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.

As if I didn't have enough going on already, I decided to add more to my plate. Something major.

I've decided to go to school. I've wanted to learn cinematography and film production for quite some time, and now I'm finally going to do it.

I stumbled across the program a few months ago while doing some research on the Internet. Of course, like anything of its kind, it's pretty expensive. However, they had some information on the site pertaining to grants and other sources of financial aid so I decided to go for it, and I applied.

It was a daunting application complete with questions like "Why should we give this money to you?" and "Explain your commitment and desire to be in the film program." The last question was an essay. I did the best that I could — it took me all day — and sent it on it's way. I didn't get my hopes up, though.

So I was shocked when I received the letter that I had been selected for not one, but two grants. They cover the cost of attendance and then some. I'm also taking out a few student loans so that I can spend more time focusing on this.

I enrolled in the accelerated summer program, so that I can start earlier, cram a bunch in, therefore finishing quicker. I always have enjoyed moving fast.

This is going to be great. It's going to give me something to focus on, something more important than Levi and all of his bullshit. There are some fabulous classes that are going to provide me with excellent opportunities for creativity. And I'm going to learn how to do something that I know that I will love doing.

Classes start May 19. I can't tell you how excited I am to finally be doing something good for myself.

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.

I live far from my family. My husband's job demands frequent moves, so we go where his business is. I grew up in one part of the country and now I live in another.

Although the area we live in now is decent, I would probably not choose to live here of my own volition. I miss the beauty of my home state, and I miss my family terribly.

If I leave my husband, I'm going to find a little apartment here and stay in this area for as long as my husband does.

Yes, it would be much easier to pack up the kids and head back home, where I could undoubtedly stay with some relatives until I get on my feet. They probably wouldn't charge me rent or make me pitch in for groceries, and I'm pretty sure that they would be more than happy to take the kids occasionally so I could go job hunting or just have a few moments to myself.

So why won't I move back home? The main reason is this: Just because I want to leave my husband doesn't mean my kids want to leave him, too. They adore him. He's a good father, and my daughter favors him quite a bit.

Now don't get me wrong. I don't think that they would fare better with him if I granted him full custody. His patience with them is pretty thin after all-day exposure, but when he's gone at work all day and then comes home he's the coolest person ever, as far as the kids are concerned.

If we split up, it'll be hard enough for my kids, but if they're suddenly moved to an entirely different part of the country and never get to see the father who they adore, well, I'm pretty sure that's a recipe for therapy by the time they hit their 20s.

The plan is to stay right here in a town where I have no family and no reason to stay other than my husband, who — even if he becomes my ex-husband — is still the father to my kids. It will become really messy if he gets transferred to an entirely new location, but for now this is the only solution I can think of.

I write for a variety of Web sites. I'm really blessed to have steady work from a lot of different sources. I also do some editing work for a couple of sites, so all in all, I'm all over the Internet on a regular basis. My husband knows the name of some of the places I write for, and once in a while he'll Google me to show off to his coworkers, but for the most part he doesn't really pay too much attention to where my work goes.

Needless to say, he doesn't know that I write for this Web site. 

The other day I walked into the house and my husband was waiting for me in the entryway. "I read some of the stuff you wrote on your baby blog," he said, and then immediately followed that up with, "I don't like the way you made me sound."

It was one of the first times he had ever sought out some of my writing online and actually read it, and of course the first thing he stumbled upon was the baby blog. The article he found was one where I discussed how many babies we wanted to have, and how I only wanted one or two while he was willing to go for four. The post was designed to be entertaining for people to read, but he saw it as a personal attack.

That night I was working on the computer while he watched some TV. Out of nowhere he said, "Do me a favor and send me a list of all the Web sites you write for, would you?"

I'd like to think that he's decided my writing is worth reading and that he can't wait to dig into my long list of bylines and see what kind of stuff his wife can churn out. I think a more accurate assumption, however, is that he wants to check up on me and see what horrible portrayals of him I'm putting out there. Because, after all, it's all about him, isn't it?

I haven't sent him the list yet. Heck, he can just Google me like everyone else.

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.