Lactose Intolerant

I have an issue with milk. No, it doesn't make my tummy upset and it doesn't give me a rash. In fact, I like milk a lot. The thing is... every time I go to reach for the carton of milk in my fridge... it's expired. Last week I actually had 2 cartons and they had both expired.

In June.

I wasn't aware that skim milk could separate. I mean, it's got no fat so how could it curdle, right? Wrong. Very, very wrong.

Every time I go to the store and reach for a carton of cow juice I ask myself "am I really going to use this?". I promise myself "this time it won't go to waste" but, quite often, the carton never even gets opened. I always have the best of intentions, with visions of bowls of cereal in the morning and chai lattes before bed. And every time I go to make macaroni and cheese there is Never. Any. Milk. So when I do have milk, what's my problem?

I have no answer for that.

But I do know that I have a carton of milk in my fridge. I just opened it, for the sake of opening it. I even bought new cereal. But I'm going away for the weekend and the milk? It expires on Monday. And Tuesday? I'll want that cereal for breakfast and Kraft diner for supper. So I'll go to the store on Wednesday.

And the cycle will continue.

Smooth Sailing

My apologies for the absence over the weekend. I would have written from the road but I didn't because, hello, I was having way too much fun! Who knew... girl weekends are like super fun sleepovers for 30-(something)-year-olds! I had an absolute blast on my first ever girls getaway! We played cards; rocked out to Bon Jovi and Michael Jackson playing Rock Band; shut down the mall (two nights in a row); saw Eat, Pray, Love (during which I cried almost the entire time because all the things Liz searched to find are the very things I seem to be looking for); had the best Greek meal of my life and shared so many great laughs, memories and conversations. Sometimes life is funny... a person can spend so much time thinking about what they've missed out on that, often, when it comes along it can't possibly live up to expectations. But every now and then comes a moment that not only exceeds expectations but helps make up for the fact it took so long to get to that point, that moment. It's a nice switch from the ordinary. Here's hoping it doesn't just apply to weekends away with the girls.

But, oh, did I mention that our plane fell down? The turbulence was horrible. I don't know if we hit a pocket or the pilot decided to pull an air-show trick but our plane fell out of the sky. Fell. Out. Of. The. Sky. For reals. People screamed. Hearts leapt into throats and butterflies entered tummies. In the end we were diverted to the nearest airport, where we fueled up and waited for the go-ahead to attempt another landing. I was grateful for flight attendants with good senses of humor and a caring attitude; a motion sickness bag I never actually had to use but was glad to have, just in case; a pilot who knew what he was doing and mountain air that decided to switch all the way from south to north so we could safely land. In the end it was a 4 hour delay but we landed. Alive. And, really, isn't that's what counts? I even got to experience something that very few other people ever do so, surely, the chances of it ever happening again has to be slim to none, right? So it should be smooth sailing flying from hereon in.

And, yet, in true LGS style, as the plane plummeted, briefly, to the ground my main thought was "of course I would die in a plane crash at the beginning of my first girls getaway, not at the end".

At least I clearly have my priorities in order. Fun weekend first... plummeting to one's death after.

Makes sense.

Just call me Ms.

For the first time in forever (no really, ever!) I'm going on a girl's trip! And while I can't wait and have been looking forward to this for far longer than it was ever planned I am reminded, as I put our boarding passes in my purse, how different this trip is for me than my travel mates. For them it is a getaway. A brief stint away from the husband, kids and home. It is a reprieve. But for me my getaway is much different. My getaway is from an empty house. It's a chance to have someone be there when I wake up and have someone to talk to about our day as I fall asleep. They look forward to getting some 'me' time while I look forward to getting away from my vast amount of 'me' time. They look forward to some alone time... while I look forward to not having to be alone. They look forward to sleeping in... while I look forward to having a reason to get out of bed. They have someone to come home to... while I constantly search for the next trip to take.

All because my pass says Ms. and theirs says Mrs.

Defining Moments, part I

I often wonder if every generation has moments they look back on, at the end of their life, that define how much they have seen and how much the world has changed.

When I was young I thought my grandmother's generation had seen the most. More wars than any one generation should ever see. The holocaust. The advent of everything from cars and telephones to movies and TVs, computers and smart phones. The first man on the moon. A world where kids were given caramel apples and popcorn balls at Halloween and knew nothing of terrorism and abductions and adultery... to a place where the news has lost all shock value and nothing a person imagines could possibly be worse than something that already has. From horse carriages to Pentium processors, I thought my grandmother had seen it all. I marveled at how the world must have whirled by her, how hard it must have been to keep up and how many defining moments she had to look back on.

As I get older, however, I find myself making mental notes as events take place sure that, sometime in the far distant future, I will look back on them as defining how long it has been since I first arrived in this world. There are so many things that bewilder, dishearten, inspire and change me. In my lifetime I have witnessed the following:

ET, The Extra-Terrestrial, 1982: the first movie I ever saw in theater and one of only two I ever saw as a child (the second being Santa Claus the movie in 1985, which was the only time I ever took a bus growing up, other than for field trips at school). I was four and while I didn't understand why everyone was crying I decided to cry too because it seemed like the right thing to do. I was more intrigued by the Reese's Pieces (I wasn't allowed to have sugar growing up) and Drew Barrymore. I wanted to be her. Her life seemed so different from my own (I mean, come on... she had an alien to dress up!). Decades later I would discover it wasn't that different after all. And those ribbons in her hair? I loved those, I had them in every colour of the rainbow and often loved just looking at them (cuz I'm cool like that). They were the essence of youth in the 80's... a decade that, as far as I'm concerned, was the best decade to grow up in. It was probably the last era where the innocence of youth still existed in full force, while the world was changing fast and ferociously. From Cabbage Patch Kids to the Commodore 64; Mini Pops to Michael Jackson; mile-high bangs to hammer pants, it was the age of We Are The World and Material Girl and the dawn of Spielberg and Space Shuttles.

And the fact there were My Little Ponies to play with, episodes of Little House on the Prairie to watch and bowls of Alphagetti to eat only made it that much more perfect.

Just Call Me Eminem

I've come to the conclusion that the world needs more middle class, white, female rappers from the Canadian prairies. And by 'more' I mean 'one'. And by 'one' I mean 'me'.

I am, after all, pretty good at rhyming.

The Recap

In case you hadn’t noticed (in which case I congratulate you for coming out of your cave), I attended BlogHer in New York City. And, two weeks later, I have yet to do the token recap post. So, alas, here it is.

I view my experience in 4 parts. New York city? LOVED IT! Amazing. Life changing. Loved, loved, loved. Loved the locals. Loved the sights. Loved the atmosphere. Don't regret going. So glad I went!! Want to move there! That’s the kind of love I have for NYC.


The conference? Good! Great! The parties were awesome. The people I met were fabulous. The sessions I went to were inspiring (when I actually went… it was, after all, New York and I had things to see) and everything was so well organized. The sponsors were great! The meals were great! The swag was unbelievable (and I didn’t see anyone fight over it) and the vendors were super fun and friendly. And the people I met? So awesome! Everything was great, great, great!



Then there were the people. The ones I had admired from afar. The ones I was so glad to have finally met in person. And the ones I was happy to have seen again. They were nice and friendly, fun and fantastic. And I wish I could have spent more time with each and every one of them.



But there was a fourth aspect. The one where I spent a lot of time on my own. A LOT of time on my own. I went to Carrie Bradshaw’s apartment building and chatted with its residents. I saw the building from Friends and just sat for a while, eating a crepe filled with Nutella, peanut butter and bananas. I visited NYU, took a trip on the Staten Island Ferry and toured the World Trade Center site. I saw a show and marvelled at the city from atop the Empire State Building. I meandered through Central Park (I almost wrote Perk) and toured NBC studios. I kept an eye out for Tina Fey and I ended my trip from The Top of the Rock, with one last trip, of many, to Times Square on the way back to the hotel. All. By. Myself. And it was great. All of it.


So how can I say it wasn't a wonderful experience? Each experience on its own was wonderful! But combined? It was very different from what I expected, which is odd considering I didn’t know what to expect. And because I had been told, many times over, that BlogHer ‘is what you make of it’ I feel as though I should explain myself in the form of advice to someone who, like me, is planning to go to an event, such as BlogHer, but doesn’t know a soul. Sure… you may have online acquaintances and perhaps you’ve even met a person or two beforehand but it’s not the same as really knowing people. It’s not the same as going with friends. And so here it is… the recap. Dear Abbey style:

1. If you’ve managed to arrange roommates, congratulations! You probably think it’s not only a great way to save money but that you will have an instant group of people you can hang out with, thus eliminating the awkwardness of not knowing anyone. Don’t. Especially if any of your roommates are already friends with each other. They will be very nice and kind but they are just roommates. Don’t expect anything from them. The more you expect, the more disappointed you will be. Seriously. It’s great if you leave with 3 new best friends but don’t go in expecting anything more than a place to sleep. After all, they have their own plans. They have their own friends. They don't owe you anything. If you expect to be invited out you will be left behind, wondering why people don’t like you. If it happens, shrug it off. It’s not you. They have no motivation to become friends with you if they already have their own people to see. You might think “what’s one more person”. Don’t. Pick yourself up off the floor, go to the parties and see the city on your own. What they say is true, it is what you make of it. And even though you might want to change into your jammy jams, curl up into a ball on your half of the bed and feel sorry for yourself while everyone else is out on the town, don’t. Go out. Force yourself if you have to. You’ll be glad you did. Some of my best New York moments occurred when I was by myself, alone with my thoughts. And while it would have been nice to have been part of a group it doesn’t make my experience any less special. In fact, I’m proud of myself and, really, how many others can say that they saw The Big Apple all on their own?

2. It will, without a doubt, always kind of feel as though you are in the wrong place at the wrong time. You will see tweets about all the fun things you are missing and there will be photos that look better, more fun, than your own. You will read about groups of people who are having a blast… staying out all night, hitting the clubs at all hours and making friends with everyone from cabbies to street meat vendors. That’s great for them but the thing to remember is you are who you are. Go with it. If you long for something else your experience will be sad, instead of fantastic. If that means you have to ignore the world around you and log off of Twitter so you don’t see what you’re missing than that’s just what you’ll have to do. And if that's not enough just tell yourself "it is what you make of it" and make something of it, damn it. You can do it! You are strong! You are courageous! And even if you aren't, you can fake it and eventually, lo and behold, you will be.

3. There will be many moments where you will be torn... where you will be smiling on the outside but dying on the inside. Your brain will tell you to be grateful to be there when so many people who wanted to be aren’t… but your heart will hurt to think it doesn't make a difference that you’re even there at all. Your self-esteem will soar at all the compliments you receive… but plummet as you read how the same people went out on the town without you. You will (if you follow the directions outlined in step #1) enjoy so many solitary moments... yet you will long to be part of a group. One minute you will think it’s you… the next you will think it's them. Back and forth you will go. You will have people say “you’re the nicest, most fun person ever”... these are the same people who will not invite you to things. It will feel conflicting and confusing. It will make your head spin. People will say “it’s so great that you do things on your own”, but they will be the same people who have given you no other choice. And when this happens you have a decision to make… you can force yourself on them, tagging along like a lost little puppy, or you can go to a party alone, walk up to someone who looks fun and friendly and say “hi… I don’t know anyone here. I’m pretty awesome, can I hang out with you?”. It’s humiliating. It’s tough. And you just may crap your pants. But take a deep breath and force a smile like you’ve never smiled before and dance even though you feel like doing anything other than moving to the beat. Eventually the smiles will be real and the dance moves will be, well, equally embarrassing but at least they’ll be genuine. The whole process will make you want to puke from nervousness and cry out of sadness but it will also lead you to where you belong. And be patient. It may take you 3 days to find where you belong… but don’t give up. You will find ‘your group’ and your groove. And it will be worth it. Because next year? Will be exactly the way you had always imagined it to be.

Or at least I sure hope so.


And if you're lucky, and oh so patient, you may even find yourself having a Marilyn Monroe moment and see yourself up on the screen in Times Square. Because when something 'is what you make of it' it can, quite literally, be anything you want.

Next of Kin

I went for a gastroscopy today. And as if that wasn't fun enough I had the usual dilemma of not having anyone to drive me home. Sure, there are a lot of people I could have asked... but my friends work and the ones who don't are home with their babies so, really, there wasn't anyone. And I didn't mind... until I got there. I got asked, repeatedly, "who's coming to pick you up". It was all I could do to not tear up when saying "I don't have anyone".

In the end the nurses were very nice. They assured me it wasn't a big deal, it happens. One even took the time on her lunch break to walk me down to a cab since, for liability reasons, I couldn't walk out of the hospital alone and they're not allowed to leave the unit when on shift. The cab driver was also very nice, telling me "I hope you're okay" as he dropped me off and when the (somewhat hot) guy in the bed beside me answered the "who's driving you home" question by saying "my mom" I actually felt kinda proud that I didn't need my mommy and could do this alone, even if it would've been nice not to have to.

But the thing that got me was the 'next of kin' question when being admitted. They would not let me put down anyone other than a relative. Why??? I'm fairly certain I can count on my friends more than my family and shouldn't I be the one to decide who I want by my side, should anything happen? In the end I had no choice but to give my parents' names and phone numbers but it definitely got me thinking... what about the people who don't actually have any kin? Should they be made to feel inadequate and unloved? And what about those of us who choose not to have any kin? Why should family defined only by blood and not by relationship?

All in all, it wasn't a big deal. The questions, the ride home and the procedure itself were no biggie. They took some pictures, snipped off a polyp and grabbed a biopsy but in the end (or the top, ha ha) it's nothing serious and resulted in nothing more than a somewhat sore throat and a really (really) good nap. Seriously... if I could be sedated on a regular basis I wouldn't complain. Nor, would I imagine, a lot of people around me. After all... the last thing I remember was the IV going in, me saying "I'm a lot less witty sedated", the doctor raising his eyebrow at me... and waking up in recovery.

Thank goodness I had the foresight to wear appropriate underwear. Surely there's a better alternative to the currently designed hospital gowns.

I'm a Big Kid Now

Despite my (still young) age, I often question my own maturity. There are days when I still feel like a child, so unwise and befuddled in the ways of the world. But today I know that I am officially a grown up because I have hit a major milestone for adulthood.

I bought a fabric shower curtain.

My Life is Like a George Clooney Movie... Except Different

I like to think I loved George Clooney long before anyone else. After all, I hearted him back when he was on The Facts of Life. Mind you, I was also in the Nancy McKeon fanclub, so perhaps I was a tad impressionable.

Regardless, I do have at least one thing in common with George, or at least the characters he plays. And, no, I'm not referring to graying hair. The commonality is this: I love airports. So much so that I wrote about my facination with airports over at Chic Galleria. Drop on by, give it a read and feel free to say hello!

Also? The more George Clooney ages the more he resembles my father. I find this greatly disturbing. And, yet, that must mean I come from good genes, right? RIGHT?!? Sadly my adult acne, wide feet, broad shoulders and gray hair would tend to disagree.

You might be a tourist if....

...you take a picture of almost everything you see.

And you might be in New York if... the thing you take a picture of is a rat in the subway:


It's the first 'rat' I've ever seen in person. We only have mice up here in the Canadian praries... not that they're any better. And when I did pull out my camera to take a photo (but, in my defense, only after other tourists started screaming "a rat... a rat! Look, kids, a rat" in excitement, not terror) I thought it was kind of nice that a typical dolled-up, stylish, beyond beautiful local woman turned to me, smiled and said "welcome to New York".

On Top of the World

So I'll be the first to admit... I sucked posting from New York. Since I didn't take my laptop writing novellas on my iTouch tended to cause thumb cramps and when I did write a post the internet was intermittent so I couldn't get it to upload. Besides... everything is better with pictures, wouldn't you say? So, alas, let's take a step back in time, shall we? Here's something from last Friday:

I write this from atop the Empire State Building. Talk about moments that take your breath away! The wind is minimal (which is good given the fact I'm wearing a skirt) and while I thought I might be cold I find I am, in fact, perfect.

In so many ways.

The view is spectacular. Quiet and serene, save for the soft hum of tourists, speaking in hushed tones out of respect for the city, each other and the moment. There's also the warm brassy tones of a saxophone from a man who sits on the stoop, serenading us as though we are on a street corner and not 86 stories above what I now believe is truly the greatest city on earth.

The people are friendly, New Yorkers and non. From the person at the airport who carried my bag (which exceeded the weight restriction, I might add) down the broken escalator to the man tonight whom I can only assume is middle eastern, for no other reason than the language he speaks and the fact his dark haired, golden skinned and wide almond-eyed daughter is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. He stops and motions he will take my photo. He does, as his entire family pauses with smiles to watch. He surveys the result and returns to me my camera. "C'est bonne", he says.

"Tres bonne indeed", I say.

I stand here, long after the hour I should retire to prepare for the day that lies before me tomorrow, and wonder if I will ever to return to this spot. Will I live here? Visit here? Or is this the only time in my entire life my path will cross this place? I linger in this moment. This place. This memory. Because as soon as I leave it will be nothing more.

So many moments in life are nothing more than a mere blink in the eye of life we create for ourselves. Had I never been to this place it would have known no different. It would be the same place. With the same remarkable view. Nothing would have changed for it. But for me? Because I came to this spot that so many others have come to before me... it has made the greatest difference of all. It is the quintessential New York moment. And for all the waves of loneliness that may have swept over me thus far into my trip, every now and then, this is one thing I'm glad to have done by myself. Alone in my thoughts, pondering the moment. The future. The past. How far I had to come to get to this spot. How far, and all the spots, I still have left to go. It is a moment that is shared by no one. It is mine and mine alone. And I wouldn't have had it any other way. At least not this time around.

As I walk away I tell myself I will come back to this spot. If only in my memory. If only in my heart.

If only in my dreams.

NYC day 1

There are very few moments in life that take a person's breath away. Where time stands still and you know that you are on the midst of something special, something great and something that will forever change you. And you are lucky enough to realize it while it happens you treasure every moment. You blink a little less, you look a little more... it's a fine balance between savoring every moment as it happens and anxiously waiting for the shoe to drop and the moment to end.

Tonight I had one of those moments. I saw the Green Day rock opera, American Idiot. I even changed my flight last-minute at 2am specifically so I would arrive in time to see it. Bought the ticket and hoped on a plane 5 hours than originally planed- quite the feat for someone as unlucky and anxious about travel as I am. I've seen plenty of musicals before. I used to want to be in musicals. In high school I had soundtracks of all the musicals I had seen and even of some I hadn't (yes I was that cool) and there was rarely as moment when a show tune wasn't stuck on my head. And they were all wonderful. But this? This was spectacular. And I don't put of lightly when I say it was life changing.

I held on to every moment during the show, knowing it would eventually end and fearing that, surely, there was no way another moment could possibly top the previous. But it did. Again and again. It was different than a musical. It went from song to song without a break between. There was no intermission and very little dialogue. And the set? Breathtaking. I had the best seat in the house (the usher told me so), front row of the mezzanine level, overhanging the orchestra level in such a way that I was spitting distance from the stage. The St. James theater is beautiful and the show made me cry (granted,most things do). It felt like I was part of something truly special, witnessing a hidden treasure that belonged only to me. I felt honored to be there and I was in awe of the performers, they were so amazing (there was one song with acrobatics that was beyond words and beauty)... What a life they have, playing on broadway so young in such an amazing show. Getting to live here, in this city.

It's been a good day. This is a remarkable city. A friend said I'd surely run into celebrities... I thought her to be naive and told her it doesn't work like that. But in this city it does, as the first block I turned down had the set of Gossip Girl on it.

There's much more to follow, I'm sure. But my feet are almost as tired as I am and while the night may be young it is clear that I, sadly, am not.

A New York State of Mind

I have a dream. A scenario I play out in my mind, over and over again. I am standing in line at a hot dog stand in New York City. I am by myself but I'm in a fun mood, suddenly confident in a city where nobody knows who I am. I reinvent myself as I chat it up with the people in line as we wait our turn, slinging one liners amid a seemingly endless array of laughter from a crowd that clearly loves me.

And as I, for lack of better wording, shoot the shit with the hot dog vendor about his nice buns and the novelty of condiments, a term that rolls off the tongue comparable only to the likes of 'tartar' and 'salsa', a woman steps up and insists on buying my lunch. We sit and eat together, feeding off each others sarcastic wit. We linger long after the food has been eaten and the drinks have been drunk. In the end she leaves to return to work, taking my name and number, telling me she makes no promises but that she's hiring and thinks I'd be a good fit for her team. I walk away with a bounce in my step and hope in my heart, amazed and in awe of the chance encounter and the sheer improbability of getting to meet her: my hero, my mentor and, now, my potential boss and lifelong friend... Tina Fey.

I've always been a daydreamer and this is one dream I've dreamt long before I ever knew I was going to New York. It is a pipe dream, as so many of them are, nothing more than something to get me through the day. And while I'm fairly certain my BlogHer experience will not involve lunching with Tina Fey, sharing a cab with Sarah Jessica Parker or making out with Jon Stewart it's not so much the things I know will happen that I'm looking forward to... as the minute possibility of all the things I know very well won't.

But that's the thing about a city like that and an imagination like mine. They're both wild and full of possibility. And sometimes possibility is all a person needs. After all, the best part of sleeping is dreaming... why should being awake be any different?

Cherry Season: It's The Pits

I love cherries. I love the way they taste and I love that they're fun to eat, pulling them off the stem and spitting out the pit. But eating cherries? Kind of inconvenient. They're not really the type of snack you can have on the go, what with having to discard the core and stem. Take now, for instance. I'm sitting at the computer and I would love a delicious, healthy snack. But if I choose cherries I have to bring a bowl for discarding the pits... and then I have to discard the bowl's contents when done. Either that or I have to spit them directly into the garbage can, a task my hand-eye coordination ensures is never 100% successful.

And since removing anything from one's mouth is never attractive it's really not something I want to do in the company of others, so that rules out taking cherries to work lunches or social gatherings. All in all, cherries seem to require a lot of maintenance and dedication. I've been good at eating the copious amounts of the round pitted bits of heaven I recently bought but I'm sure the novelty will wear off.

Why is it we've developed seedless watermelon but not pitless cherries? I have only one thing to say about that:

PATENT PENDING!!!

The Synopsis

Five years ago (good Lord, can it really have been that long?) I was in a different kind of funk. For the first few weeks of my single-dom I was empowered and excited... mainly because nothing had really changed between Him and I so it was like we were still dating. I don't know what I was thinking (oh, right, I wasn't) but when He informed me that it was, indeed, truly over and (oh, by the way) that He was seeing someone (someone I knew and had always teased liked Him) it came as a bit of a shock.

A lot of a shock.

It really shouldn't have been shocking at all. After all, this was something I had done simply by uttering the words "then why are we even together". I never (ever!) expected Him to say "I agree". The thing was... I didn't mean it. It was a ploy (I will fully admit that sometimes girls are dumb) to get Him to smarten up. To somehow make Him realize how much I meant to Him. I guess I figured if He thought He was going to loose me He'd do everything in his power to hang on.

Instead He took the 'out' I gave Him... and walked away.

I can't say I blame Him. I was beyond miserable. It's funny (but not funny-ha-ha) and perhaps even ironic that before I ever let Him say He loved me (which he did by writing the words on my back, which I promptly pretended not to understand... because I'm super romantic, and dumb, like that) I stopped Him and told Him, straight-up, that I suffered from depression and if He wanted to run it was a good time to do it. The 'funny' part is that we both forgot. We were so used to me being happy that, somehow, we never saw it happening... the irritability, the shortness, the constant looking for a way to fix my life (I made us move halfway across the country... that worked out real well), the endless naps and general lethargy. Somehow it never occurred to either one of us that, hey, maybe sleeping 16 hours a day is a sign that something might be wrong. Instead, He developed a hatred for me... the me I had become (who I like to believe is not the 'me' I truly am). I was depressed, but I didn't know it. The irony is that the thing I told him the first time He said 'I love you' was actually the thing that made him not love me anymore.

Like I said, it's not really funny-ha-ha.

And, so, just when I thought it couldn't get worse... it did. I was alone. All my friends were getting engaged and married. Building houses. Starting families. No one wanted to deal with the elephant in the room. And I, I'm afraid, was a rather large elephant (mostly metaphorically but also somewhat physically... there's something to be said for emotional eating). And, so, I lost so much more than just a man. I lost a lifestyle. I lost friends. I lost the future I had imagined for us.

It was one thing after another. I kept hearing about Him. I suppose it's hard not to after having built a life together for so long. But to learn of their trip, their new home and, after only a few short months, their engagement. Then wedding. And baby. It was too much. In a single year He had given her everything I had ever wanted. In twelve short months He gave to her what I had been asking from Him for as long as I could remember. Except I had never actually asked. I played mind games. Made threats. Did all the things all the cool, smart girls do.

Like I said, sometimes girls are dumb.

It was one thing after another after another. It was like being fired at. Repeatedly.

And I was shell-shocked.

Eventually I knew I had to see someone. My doctor. Therapists (plural). The official diagnosis? Post Traumatic Shock Disorder. I was embarrassed. Ashamed. PTSD, I thought, was something reserved for people who had gone through something truly horrible. Like soldiers coming home from the front lines of the war. Parents who had lost children. People who were victims of unimaginable crimes and accidents. Not girls with broken hearts. I felt like I was a failure. Like I couldn't even do 'this' right. Like 'no wonder why' He had left. What kind of person loses 2 years of their life to a relationship she knew had to end?

This girl.

And, so, here I am. All these years later. It took that long to get where I am. Where is that? I still don't know. Am I still depressed? Likely. About Him? No? Do I sometimes mourn for the life I may never have? Every now and then. Do I have more good days than bad? You betcha! Will I ever be 'okay'?

Only time will tell.