a huge problem at The-Job-That-Wasn’t) we got along great too.

I know I view The-Job-That-Was through rose-colored glasses, and there were things I was unhappy with there. And I know I certainly didn’t like feeling trapped in Jersey, feeling like a loser because I was living with my parents, feeling stuck, like I couldn’t move on or do anything because I didn’t want to over-establish a life in Jersey.

The-Job-That-Was was a very good place for exactly two years of my life. I was trusted and treated very well. My Ex Boss knows I’m a recovering alcoholic and a head case, so this job offer was huge. Whenever I talk to my Ex-Coworkers around quarterly meeting times they tell me they miss me. Good for the ego, which given my current level of self-hate probably needs a boost.

And I gave it a LOT of thought. But ultimately, taking this job back was not the right decision for me. I am JUST finally beginning to establish a life for myself in DC. Everyday is still a struggle, but that’s what medication, therapy, and SMART/We Agnostics are for.

I am determined to make things work here. And history has shown that when I’m determined to do something, I go after it full force. That’s how I got to NYC and that’s how I got to DC. Things are kind of un-pretty right now but I think I can make them better. I will exhaust every avenue of hope before I give up on this DC project.

So I turned the Job-That-Was down. Which, believe me, is the last decision I ever imagined making.

I love the internet because when I bitch about my unemployment I get messages from people who I’ve mostly never met telling me I do indeed have a safety net. Not that I don’t already have a safety net, because I know I could always, always go home to Jersey. But there is something crazy comforting about crazy people from all the way across the country, who have never met you and simply want you to be okay.

It’s weird. A few weeks ago, Mitch Albom published this article about a random guy who died in Michigan. He wasn’t unknown. He’s a guy I know from Message Board of Note. And without this article, I doubt we’d ever known. We knew he was sick, and he had said he’d let us known when it became Too Much, but it never came to that. We were all kind of shook up about it because the circumstances were Not Good. He was apparently homeless, died of lung cancer, and may or may not have had addiction issues. But what I heard over and over from people at Message Board of Note was ‘I wish we could have done something.’

Our contingent is very small. We are libertarians (already a small group) who are a break out group of libertarians because Hit and Run got too annoying for most of us. For me, I very rarely posted on H&R and by all rights should have never known about Message Board of Note. But I did. There’s about 50 of us who are active members. I’m barely an active member, but I’m a girl, and chick libertarians are easy to pull out of a crowd. It’s easy to pick me out anyway. I’m the brunette Jew who also has the drinking problem.

I’m the brunette Jewish girl who also has the drinking problem who has a few dozen random people on the internet who she has mostly never met in real life who would answer a phone call or email or text or facebook message. Although, come to think of it, I have met more of them than one would think, for a girl who has a low post count. And if any of them were to call out of the blue and say “Hi, I’m in DC and…” I’d help in a second.

My hair is usually a mess and my clothes are probably out of style and I’m 28 years old, out of work and careerless. But I can speed dial some guy I know from the internet, because he gives a damn about my state of mind. And considering how far off our area codes are from matching that’s pretty damn amazing.

So, thank you Internet.

This morning I sat frozen on my couch for three hours straight to work on ONE job application. Much of this was because my precious Mac possesses only a bootleg copy of Office (yes, I know I have to get myself Open Office) and I can’t convert Word to pdf. So, I was doing my resume in Google docs and than downloading it as a pdf and…formating FAIL. So frustrating.

There’s a few bloggers like Kim, Magnolia, eemusings, Carolyn and Jess who I actually used to keep up with and comment to. Just in case you didn’t know it, I think all you girls are awesome. Since being back, I’ve skimmed blog entries I’ve missed and thought of dozens of things I should write in response. I haven’t, but I have been thinking about you.

(Yes, Charlotte, you’re just special)

I have managed to deep clean my apartment. (I adore my roommate, and I’m not the neatest person myself, but the place was definitely a mess when I returned from six weeks away) And…I finished unpacking. Like, unpacking from the move unpacking. Yes, I realize I’ve lived here since September.

And when you’re unemployed, you can do things like meet a friend at B&N in the middle of the day or watch 90210 as you’re waking up and planning your day.  And you can experiment with cooking.

So I’m accomplishing things. Very slowly. It’d help my sanity a lot if I knew whether my unemployment would be approved, but I’ve been okay. I promise I’ll get more in touch with the world I left as much as I can. But probably, slowly.

(And though, I write it everyday. It isn’t black and white, but it’s everything but gray)

Almost two months ago, my hands were shaking so bad that I could barely dial my parents phone number.

I was so sick and so scared and so I just gave in. My mom asked me if I wanted them (my parents) to come down to DC and I when I said “yes” I realized it was exactly what I had to do. (Because yes, even when you are nearly 28 years old your parents are still your parents and yes I have the very best parents MOM, because I know you occasionally troll by this)

My hands continued to shake that bad. My parents did get down here, and I did get into ER but I couldn’t fill out my own admin paperwork. Days later, when I was trying to turn down one of the prescribed drugs, the nurse in the psych ward said I was still shaking. And then, my counselor at rehab (who is herself a long recovering alcoholic, and a former maintenance drinker, like I was) pinged me in about two seconds. I cried most of my first day in rehab. My poor parents did not really know what to do with me, especially since in the whole process of getting from the psych ward to the rehab I behaved like a complete baby. Yeah, on one hand I’m the most responsible alcoholic on the planet, because I looked up what rehabs my insurance would pay for long ago. But when I found out I had to go straight from the hospital to the rehab I freaked out.

Because I had, you know, normal adult things to do. Like pay my bills. Do you know what’s really not fun? Having to give all your login/password information to your father. Do you know what makes you really grateful? Having a parent who handles things for you. And lets not even go into the phone calls my dad made on my behalf with work and stuff. Let’s not talk about work in general. Remember, I used to work for an employment lawyer. So because I’m the most responsible alcoholic on the planet, I was extremely well informed about how companies can handle people like me. And what was especially funny is that at my now most recently former company, I was the one in charge of handling people like me. So they really, really did not know what had to be done with me.

Oh, and speaking of the weird time span, I got to inform almost no one I was giving up and getting my ass in rehab. I got to a few people before my parents got down to DC. Then, they snuck my cell phone into the psych ward and I got to a few more people. I didn’t do a good enough job.

But anyway, there I was in rehab, and yeah I freaked out the first couple days. I cried and I couldn’t help it; it was so annoying because I cried out of nowhere in front of the other girls.

Rehab for me was probably not what people traditionally go to rehab to do. I didn’t go in thinking I’d learn something new or get some new way of living out of the program. The rehab I went to, like almost all are, was very 12 step focused. They hauled us out every night to AA/NA meetings, organizations which I generally view as quite harmful.

I went to rehab because I desperately needed a jump start. I needed to be physically removed from my living environment. Because I was literally killing myself. Trust me. I was killing myself. I drank a bottle of vodka a day just to maintain. Every single morning I would wonder how the hell I was going to get through the day. That was my life, and it sucked, and yet I was too scared to just give in and do something about it.

So I took myself to the point where I didn’t have a choice anymore. I got into ER on a Sunday and there was no way I was capable of going into work on Monday.

I’ve only been back in DC about a week and a half and I don’t know exactly what I’m doing. But so far I’m forming a lot more semblance of a life than I ever had/attempted. I made a really good friend at rehab who kept me sane in that crazy house and who just understands me so well (she is also an alcoholic. While in rehab all addictions are treated equally, I strongly believe that there is something slightly, but fundamentally different between drug addicts and alcoholics. It may just be because our drug of choice is legal and thus the intensity is lessened. I don’t know.) I also met a girl in the psych ward; she’s not an addict, but she’s “C-R-A-Z-Y”  and we have so much to talk about.

It’s not alright but I’m okay. I’m still unemployed. And I still worry on a daily basis what people think of me. See, I really am CRAZY, because the people in my life have shown me nothing but love and support. I just want to be more than crazy and a drunk. So it kind of sucks right now because I’m trying to find a job and the reason I have to be looking for a job in the first place is because I’m crazy and a drunk.

But that’s that. That’s my story for the past two months.

Out of nowhere today, I remembered a comment that HWSNBN made to me once. It was December 2004 and I was high on life. “You know, things between us could have been quite different if you hadn’t been so melancholy last year,”  he said. (He was really, really good at breaking my heart)

What he meant, for those who have not been following my blogging for the EIGHT years it’s been around (I missed my blogging anniversary because I was drunk) was that I was weak because I couldn’t just ‘snap out of it’ when I was depressed and therefore was not together enough for him. And since my self-esteem wasn’t in very good shape, I spent a lot of time in the next few years trying to show how ‘together’ I was. Which is especially screwy considering HWSNBN wasn’t/isn’t even in my life.

I guess I thought of this because of something I heard at a SMART recovery meeting last week. SMART is very different from AA. In AA, you are defined by your alcoholism. In SMART your addiction is a problem but the philosophy is that we get better. That’s what someone said on Tuesday; we get better. (Coincidence to one of my favorite West Wing episodes?)

It gives me hope, because it reminds me I got better. More importantly, it reminds me I am NOT my alcoholism. The comment from HWSNBN was probably one of the most damaging things anyone has ever said to me, because he made me believe that I was my Depression. That that’s what defined me, and that no one could ever want to be with such a mess. I spent the next few years squashing down Depression, hiding it, believing that it made me deserving of shame. And then I spent a few years after that overcompensating for it; I wore my Crazy as a mask of sorts. I put it on full display and challenged the viewer to make something of it. I know I did that with OLB.

I truly believed that while Depression was real, I was only allowed a certain amount of help. I so strongly believed that my will was enough. I even expressed envy for those who were sicker than me, the people who could fall apart completely and get put back together, because I was too scared to fall apart.

So I quietly held it together. I think, to a degree, I’ve done the same with alcohol. Part of me just still hated myself too much for not being able to snap out of it. Because being a drunk is still a stigma. People understand, they do (and as I’ve mentioned many times, the people in my life are amazing. EVERYONE has been so supportive and wonderful and has just wanted to help) but there is that part of me that thinks they’re just humoring me and they think I’m weak and worthless and not worth knowing.

I was sober for 18 months. I worked so hard to get myself to DC. And even before that, I worked to get myself to my job through 8.5 months of no license, I worked at that attempt for the Libertarian Fellowship, I worked at being the best damn glorified secretary ever. How could I do all that and still not manage to keep myself together down here? I’ve been so ANGRY at myself, and I’m just seeing now how being angry just buys into the mistaken idea that I am my drinking. And I am NOT my drinking.

Yeah, I’m an alcoholic. I’m also pretty smart and can probably beat you in Trivial Pursuit. I don’t follow sports but I love cheesy sports movies, like Miracle and Angels in the Outfield. (Both will make me cry) I’m a libertarian and I’d love to tell you why libertarians are the awesomest political party on the planet. I’m a Jewish-Atheist. I can’t walk in heels and since I’m kind of a zaftig I don’t dig the skinny-jeans trend but I can look pretty cute in boot cut jeans. I know the lyrics to every Billy Joel song and I also like country music. I have pretentious degrees that I’ve never used. I still have no idea what I’m going to be when I grow up.

I am NOT my Depression. I am NOT my alcoholism.

Once upon a time, I was ‘stuck’ in Jersey with a ‘going nowhere’ job. I’d sell my my soul to have that life back, but hindsight is 20/20.

My Plan B to the ‘getting a job in DC’ meme was to work at said job through Feburary 2011, and then quit and just move to DC with no potential prospects.

If I’d done that, I’d have 6 months more of savings and perhaps would not have winded up in the perdicament of having the beast that is addiction creep up on me. I am only subscribing to the philosophy that everyting happens for a reason, because if I don’t I’ll get to angry at myself.

I would still give anything to have stuck to Plan B. But I didn’t. So now I’m back in DC, and it’s time to get a life. A life that is not just a job and a life that acknowledges but passes by the imperfections that make me, me.

I’m an anxious girl who bites her nails down to nothing. I fidget. I push my hair back behind my ears. I bite my lip.

Let’s make it clear: I fucked up. I’m a smart girl, capable of given the job(s) that were assigned to me. I didn’t (couldn’t?) do them.

My own head cases got in the way. For the record, it is not very intelligent to move to a new city, and start a new job (especially when a nagging voice in your head tells you not to take said job) and ignore that you still need all the avenues that got you healthy enough to even consider a job in a new city.

I spent a lot of time – a lot of wasted time – using defense mechanisms about Depression. I remember writing, years ago, one particularly intense (but never published) post about how I am NOT my Depression. Because at the time, I was such a mess, and I just wanted the guy I was stupidly involved with to realize that I was not C-R-A-Z-Y.

So here I am.

I wish I’d stuck with my old job in Jersey, but I didn’t so I have to get myself into the mindset (“take that word out in back and shoot it” -one of my favorite college professors) that this happened for a reason.