Author Archives: disastergirlchronicles

Jan16

San Diego, Why do you hate me? (Why I am afraid to go stalk Nathan Fillion at ComicCon)

Posted on by
Standard

It was a beautiful October Sunday in San Diego. I should have been sitting outside somewhere, sipping a margarita and exposing my pasty, pale, East-Coast skin to the abundant sunshine, but here I was, lying on a backboard in a San Diego ER. I’d been in the city for less than 24 hours. Dammit!! WTH, San Diego?!

You see, San Diego and I had a history. More specifically, the San Diego convention center and I had a history. It wasn’t good.

It all started with a boss. A bad boss. A bully boss. Let’s call her…Millicent.

About 10 years ago, I took a job as a reporter on the staff of a health association magazine. It was not a pleasant experience. Millicent–managing editor and my new boss–and I were hired at the same time. And Millicent was on a mission. She was determined to put her personal stamp on the magazine, which evidently required stamping my ass. I was just WRONG. All the time.

For instance, “You know, when you came on board, “Arthur” (our big boss) and I thought you were going to be really good—maybe even give T (a great writer and longtime magazine staffer—still a friend—who was “unstampable”) a run for her money—but you’re just not. You know, sometimes I just really question your ability. There’s something missing.”

Wow, thanks. That was so helpful.

That’s what it was like. Every. Single. Day. I don’t respond well to bullying. Who does?  So I became kind of paralyzed. I was suddenly unsure of every story.  Was my reporting thorough enough? Was it well written? Who knows? My writing became–how shall I say this–constipated.

Fast forward eight months. The annual association meeting was in San Diego. Millicent was still wretched, but hey, I was going to San Diego!! I’d always wanted to go, and even though I was going during the “June gloom,” when the city is often cloudy and misty, it was going to be great.

Not so much.

20,000 attendees and 1000s of sessions, and I need to pick the best sessions. I actually didn’t do too bad. But then there was the editorial board meeting. This was an annual meeting with all the subject-matter experts who officially oversaw magazine content.

Arthur started the meeting with an introduction of the magazine’s two new staffers. It went something like this: This is our new editor Millicent, who has just been amazing and is doing a wonderful, wonderful job…And this is Laurie.

Um, thanks?

Then a board member suddenly blurted out his disdain for a recent research short–editorially approved– I’d written for the magazine. It was not news (um, new study, dude!) Everybody already knew all about it! How could I be so stupid (OK, that part was subtext, but barely).

My editors: silence.

Me: swinging in the wind

Deep breath. Deeeep breath…..

Silently boiling.

My interior monologue: Don’t. Walk. Out. Do not get out of this chair and book the next flight. If you leave now, they’ll make you pay for the flight and probably everything else. They’ll fire you.

So I stayed. They fired me anyway. Right after I got back and wrote up those sessions.

It was actually kind of a relief. My experience at the conference wasn’t the worst thing ever—it was just enough. And it wasn’t San Diego’s fault, but I can’t help scowling when I think about that time.

So, October 2007. Two jobs later and another convention in San Diego. Great! It would be sunny and warm and all I had to do was go to some interesting sessions and “share with the class” when I got back.

Lunchtime, Sunday. Right before the opening address. I was walking downstairs with some fellow attendees I’d been chatting with. And then halfway down, for reasons that still aren’t clear—my ankles that always turn over or my shoes or the stairs themselves or?—I fell. Spectacularly.

Now, I have a tendency to fall, and I usually fall “well.” I’ve somersaulted out of falls, strategically moved my purse to cushion my head with just seconds to go, launched my falling body away from concrete to grass, but this just happened too quickly. Yet somehow quite slowly. Ohhh…nooo…really f-d..up…this…time…going…to…break…neck…and…die.

I didn’t. But I did land on my ass five steps down, turned around and twisted over so that the right side of my face was resting on the LEFT handrail. How I got into that position? It’s a mystery.

So I was kind of discombobulated. Shaken, if you will. Coherent, but freaked out. And the first aid guy thought I should probably go to the hospital.

So, that’s how I ended up in the ER. Per protocol first aid guy procured an ambulance. The EMTs guilted (and scared) me into getting on a backboard (almost more painful than my injuries) and there I was, desperately waiting for someone to get me out of that fricking neck brace.

Diagnosis: whiplash. Prescription: ibuprofen, muscle relaxants and Vicodin.

It wasn’t all bad. I got to attend sessions till I punked out–usually midday. At lunch outside and spent my afternoons recuperating, propped up in bed at the Hard Rock Hotel (long story).

But I did have to do months of physical therapy and I still have a tendency to injure those muscles. Still, it’s a great story—in a disastergirl kind of way.

So, you can see why I might think that San Diego + me = bad things. And it’s a real problem. I’ve wanted to go to ComicCon for years, but you do know where it is, right?  And dammit, I have people (Nathan Fillion, the cast of The Walking Dead, and again, Nathan Fillion) to stalk and television-cast panels to attend, dammit.

And yet.

Frankly I’m a bit scared—what would happen? It could be something absolutely horrifying or embarrassing that would inevitably happen in the vicinity of Nathan, who is my maddest of crushes or Joss Whedon, who is well, you know, Joss Whedon. (Does Joss Whedon even go to ComicCon? I don’t know, CAUSE SAN DIEGO FREAKING SCARES ME).

But I want to dress up like the Evil Queen/Regina from “Once Upon a Time” (killer jackets and kick-ass boots) and absolutely molest a certain “devilishly handsome” cast member.

So what the hell. Third time’s the charm?

I’m coming for you, Captain Hook. You too, Nathan.

 

Oct29

Google Glass: Aren’t we already living in our own private Idahos?

Posted on by
Standard

I admit to being a bit flummoxed by Google Glass.

For those of you who have somehow avoided hearing about it or aren’t quite sure what it is, Google Glass—still officially in testing and available only by invitation—is a wearable computer system for your face. Glasses, to be specific. Glasses that display data like smartphone devices and respond to voice commands.

On the one hand, it sounds like the glasses could have really amazing and important applications, like allowing ER physicians to act almost instantaneously because patients’ vital signs are always within their field of vision or…actually that’s the only proposed application that I could find which actually sounds important.

But you can also take pictures! Or stream the news in your face!

On the other hand, it’s sheer lunacy.

OK, maybe that’s overstating it a bit, but think about it. Sure, tweeting, updating Facebook, posting to Instagram, etc. would be effortless. But eventually your friends will unfriend and unfollow you to escape your life, overexamined:

The Tweets: “Ugh. Alarm just went off. Screw it—I’m hitting snooze” (OK, so maybe you won’t actually sleep in your glasses) or “Score! At CVS—Tampax on sale!”

The Facebook updates: “Finally finished my quarterly report—look at these awesome charts I made!” or “I’m at the appliance store looking for a washer and I can’t decide: should I go for a top or front loader? Because I’d really like to stack the washer and dryer, but top loaders are awfully expensive and what if I need to add a piece of laundry I forgot? Wouldn’t that, like, flood the room? What do you guys think?”

Instagram: Before and after photos of your mowed lawn. Or a close up at the gym of that new (miniscule) muscle definition.

Don’t even get me started about Vine.

And what about the possibility of accidental, embarrassing Tweets? Like, “Dammit! I am out of toilet paper. Why don’t Americans have bidets?!” or “I think I need a mental health day. I better call in now, while my voice is still sleep-scratchy so I sound sick.” (OK, this presupposes that your boss has access to your Twitter feed, but you know…)

Then there are the accidents. You know–pedestrians get hit by cars because they’re too busy listening to music/texting/looking at the Internet to pay attention? With Google glasses they could be looking straight at the car and not see it because of all the stuff in their field of vision. Have you seen those bumper stickers that say, “I Brake for White Canes’’ (As opposed to what? Speeding up?)? They could make ones that say “I break for Google glasses,” but will drivers really be able to tell who is wearing them?

As a pedestrian, I would be a hazard to other pedestrians. And possibly parked cars.

And you know people would totally drive wearing the glasses.

Who knows if Google Glass will become a must have accessory? Technology is developing so fast that it’s hard to imagine what’s next. I’m just creeped out by the vision of a population of over-sharing virtual hermits.

Plus the glasses are hideous.

Jan31

To Live or Not to Live in the District: No Question

Posted on by
Standard

I read with amusement a post on Slate which noted that the Presidential motorcade now carries the District of Columbia’s “Taxation Without Representation” license plates. For those who aren’t familiar with the issue, because the District of Columbia is not a state, it has no voting representatives in Congress, and thus no say in much of the policy making that goes on within its very own borders.

Or as I like to call it, Reason no. 457 that I live in Alexandria, and not the District.


For those of you aren’t familiar with the area, Alexandria is one of the cities in Virginia that, along with others in Maryland, make up the larger DC metro area. I moved to Alexandria 20 years ago today. Here are some of the things that convinced me that while the District is a nice place to visit, I wouldn’t want to live there:


The burglar-bar effect—When I was planning to move to the area, I started scanning the paper (yes, I am that old) for “roommate wanted” ads. Although my job was located in Arlington, Virginia, I thought it might be cool to live in the District itself. But then I started seeing burglar bars listed as a selling point and I thought, ehh, I know this is an urban area, but maybe somewhere else would make me feel more secure? It’s not as if no one in Alexandria has burglar bars—I have them on my basement windows because the glass is so old and crappy—they’re just not an essential item for most residences.


The “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” factor—Emergency services in the District can sometimes be…unreliable. No answer at 911, slow response, emergency teams responding to medical emergencies but arriving at the wrong place and then just turning around. I’m not disparaging first responders, but these things happen often enough to make me uncomfortable with the system. Alexandria isn’t perfect, but I can say that when I called about a teenage girl who collapsed while partying across the street from my house (around a Reliant K car?!!), the police (followed by an ambulance) arrived as I was hanging up the phone. Now that’s what I call service.


Marion Barry syndrome—Who could forget Marion “the bitch set me up” Barry? Caught on tape while smoking crack, this (still) incredibly popular four-term mayor and current DC council member is the most colorful—and memorable—example of the corruption that has plagued the city’s government for decades.  


Rats. Sooo many rats—Enough said.


I’m just not hip enough—I recently read an article about how super-fun-incredible-cool the District is. The jobs! The sexy singles! According to the article, you can tell which neighborhoods are full of hot young things by looking at the shelves at the local CVS, which are filled—just filled—with Pedialyte (for those epic hangovers) and condoms (for, well, you know). My local CVS is full of vitamins and anti-aging beauty products.


Terminally un-hip or not, I’m happy with my choice. I’ll let you know how the next 20 years goes.

Jan30

Why do dogs hate computers?

Posted on by
Standard

My boss dog, Cara Mia, won’t stop barking at me. She hates it when I get on the computer. It starts with a soft grring. Then comes the paw stomping. Finally, the sharp, full-throated “woooof!”


Is she feeling neglected? Perhaps she just wants my undivided attention? 


Here’s the thing. She doesn’t seem to care what I do—as long it’s not on the computer.


Reading a book? Engrossed in TV? Having an animated phone conversation? Meh.


It’s just the computer.

And she’s not the only dog of my acquaintance to feel this way. My beloved, but departed dog, Houdini—who would otherwise sit on the other end of the couch, back turned to me—would suddenly feel the need to interfere if I spent more than a few minutes on the computer. Physically interfere. I once lost an “s” key due to a swipe of the paw. My parents’ dog, Sterling, likes to actually block the keyboard with his body—usually his head. I’ve heard similar tales from friends.

So, I wondered: what is it with dogs and computers? Are they disturbed by the strange, slightly blue glow? Agitated by the almost-imperceptible-but-vaguely-sinister humming? Or are they like little, furry old people—confused and slightly irritated by this newfangled technology?


Perhaps. But I think that there may be deeper issues involved. I recently came across a recent British study that claims that people now rely on their computers far more than their dogs, and that in fact, computers have replaced dogs as man’s best friend.


Think about it—our laptops/iPhones/iPads go everywhere, while our dogs are stuck at home. We buy our gadgets fancy “clothes,” take them to dinner and to bed—what are our dogs supposed to think?

So I guess I owe Cara Mia an apology. Or a computer of her own….
Jan16

Psychologists Say That Emotions Affect Weight: Millions of Women Say, Duh!!

Posted on by
Standard

So, the other day I was browsing health headlines, as I do—because in my other life I am a struggling freelance health and medical writer—and I came across this: Poll of Psychologists Cites Emotions As Top Obstacle to Weight Loss.

 Well, let me just put down my pint of Ben and Jerry’s. You mean millions of us, while sad, mad, listening to Adele, or even celebrating, may over indulge?

C’est vrais. (translation: “it is true”—I like to pretend I am fluent in French).

 This survey of psychologists who work with weight loss issues says that “understanding and managing the behaviors and emotions related to weight management,” are essential to long term dieting success.

 We know, we know! But does it really help? Case in point:

This past summer, spurred by a flea/dust mite crisis, I did a massive housecleaning. I’m not a hoarder (really!), I just have a lot of clutter. Who knew I had so much stuff (and dust)? I hefted boxes and bags up and down the stairs, out to the trash, etc. And I started to lose a significant amount of weight. Great! I needed to lose, in order to get back to a healthy BMI, but also because I am vain.

However, this healthy move was offset by an incredible craving for sweets. I tried to keep them out of the house, but to my embarrassment, despite my years of ranting about high-fructose corn syrup, I became a regular at the McDonald’s drive-thru.

 So do I know what emotions may have been playing a role in this sugar crisis? Um, yeah. I think it went a bit like this:

[Sob,sob.] Damn it, my dog is dead, but these fricking fleas (I always gave Houdini flea prevention-these were super fleas) are still here! [ragged breath]

And-now-they’re-attacking-me-and-my-dust-mites-are-making-me-feel-like Miss Havisham-and-I’m-not, I’m-not, and-also-I-don’t-have-any-money-so-I-can’t-fix-my-house-up, including-my-crazy-ass-slightly-crooked-and-cracking-front-walk-and-I-just-know-that-the-neighbors-and-passersby-are-pointing-and-judging. [sniffle, deep breath in]



Or something like that….


 Psychologists say that treatment with techniques such as cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) can help (Therapy! But I’m already in therapy.)

 Seriously, though. There are some truly traumatic experiences—such
as being abused or a survivor of violent crime—that can lead to overeating. Body image, stress, depression or just life can also get in the way. So therapy is nothing to scoff at.

 It’s good to hear the message that’s it’s not just about self-control. But I’d like to hear a little bit more about societal factors that contribute to poor body image and self-punishing overeating. Like the omnipresent messages that tell women they should all look like this:



 
  To quote a friend of mine: “I’m just sayin’”

Sep11

9 Years Ago Today….

Posted on by
Standard

…I was sitting on my stoop, relaxing and drinking coffee as Houdini played in the yard. It was peaceful–the neighborhood was in weekday-quiet mode and rush hour on route 1 was beginning to slow. I lingered under that perfect blue sky, not yet knowing that September 11, 2001 had irrevocably become “9/11.”

Much has and will continue to be written about that day. I won’t pretend to have any particularly profound observations to make. But today, nine years later, these are my thoughts:


It’s another clear blue day–pleasant but no match for that cerulean blue I can still see in my mind’s eye. (I’m sure that the character of that sky–it’s shade and brilliance–has been embellished in my mind by time, but that’s how I remember it.) I am again on the stoop, drinking coffee. But where is the peace? All is noise. Yard tools are wielded. Traffic whizzes by, drivers on their way to…?

Yet on this morning, this 9/11, it somehow fits. I am reminded that despite all those we have lost–and continue to lose–time moves on. We move on.

Because I can see something else from my perch. Neighbors returning from the farmers’ market. Dogs walking their people (don’t kid yourself, it’s true). Bicycles passing.

And me? I skip down the steps to talk to a friend from two doors down as she passes by with her daughter, on the way to the park.

Because although clear blue Tuesdays in September still give me pause–the Apocalypse has not come.

Yes, Bin Laden is still in his cave. The “War on Terror” still rages. Al Qaeda cells continue to pop up everywhere, like mushrooms in shit. But we’re still here .

Can there be any better memorial than that?

Jul19

This is 40: Or How I Spent My (Incredibly Long) Summer Vacation

Posted on by
Standard

On July 31, 2009—29 days before my 40th birthday—I walked away from my job. Period. No new job lined up, no clear idea of what to do next and only the flimsiest of plans for supporting myself. Just a need to step off the ledge—not to go “splat,” but as a leap of faith. I could see it in my mind’s eye—the wind in my hair, arms wide open. Freedom.

I had been depressed for 5 years. 5.

And I had had it.


“This is 40,” Bono would announce every morning in the months leading up to my birthday (I had chosen to wake up to the live version of the song “40” on my iPod).

Yes. This IS 40. And what was 40 going to be? What was the rest of my life going to be? A series of crippling bouts of the depression that had gutted my ability to write, left me unable to enjoy a good glass of wine or much of anything else and made me so apathetic that I settled for a view from 15 feet away instead of PUSHING MY WAY TO THE FRONT OF THE CATWALK AT THE U2 show?

Eff that.

40 would be remission. The rest of my life would, hopefully, be mostly whatever I wanted it to be. There would be ups and downs, and probably a few minor bouts of depression (it’s a lifelong illness), but I refused to be paralyzed anymore. I wasn’t going to stay in a job that was supposed to help me recover, but had ground me down instead. Screw the Puritan work ethic.

So I walked away. It was either that or lose my shit and be locked up for murder OR end up in the hospital. Even money on whether it would be the cardiac or the psych ward.

I gave myself the month of August “off”–a birthday present to myself and the first step in my recovery plan. I figured by September, I’d be posting to my new health blog and working towards some perfect new job opportunity. Which would come along in just a few months. And I’d be all better!

Ha! said my brain. I have my OWN time line. My body agreed.

It was kind of like being in psychological traction.

This is an analogy that has only recently occurred to me. My descriptive powers had left the building. So I had a hard time explaining to people why sending one email could wipe me out for the rest of the day. Or how I could really only leave the house to get the necessities: drugs (prescription!), books and food. It wasn’t agoraphobia or laziness. I just had no energy. At all. Really. People were sympathetic and nobody close to me really pushed, but they were puzzled and concerned. And my brain was so scrambled that I once found myself trying to explain it to my dad this way:

“Imagine that you have a broken leg and a sprained wrist, with your arm in a sling on one side of your body…no wait, wait, I mean that your arm is on the OPPOSITE side of your body, like your crutch arm right? So you can’t really use a crutch because of the sling and stuff and I guess you could hop on your good leg, but then you couldn’t balance….Anyway, it’s technically possible to move, but not really?”

I think the best analogy might be the sense of profound fatigue that chemotherapy patients often describe. I wouldn’t presume to know what it’s like to go through chemo, but what I’ve heard about the energy drain resonates. Actually, the whole idea of depression as a cancer of the soul resonates. But that’s a topic for another time…

However you describe it, it often took all my strength to get out for an integral part of my treatment: therapy and contact with friends.

The essential power of cupcakes, really bubbly bubble baths, re-watching all of the past seasons of “Lost,” and sitting out in the sun with Houdini (indeed any time with Houdini) also cannot be discounted.

All of it inextricably intertwined with time. Time to rest, to heal. A clock I could not set.

So here I am, almost one year later. This is the first time I have found it in me to sit down and really write. Recovery is ongoing. A return to the work world (temping) is imminent. But I think I may yet have a few more thoughts about the year that was “40.” A short series of posts, perhaps. So stay tuned.

40 has been nothing like what I pictured at 20, 30 or even 35. But I think it was exactly what I needed.

Jan8

Et tu pater?

Posted on by
Standard

So I’m talking to my dad on the phone recently, and sans seqway he says, “did you see…what’s, he’s name, Dr. Goo, Gu…” (my dad is not good with languages).


“Dr. Gupta?” I say.

“Yeah, he was on Good Morning America talking about how two glasses of wine or more for women can cause problems.”

And I say, “Yes, I’m familiar with the research [hello, I’m a health writer!], and actually it’s interesting how different news outlets chose to present the research—alcohol BAD (irregular heartbeat risk with too much wine!) or alcohol OK (light drinking poses no heart risk to women).”

Besides, I don’t make a habit of drinking more than two glasses a wine a night. I won’t say I’ve never had more than two at a sitting, but it’s not common…”

“Still, it’s something to think about,” Dad says.

What I don’t say is this: “Oh, Dad, not you too!!”

You see, for years, my mom has waged a not so subtle war against wine. My wine. To be fair, Mom has reason to be cautious about alcohol. My grandfather and at least three of his six siblings were alcoholics. So Mom has seen the havoc it can wreak. We even did a little two-person intervention with my grandfather once. So, I get it.


But biology doesn’t have to be destiny, Mom! I didn’t even start drinking until I was 19, remember? I was a band geek! In my early college years, instead of going to keggers I played Pictionary!

And even when I started drinking, it was pretty tame. Instead of swigging Mad Dog , I slummed by sipping from jugs of three-dollar Gallo Chablis (future wine snob alert). And drinking some concoction served from a garbage can? What is that about? Grain alcohol? Do I look like I want to go blind?

Granted, I did eventually discover shots of tequila. And that did lead to an unfortunate incident in which I induced a friend to do a shot of tequila after sharing a bottle of wine, causing her to vomit in the middle of a crowded bar. But hey, I did NOT tell her to drink the unsolicited spearmint schnapps shots presented to us by some random dude. And she is totally a barfer.

And we were also 23.

I mean really, Mom doesn’t regularly drink, but alcohol has passed her lips without undue incident.

As for me, I don’t drink when I’m depressed, don’t drink much during the week, don’t have a history of blacking out or even drunk-dialing, and when I drink too much, I end up on the floor, not some alley somewhere. And yes, red wine gives me migraines sometimes, but what is life without risk?

But Mom still comes up with not so subtle anti-wine/alcohol messages like these:

“You’d probably lose weight if you cut out the wine. You know alcohol really does have a lot of calories.”
“Drinking wine [any! at all! being the subtext] really raises your risk for breast cancer.”
“Wine-tasting [a hobby of mine] is linked to nose cancer. [OK, I made that one up].

But what set Dad off? He’s never made a fuss about my wine drinking – only smirked and offered some of his Reunite when I visit.

Could it have been all the empty wine bottles in my outside recycle bin? The recycle bin that I haven’t moved in 6 months? Or maybe it was that empty bottle or two on the dining room table? Those have been there forever!! I lost track of them among all the other crap on my table!

Today I noticed an empty bottle under the table. I’m fairly certain Houdini placed it there in an attempt to gaslight me.

Seriously, I like my wine. A lot. But I believe in moderation. In fact, the real substance abuse problem they should be worried about? My sugar habit! I’ve known for a long time that I liked dessert just a little too much. But I’ve been in denial about the true extent.

Until a visit with a hospital “health educator.”

I was in the ER in San Diego after my spectacular fall down the stairs of the convention center. They had checked me out and while I was waiting to be released, they sent in a “health educator”—just a little something they’ve started doing. Right. As my friend Priscilla pointed out, they had probably me tagged me as a drunk because I fell [I’d just like to point out that I have been stone cold sober for the majority of my falls.]. Sorry guys, I’m just a spazz.

But, as they gave me the “do you have an alcohol problem” quiz, I couldn’t help but think of sugar…..

Have you ever felt you should cut down on your drinking sugar? I once ate an entire bag of candy corn in one sitting. And it wasn’t even good candy corn. So, what do you think?

How often during the last year have you found that you were not able to stop eating dessert drinking once you had started? I’m virtually unable to sit down with a pint of ice cream and not eat all of it. So, the answer would be a lot.

Have you ever felt remorse after indulging drinking? As a child, I used to steal some of the really good candy from my YOUNGER sister’s trick-or-treat stash. I was like, 10 and she was 5. It doesn’t get any lower than that.

Is there such a thing as “sugar” rehab?

Jan5

Sometimes I miss my office

Posted on by
Standard

Who am I kidding? I ALWAYS miss my office.

Late last April, I left a reporting job I’d been at for almost 3 years. It was my first—and most likely only—job with an office.

And it was great. Who wouldn’t happily abandon cubicle-land for their own office? I had a window. With a view of….the side of Union Station!! Woo hoo! And if I squished the left side of my face up to the window and craned my neck, I could look up First Street and see the Capitol dome. Or, closer by, the every-other-week convergence of emergency vehicles for yet another unattended package in the train station. And who could forget the summer of striking, chanting, workers and their giant inflatable rat?

Bnd it wasn’t just the view. I could hang some nice pictures, turn my music up pretty loud (actually I sometimes used to do this in cubicles too), put my feet up on my desk, and shop online without looking over my shoulder. In short, I had a DOOR. Pretty damn handy. Because even in at a company with a “nap room” and all sorts of wellness programs, lying down on the floor to meditate (and no that’s not a euphemism for sleep) in a cubicle is pretty awkward.

The office was also a place to let out the crazy. And that was part of the problem, really. Not so much the office itself, but my state of mind.

When I came to that job I was fleeing a really bad place. A really really bad place. For eight months, my boss made it her mission in life to tell me all the ways in which I sucked. So, I was feeling kinda…shaky. My former editor didn’t like to edit. So I obsessed over my choice of words. The thing is, when you’re so afraid of the wrong words, eventually the right ones don’t come either. My writing became, to put it not-so-delicately, constipated. And at my new job I started experiencing this really weird form of post-bullying-PTSD. As I nervously began to learn the ropes, I half expected someone to burst through my brand new office door and point their finger, “j’accuse-style,” shouting, “IMPOSTER! You are obviously not a reporter! Or a writer! Go now—and hang your head in shame!”

They didn’t, obviously. But you get the idea.

I started having trouble with deadlines. I’d always been a procrastinator, but I’d also made my deadlines. And my copy was good. But suddenly it became a struggle.

Ah, Depression, my old friend. Come in. Shut the (office) door behind you.

But I had a good boss. And I was working my way through my issues.

Then we got a new boss. And everything started to slide again.

Our new boss was…mercurial, is the best way to put it, I guess. Suddenly everything had to change, RIGHT NOW. And then it had to change AGAIN, right now. Deadlines? Deadlines were random, moving targets.

My office had now become my Fortress of Freakitude. As in my place to go to freak out, rant, rave and just generally break down. Whispered bitch-sessions with co-workers. Frantic calls to my therapist. Breaking out the Valium. It was ON, bitches.

I would (yet again) kick depression’s ass. I would meet my deadlines. But it wasn’t enough. Not for this boss.

And so I hid again, trying not to be accused of, among other things, talking too much. Which led to ridiculous email exchanges like this one, with my friend and co-worker, Amy.

ME: “Wanna go over to McDonald’s to see if they have Shamrock shakes?!”

AMY: “OMG! I’ve been thinking about that exact thing all day.”

ME: “OK. But I can’t risk being seen on your end of the hall. And you probably shouldn’t be seen down here….”

AMY: “Meet by the elevators again?”

ME: “See you in 2 minutes.”

Skulking about for a Shamrock shake? Is this really what it had come to?

I was all but recovered. In fact, the only barrier to my mental health was my job. In a continuation of the (somewhat disturbing) trend of music from Grey’s Anatomy as soundtrack of my life, I couldn’t get, “This is your life. Are you who you want to be?” out of my mind.

So in the end, the office had to go. My view, my door, my work (which I really loved), my always interesting interviews—none of it was enough.

I’m back in a cubicle. I work in a suburban office park, so the view, if I had one, would be less than thrilling. No door, virtually no privacy.

No breakdowns.

And the right words? I think they’re back….