I used to be cripplingly shy, and have absolutely terrible self-confidence. Like the non-existent kind. In the last few years I've gotten a lot better. Especially in the shy department. In fact, I love telling recent acquaintances that I used to be quiet and didn't talk. They're speechless!

And in the self-confidence department, I'm pretty damn good too. I don't think I'm capable of everything, but I don't think I'm incapable of everything. I think I've struck a pretty good balance between realism and optimism in terms of what I'm capable of.

There's one area, though, where I have absolutely zero confidence, and that's when it comes to men. There are a lot of reasons for it. My weight, for one: I know there are men who dig the fatties, but I think there are more who don't. Then there's my relationship history: totally dysfunctional. And my families' relationship histories: not a successful marriage on either side. There's my quirks: I have three cats, I don't want kids, I don't want to get married. There's my feelings on sex: not going to happen until a long time in to a relationship. There's my enjoyment of being alone: I love living alone, I love having space to myself, and I love not having to tell anyone where I'm going to be every minute of the day.

I'm sure that somewhere, maybe even close by, there's a man I'd be attracted to who likes fat girls, doesn't want marriage or crotchspawn, loves cats, is willing to be celibate, can respect my privacy, and is patient enough to deal with me working through my unhealthy relationship issues. But I wouldn't even know where to start to look for him. And I certainly don't know if the cute regular customer at work who inspired this post fits. Or how to flirt with him to try to find out. Or if I'm even really ready to try.

I've been really struggling lately. I'm sick of my job; I'm sick of never knowing how much I'll make, and having my ability to pay my rent depend on if the jackass at table 30 wants to tip tonight or not. But at the same time I feel so trapped. Because the thing is ..... I'm really not good at anything. At least not anything that makes money. It's pretty depressing. And it seems pointless to stop serving just to work at another job I'll be mediocre at and will probably hate as well.

I'm just feeling sorry for myself.

I'm getting more and more angry with him. Not about the fact that he won't help me with my trip -- I told him I could do it without financial help, and I can. But I'm pissed off that he's trying to control me! He started out by asking if I was sure I wanted to do this with the "terrorist activity" in Europe; when I said yes he interrogated me about why, and said I shouldn't go alone and that I would be a target. Because apparently anyone walking down the street in London would know and/or care I'm American?

And then when I told him it was what I wanted to do, he said "Then you are as stupid as I thought. Goodbye." Then the next time he started berating me about being irresponsible, and asking why I didn't save the money and be ahead for once.

So basically, he tried to logic me out of it, then he tried to scare me; then to undermine me and convince me I'm too stupid to handle it; and then he moved on to trying to use money as leverage. Wonder what he'll try next.

One of our managers at the restaurant was killed in a car wreck last week. I didn't know him well; he was new, and I'd only worked with him a handful of times. Once the initial shock passed, I wasn't very upset, until I read in the newspaper that the cops suspected alcohol was involved.

My father is getting married.

I'm never having a 401k again! At least not until I have a Real Proper Job. Having one now is just so much torture. I can't get my money unless I quit, but of course if I quit I'll have to spend a chunk of said money on bills because I quit! Gah! My life would be so much easier if I didn't have this overwhelming obsession with a-ha.

This month has been an utter clusterfuck. I had to pay my rent late--like way late. And then my checking account was overdrawn because of it, so I had to pay fees on that. After my Sunday shift, I finally had enough to cover that and one other thing that was coming out yesterday.

Or so I thought.

My fucking bank apparently decided to push through two more things that were pending in the early afternoon--so now I'm $130 in the hole AGAIN. So now I have to make $130 to cover that, $110 for my phone bill, $682 for rent, and whatever else to keep myself and my animals fed and put gas in my car. It's not going to fucking happen.

It's only $60 but coming on the heels of everything else, it's a major fucking setback. I've paid $250 in late/overdraft fees this month because of shit like this. I'm working as hard as I can and I can't catch up. I'm so tired of this. I just want to give up. If I didn't have animals to take care of, I might just curl up in my bed and not get out ever again. Just lie there and sleep until someone physically removes me.

Yeah, I'm being melodramatic. But I've been crying so hard I can hardly breathe for half an hour, and I thought if I focused on writing it out it might help. It's not.

A week ago, I was still in Los Angeles, a few hours away from going to the last North American a-ha concert. Since getting back from that trip, my activities have fallen in to several very narrow categories: working (a bit), sleeping (mostly), and a-ha obsessed things (all the rest of the time). The people around me think I'm insane, but I am totally depressed.

(Some of it is the fact that I thought I was happy before, but now I'm realizing I was just sort of content. I don't think I've ever, ever been as happy as I was while I was in New York. And even though I know I can't have that same feeling all the time, I want closer to it than I have now.)

But most of it ... most of it is the strange knowledge that there will be no more a-ha. No more albums; no more new songs to fall in love with; no new interviews or performances to watch on Youtube; no more chances to try to talk to Magne or sing with the crowd to "Living Daylights" or laugh at Morten forgetting the words or dance wildly to "Cry Wolf" or "wave goodbye" during "Manhattan Skyline". Their music has loomed so large in my life in the last six years that it's just difficult to even conceive of.

And yeah, I listen to other music ... but very few things really reach out and grab me like their music does. People keep trying to tell me they'll probably come back, bands do so-called farewell tours all the time ... but I don't think so with them. This probably sounds naive, but I don't think they'd toy with their fans like that--they know exactly how obsessive we are. I mean, I certainly hope I'm wrong--I'd be so stoked if they announced at their last concert that the reaction from all their fans changed their minds. But I doubt it, and it makes me a very sad panda. I have a strangely deep sense of loss, a lingering sadness, a hollow feeling now that the object of my adoration is fragmenting.

I've been trying to get my house a little more organized, by which I mean organized at all. I still have several boxes from when I moved--the contents have changed a bit, but basically I've just been shuffling random stuff around for almost two years.

So I finally started buying tubs for organization, including one that I've been thinking of my "hobby" tub. Because I did used to have hobbies. I've spent the last ten minutes wistfully looking over my horse's old saddle, bridle, and some random pieces of my grooming kit. He's been dead for four years; they still smell like him. I regret not spending more time with my poor horse; once I started college he pretty much stood around. It makes me cry to think of it, I wish I had been ... better.

Anyway, I used to ride my horse, I used to play my clarinet, I took some guitar lessons for a while, I have a bunch of yarn because I used to (try to) crotchet, I have about six cross-stitches I'll get around to finishing eventually. I have scrapbooking stuff.

I used to do things other than work, sleep, and struggle through classes.

So I've written several times before, whining about how my depression seems to be coming back. And then I don't go to the doctor, because I start feeling better ... or so I think. At least about the big things. I realized just now how insidious all the little symptoms are. Tonight after work I went for a long drive, just because; I drove twenty miles up into the foothills, listening to melancholy songs the entire time. Then I came home curled up on my couch and watched some tv. And cried over stupid things. And continued crying.

What really hit me, though, was when I was reading through some blogs. Because if I were feeling normal, I'd be commenting. Instead, I read, and I say nothing, because I feel like there's a wall between me and everyone else. And I didn't even really realize it until now, because it's just been so slow to come on. I thought I was just tired, or just stressed, or just irritated at my coworkers, or ... I don't know. But for some reason it clicked tonight. This is how I spent years feeling. I have got to go to the fucking doctor, I have got to deal with this, I cannot let it keep going on. I'm barely hanging on, I'm going to go right over the edge and back in to the abyss of failing classes and shit again.

I called my dad last night to see how he was feeling, since he'd been sick over the weekend. There was no answer, so I just left a message and went about my way. About fifteen minutes later, at about eight at night, my phone rang. Thinking it was my dad, I answered.

Oh my freaking god. It was his damn girlfriend, who was totally fucking hammered. She obviously thought she was hiding it, but she kept stumbling over her words, mis-pronouncing them and sometimes just stopping in the middle of a sentence and going silent. Other times her sentences were just making no sense at all. She thought they were hilarious though.

My dad's obviously been complaining about me being single, and about why things didn't work with my ex, because she even started asking me about him. And then she was asking me about school, and why I was reading a history book for school, and then started talking about how she likes to read erotic stuff from the 18th century. Uh, okay.

It would've been really uncomfortable if I thought she'd remember it today!

I took that poor sweet beautiful cat to the humane society today. I feel worse than scum. I keep thinking of him in one of those tiny little cages and I start crying all over again. But I just couldn't deal with so many animals anymore. It was too hectic, and it was stressing them all out, and he deserved more attention and space than I could give him. And I'm allergic to him, moreso than the others. I've been pondering this for weeks, I'm not sure why today I finally did it.

I cried for 45 minutes before I put him in the carrier, and then all the way there; I broke down again when the lady took him from me, and I cried all the way home. He's so sweet and loving ... he'll be adopted, I'm sure of it. But I still feel like the worst scum ever for abandoning him.

It's 5:40 in the morning, and I haven't gone to bed yet. That's partially because I was watching Ugly Betty, but mostly because I've been fretting and worrying about things.

I know it's stupid. There's absolutely nothing I can do right now, for example, about the fact that I have numerous collection agencies calling me. I don't have any money for them, and sitting on my couch chewing my lower lip to shreds doesn't fix that. I could do something about my reading for school that I'm behind on, if I could focus. I can't do anything right now about the fact that I'm simultaneously lonely and apathetic about even trying to have a relationship (even if I knew where to look). Picking at anything blemish-like on my arms won't help my frustration over my job sucking. Etc. etc. etc. I just feel anxious, uncertain, jittery.

I should have gone to bed when I got home; but I wasn't tired. The new hours at work are fucking with my sleep cycle even more than usual. And now I feel so keyed up I can't even contemplate going to bed.

I feel like I should make a list of all the things I need and want to get done. But I know when I finally do crawl in to bed, they're all just going to spin around endlessly in my head anyway. Making a list is only going to lead to a different sort of spinning, one pondering priorities and lack of time and lack of resources, and the hopelessness of certain things anyway.

I'm so tired of acting happy. Part of the reason I've dreaded going to work lately is because I have to act happy--not just to customers, I can fake that easily enough. But my friends at work know something is wrong, and I don't have the words to explain it. I can't even explain it to myself. Which again is a sign my meds need adjusting, so I should just shut up and go to bed and make the appointment Monday morning.

I'm going through another slump, another bout of feeling .... I don't know, flat. Like breathing is an effort, like doing anything takes a huge effort. And I don't know why. There's nothing wrong, goddammit! I've got a lot of homework, and I've got a lot of bills, but it's nothing out of the ordinary. And yet all I want to do is slump around my house, doing nothing. I could quite contently flop on my couch and stare at the ceiling for hours. I slept for nine hours this afternoon because of this.

I don't know what to do. I'm already on happy pills, after all. And like I said, there isn't anything actually wrong. So why the hell do I feel like this? Why do I feel like crying every time I have to go to work, and why do I struggle to do something as little as clean the cat boxes? It's absolutely idiotic.

Of course, telling myself that doesn't alter my brain chemistry. I guess it's time for me to go to the doctor about my dosage again. Let's see how long it takes me to fight through the depressed feelings to actually make that appointment.

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I don't know what was up the last few weeks, but I'm starting to feel more level now. I did kind of go apeshit at work on Sunday and started yelling and crying, but there were actual triggers for that so I don't feel so bad about that!

I don't know if it's because of missing those few days of my Prozac, or stress from midterms, or what, but I finally feel like I'm back to normal. Work has been more tolerable the last few days, I haven't been having panic attacks, and things are just generally better. I feel like I can breathe again.

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I've felt really depressed for the last month or so. At first I thought it was PMS; then I thought it was because of the dog sadness; then I was sick. Now I'm not sick, it started before the dog died, it went on too long to be PMS and would be DMS now.

And I still just feel .... just plain depressed. I'll be sitting around reading or whatever, and suddenly have this panicky feeling of dread and start flipping out. Or I'll start sobbing over nothing. Or I'll sit on my couch and stare at the wall blankly for long periods of time. I don't understand what's going on. It's so incredibly frustrating, because I'll be crying and saying to myself "there's nothing wrong, why am I crying? There's nothing wrong." It's interfering with my life: I'm struggling to study, struggling to get anything done around the house, struggling to maintain a happy facade at work.

I'm hoping it was PMS, then it was because of the dog, then it was because I was sick, and now it's because when I was sick I forgot to take my happy pills for about three days. I'll give it another week or so and if it's not better I guess I'll go back to the doctor. I feel like I'm going insane.

For two of my classes, a significant part of my grade comes from one of two things: three short book reviews or one long research paper. The reviews have to be finished in stages; the first one, for each class, is due this Friday. And I don't feel up to it. It's too intimidating--to critique professional writers, for the professor of an upper-level history class? I'm scared to try. What if I turn it in and it's terrible and my professor, who I'm really starting to like a lot, thinks I'm an idiot?

I've got to stop this. Every time I feel like I'm going to fall on my face with a writing assignment, I do fine. Usually I bash something out the night before, fret that it sucks, and end up getting a great grade. So I need to just shut up, and do it.

I also still need to put together a freelance proposal for Internet marketing for my friend's business. The company did some restructuring and things were on hold for a while, so I wasn't even sure if I should do it; but now things are back on, and I need to get off my butt and do it.

But first, I need to do this paper. Eeek. It doesn't help that what I have to review is the world's most boring book, which is written in such a horrid and confusing style that honestly half the class didn't even understand it.

Through a series of random events, I ended up looking through a box of photos as my dad's house. I found a picture of me at about seventeen or eighteen, and I stared at it for a long time. Then I held it up and said, "I can't believe how skinny I was."

"And you should be again," he answered right away, without even a pause.

"That's not the point," I told him. "I thought I was the ugliest most disgusting thing on two legs. I thought I was a whale."

Again, without a pause: "Then what do you think now?"

Ouch. Lucky for him I've developed some perspective, or he'd have had a very upset daughter on his hands. I stared at him and then rolled my eyes.

"Well, you've let yourself go to the point th--"

I cut him off. "That's not the point. The point is that my body image was so screwed up that I thought I was enormous when I wasn't."

He made a comment about that kind of thing can cause anorexia or bulimia, and I just looked at him and said "Yes, it can." He asked what that meant, so I told him I came near that. He just kept saying sort of sarcastically, "I must have missed that" until I told him it's about behaviors, not appearance, and told him about a couple of the more disturbing thoughts I had in the past. At that point he got uncomfortable and decided it was time to cook dinner.

Later, when we were having dinner, he kept trying to shove more steak on to my plate. I finally got exasperated and said, "How did you go from calling me fat to forcing food on me?"

"I never said that!" he said. So I reminded him of the whale comment, and he sort of looked down at his plate and mumbled, "I shouldn't have said that."

Damn right he shouldn't have.

A friend of mine runs a business, and she had asked me if I might be interested in doing some online marketing stuff for her. We talked about it last week, briefly; but I was at somebody else's house and one of our other friends was slightly drunk and kept yelling in to the phone. And then I put off calling her back because I felt insecure. After all, I don't really know what I'm doing! I'm not a professional, I just screw around on Twitter and stuff.

And then I realized I was being stupid. She's not expecting massive, insane results--she just wants to try out social marketing. Which I can do--and did do, in fact, for another business of hers last month. But that was just for fun--the idea of making it formal scared me. It's a remnant of insecurity, and something I've struggled with before.

When I got my first retail job, I was terrified--because I was hired as a keyholder, something I'd never done before, in addition to never having sold clothes before. To this day I'm not entirely sure why the woman hired me--oh wait, because she as semi-desperate and because she has a knack for hiring people who will take on her work for her. Of course, that went great--I was really amazing at that job, and had things gone differently I might still be working for that company.

Unfortunately, they passed me over for a promotion twice, and in a fit of pique I applied at the store across the aisle from us. I wasn't expecting to get a call for an interview for an assistant manager position. Once I did, I certainly wasn't expecting to be hired. And once I was offered the job, I was once again ridiculously nervous. None of it was beyond me, but I was afraid I'd fail. And that's what it all boils down to: like everybody else in the world, I hate to fail. I've failed at enough things in my life, why add to the pile?

Of course, that's a very pessimistic view, and would keep me from ever doing anything. I realized that a few years ago, and some of the decisions I've made have been specifically so that I don't let fear of failure ruin my life. And this needs to be another of them. I haven't figured out yet how much I want to be paid, but I have a list of ideas to sit down and talk to her about, and then I may have a freelance social marketing gig.