My grading is done.

Finally.

Of course, it will be back again on Wednesday, but still. I'm trying to enjoy the reprieve.

My New York trip was good. The bus on the way back had no heat- it was about 35 degrees inside. I lost all the feeling in my toes and nose. But I enjoyed seeing the offices of Discover Magazine and might apply for an internship there.

I really don't like that so many of the internships for writing are in New York. The city is an absolute sensory overload, not to mention ridiculously expensive. It's a matter of deciding whether or not I'm willing to put up with the city for a while in order to get a decent job and then move OUT of the city.

The thing that I like about living in an urban area is that I can walk almost everywhere. It's a hassle sometimes to get in the car and go somewhere. Even if it takes 5 minutes longer, I enjoy just using my two little feet to get wherever I need to be.

I hate all of this uncertainty. I want A Plan. I want to know what I will be doing next year. That would be really nice. But I don't have that. I'm looking at needing a series of short internships to do what I want to do, which means more moving, more uprooting of myself, more of pretty much everything that I don't like.

Yet I want a career as a writer. I don't know that I can imagine doing a whole lot different. So how much am I willing to put up with?

I wish I knew the answer to that. And I wish I could find out the answer to that as I went along. Every other time I've had to deal with a question like that, the anxiety has overwhelmed me and I've wound up back in treatment. I don't want that. I am so incredibly sick of treatment. I know I still need therapy, though there are times when I still am not thrilled with having to go. But I don't want more hospitals and treatment centers and 6 am blood pressure checks.

This fear is fueling the anxiety, which makes everything even more futile. If freaking out about having to go back to treatment is adding to the anxiety, and an increase in anxiety leads to an increase in relapse, then I'm really not doing myself a whole lot of good.

Though, truth be told, I'm also worried that if I get in a job that requires long hours, I won't be able to work out enough, or be forced to eat more take out and then gain weight. I don't know which freaks me out more, though I'm going to have to go with the latter. If push came to shove. I hope it doesn't, but still...

It's been a long day, and I'm completely exhausted. Tomorrow I don't need to use my alarm clock- an event worthy of the recapitulation of Handel's Messiah. Even if I don't sleep more than usual (and with the meds I'm on, it's likely that I won't), I just hate having some stupid machine harp at me, "Get up! Get up! Getupgetupgetupgetupgetup!"