Strangely, I did.

I’m home.

I was with both of my parents and my cat in a small apartment-like hotel room.  There were closets full of possessions that didn’t belong to my family and windows that opened wide enough for Snoopy to creep in to the open world and explore.

But the dream mimicked an almost familiar horror movie.  A serial killer lurked in a nearby, if not attached institution;  my father knew him.  The man had apparently haunted him in the past.

A gift wrapped book of Chinese philosophy slid under the gap in the front door, which if you crept low enough would expose a view of the ill-lit hallway.

I was afraid to sleep, attempting desperately to keep Snoop close and away from his exploration.  My mother watched my father.  My father was resigned.

The rest is hazy.  I know the killer attacked.  I know my father fought back valiantly. I know people were injured and lost their lives.

I know, that the whole time, I knew what was GOING to happen- as if I had “seen that movie before”.

I’m dreaming.

I think I’ve finally caught up on the sleep i’ve lost over the last 6 months.

I think I’ve finally found my voice again.

Nope.

I’m made of steel. Mid-grade steel.

I’ll stay strong under a fair amount of pressure, won’t rust or age too profoundly.

But I’m not unbreakable.

And when I do break, I take the entire structure down with me.

*learn to meditate correctly

*truly practice compassion

*write the novel that defines my generation

*perform a groundbreaking role on stage to critical acclaim

*take my parents on a trip

*slow dance in the rain

*read 1001 great books

*forgive myself, the way I can forgive others

*love myself, so that I may love others

*go back to London

*live without a “to do” list

It’s a taken me 28 years to truly crave a feminine presence and grasp on the wisdom, comfort, compassion and joy only other women can bring. Maybe it’s because I’ve always been close to my mother that I didn’t crave other woman’s companionship; maybe it’s because i am and have always been a tom-boy.

I’m going through a break up right now. It’s a situation where the feelings are still there; where I still crave the other person intellectually, emotionally and physically but where I (we) know that furthering a romantic relationship wouldn’t be productive for either party. It plays out to a fair amount of heartbreak, a little bit of conflict and an emptiness difficult to quantify. While I come out of the relationship with goals for myself and a drive to move forward, I still find myself seeking…

I’ve been seeking advice, shared experiences and companionship that only other females can give. And while in the past it’s been offered, I’ve never appreciated the true value it inhabits.

It’s not having been hurt by men, or being sick of them or resentful. It’s finally being able to listen…not listen…to hear what these incredible women are telling me.

Maybe it’s the women who are now in my life; where previously I have been surround by few like-minded souls, I now glory in creative, intellectual presences that stimulate me and make me want to laugh, cry and grow. I find myself planning all girl vacations, lunch dates and wine nights with the ladies.

I’m grateful.

But when someone that I love, deleted the pictures of us off of his myspace, it felt like I was being deleted.

Like the memories meant nothing.

Like all they were worth, was forgetting.

It might sound shallow or immature, but in my mind it’s even more severe than destroying sentimental letters, significant gifts and returning borrowed clothing.

The separation and all that comes with it is public. You no longer CHOOSE to share your happy memories.

Not that it matters what other people think…

But really, what did you expect from someone who finds text a reasonable means of break up? (me, btw. me.)

I’ve been having a hard time lately, hence my blog having been silent for almost a month. Between emotional turmoil, stress at work, and financial issues, almost every mole hill has become a mountain.

In the midst of the emotional wreckage I got a phone call from my old neighbor wanting to read me something that he wrote in his myspace blog. Beaming with pride, Jimmy read about how he feels God is there and we just have to accept him; he spoke with conviction about his personal relationship with God.

Last week I wanted to celebrate having my car back in my posession after a round of much needed repairs, by giving Bart his semi-annual wash. The new clutch seemed to shift smoothly as I pulled in to the car wash. I shifted without incident while the nice man (who brightened my day with a “no offense ma’am, but you’re beautiful”), finished drying my car and I pulled away. It wasn’t until i was done vacuuming the car and attempted to pull out of the parking lot that a loud thudding interrupted my ability to shift in to any gear but first.

“Not having a car in LA is like having your legs cut off”.

I was barely off the phone arranging repair with the people who failed to fix my car the first time, when I received a text message from another neighbor, a make-up artist. Something about Jesus loving me and I just need to love him back.

My world is “blessed” with a smattering of religious people honoring my name with prayers and asking God to preserve my well being. I thank them sincerely, but am quietly skeptical of their generous, thoughtful efforts. But despite my seeming lack of spirituality, I do have faith.

It does raise the question or perhaps open a “greater power” conspiratorial argument: are these people and messages from God always there and I just notice them more when i truly do need something to turn to? Or do they appear, truly honed to find me when i need them, acting as reminders of a greater existence? A light to a path never taken? The solution to all my problems?

I’ve been contemplating going back on anti-depressants. I’m still against it.

I have faith.

I got in to the shower, holding my head under the hot water, incrementally adjusting the facet to produce the most scalding water I could tolerate, hoping that the heat would rinse my swollen red eyes and relax my nervous tremors. My mind wandered to what I should wear today, as often it does in the shower. Efficient use of time, I think, deciding before my wet skin touches cold air.

My jury summons recommends that jurors dress “business casual” and there are no tank tops allowed which nulls my usual uniform. I thought about wearing a skirt and I could carry my leather bag…

and I remembered my leather bag- the one that Neal kept when I moved out. And I was angry. Fiercely angry. Standing naked and defenseless in my shower, I started to miss what Neal took.

Material possessions shouldn’t matter and in all actuality they don’t (the bag and Neal have been gone for almost a year and a half and it’s the first time I’ve really thought about using it). I have plenty of other bags, it’s not about that. But when things aren’t going well in my life, I have a wicked tendency (like many I’m sure) to turn toward the negative. To feel wronged and slighted, to miss what I’ve lost.

I need to take responsibility for my lack of contentment. I need to first own it and then do something about it. The problem is, I am reluctant to disturb the structural stability that I have strived so hard to establish. Change requires a wrecking ball; change leaves rubble and I am fighting a figurative dust allergy.

I am still trying hard to be positive.

I am sitting in the jury holding pen in the Los Angeles Superior Courthouse, waiting to to be interviewed for jury selection. I made a friend, a nice young woman, also named Michelle. She’s a forensic pathologist. We traded numbers before she was called to a court room; we’re going to have lunch together.

The time where I sit alone in this very blue room, I can use to write, to assess and evaluate.

I always say what I don’t want to be: I tell Tom I don’t want to be a jealous person. I tell my boss I don’t want to be angry. I tell myself that I don’t want to be unhappy.

Maybe I need to start looking at what I am.

I am unhappy. I am unfulfilled. I am confused about where I am supposed to be or go or where my career path runs.

Maybe then i can look at what I want: To be appreciated. To be respected. To write a book. To perform on stage in some way or another. I want to work at a job that challenges me but doesn’t overwhelm me or demand more than i can give.

I’ve always said that I don’t want to settle, but it’s hard to make that proclamation when you don’t really know what you’re looking for.

Maybe another look at what I am: intelligent, driven, educated, decent looking, alive.

The good news is that I have a lot of time to think.

Juror 082764141 awaiting selection.