My mother doesn’t know.

I tell my mother almost everything. It’s a proactive stance I decided to take a few years ago, and my sister’s taken the approach to heart as well.

My mother is going to ask anyway, so we might as well be on the offensive, letting her in on what’s going on in our lives. It prevents us from hearing too much nagging and keeps her from trying to find out information through other sources (like reading text messages or e-mails… which is something my sister and I do to her).

Time has taught me that there is a limit to the amount you can tell someone though. Letting someone know too much can be almost as damaging as not telling them anything. And you know the old adage – what someone doesn’t know can’t hurt them. And in an attempt to save my mother from unnecessary heartache, here are the things that I have deliberately chosen not to tell her:

1. That bag of frozen shrimp that she casually left in my freezer when I moved into my apartment? The next time I went home, I took the bag of shrimp with me, and put it back into her freezer.
2. Oh, and the bag of tilapia filets that accompanied the bag of shrimp? I cooked a grand total of two filets, and most of what I cooked I ended up feeding the cat, saving a few bites for myself. The other filets were thrown in the trash when my roommate and I cleaned out the freezer a few weeks ago to make room for all the frozen food she had recently purchased.
3. I leave my office at 4:30 each afternoon, but I don’t get back to my apartment until after 6:30. No, I don’t have the commute from hell and I’m not going to happy hours. I make a stop at the gym in the basement of the office building every day. Oftentimes I work out on the elliptical next to the company president.
4. I could go to happy hours if I wanted to. At least once every two weeks there is an office happy hour, and I have yet to attend. People ask me why I don’t go. I don’t have a good answer.
5. Every weekend I go to Whole Foods and usually I talk to my mom on the phone while I’m there, just hanging out. She loves the notion of me willingly going to a place that has food. What she doesn’t know is that I have walked there from my apartment. It takes me over an hour each way. And the free samples that I get are often my lunch. Sometimes I walk to Trader Joe’s too. That’s even further.
6. When summer rolls around, for the third year in a row, I will not be making an appearance in a swimming suit. This is not only because I think I look fat, but also because I do not want anyone to see the scars on my thighs from self-inflicted wounds.
7. I am petrified of being overweight like everyone else in my family. My mother has been overweight for as long as I can remember. One of the few things my grandmother talks about is the latest diet she’s been on, or the one that she recently stopped. I can even tell that my sister is slowly gaining weight. She still looks great, but she is definitely curvier. And all of that scares me, because I feel like I have no control over my body.
8. I have no intention of starting therapy again. My mother has sent me list of area providers – a gentle nudge, she calls it – and I have neglected to do anything about it. You could find someone near the office, you could go during lunch or after work, she tells me. But adding that extra hour would mess up the whole routine – getting out of the office, working out, riding the metro home, eating dinner, ironing my clothes and packing my lunch for the next day, eating my snack, and going to bed, all by 9:30.
9. The reason my Zoloft prescription has lasted so long is because I am not taking it every day. I take it every other day. Sometimes I forget and three or four days pass before I take it. It is not until I end up curled up in a ball on the floor, crying and wishing that my life had turned out differently, that I pop another pill.
10. I miss my mother terribly. As much as I like living on my own, free from the chaos and disorganization of her house and her constant “nudges” about my eating habits, I miss her.

the moral quandary.

The escalator to the metro wasn’t working yesterday. No surprise there. The down escalator always works when I am heading above ground in the morning, and magically stops operating by the time I return to head below ground in the afternoon. As everyone bunched together to walk down the escalator-turned-staircase, two young African American men caught my attention. I don’t know why I mention their race – it shouldn’t matter – but for the sake of telling you what I saw, I include it.

They didn’t draw my attention because they were black. No, I was distracted by the lit cigarette in one of the guy’s hands. It seemed vaguely inappropriate to be heading underground in a mob of people with something that has the potential to burn a hole in someone’s coat sleeve. As they continued moving towards the escalator, with the distinct swagger of young, confident men, the cigarette fell to the ground, stomped out by the feet of tired commuters. I plodded along, NPR streaming out of my iPod, focusing on not falling down the escalator steps.

The men were a few steps ahead of me, and I watched as they weaved their way through the crowd, joking and laughing. And then I saw it – one of them subtly reaching into a woman’s handbag. She was oblivious to their presence, her unzipped bag slung over her shoulder, a prime target for a mugging.

Just as quickly as his hand disappeared into the bag, it reappeared again – empty. My focus shifted away from carefully descending the stairs to staring, laser-like, at the two men. I stared at them, and watched as they continued to joke around. Silently, I was scolding them, and hoped that I was sending them a strong psychic message to cut it out. Maybe if they knew that I knew, they would cut it out.

A few more steps, and his hand again made a move to the woman’s bag. The move was so slick, it made my stomach turn – how many times had someone made a similar grab at my bag, and I had not noticed? Just out of reach, he came up empty-handed.

We neared the end of the escalator-stairs and he made one final attempt to capture whatever was in that bag. I’m not sure what he was after – did he see a wallet? A smart phone? He must have gotten too close to the woman, because she turned slightly and brought her bag closer to her chest.

I continued on my way, passing through the metro gates, and onto the platform, where I waited anxiously for my train.

What had I just seen?

What should I have done?

I like to think that, had I seen the guy actually take something out of the woman’s bag, I would have done something, but who knows?

I want to say with certainty that I would have yelled out, “Hey! Stop it!” but I cannot guarantee it. These two guys didn’t look like the kind that would have pulled a gun and shot me if I had said something, but who’s to say?

What if I had yelled at them and they decided to get back at me?

What if they had decided to harass me?

What if they got on my train and rode it to my stop?

What if they waited until I was walking home, by myself, and then decided to seek revenge?

I am but a young white girl (and a particularly fragile one given my insufficient weight and decreased bone density). Two grown men would easily overpower me.

Maybe none of this would have happened. Maybe something worse would have happened.

Nothing was actually stolen, I remind myself. What I saw was an attempted pick pocketing.

But what if the guy had succeeded?

Then what would I have done?

What would you have done?

options.

I may or may not have mentioned this, but I have reapplied to graduate school. Yes, after last year’s series of rejections, I have forked over hundreds of dollars for the opportunity to have graduate admissions committees decide my future. Now, as I wait for their responses, the question becomes:

What do I do if I don’t get in?

What happens if I face another round of  rejections?

Where do I go after getting a stack of thin letters?

The way I see it, I have a few options:

1. Join a convent. I’ve talked about it before. I’ve actually toyed with the idea since middle school. But maybe this will be the year it actually happens. Before I entered college, I told myself, if I graduate without ever having a boyfriend, without ever having been kissed, then I’m signing myself up for the nunnery. Well, my college graduation has since passed, and I still remain the most virginal of virgins. But my lack of intimate relationships is not what drives this latest contemplation of life in a nunnery. I can think of far worse situations than devoting one’s life to God. And maybe it is what God wants. Maybe He’s trying to tell me that I am not meant for academia (though I pray that this isn’t the case).

I think I could do it though. I think I could be a nun. I like waking up early, I have an affinity for prayer, and I know a fair deal about Catholicism (and wouldn’t mind devoting significant amounts of time to learning more). I wouldn’t want to have to ask people for money though. No, I couldn’t be like one of those nuns that stands in front of a congregation and makes the sales pitch about why they rely on everyone’s generosity. I could be a teaching nun though. I think I would be pretty awesome at that. Which leads me to my second option…

2. Teach. Admittedly, this option hasn’t been well thought out (actually, neither has option 1, but that is neither here nor there). Would I apply to Teach America and similar programs? Would I go back to school to get my teaching licensure? Would I begin by substituting? Who knows, but the point is, I want to teach (hence why I want so badly to go graduate school, so I can teach on the college-level). I like being in the classroom. I really do not like sitting at a desk all day. 

How do people do it? How do so many people spend years in an office, sedentary for 8 hours a day?

I suppose most people don’t fight a compulsive need to burn calories like I do. And they probably aren’t as easily bored as I am. But regardless, I would enjoy being a teacher – my little adventure into teaching CCD has shown me as much. I like the constant movement, the peppering of questions by students and the on-the-spot thinking that all my teachers seemed to possess. I’m good at thinking on my feet. And my mind moves too quickly to not constantly be challenged.

(Or am I giving myself too much credit? I can’t be that bright, or I would have accomplished something in my life. In fact, if I was as smart as I make myself out to be, I would be in grad school right now, instead of questioning my next step.)

3. Option number three is the least desirable. It entails staying at my current job (which is really not bad at all – I don’t want to come across as ungrateful, because this should be exactly the job I would want), and continuing down the same self-destructive path that I’ve been following for the past six months. (Has it really been that long?)

If I’m being totally honest, I don’t know how much longer I can take it. Physically, more than anything. Right now I feel as though I’m plugging along for the sole purpose of being strong enough to start grad school in the fall, but if I don’t get in, then what’s the point?

Why fuel a body that’s going nowhere?

I am convinced that should I not get into graduate school, my appetite will completely disappear. An appetite not just for food, but for life in general. I imagine it as just letting go, just slipping away. Just as the sun fades and gives way to darkness, just as when you fall asleep and drift off into dreamland, I imagine I will just … go.

I don’t water the dead tomato plant on the balcony (which reminds me, I really should get rid of that thing). What would be the point, since it no longer bears fruit? So why should I continue feeding a worthless body?

Shiver.

It was cold today, the coldest day of the season thus far. The weather people were predicting it wouldn’t get much above the freezing mark, which I realize is nothing for some, but for us in Washington, D.C., perpetually warmed by all the hot air coming from the politicians, it’s a little shocking to the system. And even more shocking when your system is being systematically stripped of all its body fat.

So when my mother called me at 7:45 this morning, I assumed she just wanted to make sure that I wasn’t frozen solid at the metro station.

What cha doing? She asked cheerily.

I’m… at work. I had just sent off my first email of the day and was composing my second.

Come downstairs, I have something for you. I’m three blocks away.

Immediately I thought, “Hot chocolate!” Because food is all I think about. Food is the only gift I want, yet it is the one I fear receiving most (except for new clothes, which undoubtedly do not fit me at the time of receipt or soon enough will not). My roommate gave me two bags of Lindor truffles for Christmas; one part of me–the chocolate-loving part–was ecstatic. The other part, the food-hating part, groaned.

Okay, I’ll be right down.

I saw her pull up across the street, and ran across the street, because I have a penchant for jaywalking. (There are many days when I wish I would get hit by a car. Not enough to kill me, just enough to force me to stop for a moment. But that sick wish calls for a separate post.)

My mom got out of the car and headed to her trunk. No hot chocolate today. Instead, she pulled out a plastic K-mart bag. Inside, a space heater.

I know you must be freezing.

I tried to smile to hide my disappointment. I wouldn’t take the bag. Mom, no. I don’t want it.

I drove all the way into the city to bring this to you. How cold is it in your office? My complaining about the temperature in my office had become a regular occurrence. I couldn’t figure out though, if it was genuinely chilly, or a result of the eating disorder.

Mom, no, I can’t take it. I don’t want it. They won’t let me. I concluded, deciding it was better to blame some obscure office administrator than to admit my own shame. Plus, I was genuinely worried that I might be breaking some obscure office policy. Space heaters can be a fire hazard, right? And they’re a huge waste of electricity.

Did you bring a blanket? She had suggested the blanket more than once. I couldn’t imagine curled up under a fleece blanket in my office though. My office is pretty casual, but even that was pushing it.

It’s not that bad today. I have a sweater. I’m better prepared. Which is true. I wore one of my warmest sweaters today, and I now keep a big, wool-ish sweater hanging on the back of my door.

She reached for my pant leg, and felt the material to determine if it would keep me sufficiently warm. Apparently satisfied, she put the heater back in the trunk. I gave her a hug, told her I loved her, and we parted ways.

I was back in my office before the screen saver on my computer had turned on.

About an hour later I got an e-mail from her, asking that I rethink the heater. It was unproductive for me to sit at my desk shivering, she argued. If it was allowed, she would bring it back on her way home.

I responded, rather tersely, that I did not want the heater. If I had a nickel for every time I was cold, I wouldn’t even need to work, I’d be so rich.

Though, to be honest, it would be nice to be warm for once.

If… then…

Happy 2012 everyone! I know I didn’t post for the greater portion of 2011, but it’s a new year, so let’s start it out right.

Maybe this will be my new year’s resolution–start blogging regularly again?

Nope, probably not. This is why I don’t make new year’s resolutions. Why set yourself up for failure?

So, where do I stand at the beginning of 2012?

On a treadmill (or more likely, on the pedal of an elliptical).

Or in front of my kitchen cabinet, mentally tabulating the calories of every morsel of food I’ve placed in my mouth in the past 24 hours.

Or in front of my bathroom mirror, looking at my profile, and the seemingly ever-expanding abdomen that I wish would just disappear.

Yeah, it’s not been going so hot.

I am not proud of where I am. Yet, I keep rationalizing my behavior. My whole life has become series of If, then statements.

There are the classic ED-statements:

If I lose a few more pounds, then I will feel better about myself.

If I eat a smaller breakfast, then I will let myself eat more at lunch.

If I stay on the treadmill/elliptical a few more minutes, then I will be able to eat more without feeling so fat.

If I beat everyone else in this “eating game”, then the rest of my life will fall into place.

If I can just figure out a way to stay away from peanut butter, then I will have conquered my lack of self-control.

And then there are the more specific scenarios running through my head:

If I get into graduate school, then I can start eating “normally” again.

If I get into graduate school, then I can cut down on the number of times I visit the gym.

If I get into graduate school, then I won’t feel so trapped.

If I get into graduate school, then I will want to live again.

But…

If I don’t get into graduate school, then what?

I don’t think I can take another year of working. I should be thanking my lucky stars that I have a job–and even more thankful that the job is in my field of study, pays well, and surrounds me with intelligent, thoughtful coworkers. And I am, truly. But every day at my desk I wonder how much more of this I can take before I go completely crazy, before I break down because of boredom, a lack of motivation and an increasing need to run away.

I don’t think my body can take another year of this abuse. Without saying anything that will be too triggering, I am close to where I was when I entered in-patient treatment. My mother is getting on my case even more than usual. My doctor has suggested counseling, and wants blood work done. And my body is tired and slowing down.

What will the next year bring? I want it to bring peace of mind and a sense of stability. I hope 2012 brings you everything you wish for.

the day before.

I’m too tired to write a proper post. (It may have to do with forcing myself to walk 10 miles today as a punishment for eating a bowl of cereal, but I don’t want to get into it.)

I do, however, want to share something that I heard on NPR and shook me to my core: The Day Before America Was Interrupted. It’s a piece about what people were doing ten years ago today, September 10, 2001. I don’t remember what I was doing; I only remember what happened the next day. But I’m sure whatever I was doing, whatever I was thinking, was unremarkable. If anything, I was thinking about my parent’s separation, which happened about six months earlier. I was thinking about my algebra homework or band practice. I was thinking about the crush I had on an older–which I mistook as meaning more mature–eighth grade boy. I am positive that I was not contemplating worldly issues, that I was not worried about my safety or the future of the United States of America.

So I encourage you to listen to this story. It’s amazing to consider how quickly things changed for all of us.

unsatisfied.

tourist.

On Friday everyone was super pumped about the three-day weekend, and I was dreading it. I can barely keep myself together for two days off of my normal routine–how was I going to handle three?

Solution: Play tourist for the day in D.C.

The great thing about being a tourist in D.C. is that you can do a lot of the fun stuff for free, which is about the only way I will do anything outside of my apartment. So off I went on the Metro–well, first I had to take a shuttle bus because my usual Metro station was closed for scheduled track maintenance, but after that hiccup I hopped aboard and rode my way into the district.

My first stop was the new MLK Memorial. The grand unveiling was supposed to be last Sunday, but it got rained out (thanks for nothing, Irene). And I had planned on going to the dedication with tens of thousands of my closest friends, because I get a kick out of these huge events, especially when they center around prominent African American people. (Kidding, but not really. The last time I was in such a huge crowd was for the Obama inauguration. But I would have loved to have gone to Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert’s Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear.) There were still plenty of people around though, from older folks admiring the monument to young families chasing after their children as they attempted to take a swim in the Tidal Basin.

So without further commentary from me, here are my (mediocre) photos of the newest of the marble monuments:

If you haven’t heard, there’s been a lot of controversy over this statue, with critics saying that it makes King look angry. My first question to these critics would be, How do you want him to look? With a big smile on his face, jumping up in the air and clicking his heels together? Let’s not forget that these were not happy-go-lucky times. He was confronting serious challenges, and if anything, I think he looks determined. In my humble opinion, he is thinking deeply about the obstacles that lie ahead.

There are a lot of great quotations in the memorial. A lot of them are about peace, which I, as a self-proclaimed pacifist, just love. But this one strikes me the most, because it appeals to me on a personal level. The full quotation, from King’s “I Have a Dream” speech, reads:

With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope.

I need to remember that. To hold on to my faith means that there will always be hope. Even in my darkest days, when I want to give in to the depression, the anxiety, the eating disorder, I need to hold on to that stone of hope. In the mountain of despair that I feel when I am overwhelmed with a sense of failure, worthlessness, and paralyzing loneliness, there is a stone of hope. Maybe it’s just a pebble, but it’s still there.

Okay, enough of that inspirational stuff. I’ll keep that in my back pocket when I need it.

After I finished up with the memorial, I headed over to the American history museum, where, coincidentally, they have an awesome civil rights exhibition entitled “For all the World to See: Visual Culture and the Struggle for Civil Rights”. Well, I thought it was pretty cool. I don’t have any photos (because photography is not allowed in the special exhibits) but you can check out the online exhibit if you feel so inclined. It showed the progression of how the media portrayed African Americans through the Civil Rights era, including coverage of the bus boycotts and the March on Washington.

I like to think that if I were in D.C. 50 years ago, I would’ve been at the march. You know, because I like big crowds going to see prominent African Americans. Kidding. Again.

The American History museum is always one of the most crowded (the other two being the Natural History and Air and Space Museums) so I wandered over to one of the few museums I have never been in: the National Gallery of Art.

How have I never been there? I love art. And this one covers everything from Roman statues to the Renaissance to Picasso. The real reason I stopped in is because today is the last day they have one of the original copies of the Declaration of Independence on display. And even though it wasn’t the real thing, it was pretty awesome. Yes, I am that much of a nerd.

While I was there, I figured I might as well see some real art. I took advantage of one of the free guided tours, led by a sweet little old lady who informed me that the last time she had seen a Red Sox game was in the late 1950s when Ted Williams was still playing. (No, it wasn’t a random comment. I was wearing a Red Sox t-shirt.) She showed me and two other women around, highlighting some of the sculpture in the museum, including this one:

The Capitoline Venus. Which makes me wonder, How the hell did we go from admiring the soft curves of a woman’s body to impressing upon her the need to maintain a  ”perfect” body? Any embarrassment she feels is almost certainly not about her weight, but about the fact that she was caught naked. (Has anyone else ever wondered why so many ancient women were caught without their clothes on? Did no one know how to knock?)

So that ended my day as the tourist. And tomorrow I go back to my mundane work life. Thank goodness.

scatterbrained.

I have become completely unfocused. Unfocused is not an adjective I ever thought would be used to describe me. I am usually the epitome of focus, drive, and utmost ambition. And maybe that is part of the problem. Maybe you can only be focused for so long before losing it.

I can’t concentrate. At work I am a mess. I work for five minutes, then check my email. I work for another ten minutes, then hop over to Twitter. I navigate my way back to work, only to find myself veering off course before long.

Which is not to say that I don’t get things done. In fact, I think this is part of the problem. I don’t have enough to get done. I have completed everything that has been asked of me in an efficient manner. Yesterday I had completed my last major assignment (double- and triple-checking all the data) and emailed my manager looking for more work, praying for a time-sensitive, ridiculously urgent task.

There’s nothing really pressing right now, he wrote back.

Well, damn it.

I was in training today and my manager notes, You have definitely proven that you are incredibly self-motivated and sharp. To which I replied, Yes, this happens to me every time. I’m not doing anything special. I’m not pulling long hours, slaving away in my office. It’s not even about my intelligence. I just have the curse of efficiency and a desperate need to keep busy.

I need to have a list of things to do and more waiting for me when I’ve finished. I need pressing deadlines and complicated projects. I suppose that’s why I always took as many classes as possible in high school and college. And why I make extensive to-do lists for my weekends. If I don’t have a lot to do, I start to fall apart.

Which is where I am now. Incredibly anxious and unable to string together a proper post. If I had any energy left in me, I’d be out running to rid myself of the anxiety, but I am physically exhausted.

And that physical exhaustion is probably the other cause of my lack of focus. I am wildly fluctuating between restricting and binging (though I suppose it is not technically a binge, but it is an extreme deviation from the restriction). All I think about is food– the food that I just ate and feel incredibly guilty for, the “safe” foods that I will allow myself though I know won’t be fulfilling, the food that I want so badly to eat but won’t let myself near, the food that I could buy at the grocery store, the food that other people eating… And I plan for my next exercise punishment, while at the same time wondering if today will be the day that I collapse while on the elliptical or walking down the street.

And then there’s the whole weight and body image issue. I still feel fat (really, when was the last time I did not feel fat?) and am constantly comparing myself to every other woman I encounter. (I hear that a majority of Americans are overweight, but I swear they are all skinnier than I am.) I am nowhere near my lowest weight; in fact, I’m still in the “healthy” range, but I don’t remember feeling so weak at this stage before. I know, my body is probably trying to tell me that it’s not going to put up with this crap any longer, that I need to cut it out, but the ED tells me that this is not enough, that I have done “better” than this before, and I just need to suck it up and work harder and eat less.

I need to calm down. My plan? Take a Zoloft, get some sleep, and try again tomorrow.

half-empty.

I’m a little bit of a Negative Nancy. A Debbie Downer, if you will.

I’m a glass half-empty kind of person. And not only is the glass half-empty, but it is the last glass, and I will probably end up spilling it down the front of my shirt.

I’m a sarcastic cynic, but it doesn’t really bother me. People find my sarcasm amusing, at least the people who get it. And the people who don’t get it…Well, they probably see the glass as a perpetually refilling half-full.

And while this type of pessimism–I actually don’t like to label myself as pessimistic, I prefer realist–suits me most of the time, I realize it can get downright depressing. And who wants to listen to a continually whiny, life-sucks-and-then-you-die kind of girl? (For the record, I don’t think my life sucks. At least not in comparison to the lives of so many other people.)

No one, that’s who.

So instead of dragging on about how tired I am, how lonely I feel, and how great of a failure I have become, I am determined to offset some negative thoughts with some positive ones. And here we go:

My office is freaking freezing. I am always cold, but my office is actually, objectively freezing. My project manager walked in this afternoon and said so. And he knows better than poor-circulation-and-little-body-fat me. I was so cold this morning that my fingers were turning purple. I was curled up at my computer, my knees brought to my chest in a fruitless attempt to lessen my surface area and therefore retain some body heat. And I made myself a cup of tea in an effort to warm up my insides.

By the way, the tea, nasty. I hate tea. Iced, sweetened, herbal, earl grey, chai, black, green, it doesn’t matter. It’s all disgusting to me. And coffee isn’t much better.

Tomorrow I break out the heavy sweaters. No more of this trying to look cute and summery crap.

BUT–

The weather outside is awesome. We are finally getting a break from the oppressive summer heat. As cold as I am, I hate the heat. Anything above 85 makes me uncomfortable, especially with the humidity. I have a history of heat exhaustion, because apparently my body just can’t regulate temperature at all. And I get hives when I get too hot, causing my hands to swell and itch like crazy.

And I love fall and winter clothes. I love wearing layers. Cozy sweaters, woolen tights, scarves, hats…

I cried myself to sleep last night. It was one of those kind of days. I felt like I wasted a whole day reading the New York Times, watching Mad Men, and eating. I wasn’t productive, and perhaps even worse, I wasn’t burning enough calories. And I was alone. The only person I spoke to yesterday was my mother, which just seems so sad for a 22-year-old. There were so many thoughts racing around my head last night…

How sad that I call my parents just so I can hear someone’s voice.

How pathetic that, without fail, I spend every night at my apartment, oftentimes alone. And even worse, how pathetic that I don’t even have the energy to meet people. It takes too much work to make new friends. I don’t have it in me.

How long can I keep this up–this perpetual isolation–before I crack?

When should I just give it all up and join the convent? How will I know if God is calling me, or if I am just avoiding life?    

How did I end up like this? This wasn’t the way my life was supposed to go. I wasn’t supposed to be here. I was supposed to be going to graduate school. I was supposed to be living in Boston. I was supposed to allow myself to be happy.

BUT–

I slept like a baby last night. Chalk it up to being emotionally exhausted and finally letting go of all the anxiety that had built up inside of me. Or feeling the comfort of God’s love in my moment of weakness. Or having air conditioning and electricity (which is more than my mother and sister can say, because they have been without power since Saturday night and may not get power back until the end of the week. Oh, Irene…) Either way, I slept soundly.

I’m a cynic. I see the worst before I see the best. But I also know that I have the strength and the ambition to push myself through this rough patch and come out on top. I’ve done it before, and I can do it again.