I submitted my resume for my first potential post-graduation job. I am trying to keep from getting too excited about it, as I don't want to get my hopes up in the event that I don't get it.

I know what you're thinking, and believe me, I am thinking the same thing: Why on earth am I looking at it from that angle? Why am I selling myself short? Why am I not being more optimistic?

As much as I wish I did, I do not have the answer to that question, other than to say that if this were a position I didn't care so much about, or feel such a strong attraction to; I wouldn't feel the need to protect my feelings so much.

Jobs, relationships, classes — funny how it doesn't matter what the case, the behavior is the same — self-preservation, isolation, desensitization. Go through life wearing your best game face.

Self-preservation is a bitch.

I wish it weren't so necessary to insulate one's self to the point where it almost seems as if we have to deny that very thing that makes us human.

I have to remind myself, that this is not the only job I will go for, and that this is not the only job that will resonate so deeply within me. As with so many other things in life, there are plenty of fish in the sea.

It's a good thing I like fishing.

I have just come to the realization that I am a workaholic.

I was having a veg-out evening last week with a friend of mine. We indulged in wine, pizza, and a movie. I guess there is a limit to how long I can "veg-out," because I grabbed my laptop halfway through the movie and began returning emails and scheduling meetings. She looked at me half-crazed.

"Don't you ever stop working?"

Apparently not.

The following morning, my department advisor echoed the same sentiment, stating that I need to slow down and specialize, or risk premature burnout.

This afternoon during a conversation with my mother, she asked me how I was, and I replied that I didn't know, now that things are beginning to wind down. She laughed at me, as she does often, noting that if I am not wound up like a spring, I have absolutely no idea what to do with myself.

All three of these women are right.

This is a sad state of affairs.

My problem: I don't have a balance. I don't know how or where to find one — or what one would consist of. This brings to the forefront myriad questions, with the most prominent being, "Am I overcompensating for something?"

This is the first time this thought has crossed my mind. This is a very real possibility. Problem is, I have no idea what to do about it.

A friend and mentor has invited me to address the current members of an organization I was affiliated with while attending school in California. The program, WIT: Women In Transition, caters to women who, for whatever reason, are returning to school after an extended absence. Unfortunately, I cannot make it, as it is the same week as "Hell Week" — the last week of classes. 

I still have an opportunity to participate via a letter to be read during the program. I relish in the opportunity to do this. Problem is, what do I say? 

I want it to be inspirational without being too sappy, and informative without being scary as hell. It's hard to find a balance for your words when your life has no balance. 

The good thing about a group like this is that they completely understand what that means. I remember three years ago, as a member of the program, swapping stories with other members and relishing in the fact that we were able to share in each other's triumphs over adversity and lend moral support as needed.

I have no idea what I am going to say in my letter, but in reminiscing about my days in the program, I have inspired myself to somehow push on, through that last week of classes, and into a future of unknowns — and to be completely content with it all. 

Tuesday, April 15, 2008, 7:30 p.m. — After a few too many cups of coffee, I have filed my taxes. Never before have I gotten so close to the deadline. After weighing my options, I decided I would rather have a last-minute file-fest with Uncle Sam than to go to my research seminar professor with no paper in hand.

Ah, student life.

That day was a continuation of last weekend as far as life in the super-fast lane is concerned. Once again, I played it fast and loose with my blood sugar, going much too long between meals. If my mom reads this she will have my hide when she visits next month, but the day had me shuffling too many things that too many people place way too much emphasis on. I'm sure there is a line of unsatisfied customers somewhere. I can't be concerned with that.

All in all, I am happy with the way things turned out. I did not let other people stress me out, I prioritized the way I thought necessary, and bonus — everything got done.  Now, if I can manage to keep down the dinner I waited too long to eat, it will truly be a banner day.

The moral of the story: Do the things you deem most necessary first, make sure you understand the consequences of all your actions, and most importantly, pack some protein in your bag for those days you spend on the go.

In my preparations for graduation, I have come to realize that I am not making a big enough deal out of this. Ironically, it's for the same reason I have heard from people going into a second marriage. Mind you, not everyone shares this sentiment, but I have heard it enough to pose this question:

Why is it that the second chance is always downplayed?

I know that the fear of failure is always in the back of people's minds, also that the second "whatever" is testament to the fact that the first time didn't work out as planned.

Finally finishing my BA at the tender age of 32 is bittersweet. While I am thrilled that this day has come, and I am proud of what I have been able to accomplish — in spite of life's curveballs, there is a rather large part of me that wishes my mother didn't ask me to buy announcements, wasn't flying in for the ceremony, and that I didn't have to buy the commencement garb.

Thank goodness for those people who more or less make you celebrate the good times. Otherwise, not taking advantage of celebrating one of my biggest accomplishments — and certainly one of the happier milestones of my life — might in fact have turned out to be one of my biggest regrets. Celebrate the second time. Celebrate the third, fifth, ninth time. Just celebrate for Pete's sake. Be happy in the moment, and for the moment. Rejoice in the fact that you have another chance to be happy in life. I know I will.

The week has flown by, and I feel as though I have very little to show for it. Coursework keeps piling up, no matter how much I try to get through. Life demands that I try to have one, and all the while, there's always that "one more thing" that I am supposed to have done before the end of the day.

Ain't life grand?

Mostly, I just want to crawl into a hole and wait for the madness to pass. Knowing that this is not an option, I just have to keep going — though sometimes it seems to be at a snail's pace, while other times, I don't seem to be moving forward at all. Fatigue, insanity, grief, and fear wreak havoc on my senses on a regular basis, while I plow through life like the hard-charging hellion everyone knows me to be.

Sometimes I wish there were more people who actually knew more about me — they would know that I barely have time for my own bullshit, let alone theirs and mine too. They would know that while I do believe that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery that this does not mean I will allow them to submit my work as theirs. They would know that my saying "no" does not mean "maybe."

These are the days where I just need to excommunicate myself from the masses, but the masses won't let me.

I swear when this is all over, I am going to sleep for a week — with the ringer off.

One week closer to the end, and nowhere near ready. Funny how time flies — whether you're having fun or not.

During this time of heightened stress, clichés have become my life: that which doesn't kill you, keep putting one foot in front of the other, give 110%, no one said it was going to be easy, an ounce of prevention, it's not what you know, etc.

If someone tells me that these are the best years of my life, I may have to push them in front of a bus.

Violent tendencies aside, this is the point in my life where the rubber meets the road, and I am forced to put up or shut up. This is of course easier said than done, since life is anything but a bowl of cherries.

Seriously, though, while these may not be the best years, they are pretty darn good, and I know not to look a gift horse in the mouth. I know that the things I am dealing with, most people like to handle one at a time (myself included), but that was not in the cards for me.

I know that my strength and abilities are being tested, and I am up to the challenge — more or less. I just wish there were more hours in the day so that I could finish at least one feeling like I managed to get ahead, or at the very least, break even.

As the days plod on, bringing me closer to the reality of graduation than I have ever been, I am plagued with uncertainty of my next move: new apartment, new purpose — new life. Most days, I am up to the challenge, or at the very least, I am so ridiculously swamped that I don't realize how big a change I'm facing in the next 90 days. Other days, I am filled with so much anxiety that I feel as if I may spontaneously combust.

Starting over is one of those things that doesn't get any easier, no matter how many times you may have had to do it. For the life of me, I cannot remember how many times I have found myself in this situation, and I swear with each move, it gets more and more difficult.

Perhaps every time a person starts over, they go into the venture thinking this is the last time. Accordingly, they may put more time and effort into their situation. I think that there is some truth to that line of thinking, though this may not always be the case. In this particular instance, going to school is very much a temporary state of affairs, and I knew this ride was going to come to an end sooner or later. I just figured it would be later. I didn't realize how fast this ride happened to be moving, and how soon I too would have to get moving again.

For whatever reason, I have inadvertently decided to try to rectify all of he "screw-ups" throughout my life in the less than two years I have spent in New York City. Who in their right mind tutors, sits on four committees, takes on 18 units at Columbia and writes a year-long thesis? All the while, I've been balancing my mother's stroke, my aunt's cancer and all of my own immediate life concerns. Crazypersonsayswhat? Throw in FWW, and it's like juggling chainsaws - and being a half-second too slow on the release.

It gets pretty messy, and it is possible — quite possible — to lose your mind.

It is also a knee-jerk reaction to blame yourself for not getting it all done to your own ridiculous standard, possibly resulting in some ape-shit self-deprecating spiral of self-destructive behavior, completely negating all the things you are trying to do for yourself.

I ran into my friend Iris the other day, and we began comparing our self-induced battle scars. We talked about how silly it was that we were so willing to put ourselves through hell to prove a point of being capable, only to risk hospitalization and insanity. Before we parted ways, she said to me: "Never speak to yourself the way you would never allow someone to speak to your kids."

Point taken.

Be your own best friend, lover and spiritual advisor. Take care of yourselves, say and do nice things every once and again. Build a happy, healthy relationship with yourself before trying to cultivate one with someone else.

There are two things a woman needs after a bad week... And the other is a good, stiff drink!

After two straight weeks of getting kicked in the ribs, which was prefaced by about a month of misdirection, insanity and insecurity, I knew what I had to do. I marched into my advisor's office, sat down and told him that not only was I not applying to graduate school, but I was also not willing to finish my undergraduate studies.

I said this as I handed him a list of my intended courses for next semester.

Though my ranting was clearly due (hopefully) to a temporary lapse in my sanity, my advisor looked at me as if I had gone completely mad. Considering my wildly contradictory actions— talking about walking away from my education while simultaneously preparing for next semester — I very well may have.

I have this incredible ability to go from zero to completely irrational in 1.2 seconds. This problem is exacerbated to epic proportions by fatigue. Being that I've only had a handful of decent nights' sleep in the last seven weeks or so, I suppose this is to be expected.

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