Untitled Thoughts

It’s scarier to slide downward than it is to climb up, I decided as I slipped once again on some loose dirt that covered the unstable rocks that littered the path to the bottom of the waterfall.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t turn around?” I asked, gripping the rail along one side and stopping to try to control the shakiness in my legs.

“We made it this far.” Friend noted easily, not struggling nearly as much as I was. “We’re going to the bottom of the falls.”

“Fine.” I muttered, gasping as I felt myself slip once again. “Freaking gravity.”

In truth, I had dreaded the journey back up. Wondered if whatever was located at the bottom of the impressive waterfall was worth the panting climb that would follow seeing it.

I did, in fact, pant and request moments of rest on our climb back up. It had been cold at the bottom, more crowded with people than I expected as we sat on the rocks and felt the water mist over us. But I felt more stable on the return journey. My legs were strong enough to carry me, though I did get quite tired. I could lean forward to retain balance rather than being terrified that I was going to lose my footing and tumble down the hill until I dashed my head on the rocks and died in an undignified heap. And though I’d insisted that Friend go find help if I did fall to hurt myself, I really would rather avoid the pulled muscles and broken bones that might accompany such an event.

The point? I feel myself slipping rather effortlessly into a mild depression. And though there is a steep slope to a hole I very much want to avoid, the gentle dip into quiet isolation isn’t nearly so scary. It’s cold outside – honest to goodness cold – and I find myself badly wanting to snuggle into bed, rising only to check my email and find starchy foods to consume.

I didn’t think it was that bad though. So I’m staying home today. Not such a big deal. I filled out some simple paperwork. So that’s something at least. If I haven’t opened any of my grant documents, that’s understandable. Nothing overly worrisome.

Chienne was whining insistently this morning, eager for her morning walk. I resisted – kept telling her we’d go later – until 9:00 arrived and I realized I wasn’t ever going to want to go. I should just do it. Once I start, I tend to get lost in my thoughts and enjoy the time outside. So I threw on a sweatshirt, grabbed a Kleenex and plastic bag and headed out the front door with a happy puppy on her leash.

“Goodness.” I gasped as the wind off the lake chilled me immediately. “It’s actually cold.”

I let Chienne choose the route, and she pulled me directly into the wind. I winced and shivered and tried to convince myself I’d warm up as we moved around. It didn’t work. I found myself turning around after 5 minutes and calling her to follow. She looked up from a mailbox and trotted back to me, big brown eyes confused.

“You’re a good girl.” I told her. “It’s just too cold. I just don’t want to be out here. We should rest instead. Let’s go home.” She trotted obediently at my side, looking up at me again and again as we headed toward home. Instead of crossing the street, she tugged me to the left, selecting an alternate route I might prefer. I sighed and looked longingly at the house. Glanced over to see my dog gazing equally longingly down a side street. So I followed her for another 30 minutes. I warmed up. It wasn’t bad at all. But I still felt strange – that feeling in my stomach saying that I’m unhappy. I needed to nap – to avoid people and work and thought in general.

Given that I didn’t make it to work or to my tutoring session, I think I can safely say I’m having a problem this week. I read somewhere recently that someone thought birthdays were easy for happy people. If you were satisfied with your life, it wasn’t bothersome at all to watch the years pass. If, however, there were many points of unhappiness, age is a cause for concern. Days passed uselessly. Friends drifted away. And finding myself isolated to some degree and without much motivation to resolve that issue, I’m beginning to acknowledge that Thursday is causing me some problems.

At 14, I sat in a biology classroom. The front row was directly in front of a reptile tank – a clear glass aquarium that contained rocks, greenery and this gross lizard-like creature. There were actually snakes and reptiles all over the large classroom on the first floor of my high school. So as we learned basics of the scientific method and read aloud from a textbook, these creepy organisms would scuttle and slither in their cages. I hated them.

One day, Mr. Biology – a 22-year old specimen of cocky male energy – decided to feed one of his pets. I was paying attention to something on my desk – perhaps a quiz of some sort – and glanced up to find him dropping a tiny cricket into the tank. I found myself overwhelmed with sadness and fear for the tiny bug when faced with this gross predator. But the lizard was stupid – he was slow and dumb and could not catch the quickly-moving cricket as he hopped smartly around the cage. Mr. Biology, watching his pet with a frown, reached in, captured the cricket again and broke its leg. Replacing it in the tank, the lizard walked over to the doomed insect and observed it for a moment, likely confused in his minute lizard brain. He finally ate it and Mr. Biology looked at me with some concern as I felt my face convey the severity of my pain and rage at this event. I found that I hated him too.

In two days, I will turn 28. This doesn’t concern me too much in and of itself. Still young enough, I tell myself. I have plenty of time to fall in love and have a child, though there is some despair that I won’t be granted the opportunity, regardless of how much time is allowed. I will determine my professional future to the best of my ability, though right now work is rather sucky. I have time to turn things around. I’m OK.

Yet this morning, I entered the hall to find Sprout playing with a cricket. I watched for a moment, unmoved, and reached for my toothbrush. Then I sighed – inconvenienced – and glanced down at the cat. The cricket – leg broken – was dragging itself along the hall and trying to escape the cat. I shooed Sprout away then went to get my flip flop so I could kill the bug and stop its misery. Sprout looked annoyed that his toy had become motionless and I grabbed a tissue and picked up the tiny body. There was no pain. No rage. Just the resignation that this is how life is. If you’re a tiny cricket, it’s highly likely that someone is going to break your leg and eat you. You’re just too near the bottom of the food chain, little buddy.

“As I get older,” Pastor said as we had coffee, “there are just more shades of gray. I used to have all these ideals and certainties. Then there’s cancer and my children grew up and I had to watch them make mistakes and get hurt. The world has become such a scary place. Our reputation as a county is not good. I find that I’m not optimistic. I have hope – a good deal of hope – but when faced with reality, it sometimes feels foolish to expect that everything will be OK as we would define ‘OK.’”

I think that’s true. When faced with reality, there has to be some acceptance of the likely outcome. Fall in love? How nice for you. Be prepared to get hurt though – it’s simply more probable than finding lasting happiness. Get a new job? Congratulations!...But there will likely come a point where you’re overworked, underpaid, feeling inadequate and wondering if you took the wrong professional road. Make a friend? Delightful. Perhaps you could start counting the days until she moves away. They all do, you know. At least in my experience. Men fail to show interest at some point. The job that seems right – the degree that seemed so important – lead to more confusion. Friends – beautiful, wonderful women – all move away. Flung to the far reaches of this country, only available by phone or email when I need someone to be here. (And if you'd like to bring up Friend - who showed up at a time I very much needed her, she's on her way out too. I know it.)

The problem is that recent experience indicates that each new year of age brings more of the same. I will celebrate my 28th birthday very similarly to how I spent my 14th. My parents will take me for dinner and offer gifts, albeit a day late since they’re driving down on Thursday night. I’ll write posts when I'm a year older that are derivative of something you’ve read from me before. I’ll get more gray hair. Watch a lot of TV. Read some books – perhaps finish mine and tuck it away somewhere – a reminder of how stupid I was and how what went wrong was never meant to go right. I'll be alone. Always alone. 14, 28, 42.

Cousin got me a Christmas gift. I think I failed to mention that. We all agreed to just buy for the children. I, of course, don’t have children (you may feel free to weep for me at any time.) so I just get to enjoy the little ones as they open their gifts on Christmas. So on Christmas Eve, she arrived with a basket from her cat and dog for my dog and cat.

“Since you always get ripped off at holidays now.” She explained. “I thought I’d get something for your little ones. Mom said I shouldn’t give it to you on Christmas, so I brought it tonight.”

I was touched – it was very sweet and I adore her for thinking of me. But as I sit with a kitten on my shoulder, purring happily, and a dog sleeping peacefully on my other side, I wonder if this is it. When hope starts to feel foolish, when I’m trying to write one of what could be countless grant applications, when my Christmas gifts consist of rattles and jingle balls for my pets rather than my children…

Well, the slip into flat depression is easier than it should be.

Coffee & Wine

“Thank you.” I sniffled, reaching for the napkin she removed from under her cup of coffee.

“That was under my drink.” She apologized. “I can go get you a clean one.” I regained my composure, wiped away a stray tear from each eye and shook my head. Aimed a smile at my new pastor – a woman I like and respect a tremendous amount.

“The plan,” I told her, “was not to reveal how very messed up I am right now. I just wanted to find out about Bible studies and Sunday School classes.” I smiled sheepishly and ducked my head, knowing I should probably feel embarrassed but instead basking in a strange sort of comfort.

The tears didn’t come from revealing the beginning of the end, though my defense debacle came spilling out with great detail and remembered misery. She had told me a story of her son and his own graduate studies and when presented with a secret, I immediately reciprocate. I love getting to know people and will do all I can to create a comfortable yet intimate environment. So tell me something that not everyone knows and I’m wide open.

Which led, in this instance, to a two hour conversation in a Starbucks with soaring wooden ceilings with exposed beams, soothing dark colors and the aroma of coffee. Coffee – for me – will forever be associated with early mornings of childhood. Hearing my parents conversing softly in the living room as I rested at the other end of the hall, knowing it would soon be time to get up and brush my teeth, but not quite yet. For now, I could drift between dreams and the coming day, feeling warm and loved and safe. Coffee still soothes me and Starbucks provided an environment that was strangely right for both introductions and personal stories.

The tears weren’t brought about by stories of a friend lost – to a car accident or to some strange set of circumstances tinged by an emotional undercurrent so intense I find myself writing a novel to try to explain it to myself. I instead wept over the lizard. Told her of my former pastor and the peaches he wanted so desperately after mere hours of fasting. How he advised that that energy – that need – should be focused on God. Just for a little while. Just to see how it felt, evaluate our secular desires, allow a bit of time to cleanse our souls.

“I knew I was supposed to hear it.” I confessed to Pastor last Thursday morning. “That God was warning me – trying to guide me in the right direction. I knew, I considered it very carefully, then I ignored it. Made a conscious decision to disobey. And that’s not like me – it really isn’t. I generally do what I’m told.” I shook my head, shame washing over me, tinged with regret.

“I… I didn’t think I’d find anyone to love – to keep as my very own. I still don’t. And this man in particular… I just loved him so much. Had this incredible certainty that I could love him regardless of what I discovered as we grew closer. And I needed to be loved – so desperately wanted someone to see me, hear my secrets, understand my fears – and love me anyway. And I know God can do that, but I wanted a partner! I wanted him.” I gestured to the room around us – people I could see and touch and hear. “Not Him.” With a wave of my hand upward, I blinked back tears – the guilt so overwhelming that I couldn’t continue.

After I wiped my eyes, she regarded me kindly. Allowed a few tears of her own. We’d talked for a long time already – family dynamics, how it feels to be a professional female in a work environment dominated by men, cancer and sickness, war and death, the difference between hope and optimism, how one relates to this higher power in which I believe.

“Can you forgive yourself?”

I shrugged and looked away. “I don’t know. I haven’t so far.”

“You know,” she said softly, reaching to touch my hand, “that this… willful defiance bothers you more than it bothers God.” After a pause when I didn’t reply, she continued.

“You know Luke 15.” She said. “Let’s talk about the prodigal son for a minute. He did a bad thing – squandered all his father had given him, lived badly, made poor decisions. And yet when he came home – before he had a chance to apologize or repent to his father – he was welcomed joyfully. When he tries to ask for what he deserves rather than to reclaim his place in the family, his father brushes that aside. He doesn’t need to hear it. The important part – the only part that really matters – is that you came home. You needed to return and you found your way back. God is joyful in that. He delights in your return.”

So I cried again, smoothing the crumpled napkin so I could dab at my eyes once more.

“I turned away.” I whispered. “I wanted to be loved so badly. I didn’t want to be alone anymore. So I didn’t trust… couldn’t be grateful and patient in the present moment… I think I deserved all those bad things.” I told her softly.

She stopped to think. I’ve rarely come across someone who listened that well – whose focus on my words was so complete that she truly needed a moment to gather her thoughts to reply. Though I’ve been trained in counseling basics – know that listening is the critical part – I’m rarely good at it.

“Some would disagree with me.” She warned. “But I think there’s Biblical support for shaking your fist at God. Especially in the Psalms. There are problems in life that I think should enrage us. When we rail against something cruel or unfair. Children get cancer or are abused – thinking about that makes me so angry. So confused at what God could be thinking! I think it’s OK to be angry and disappointed that God allowed bad things to happen to you.”

“It’s not that the world is bad.” I thought out loud. “It’s that people I trusted – people I thought I knew and loved – disappointed me. I didn’t matter enough. Wasn't smart or talented enough. Not loving or interesting or pretty or compelling enough.”

“You’re still hurt.” She recognized. “That’s OK. You will heal.” I nodded in agreement – it’s started, but try as I might to rush the process, it just takes time. I’m working through it.

“I think,” she continued carefully, “that – for me – it’s better to be open and angry with God than it is to withdraw.”

“That’s what I do. With everyone, actually. When I’m hurt, I retreat into this safe little shell and just lash out occasionally. Make noise so people know I’m still there – still in pain – but refuse to let much touch me.”

She offered more advice – we spent more time talking. She encouraged me to attend a Sunday School class, thought about people to include if she started a Bible study. She told stories and I offered comfort. Then we’d switch.

“What’s your book about?” She asked once, leaning forward with a smile.

And I stammered. Finally blushed and shook my head.

“That’s OK.” She said.

“It’s silly.” I offered. “I just want to understand myself a little more. How I ended up here – why I made certain decisions, the driving force behind my choices, how I can avoid the same mistakes again. So by fictionalizing it, I might be able to be more objective. Divorce myself from the personal pain and hope and see it for what it was. To see me for who I was.”

“I don’t think you’re messed up at all.” She said before we left. “I’m glad you shared all this with me – let me know you. I see health as honestly acknowledging where you are, seeing where you hope to be, and taking steps to get there. The medication, the therapy, coming to talk to me – I think it’s all progress. You should feel good about that.”

I thought about it as I headed to work. I keep seeking help – reaching out tentatively and hoping someone yanks me toward where I need to go – but then I retreat again. Huddle into isolated safety so I can berate myself for bad decisions, look around fearfully for someone who seems safe and wonderful but who will eventually hurt me, pull away from God because I don’t deserve Him.

“God isn’t angry at me.” I said experimentally as I waited at a red light. “He’s happy I came home.” Then I paused to see how it felt. Frowned. “It seems like He’d be irritated at the very least.” I decided.

Then the thought appeared that I found a wonderful church – one that offered immediate comfort, a loving welcome and gentle lessons. I just spent hours with a woman who was smart and strong, who would include me in her prayers, who guided me toward a loving God who offered joy at my presence. Would someone angry have offered Pastor to me?

In light of the fact that I decided He would not, it seems I would have been eager to attend services yesterday. I wasn’t. I’m not sure why – there’s still this urge to clutch at what went wrong rather than to make confident strides toward what might go right in the future. I really want to keep writing this book – I have ideas on why, but I’m not positive. I doubt it will be something I have tremendous pride in when it’s finished. I’m hesitant to allow new people in my life – the chances that they’ll someday hurt me after gaining my trust and affection is terrifying. The thought that our time here is finite – the chances we are awarded are limited – leaves me paralyzed sometimes. I'd often rather do nothing than make another mistake.

Services yesterday centered around the first miracle Jesus performed. Children’s time was on the outward focus of the Lord. “He didn’t turn paper to gold to make himself rich. So he could buy all the things he wanted in the world. Instead he turned water to wine. Healed the sick. Forgave the sinners. We should try to help others – to love others – instead of thinking about what we want all the time.”

I’ve read John 2 again this morning. I’m a bit confused. Jesus seems reluctant to help – it’s not time, it’s not His problem. But He helps anyway – provides the best of wines when it seems there’s nothing at all left.

“Is your soul empty?” Pastor asked the congregation. “Do you feel as if there is nothing for you to drink, let alone offer to others? Trust that God will take what you have – as meager as it might be – and make something amazing. Not just for you, but for the world. The best is yet to come. The most coveted of wines isn’t offered at the beginning – it’s made at the end so that you can truly behold the glory of God.”

Another mouse?

“Hey, Sprout. What do you have there?” I heard Friend ask down the hall. “Something fun?”

I smiled when she came back, then scowled when I saw she still had the Gatorade ring in her hand. “What did he have?” I questioned briskly. “You didn’t give him the ring?”

“He already had a toy.” She said, smiling. “It was once alive. Might still be alive.” She mused. “It’s behind his door.”

“$100.” I offered. “You go get the mouse.” Then I frowned with great concern when she sat down with her laptop again. “Seriously,” I whined. “I can’t do this!”

“You need to get a magnetic dog door.” She advised for the hundredth time.

I whimpered pitifully as I went to the kitchen, searching for heavy-duty grocery bags and copious amounts of paper towels. Then I grabbed the broom and dustpan, proceeding slowly down the hall toward extreme mental torture.

“Is it in my bathroom?” I asked softly, peering around the door while keeping my body safely in the hall – an entire bedroom between me and the ick.

Friend walked briskly by, a couple of paper towels in hand and snatching the bag from me.

“You’re going to get it?!” I asked, thrilled, then took a couple of steps after her, my tools outstretched. “Do you want my broom and dustpan? Gloves? More paper towels?”

“The hard part,” she said, “will be convincing Sprout to give it to me. Go on, Sprout.” She said firmly.

“I’ll get a spray bottle!” I called, eager for a chance to escape the carnage. I – keeping a safe distance – spritzed the cat several times. He just stared at me – he rather likes water. But he was distracted enough that Friend was able to get the ick.

I turned rapidly when she emerged, loathe to see the remains of the creature. “It’s all the way dead.” She announced and I made a horrified face.

“You touched it when it could have been alive? Wait! I don’t know what to do with it yet! Don’t show it to me!”

I moved quickly toward the garage and the heavy garbage bags. Shaking one open, I pretended she wasn’t laughing at me. “OK,” I instructed. “Put it in the bag, but do NOT touch me with it!” Keeping my face turned away, I waited until a gentle weight settled in the bottom. Then I took it outside to the garbage can.

“You picked it up with just a paper towel?” I asked when I returned inside, incredulous. “I am in awe of your bravery.” I added solemnly as she shook her head at me.

“I was going to just pick it up by the tail, but I thought that would freak you out. It’s just a mouse.”

“$200 if you stay the night and deal with any more ick.” I said as she threatened to go home to deal with her indoor cats and laundry. “But what if he brings something else in?!”

“Magnetic dog door.” She reminded. And I sighed.

“Sprout!” I called as I heard him come in once again and race down the hall to my bedroom. “Sprout!”

“Does he have another one? Already?”

“I don’t know.” I whined. “$20 if you go check.” Seeing she wasn’t eager to do so, I crept down the hall, chased him from the room and – standing on tiptoe – peered in the bathroom.

“Hello? Mouse? Are you in there?” Not receiving an answer, I was inspired. “Chienne! Come here, pretty girl!” She trotted down the hall, tags jingling happily, and looked at me.

“Can you go check the bathroom for ick?” I requested. She responded to my nudge and entered the room, returning after mere seconds.

“Did you find anything?” I asked, hearing Friend laughing down the hall.

I walked to Sprout’s room, saw him on the bed, and closed his door. “No more outside for you.” I proclaimed before returning to the living room to search for dog doors that would prohibit his leaving to hunt. I heard his little body thud against the wooden barrier as he started to speak indignantly against his unfair imprisonment.

“His ick is not only gone,” Friend stated with a sad shake of her head, “but you won’t let him find more?” Then she grinned at his howls of increasing volume.

“No more ick.” I said firmly, stopping to smile myself at his pleas for the freedom found only in the great outdoors.

I found this and will order one tomorrow – there appears to be some problem with the website thus far. Then, feeling sorry for the poor kitten (who is also a killer, apparently), I closed the dog door with its protective plastic covering and released him from his room. He blinked at me sleepily when I opened the door.

“He didn’t even care.” I informed Friend loftily. “He was napping.”

“I think he cares now.” She offered a moment later. I listened more closely to the thudding and talking from the kitchen.

“Is that him at the dog door?” I asked incredulous once again. Friend nodded.

I got up to see him exploring the strange covering with great anger. He meowed at me. “No.” I told him easily, then returned to the loveseat feeling satisfied with my plan. I had kissed Chienne on the head and told her to let me know if she needed out. But the cat is unhappily locked inside from now on.

He's napping on the ottoman as I type, but I'm quite sure he's plotting his next expedition. I only hope I'm smart enough to thwart it.

Absence explained.

It is not that I’ve been away from my laptop to any great extent this weekend. Though I did spend a good deal of yesterday napping, I also did a good deal of writing. It just happened to go in the folder for my book – chapters that were waiting in my head, mental lists I was making to try to remember a couple of key points for each part of the story, specific phrases or words I felt were somehow important. So I sat down and completed one chapter and started on two others.

Friend arrived and started to marinate steaks before we flitted off to Walmart to buy extra items for dinner. I provided bread (soaked with butter), cheesy potatoes and salad. Oh, and frozen fruit for daiquiris.

There was googling for drink recipes as I baked cheesy potatoes and put together a salad. I preferred the peach variety we made first and consumed three of the five glasses that were contained in the blender. As I grew increasingly drunk, I just started work on more chapters. As the screen filled with sections of the story – I’m writing it all out of order according to where I’m drawn that particular day – I wrote and clicked and searched for old posts, both published and saved as drafts. It’s coming along. I haven’t read much in the order it will eventually go, but the pieces read individually well. And since I don’t have any real plans for the final product, I’m quite content with that.

As I tend to do when I’ve sipped too much alcohol – even when mixed with delicious peaches and simple syrup made with vanilla sugar – I grew very sleepy. Unable to keep my eyes open much past 9:30, I shuffled off to bed to sleep. I woke this morning before dawn to clean the kitchen, moving slowly but happily as I washed and dried dishes and cleared away clutter. After I fed the cat, I shooed the dog from the room. Chienne eats Sprout’s food to which she is allergic and then we have all sorts of problems. A hungry cat, itchy dog and unhappy me.

Then I went back to sleep.

I woke again hoping that it was after 9:30. That way I would have no time to prepare for church and would have to just nap all day. I squinted at the clock that produces my soothing rain sounds and sighed when I saw it was 8:30. That left time to play online, eat yogurt, walk the dog and get ready for church. So I did, scowling over my reluctance. I thought I was doing better!

I can’t really tell you why I’m avoiding the post the describes the conversation between myself and my new pastor. It was too important and special? It covered topics that are sensitive and painful and I’d rather leave it alone? Just busy with other things? I really don’t know. I think I want to write it. I also thought I'd be eager to worship this morning.

I returned home after a service I enjoyed and after a gigantic brunch at Waffle House that continues to leave me feeling very full 5 hours later, I set about working on my histograms. Again. They didn’t behave as I wanted when I first attempted my correction suggested by Boss. So I found the coding error, fixed it, then went through my 30 patients again. It’s not hard – just time consuming. Running code, checking numbers, looking at results. Repeat. Then checking statistics, reordering data, making pretty graphs. I won my battle against sleep today – I closed my eyes for a few minutes but didn’t cuddle into bed. Instead, I got enough work done to send a decent document to my collaborators. As soon as I write it.

I’m largely content with my weekend. I wanted to make some progress on the book – get certain words and scenes out of my head. That was effective. I needed to get through those histograms again as the quick fix I promised was not quite as straightforward as I wanted. Chienne took a bath (she entered the tub voluntarily after giving me a pained sigh and allowed me to blow her dry as she tossed her ears about amidst my giggles), Sprout got his claws clipped (well, half of them. I need to finish, but one was bloody from a hunting escapade and I got grossed out!), and my house is clean and laundry done. I’m rested and ready to go to work tomorrow, I think.

And maybe now that I’m back in my blog-writing mode, I can tell you about my new pastor soon.

That can’t be good.

Week of Work
“Do you realize,” I asked Friend in the same booth we used for our last visit to the same restaurant, waiting to enjoy more caramel pie, “that I will have been in the office every day this week? For the first time since starting this post-doc, I actually made it to campus five days in a row!”

“That’s…actually pretty sad.” She said dryly. I frowned when I considered that she’d had a long and trying day. I decided she deserved some extra help with the explanation.

“I think you’re interpreting this incorrectly.” I said. “I went to work for five days in a row. That’s impressive.”

“But it took you a year an a half to do it.” She said, mimicking my slow, explanatory tone. So I rolled my eyes at her.

“It’s sad that you chose to focus on the negative.” I scolded and she smiled.

“Good for you.” I think she finally offered. “For…going to work.”

“Thank you.” Then I wondered if I’d work from home today and ruin my Week of Work. I didn’t – I made it to work before dawn to attend an early experiment. Then I walked to the bus stop and smiled at the woman waiting.

I don’t know you. Let’s talk!
“Good morning.” I said, making sure my travel cup was open before I sipped my coffee. The woman offered a greeting and we settled into silence.

Then, for no apparent reason but feeling some strange need to do so, I said, “It’s warmer than I expected this morning.”

“There’s a cold front coming in.” She said, friendly and completely willing to talk to me while we waited. “It’s supposed to rain soon, then get really cold. Almost down to the 20s or 30s!”

“Wow.” I said, thinking I’d probably shamefully wear my coat as I did yesterday. I get cold! I don’t know why, but my body has decided it shouldn’t get below freezing and I’ll shiver even in 30 degree weather. Sad.

“I even heard it was supposed to snow on Tuesday.” She confided. “When my son first started driving, it snowed really hard. He was almost in an accident on his way to school, and…” She continued to tell me a story and I listened, making the appropriately sympathetic responses when necessary. Then I followed her up the steps of the bus and she proceeded to one of the back seats while I sat closer to the front.

Don’t worry – I made a new friend at the next stop.

Surprised at my eagerness to indulge in pre-7AM conversation with strangers, I aimed a vague smile at the woman who sat next to me just moments after I boarded the bus.

“There’s terrible weather coming through Oklahoma.” She stated and I raised my eyebrows in inquiry, trying to picture the United States map to decide how close Oklahoma was to my current locale. Not very, I thought. But maybe I’m confused.

“Do you have family there?” I asked, not sure what to say.

“I do, actually! A brother and his 3 kids. But I was worried that we’d start to see some of that terrible weather here.”

“Ah.” I said. “Ice makes driving a challenge.”

“Ice makes driving impossible!” She said, voice rising with her passionate statement. I smiled. For people down here, yes, ice does, in fact, mean they should stay inside their houses. Given that I’ve driven on ice multiple times, I know that you can do it. It’s just a bit difficult in some spots. (MapleMama, by the way, has some excellent tips for winter driving. My own tip? If you live in the south? Stay Home. Abandon all hope, snuggle in for a nap, and hope you’ve stocked up on necessities beforehand as the store shelves will be largely bare in the pre-winter-weather panic.)

I nodded, not eager to insult my neighbors, but agreeing with her assessment of the region’s driving skill. “It’s good to just stay home.” I offered, thinking that would be a safe statement.

“My husband’s father has Alzheimer’s.” She said. And I offered a sympathetic sound before she continued. “He and his sister check on him every day so they’ll have to get out of the house.” I nodded in understanding but remained quiet. “I told my husband that we should stay at his dad’s house though. He has gas heat and ours is electric. If we lose power – and you know we will – then at least we’d be warm over there! So I asked if his dad had food and he said, ‘of course he has food.’ Like it was a stupid question! So I reminded him that if power went out, the microwave wouldn’t work and the refrigerator wouldn’t stay cold either! Though if it’s that cold outside – they’re saying it could get down to the teens! The teens!! – we could just put the food out the back door to keep it cold.”

“Excellent point.” I said, amused and fascinated by her planning.

“I don’t know how people live up north.” She said with a shake of her head at their clear stupidity. “Like…[Upper Midwest state]? That’s just crazy!”

“I went to grad school there!” I said, smiling with fond memories of walking the mile to class in subzero temperatures with strong winds. “You get used to it.” I told her as she looked at me with a mixture of shock and horror. “Plus, you go numb almost immediately when it’s that cold, so it doesn’t hurt until you start to thaw.”

“It snowed every third day for a whole month when I was in college.” She said. “And it wouldn’t melt! There was this snowball that hung around in front of the union for that whole month! It didn’t melt! We didn’t ever leave campus at all – you just couldn’t drive in it!”

“You went to school down here?” I asked, smiling as I remembered wading through waist-high banks of snow that had been present for months, only vaguely remembering how the city looked without a coating of dingy, packed down ick. We lived – walked our dogs, went to work, shopped as normal (no stockpiling!) and just acclimated to our environments. I miss it, I sighed, then wondered how true that statement actually was.

“My car won’t get warm enough when it’s cold.” My new friend complained. “Everything feels dirty from all the salt and sludge. It hurts to go outside. You could fall down if there’s ice!” With that, I remembered lying on my back outside my lab one winter day. In the second before I scrambled to my feet – hoping nobody had seen my spectacular flop – I thought, “This is freaking ridiculous.” I had fallen on my hands and knees that morning – there was ice on the sidewalk between 2 huge banks of snow as I walked Chienne. She got excited and pulled me down. I fell forward and thought about how much falling down hurts. Then I landed on my back later that day, every muscle screaming with indignation, and wondered why in the world we’d live in a place that created this kind of inconvenience.

There are problems with winter. I still find myself missing the Midwest – and the people who populate it – quite a lot. Though these Southern folks can delight me as well.

Wow. You’re worse than I am.
I did my experiment, then went to check some files for Project A. I’d worked there yesterday afternoon, then received a follow up question that required my return. As I was walking back to my office, I saw the man I’d met yesterday as he moved slowly down the hall. Jeremy? I wondered, wishing I’d paid closer attention during the introductions. He was visiting from somewhere? Or starting to work here?

“Good morning.” I smiled at him.

“Hello.” He stated softly in return. “I really enjoyed working with you yesterday.” He stopped and rested against the wall so I did the same, taking a position across the hall.

“Likewise.” I said. “How are things going so far?” I was hoping he’d jog my memory as to his purpose in being here, but he instead described the injury that was so inhibiting his motion.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I said, filled with sympathy. “I hope you feel better soon.”

He thanked me, then asked about my status here. Direct, I thought. I like direct. “You’re doing your PhD?” He asked gently and I wondered at his manner. Men of his age – likely somewhere in their 40s – tend to be a bit more aggressive and brisk in my experience. He must not be an MD, I decided, then chastised myself for generalizing personality types.

“I have my PhD from [school].” I said, smiling easily.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I apologize.” He said, instantly looking very contrite.

“No problem.” I smiled gently, confused by his response. I'm not important, and even if I were, I'm generally harmless. “I don’t mind at all – I don’t feel much different having it than I did getting it.”

“In what field?” He asked, and I told him.

“Oh,” he said, looking appropriately impressed and pausing for a moment. He just seemed so deferential. So soft-spoken and appreciative of my attention and sweet. He reminded me of me. I wanted to help him down the hall and take care of him – such a dear man. “I should have a question for you about that. I just can’t think of it…”

I found myself wishing I had a card with me. So if he ever needed help, I could rush to offer my assistance. Apparently the routine I use on others is very effective on me as well.

Um…what am I supposed to do?
“Oh, Katie is in her office.” I heard Boss say as he came down the hall. I clicked over to the grant from the MSN article on the Wonders of the World (which reminded me of my Kyoto pictures and hence the new graphics!). Boss must not have realized it was the Week of Work. And, to be fair, I’m not always at my desk even when I am on campus. I run around as much as possible, though I do like my new little home.

“This is Maria.” He introduced the girl standing behind him. She smiled and I returned her grin – she seemed friendly and sweet. I assumed she was a visiting scientist who would give me some technical details I didn’t care to learn. Or an interviewing post-doc who would speak briefly to me. When she didn’t offer this information, I moved my inquisitive stare to Boss.

“Maria is in the [related basic science field] department. She’s taken classes with A and B and done some programming on x and y. She’s looking for a research project for her PhD and I thought she might want to work with you since you’re going to be collecting data soon.”

“Oh.” I said, surprised and confused. “Of course.”

“So she can sit and talk to you and you can decide what to do next!” I smiled and nodded at him, pulling a chair over to my desk and trying to think on my feet as to what the hell I should do with a student. There was a time I was an excellent mentor – I had projects just waiting for someone to come along and help. But now? I’ve only met 2 grad students in my time here! I don’t know what to do with them!

Luckily, she went back to Boss’s office to get her bag and I had time to pull up a presentation I’d made, print out some summaries of this project and think for a minute.

“So…” I started when she sat and introduced herself again. “Give me some background. How long you’ve been here, what your interests are, how I can help you out.”

4 years. She’s not sure. She’s not sure there either. Basic science fields offer teaching assistantships much more than the technical biomedical research fields where funding is plentiful enough to support students who focus on research. Which is how I escaped having to teach at all so far in my career.

“OK.” I said, handing her some papers I printed with my business card stapled on top. “How about I tell you what I want to do and you can let me know if there’s anything interesting?” Then I went into a lengthy explanation on my work – the processing that will have to be done, the data we’ll acquire the ways we’ll analyze overall. She nodded along, likely overwhelmed with all the information. But I’m out of practice! I don’t know what to say!

“Look,” I finally said. “I haven’t worked with anyone in awhile, so I’m sorry – I’m not sure what to offer right now. I’d love to work with you – there’s plenty to do. And if you’re sort of interested so far…” I waited for her to nod. “then we’ll find a place for you to work. I’ll go through my papers and see what’s interesting. Then I'll send you some pdfs and keep you in the loop as we start collecting data.”

“Maybe offer some basic papers too.” She requested. I smiled – I’ve grown used to knowing the least amount of all the people in a room. It’s strange to be more knowledgeable than someone – anyone. But I think it will be good for me – to connect with someone, answer questions, be responsible to anyone other than myself.

Shudder, gag, wince.
I was quietly getting ready this morning when Sprout appeared in the door of the bathroom.

“Sprout, no!” I stated loudly when I turned to greet him and was instantly horrified. “Oh, what the hell was that?!” I said when he picked up the ball of fur and ran away. “Ick. Ick ick ick ick ick.”

I should note that Sprout has started to venture outside. After watching Chienne exercise her freedom by using her dog door, he realized that with a bit of oomph, he could nudge it open as well. He prances in and out with great regularity now.

“You should lock the dog door at night.” Mom advised. “He’s going to bring in some dead animal – or half-live animal – and give it to you.”

“No.” I said. “I don’t think he leaves the yard and there can’t be many animals in the yard!” This is not true, I know, but it makes me feel better. And it hasn’t been a problem thus far. No ick.

Until today.

I blocked the thought of the fur that was once an animal. But I was reminded when I entered my bedroom after finishing with my new blog graphics. I walked toward the bathroom when I saw something on the floor. I wasn’t sure what it was, so I peered at it while moving quickly closer.

“Oh, no. No, no, no!” I whimpered as I recognized mouse carcass and turned to scamper from the room.

Sprout sprinted toward it – eager to recapture his toy – and I yelled at him to leave the grossness alone!

“OK.” I told myself as I stood in the hall so I couldn’t see it. Then I went to the kitchen, picked up a roll of paper towels, 2 plastic grocery bags and went back down the hall. I didn’t feel sufficiently protected by these items so I laid them in the doorway of the bedroom and cowered outside. “I so don’t want to do this.” I moaned.

Then I went out and got two heavy-duty garbage can liners – the thick black plastic crackling reassuringly. I put one inside the other – there could been a tear or tiny hole! – and realized I cold probably fit my entire body in one and was using 2 to dispose of this mouse.

Taking a deep breath and wishing desperately I was dating someone I could call and beg for help, I entered the room.

“Don’t look at it.” I warned. “Just going to throw these towels over there…and hope to God they land on the ick…” I glanced over. It was safely covered by paper towel.

“OK.” I took a deep breath, paused to gag, then threw the plastic grocery bags on top of it to be safe. Then came the two large garbage bags. It was safely covered, I decided, but I still didn’t know how to remove it. Under all that plastic and paper was still a dead mouse. I thought that I had gotten part of the bag/towel combo under the deceased creature and tried to wrap the outer black bag around the mound of material.

I picked it up gingerly and looked down to see the mouse lying on the floor.

So I screamed and ran from the room.

Peeking in from the hallway, I moaned again in disgust. “Do you want it in your house?” I asked myself. “Then you must go remove it!”

I took one step before retreating again, chanting, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t!”

I thought back to Mom’s advice for removing a full mouse trap last year. To be fair, it’s that season. Sprout might have met his prey inside as easily as out. There’s a small gap between my garage door and the wall that allows mice a way in. I had 2 (both killed in traps) last year.

I went to get a dustpan and broom. I once again employed my “don’t look at it” strategy and covered it with a plastic bag. Then I put the broom on top of the bag to hold everything still, and slipped the dustpan underneath. Keeping my eyes closed, I dumped the dustpan in the garbage bag I had waiting and sighed with relief as I moved it outside. Then I waited for my stomach to settle.

I might sleep in the office or on the couch tonight. I’m not sure I’ll get much rest in my bedroom. I will, at least, have nightmares about the creature that I haven’t described to you in detail, though, sadly, I could have. I saw it. Shudder, gag, wince.

I should probably stop here – I tend to write these unconnected posts when there’s nothing big to say. But then setting up my stories takes so darn long, the posts become nearly endless! Sorry – I appreciate your patience in this difficult time (and that mouse made this an undeniably difficult time). Perhaps tomorrow I can tell a more interesting story about coffee with my new pastor.

Trudging along – The Plan: Month 4

First, The Plan would like to introduce a couple of new friends. Lucy and The Contessa have introduced their own versions and I'm eager to see how they go. While I can't say I feel the intense affection I once did for The Plan, I have a certain respect and lingering awareness of it that I do think is helpful. Some of these updates, though, make me wince.

Problem 1. Heath
Nothing. Just the morning walks that are taking off some of that weight I put on at Christmas. I fit in all my new clothes (that are 2 sizes smaller than last year!), but am otherwise not impressed.

Oh, and tonight I shall have caramel pie. Because I need and deserve it.

I am returning to my doctor for a follow-up visit next week, more because I don't want to stop taking Celexa yet than out of any great concern. Dr. Counselor and I continue to make mild progress. The focus that's required to make great strides here just isn't coming to me.

The new goal - in light of my consistent failure here - is yogurt sometime during the day. If I don't want it in the morning, I'll bring it to work. If I don't eat at work, I'll take it home. I will not sleep without eating yogurt at some point in a day. This is my solemn vow. We'll go from there next month.

Problem 2. God
I met with my new pastor this morning and I adore her more than I can adequately express in a Plan update. Expect a full post later. She had some ideas on how I could reconnect with God on a personal level and suggested a Sunday School class for me that starts this Sunday. There aren't Bible Studies right now, but she has some ideas of some to set up.

I'd also like to read and listen to some of the books I've been collecting. I'm not sure why I'm dragging my feet here - it's frustrating.

Problem 3. Professional
The Plan has made great strides here more than elsewhere.
Project M – Funding (all $8K of it) was acquired for the pilot phase! I got an email from Dr. Icing that simply stated "Yahoo!" Which pretty much sums up how I feel about this one.
Project X – No progress. I don't think about it unless forced to do so.
Project P – Stalled again. It's one step forward and two steps back here, which is why I hesitate to devote more time to it. Doing reading and preparing my talk remain on my list of things to do.
Project F – Third revisions are in on the last thesis paper. Proofs are corrected for the other.
Project H – I'm dismayed to find that I've been calling little H Project X, which is not true. Phooey. Regardless, there's a great deal more work to do on this, though I still have to finish up what I did last weekend. I should do that tonight, along with some reading.
Project B – Abstract was submitted and it's off my desk. I don't plan to ask for it back.
Project A – Still going well, actually. It takes a good deal of time, but that's OK. I don't mind boring work to some extent.
Project C - A gift from Carrie, but I expect to do more work with it at some point. For now, it's not on my desk though.

Problem 4: Social
I'll count Sunday School here too because it's not sounding super-appealing for some reason. Which sounds like a job for The Plan! Provide motivation for something I should, yet don't want to, do!

Dave maxed out my social tendencies for a whole month, I think. Friend and I hang out quite a bit, though she might be abandoning me here shortly. Something about requiring a job that pays her. (I'm actually very concerned about this possibility for selfish reasons. I've grown used to having someone who can listen to me whine about my blog and how I rarely go to work for a full day. It will be a profound loss if she leaves, though I can sort of understand the need to pay for wireless internet and a cable modem if not rent and food.)

Oh, and Dawn is starting soon. I should take her to lunch, though it makes my stomach hurt that they replaced Winnie.

Problem 5. Family
Christmas was really good. I enjoyed being there and was semi-ready to come back south. We continue to talk more frequently and I send email nearly every night (when I don't forget). My parents are also arriving next Thursday for my birthday. I'm looking forward to seeing them, though I feel vaguely guilty that they feel obligated to make the trip since there isn't a man in my life ready to shower me with gifts and attention on my birthday. But I wish there was a man in my life to do those things too, actually.

Problem 6. Selfish
I am. It's sad. I can't find time to fit in tutoring, so I canceled it this week. There was also the break for the holidays, so I haven't seen them lately. It's shameful to end on such a note, so I will endeavor to keep those afternoons free of work so I can happily focus on my young friends.

I get a free audio-subscription to the New York Times as part of my new Gold membership plan at Audible (I love audible.) It helps keep me informed of world events, which is depressing but important.

I think the overriding aim at this point is to have more good days than bad. To approach problems from a position of strength rather than fear. This is surprisingly difficult for me right now, but I do think month 5 will bring some progress. Maybe.

It's not you...

It’s better the second time. There’s less nervous energy and more of an anticipation to begin. Tension that’s nearly pleasant if not for the fear that I’d make the wrong move, say the wrong thing, do something to kill the mood.

I slept well last night, waking this morning with the absolute knowledge that my turn would come at noon today. I confirmed the meeting time and made sure I was prepared yesterday. I visualized it beforehand – thinking through how I should look, what I should say, the overall feeling of the event. I could picture the room with its comfortable furniture and darkened lighting. I wasn’t nervous, I mused this morning, feeling rather odd about the fact. More…ready.

Prepared as I was though, I still had that fluttery feeling in my stomach. There's always a chance something could go terribly wrong. Oh, and I want eight, would settle for three but hoped to be offered six.

I arrived in the room, passed by the food and drink presented attractively on my way to a bottle of water, then found a seat in the back of the room. I smiled greetings at the members of the committee I knew, then reviewed my notes and slides once more. I was scheduled second and settled in to watch the first presenter make his case.

“Wait.” The chair of the committee said when he started to speak. “Where is your presentation?” When told there wasn’t one prepared, he looked around at the other people seated at the table and said, “No slides at all?” Clearly bewildered and dismayed, he told someone they might as well turn the lights back on. I was confident that I – with my pretty and perfect slides and practiced remarks – would make a better impression. I told myself to sit calmly to wait for my turn, trying not to breathe too quickly as no-slides-for-you man finished up.

My speaking style – modesty aside – is quite good. I tell stories, use simple language as much as possible and focus strictly on why you should care about what I do versus the technical details. Those same details bore me so why should I inflict them on others? Especially those who have money I’d like to obtain? There’s another little gift that ensures I tend to test and speak pretty well. The nervous terror that forces me to over-prepare eases once the event begins.

My focus is complete and it usually wipes out any nerves or worry or fear. Once it’s started – whatever it is – I’m engrossed and living completely in that particular moment. What’s on that slide consumes my thoughts. Those test questions are all that’s important. I’m telling an audience what I know in the way I decided worked well. And watching people learn, cock their heads in confusion or nod in easy understanding, is a rush. When it’s going well, I’m delighted. And I don’t do it so often that I have a multitude of negative experiences to remember.

Questions are where I shine though. I’m truly interested in hearing what people think is wrong or strange. If I can fix it, I will. The focus shifts to giving people the specific information they seek and when presenting material I’ve spent years studying, there’s little with which I’m completely unfamiliar. I can pull off confident respect in those situations quite easily – I think it has something to do with standing behind that podium, everyone paying attention to me.

I returned to my seat after a satisfied nod from Boss and being dismissed by the chair of the meeting. I crossed my legs, admiring once again the adorable brown flats I wore today. They have a big satin bow behind the leather toe on a suede shoe. There’s satin trim around the edges too. They’re absolutely adorable and I savored the very sight of them as I let myself ease away from the intensity of the talk. They're blissful, the moments after it’s over. It went well, the anticipation is gone and there’s this euphoric mix of relief and pleasure and knowing these other people aren’t going to do as well as I did. He used too many big words. She said, “How do you make this bigger?” as if she’d never used PowerPoint before. That one mumbled so much that two people asked him to speak up on the small room.

After the presentations ended, I gathered my keys and water bottle and wandered from the room. I wasn’t as nervous beforehand, but the pleasure after this meeting was as strong as the first time I presented for this group. I skipped down some stairs, then exited the building, confused as all hell as to where I was. I frowned, knowing I was lost when I realized I’d never been on this side of the building. Was it some sort of strange balcony? With a bridge? I wandered around the outside, finally seeing something that looked vaguely familiar. After several more minutes, I made it back to the office – still pleased and relaxed and feeling lovely about life.

But, well, when faced with a relationship, you expect the sex to be good. The rush of emotion, the big payoff, the aftermath that eases into deep sleep. There’s a lot to be said for the day to day though. What you discuss, if you have similar senses of humor. The same hobbies are of interest. You feel more good than bad when together because of this mutual affection and appreciation. If all those things are missing – if the sex is all that’s really worthwhile, perhaps you’re not overly compatible.

My point? I think I want to break up with my job.

It’s not that I’m soul-crushingly miserable, but I am unhappy a good part of the time. There are good moments, but they are few and far between. The lows get me too low – rejected papers, projects that just won’t work, analyses that have to be done and redone and redone again (and again). And the highs just aren’t doing it for me most of the time. Papers get accepted? Eh. And experiment goes well? Fine. Get a project approved? It should have happened two months ago. It’s just so slow and painful and demoralizing sometimes. And in the current funding climate, it seems like a good time to leave the sciences. There’s just not a tremendous amount of money for research right now.

“If I had a plan B,” I told Friend weeks ago over caramel pie (Great. Now I want caramel pie.), “I’d be gone. If I could just figure out what else to do, I’d leave research pretty easily.”

But I didn’t know what to do. Just apply for an office job? I’m not going back to school, so that’s out. Utilize undergrad training and go work in a lab? There just isn’t a good option.

Then Dave came and reminded me of one. I have a Masters degree that matches his. It qualifies me to make twice as much money as I currently earn. I’d have to work about half as hard on work that is easy to the point of being boring.

“I’m so good at FreeCell.” Dave confided. “There’s just not enough to do during the day and I have to be around, so I play computer games.”

I could write my blog, I thought with pleasure. Or work on books that only I would read! Perhaps dabble in research in all that free time since my current interests would play into that career, albeit in a small way.

I’ve been thinking about what I want – what I think is important. If you look at The Plan (update comes tomorrow! It’s going to…suck really badly. Not looking forward to it at all.), you’ll note that very little of it is involved with work. It’s just a tiny piece of how I see my life. And research doesn’t lend itself well to sitting in the corner while one indulges many outside interests. Dave’s job – or one like it – does that very well.

I’d like to live near my family – head north and reacclimate to the cold and feel at home. I’d like to make enough money to live very comfortably. Starting near, if not in, 6 figures would do that quite nicely. I’d like to be healthier – have a job that allows me to come home feeling something other than mentally exhausted so that I could cook and exercise. I’d like to be more involved at church, do more volunteer work – perhaps tutor at the homeless shelter though I can’t ever find time to set that up. I’d like to seriously consider having a child when I’m about 35. I’m not sure why that particular age – just seems right to me (and safely far away at this point). I’d like to be able to travel. I want to contribute to the world – go to work and feel like being there matters.

All of those things would be possible with a career change. So what am I doing?

I think I’m clinging to the good parts of what I currently do. The presentation today felt good. Checking those proofs of my paper was very nice too. I like contributing when I go to meetings. I enjoy going to seminars where I understand more and am befuddled less. The sex is still good! There must be something worth saving! It makes me sad to think about not doing this anymore – we’ve been together a long time, my research and me. All those contacts in industry and academia. All that knowledge I’d never use outside my given niche. Those papers I battled to get published. Those file drawers of paperwork I’ve saved – highlighted articles, approved IRB forms, manuals, texts, binders.

I’m also in therapy. Had a major bout of depression earlier this year. Can’t get myself to work on this grant that maps my research future. Feel very disconnected and confused as to how I got here and where I’m going next. I could easily switch to this different field. I understood the concepts for it in grad school – it’s very straightforward. I have an idea on how to brush up on my training in my current city. I’m at the point where I’m scripting conversations in my head that allow me to move in this new direction rather than wondering how to remain in research. I’m not quite ready yet – I’m going to talk to Boss about exploring the opportunities in that particular field. The chair of that department is one of my collaborators anyway. I think I can dip my toe in the water without risking too much in the immediate future.

So, at the very least, I’m thinking of seeing other people. And once that happens – once someone acknowledges that there’s something missing in a relationship and starts looking for what will make her happier, it’s generally just a matter of time before she walks away. I’m not sure right now – I still plan to go to work tomorrow and plan projects, work on my grant, make progress on my list of things to do – but my feeling is that I might change some professional plans in the near future.

I just don’t think I want to do this forever. In spite of the good environment, amazing opportunities, and moments of pleasure and satisfaction, I think I want out. Much as I respect research and the people who do it, it may not be for me. The good thing is that my research can't start a blog and start writing about how I betrayed it by going in a different direction. So at least there's that.

Edited (the morning after): I slept better last night than I have in recent memory. I think it was a mixture of having the presentation out of the way, an idea of how to wiggle my way out of research and moderate amounts of sleep deprivation over the past week or so. (As in I slept only 5-6 hours instead of 7 or 8.)

I woke up and wandered down the hall to find an email from the chair of the committee I saw yesterday. They're not only offering every penny I wanted, they offered additional assistance with grant writing since this work is "tremendously important" and I have "considerable talent with which to complete it."

Two points. The first is that Boss, who I wanted to be anywhere but in that meeting, stayed for deliberations and clearly talked me up to a great degree. Which makes me feel guilty for being annoyed with him recently when he's so clearly on my side.

Second, if we're using my relationship scheme introduced here, it's like remembering why I fell in love in the first place! People think my research and I make a good couple! We do important work together and when things are good, it's challenging and amazing. So I'm fluttering under the praise right now. Thrilled that I can do some work I've been planning for years. Picturing the papers that are going to come out of this and gleefully plotting where I will send the results (which should be exquisite) (and the journals that rejected my poor initial papers aren't getting them) (unless Boss tells me to send them there.)

There are still problems. The unhappiness I've suffered since being here isn't erased by a couple of good moments. Except that for right now it is - the focus on this work will, in the near future, push my plans of escape aside.

I'm not sure whether that's good or bad.

Not such a fun game

“It hurt to come in today.” I confided to Friend as we had a late lunch. “It hasn’t been this bad for a while. But I wanted to stay home so badly. Go back to sleep. Watch TV. Pretend work didn’t exist. I changed outfits three times. Had to curl my hair after I straightened it. Kept putting on makeup. Dragged myself out of the house when I wanted to cling to the doorway. Had I not been so concerned about my responses, I would have canceled with Dr. Counselor and stayed home.”

The short story is that Boss and I had a bit of a tiff. He said something I didn’t like – expressed an opinion in public that was the exact opposite of one he’d shared with me privately. It wasn’t a big deal – I just have a particular problem with people who change their stories. It started with my defense – a story that is long and painful and that I’ve only partially shared.

Basically, I was set to defend on a set date. Let’s say May 13. I set up appointments with everyone on my committee, some of whom had vague concerns about my lack of publications. I had a mentor – an MD I both liked and respected – who blew me off for months. My advisor was also very hands off at that point for various personal reasons. On May 6, I received an email that was addressed to my entire committee. Mentor decided that I wasn’t ready to defend. We should instead use the scheduled time to discuss the research I would complete over the next year. As I was in town between interviews 6 and 7 with two left to go, this was not something I wanted to hear. I still make faces when I hear Mentor’s name.

Advisor, though… Having been nothing but supportive, he immediately started switching sides depending on who else was in the room. It is infuriating to constantly guess how someone feels about you. Which is why it’s rather surprising that I chose to do exactly that in a personal situation. But such is life. The defense ended up working out, albeit much later than I had scheduled. I kicked and screamed and fought like hell. I lost. In the process, I grew bitter and depressed and tired and scared. My time here has exacerbated this problem.

Dr. Counselor listened, then started to offer advice. “Be respectfully bold!” “Confront him with your concerns in a positive way.” “Are you an adult, responsible for your own well-being?”

“I don’t think I’ll talk to him about it.” I insisted. “I might have overreacted and I don’t want to make things worse when they’re already a bit tense. Plus, I don’t even know that I care that much.”

He pondered me for a moment. Then asked if he’d told me the names of his chairs.

“I’m sure you have not.” I said, warning myself not to get too irritated with him. My sleep schedule is all kinds of messed up after my busy weekend. My fuse is short and I struggle to hide my feelings when I’m upset.

“Stand up.” He said. “I want to show you something.”

I sighed and moved away from the box of tissues. Well, not too far. The office is tiny – filled with a desk and 3 chairs, book shelves on one wall. A door is located in the corner. I moved a single step toward it and waited.

“Stand in the corner.” He said, and I moved to the yellow oval (pictured for clarity - there aren't colored circles in Dr. Counselor's office). Looked at him dubiously. “This is the version of you God created. Spunky, full of joy and hope. She experiences natural highs, is happy and powerful and fulfilled. Ageless and beautiful.”

I’ve never used ‘spunky’ to describe myself, I thought, and not much of that description sounded familiar. I was uncomfortable in yellow. So it was with some relief that I was asked to move to my left and landed on light blue.

“This is your conscience. Your sense of right and wrong, not only for yourself but for the world. Strong, serene, affirming all that’s right and eager to correct that which is wrong. There’s tremendous power here – control over how your life is going.”

Moving left again, I stepped into the green oval and rested my hands on the back of the chair I never use.

“This,” Dr. Counselor explained, “is Katie, the scientist. Your intellect. OK, now we have to go over here.” He motioned to the dark blue area, so I moved there and stood facing him.

“Here you’re scared. Wounded and timid. You may be chronologically young, but you feel terribly old. Small.”

“Heavy.” I said, for the first time feeling as if I truly identified with one of these spaces. “Like it hurts to carry my body around sometimes.”

“Like you want to sleep.” Dr. Counselor said, tipping his head in sympathy. “Just be alone and safe and not deal with the world. And maybe not wake up?”

I stopped crying and sighed at him. “I always want to wake up. I like to sleep very much, but I don’t want to die. Honestly.”

“One more.” He said, moving me one step to my right. There wasn’t much room there – I was resting one leg against the chair I always use. “This is anger – where all the blame and rage lives. I don’t know that you stay here for very long. This Katie appears, but she tends to retreat pretty quickly.”

I nodded. Stepped out of the red oval without being prompted. That put me right back at home – in the deep blue.

“You live there lately.” He said gently. “And I think movement into the other spaces is ruled by that fear. That sadness. That people hurt and disappoint you. That any further effort will only bring pain.”

He pointed around the room as he explained his concept. Dr. Counselor, by the way, is the purple diamond. I’m going to use my helpfully constructed figure with the colored ovals as I think through this.

He said Yellow was the core desire. So Yellow wants to be happy. Seeks the personal space that feels really purposeful and good and right. Wants love and security, friendship and laughter.

Dark Blue desperately seeks distraction from the sorrow. Artificial highs – food (did I tell you about the delicious brownies I made?), drink (not so much - I had one drink all weekend and didn't care for more), drugs (Celexa? It helps, but I don't think it's a high), sex (turned that down, actually), even work. Anything to avoid thinking about the pain. The awful, terrible pain. Standing in this space too long makes me willing to drag others down with myself. To feel some relief when someone else stumbles because it lessens the isolation.

I admitted to being critical when I looked at Red. Picking people apart after they had somehow wronged me. But I do it mostly to myself.

“Be careful.” He noted, wagging his finger at me. “Don’t screw up again. You were wrong and stupid and ugly so you don’t want to go that again. Maybe next time it will be worse.”

I nodded, took a tissue to wipe my eyes as I recognized lines I’ve told myself.

“Dark Blue and Red feed off of each other. Can easily control nearly everything you do. We don’t want that. They muddy everything up. It’d be good to stay on that side of the room.” He motioned to the lighter colors in my diagram.

Light Blue, therefore, sets boundaries. Defines control. Says that wine is fine, but one glass is adequate. Sex is good, but only works for me in a strong relationship where the feelings are comfortable as well as intense. Light Blue should confront the wrongs in the world – not necessarily to change them for me, but because I was strong enough to help others too.

“So yellow wants to be happy. Stand up. Go over there.” Rolling my eyes, I did.

“I want to be happy. I want a good relationship with Boss – a man I both like and respect. I want to do good research.” When I just looked at him, he raised his eyebrows and said, “Now you say it.” With a couple of alterations, I did. Then I stepped over to Light Blue.

“I want a respectful work environment. One where I’m valued and can freely share my ideas and concerns. This creates a department where everyone is doing good work and happy.” So there is an evaluation of the desire, I thought instead of repeating his words. A decision on whether what I want is something that would be good overall. I nodded in understanding and scooted over to green.

“Now this is where you decide how to make it happen. You want something, you’ve affirmed that feeling, now you think about what you can do or say to encourage the outcome you desire.”

We did a lot more work with this – I’ve done some further thinking about it.

“So now you not only have some problems with depression,” Friend noted, “but he’s trying to give you multiple personality disorder? Plus, that office is so small! There’s barely room to take three steps in any direction.”

“Oh, I know.” I responded. “I was walking all over it for the whole session.”

“The problem,” Dr. Counselor told me, “is that you spend a lot of time on the dark side of the room. It’s good to want what you want – a man with whom to share your life, a family, good work, great friends, money – but you need to come at that from a position of power, strength and hope. Not fear and anger and entitlement.”

“So how do I do that?” I asked – in agreement but very confused as to how to make that happen.

“Just recognize that the problem exists. Know your starting point and the dominant force in a situation. Then you can work to change that.”

“OK, I recognize it. I start in the dark blue more often that not. I’m scared. A tremendous amount. A lot of the time. How do I fix it?”

“We’ll get there.” He promised. “There are two other spots we didn’t discuss. First, there’s me. I’m here to help each of those Katies. To make Dark Blue feel safe and protected so she can back off and trust that it’ll be OK. To give Red hope so that she’s not so irritated so quickly. To allow Yellow to express those desires in a healthy way – to remind you that there’s this bright soul inside, trying to come out. We need to empower Light Blue so she can make choices and take action that makes you feel good about yourself. Green is actually very strong – you’re smart and thoughtful and observant. But you can use that – if controlled by Dark Blue or Red – to make the wrong things happen. But if focused correctly, there’s a tremendous capacity for joy there.”

I cried less than I could have, but more than I wanted. I’ve done some thinking – what scares me about Boss and my current work situation. How I can identify what controls my actions.

Oh, and I did mention the book in passing. I’m sure it fits into my little ‘move around the colors of your personality!’ game, but I’m too tired to figure it out right now. Though most of the actions I take are fairly easy to code. Defer to everyone at work as if my ideas are negligible? Dark Blue. Spend a meeting with Boss this morning with my hands on my hips or arms crossed tightly in irritation? Red. That feeling when I opened the door and saw Dave on Friday night? Yellow. The thought that I may always be alone? Dark Blue. Don’t want to write the grant? Dark Blue.

“Who do you think sits in the last chair?” He asked at one point. I happened to be choking back tears at the time.

“God.” I said around a sob and he nodded. I took a deep breath and nodded in return. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.” I said softly and he smiled. “I’ll be OK.” I said again, comforted by the thought that I’m not alone. Not kept company by the different facets of my personality, but by an all-powerful Being who knows and loves and understands me.

I accomplished a lot this afternoon. Checked proofs of my paper. Sent email. Worked on Project A and received a nice compliment in the process. Finished a presentation I’m giving tomorrow. (I felt Dark Blue rise up with a sick feeling as I wrote that – probably not the best of signs.) It was tough – getting there today – but I did it. I’m taking to therapy quite easily and I’m comfortable with Dr. Counselor. I don’t know how rapid the progress is, but I do think I’m slowly climbing out of my hole.

And that’s pretty much the point of these sessions, I think.

Frozen flirting

“That’s what you call a dye job.” Dave pointed out as we sat in an arena. I would have defended the woman in question had I not been able to see dark roots peeking out from her bleached hair from a good 50 yards away. So I shrugged instead.

“I’ve never dated a blonde.” He mused, and I leaned away to send a frown his direction.

“Jen.” I said, reminding him of the only long term girlfriend he’s had since I’ve known him.

“She wasn’t a natural blonde.” He said immediately, wiggling his eyebrows when I looked at him again. I sent him a firmly disapproving look and started to lecture.

“OK, no. One, ew. I do not require that information or that face you just made. Two, what color would you call her hair? It was blonde!”

“She had highlights put in. It was…kind of a dirty blonde, I guess. But those lighter strands were manufactured.” Then he nodded decisively. I rolled my eyes and shivered.

“Is it cold in here?” I had asked earlier as we wandered toward our seats at the live sporting event of the evening, folding my arms and nudging the zipper of my soft sweater up to my neck. I was glad we were finally there, having spent the afternoon downtown. One bar offered televised basketball and had an impressive beer list. The next place was fantastic – very pretty and relaxed – where we watched the first half of the Colts game. Well, sort of. I kept dragging my attention to the screen when he wanted me to be impressed with a person or play. I was thinking my thoughts. One more bar completed the football game and found us a few more snacks.

“Probably all that ice.” He said mildly, then looked down at me again. “Are you really cold?”

“It’s freezing!” I defended myself, looking around and wondering why I was the only one to notice. Then I gasped with a new realization. “The south has weakened me. Now it’s going to prove its power over my defenseless state by reminding me what moderately cool temperatures feel like.”

“Your blood has thinned.” He agreed. “Seems odd for you.”

“I know! I’m never cold!”

Deciding I was still chilly as we sat in our seats, I cuddled closer to him, under the arm he’d put on the back of my chair. He was being a bit of an ass about his ex, but he was also radiating heat that I needed. I took the bad with the good.

“Do you know where she went to get the highlights?” I finally asked. “They were really well done. Natural.”

“I’m sure I never cared.” He replied, rubbing my arm as I looked around and hoped people started to arrive soon. Perhaps as the seats filled, I’d warm up. “Would you like me to buy you a sweatshirt?”

I shook my head.

“You should have a sweatshirt.” He tried again. “Or a jersey!” He exclaimed, clearly warming to the idea.

At this I laughed. “Dave, my dear, I can’t see myself wearing a jersey. Ever.”

He looked offended as he motioned to his own.

“I know. You look lovely.” I soothed. “But it’s not something I’d personally feel comfortable wearing.”

“You’re just self-conscious.” He scoffed. “Wearing one makes you feel part of the team.”

“I’m not part of the team.” I scoffed right back. “I have no plans to play this evening, nor have I attended a single practice. They don’t consult me for strategy, nor did a single person stand and cheer when I walked in this place.”

“Well, how could they know to cheer if you’re not wearing the jersey?”

I could sense I wasn’t going to win this one, so I changed the subject. I remained curious anyway.

“Have you spoken to Jen since you moved? It’s been, what, four years? And you were together for almost two.”

“No. Yes, and yes.”

“Aren’t you curious?” I asked. “How she’s doing, what’s going on in her life, if she’s with someone else?”

“Eh.” We stood to let people slide by us to reach their seats.

“I’m still cold.” I offered, and he put his arm around me again when we sat down.

“She asked about you the last time I talked to her.” I guided the conversation back to Jen. “Wondered why you never called. That ‘just move away and let things die out’ plan was pretty lame.”

“It worked.” He said simply, then glanced at me and elaborated. “It…we weren’t right. She just didn’t want me to be happy. Not enough. And I was supposed to make up the difference – love her and accommodate her and always let her win. I just didn’t want to do it anymore. But she’d always been like that. Since we were moving to different places anyway, it just seemed easiest to stop talking. No argument or excuses – just an end.”

“And you won’t talk again?”

“I don’t see why we would.” He decided.

“It’s strange.” I mused. “You were closer to her than any of us. You ate together, worked together, slept together. And you can tell me any number of stories involving students whose names you barely remember. Yet of Jen? You know nothing. Don’t care to know anything. I think it’s sad.”

“It’s not that I don’t care, necessarily. But we tried to be together and we failed. Talking to her would be a little awkward considering how we ended, and wouldn’t serve any real purpose. We’re not going to be friends. So why deal with it?”

“Sad.” I repeated. “It’s like when you cross a certain threshold of love or intimacy, you can’t keep people in a real way. There’s always that wall of why you’re not still together. So you lose each other completely.”

I finally warmed up as fans arrived to watch the game begin. Watching large Canadian men move so quickly and gracefully has always been a favorite activity of mine – one in which I rarely indulge. I used to see a tremendous amount of hockey – in undergrad, then in grad school. But as I lost sports-crazy friends, I fell out of the habit of going. It’s been over a year since I’ve seen a game and I didn't notice that I really missed it. I wasn’t even that excited about going.

But somewhere between breathing in the smell of ice and watching the goalies score the space in front of their nets, I fell in love again. Remembered all the reasons I’d been drawn to the sport – the graceful motion and violent outbursts. The speed interrupted by whistles and buzzers and breaks.

“There was a goalie,” I told Dave, smiling as I remembered, “who played in my undergrad city a long time ago. He was young – from somewhere in Eastern Europe – and would dance around when the music played. He was adorable – peppy and smiling and sweet. But he would panic when there was a breakaway. So he would burrow into the net, put his shoulders underneath the crossbar, then lift and shove the net out of position. Like a little turtle with his shell.”

“You can’t do that.” Dave noted, his attention on the game.

“No.” I agreed solemnly. “He’d get in trouble. But he couldn’t help himself. And it was so cute to watch! Burrow, lift, shove. At least twice a game. Always taking the easy way out. Once it became such an ingrained habit, they had to kick him out of games.”

Pleased with my story, remembering games when I’d sat between my parents, with Rachel or another friend, humming over the cutest of the hockey boys, and thrilling when we’d actually get to meet one, I sat happily to watch the game. I patted Dave’s knee when his goalie let a goal go in. I gripped the sleeve of his jersey in my hand and twisted when I watched two of the hockey boys pound on each other for far too long. I looked at him expectantly and announced my need for a soda – I was growing sleepy again - in the second intermission. We talked and teased and laughed.

“Turn left up here.” He advised when we reached an intersection after the game and I navigated my way out of the parking lot.

“Into the masses of people? I don’t want to turn left!”

“Right. I meant right. Sorry.”

“Oh. Good! I want to turn right.”

“Right again.” This at the next corner, said confidently, so I moved to the appropriate lane.

“I don’t know where this goes.” I warned as I made the turn anyway. He started listing street names as we proceeded away from the arena and I rolled my eyes. “I don’t know where we are.” I said. “You can name all the streets you want. I haven’t been here before.”

“We’ll get there.” He promised. “Get in the other lane so you can turn left.”

“How much did you drink?! Do you know what you’re doing?”

“I know we’re turning left.” He said and sounded certain enough that I did as he ordered. We made it home just fine.

We arrived relatively early, though I was quite tired from my sports-filled day.

“Oh,” I remembered as he sat on the floor, his back to the couch as he wrestled with Chienne, “you were going to show me your trip information.”

Handing him my laptop, I laid on the couch so I could peer over his shoulder as he read me the relevant pages. Nifty trip to get an amazing car. I was suitably impressed and asked questions and listened to him talk. I rested my head on a pillow and let my eyes droop heavily as I started to murmur responses to his long statements.

“OK there, sleepy?” He asked with an affectionate tickle of my ankle. I blinked my eyes open to smile at him. Nodded and pushed myself into a sitting position. I patted his shoulder, stretching my toes toward the floor next to him. I tucked my hands back in my lap when he put his hand on the back of my leg – below the knee, but above the ankle. As I paused to consider the situation – aware of the shift in energy that had occurred sometime in the evening. I didn’t really mean to issue an invitation, I knew. Had just been flirting mildly and enjoying the comfort of having company and feeling loved and appreciated.

For me, loneliness isn’t a good reason for sex. Perhaps had I enjoyed the quantity of alcohol he had… Well, no, then I would have been unconscious somewhere. He’d been drinking beer all afternoon. And while he showed no blatant effects – not even droopy eyes or slurred speech – he was likely feeling pretty good. He hadn’t dated anyone seriously since this summer. We’ve covered my romantic past and it’s hardly pretty. But I was completely sober and very aware that while his touch wasn’t repellent, it was not overly tempting.

He started to slip his hand slowly higher and I decided that as far as seduction styles go, it wasn’t bad. If I didn’t view sex as sharing a part of my very soul or if I was slightly less inhibited or a bit more attracted or a touch more isolated or lonely, I would have permitted more touching. Seen where things went. How I felt. Been with someone I love and trust and enjoy.

But, well, I know when I like someone. Want someone. And I didn’t. I’m also pretty sure he wasn’t feeling what one should be feeling in moments such as these either. So I patted his shoulder twice more and rose, retreating to the safety of my loveseat while he remained on the floor. We each went to separate bedrooms to sleep, waking to shower at different times and drove to breakfast in our own cars so he could reach the interstate more quickly and attend yet another sporting event on his way home. I hugged him tightly before he left and find myself missing him a little this evening. All was normal and lovely.

Though I could list a bunch of reasons – I didn’t want to alter our friendship and lose someone I really do love, I didn’t want someone who used the phrase “man slave” in a cell phone conversation to have carnal knowledge of me, it wasn’t an event that would fit in my book – the truth is that the feeling wasn’t there. The one I get when I smell ice and know hockey is coming. Or when I’m with someone I just want to watch or hear speak or be near. When my heart or brain or something says, “Oh, yes. More of that.” And the absence of that feeling – that phrase – is enough for me to stay alone. I have a feeling that will always be the case.

Which leaves me very much hoping I get to think that – feel that – again. Because this inability to settle and enjoy what is instead of hoping for what might never be is getting old.

All work...

"You still need to remember balance." Dr. Counselor advised when I was feeling so good at our last session. "All work and no play makes Katie..."

Instead of completing his sentence - something I try to avoid - I smiled and shook my head. "I can't see that ever being my problem - an obsession with work has just never kicked in for me."

And yet as I watched sports, flirted with Dave a bit more than I should have and tried to catch up on sleep, I found myself thinking of poor Project X. And how lame I was going to look when I had to postpone a meeting because I didn't have any results.

It wasn't that I hadn't made progress. It's a labor intensive little process and I've recreated it more times than I can count. I was working on this same dataset on the plane ride to Hawaii in May. It just won't die - keeps popping up with new questions and ideas and endless amounts of switching that number and rerunning code and calculating results and staring at spreadsheets - hoping something pops out and looks reasonable.

I finally decided on how I wanted to approach it - the final attempt at methods that have consumed a great deal of my time. But today was an abstract deadline in addition to sending Dave off after breakfast and stopping to pick up a few office supplies. So I returned to my laptop and started reading through text I was lucky enough not to write. I did a bit of editing on one abstract, then some reading.

"You used the same word 4 times in one sentence." I offered Steve in my reply to his email. "Other than that, you're good. I kept reading to try to find additional material, but you hit the important points. You're quite concise and informative. So while I always look at your papers and wonder where all the words are, I find the material I need is always in there."

He thanked me and asked what I'd been reading. Should he include it in his reference list?

"Did you think I was lying?" I asked out loud as I typed out the citations for him, along with my impression of the papers. "I really did read."

A brief email to Carrie told her to scoot my name back in her author list. I'd worked on a tiny piece of one particular project and it ended up being rather secondary to her hypothesis. A first authorship for yours truly was rather ridiculous. But she insisted and I was too sleepy to argue overly hard. I do feel badly about it though and had I submitted the abstract myself, I would have altered the order.

Friend was easily coaxed into joining me for dinner after I failed at taking a post-abstract nap. Dave and I didn't make it to one of my favored restaurants in our continuous quest for sports and beer (though I had no particular desire for either) and I was craving cheese biscuits. I made a quick call to my parents when I got home, then began work on X.

I finished around midnight, completely consumed and largely content (apart from a couple minor outbursts that contained few (if any) bad words) with my lists and code and graphs. I took breaks to read, but not to write. Since I have blog posts both drafted and planned, I was more than a little surprised.

When I found myself unable to sleep - brain overly active and wanting to think more thoughts - I came to do some literature searches. So apparently I am capable of obsessing pleasantly about work in addition to cheese biscuits and attractive men. In addition to a whole host of other topics that I won't take the time to list.

But if I'm going to be awake at 1:30 after 2 nights of being up later than normal, I wanted proof and credit for doing so. Especially as I wasn't emotionally distressed or sick or anything awful. I was working. It just seems my reward for doing so should be something other than insomnia.