Its not even the weekend, but I'm already mentally exhausted from all that's been going on this past 4 days. 2 days of night shifts waiting tables from 6pm to 11pm that leaves me with aching feet and a sore back, as well as strained eyes from staring at the screen while I play endlessly with the random data from my dataset for URECA, feelings of frustration and impatience at how URECA doesn't seem to be ending but taking its own sweet time busking under the sun and testing me. 

I've stayed over at Lakeside the past few nights due to the need to commute to school and to my shift work at restaurant and I think I'm slowly slowly starting to get used to living alone, which has been a bit of a difficulty because of my eating problems. I'm still in recovery but I can say that I'm making some progress. I was on the train earlier this evening and happened to look down at my arm and saw the many long thin horizontal scars a slight shade darker than my skin tone and I was brought back to that god awful moment when I made those 10 odd cuts on my arm and thinking that I was just going to get ready to die. I'm not sure if you know understand this, but seeing evidence of you depressive, self-cutting state and thinking of how far you've come from that moment is actually quite emotional. Now that I'm able to process the situation in a more rational and calm mind, I really have to marvel at how depressed I was to actually have cut myself every week and thinking about death everyday. Then I ask myself "oh my god, I really did cut myself til I bled and left many scars on my arm, and was depressed to point of even staring at the bottle of bleach?!" 

I know. I'm carefree and spirited on the outside with opinions as firm as a bulldozer. I'm passionate about women's issues and fight for them. How strange is it that the person on the inside is so different from the one on the outside - are they really the same person? This idea brings me back to my summer acting classes in UCLA when I played Matilde, the Portuguese maid with a wondrous sense of humor who always makes everyone laugh, but deep down inside, bears heartbreaking secrets that leaves her depressed and anxious, and longing for love and acceptance. 

I guess we all have our own skeletons in our closet that we need to keep, because ironically, they're the things that keep us from breaking and falling apart. 

Anyhow, its good to be back home, even though I've been away from only a few days. I miss the spaciousness of my home (i'm sorry but the apartment in Lakeside is....small. I need to walk around my house!), easy access to food(this is for recovery's sake), my elliptical machine, my bed and most importantly, my baby Bobby. Some schmuck wrote a column in the paper last week about how he abhors people who speak to their pets in babytalk (guilty), such as calling their pets their baby or their children and says doing so trivializes parenting. I mean, hello, what the fuck does he know?! Are you telling me that animals don't deserve to be loved and cared for and pampered the same way parents treat babies? What so wrong about pet owners wanting their pets to feel loved and cared for? This guy is ker-razy, that's all I'm saying. 

So yes. Its been a long mentally tiring week. Shall go into details another time. I'm just so exhausted. I can barely even find the strength to get up, walk to the washroom to rinse off my face mask because all I want to do right now is lie on my bed and sleep next to my baby. My to-do list shall be 
consulted again tomorrow afternoon. Meanwhile. I bid the world adieu.