I’m 5’2″ and have what my friends and family call a Napoleon complex. I am a loud and heavy walker, have a large personal bubble and somehow will still manage to kick you out of a king bed. I don’t take up a lot of physical space in this world but I certainly try.

Being short has its drawbacks. It sucks at concerts and other events where people are standing and I can’t see past them. People often don’t notice me because I’m out of their sight range and will bump into me and step on me. You probably are scoffing at this statement but it’s true. You are guilty of it. My height sometimes makes me feel invisible.

Despite that, I like being short. I like that I can date whomever and still feel small. I like that I can squeeze into tight spaces and can easily maneuver a crowd. The chances of my hitting my head on a hanging tree branch are pretty slim. I’m used to everyone being taller than me; I grew up with a brother a foot and a half taller than me so I barely even notice if someone towers over me. But if someone shorter than me is nearby, it freaks me out.

Yes, I’m scared of people shorter than me. I’m also scared of heights, if that makes me seem less weird.

I get made fun of a lot for how short I am. Roommates get a thrill over putting my stuff on the top shelf just to see me climb on the counters to get to it. Some friends like using me as an arm rest. I’m used to it. A new thing that has been brought to my attention is my love for large animals. I often babysit my friend’s Great Dane, a 150 lb monster who is definitely bigger than me. In fact, any large fluffy dog will cause me to melt into a cute-overloaded puddle.

It doesn’t stop there. The bigger the animal is, the more I will love it to pieces. On Saturday B and I went to the aquarium. One of the attractions was this beautiful tiger that you were able to get pretty up close and personal with. When I was looking into this tigers eyes there was no fear, just ohmygod you are so cute I want to cuddle you right now.

If I ever go on a safari, remind my guide to never let me leave the safety of the truck. My survival instincts around large predators seem to be grossly out of line with, say, a normal persons. After all, one of my life goals us to hug a panda. And pet a tiger. Both of which I’m pretty sure will result in my death.

I just have no fear of large animals. Cocker spaniels? Make me nervous. Elephants? I WANT ONE.

Totally normal right?

Or is it just another part of my Napoleon complex?

I’ve decided to create my own program. Couch to 10K. Only it doesn’t involve any combination of running and walking, just running, and you only have two and a half weeks before you run that 10k.

I’m not seeing many of you signing up for this program. Hmm…I guess I’ll be the only one.

I signed up for the Bolder Boulder, as you might have read. It’s on Memorial Day which is two weeks from tomorrow. The boy, we’ll call him B, somehow convinced me. I think his dimples played heavily into the successful convincing. I am a sucker for dimples after all. Blinded by these dimples, I don’t think I realized just exactly what I was signing up for. Do you know what a 10k is?

6.2 miles.

I have not run more than two miles in the past three and a half years. I used to run the six mile loop in Central Park–and when I say run six miles, I mean I walked some of that. I don’t know if I have ever, in my life, run six straight miles.

Yet in two weeks that’s exactly what I’m doing.

Last Thursday I started the training by doing a two mile loop near my apartment that I’ve done before. By mile .5 (that’s half a mile, folks) I couldn’t breathe and was in pain. Altitude is painful to run in when you’ve only run at sea level. My body was all WHERE THE HELL IS THE OXYGEN AND WHY AREN’T YOU GIVING IT TO ME? But I managed to pull through and nearly ran the entire two miles, only stopping once to take a picture of some epic clouds (and catch whatever breathe I could get). I was feeling pretty good about myself after that run, feeling like I could take on the Bolder Boulder and be victorious.

I was pretty sore though and took the weekend off from running because my muscles were on fire and I didn’t want to hurt myself. It also may have been the last weekend before B took off to Florida for two weeks and we spent it making delicious food (salmon with mushrooms, spinach and tomatoes, eggs in red pepper, and a shrimp and pineapple green curry, just in case you were wondering), going to the aquarium and relaxing. We did take a three mile walk but no run was logged.

Tonight I decided to conquer my next run. I wanted to run at least 2.5 miles and figured out a route I could take that would give me just over that. The first mile I rocked, beating my first run’s mile time of 11.8 minutes by 30 seconds. But then mile two started and I lost momentum. I was walking more than I was running and every step I was feeling throughout my entire body. My lungs were better off this run, but my body was not.

I was feeling a little defeated, I’m not going to lie. I was like what the hell did I get myself into? Here I am, at mile 1.33 and I can barely do this. I’m doing worse than my last run. How am I going to do 6 miles of this? But then I reached the 1.6 mile mark and I decided to get over myself and I pushed myself hard to keep running. And I did it. I ran the last 1.2 miles without stopping, even with my aching muscles. I literally felt every painful step and I threw myself into that ice cold shower with my clothes practically still on.

I have a long way to go. I’m not even able to run half of a 10k right now but somehow I’m going to do this. I have no other choice. I’m running with B who has a mile time of 6 and change. Mine is about 11 minutes, nearly double his.

I have some work to do.

There’s no going back now. The $50 has been sent in, the tshirt is on it’s way and this girl who hasn’t ran ymore than two miles in the past three years is going to be running 6.2 painful miles.

Physically, I know I could do it. I’ve done it before…at sea level. Now I live in Boulder, over a mile above sea level. That’s 5,430 feet for those of you who are keeping track. Altitude means business and it has kicked my ass in the past–namely the death like feeling of altitude sickness when I was at 10,000 feet in Breckinridge. I may have lived here for nearly two and a half years and while I haven’t had any issues with the altitude on a day to day basis, my lungs were on fire the last two times I tried running. That’s what worries me about this race. Especially since I’m running with a pretty decent runner.

Basically, I’m freaking out ever so slightly.

Am I crazy? Have I completely lost my mind? It’s very possible. But running a 5k is on my bucket list. Who cares that I decided to double that and give myself less than three weeks to train? Sure, I probably won’t be able to walk (or breathe) for a week after, but I’m going to do it.

Go big or go home, right? Right.

So on May 28th, 2012, I will be running the Bolder Boulder, my first 10k and most likely in costume. Let the crash course of training begin.

As in, I’m no longer a twenty-something. I’m no longer a twenty-something blogger. Did you know that I was like member 43? True story. I really am old!

Everyone has been asking me how it feels to be thirty. Honestly? It feels fantastic. It’s true, turning thirty has caused me to freak out a little bit but it hasn’t been the actual age thing–it’s never been about me getting old, a misconception that has come out from these freakouts. I just have a hard time believing I’m actually an adult. It still feels like I’m fresh out of college sometimes so the fact that my twenties are over is sometimes a little baffling. I’m not going to really miss my twenties, though. My thirties are going to be pretty spectacular, I do believe.

This year has been nothing short of awesome. I got a new job that doesn’t stress me out, I have rediscovered my social life, have design clients of my own and I am seeing a new boy that completely caught me off-guard and who makes me incredibly happy. Even my birthday weekend has me fully believing in the amazingness of this year.

My mom flew in thursday night for my birthday and the weekend was spent indulging. My birthday dinner was at Oak at Fourteenth and it was ahhh-mazing. Fried pickles…chicken with gnocchi and asparagus…and they even brought me out a root beer float complete with chocolate chip cookies, brownies, pretzels and ice cream in their home-made root beer. I MEAN. Let’s just say that the guy who got sorbet for his birthday at the table behind me was totally jealous. I completed the weekend with an early mother’s day brunch at Brasserie Ten Ten and a home cooked meal of spicy peach chicken with roasted asparagus.

And we haven’t even talked about the carrot cake with lemon cream cheese frosting that my bosses gave me.

Or the ten pounds I gained in New Orleans eating things like alligator cheesecake, soft shell crab po’boys and crawfish beignets.

Aside from eat, my mom and I went shopping for new clothes and vegetables, herbs and flowers for my backyard. I am hoping that her green thumb will trick the plants into living since I’m kind of notorious in my family for having a black thumb. I kill cacti. And drown fish in water but that’s neither here nor there.

I even got to spend some time with the boy this weekend and he somehow convinced me to run the Bolder Boulder. You know, a 10k race. That’s in three weeks. NO BIG DEAL. Have I mentioned I’ve never run in a race? How about the fact that I haven’t run in like three years?

Has anyone seen my common sense? I’ve appeared to have misplaced it.

If anything, I’m learning to embrace my crazy in my old age. I mean young age. I mean, oh hell. I’ve been bombarded with welcome to the old lady club all weekend, I don’t know what I am anymore. What I do know is that this year’s birthday was the first birthday in many, many, MANY birthdays (so many I can’t even remember) that I haven’t cried or been upset at any point during the day. I know you all know how big this is. At least if you are a girl. And I’m pretty sure like two guys read my blog so it’s safe to assume you ALL know what I’m talking about with the birthday emotions.

Thirty is a pretty major milestone in life. How many people pretend they are 29 year after year just so they don’t have to admit they are 30? In the month leading up to May 4th, I started wondering if I should keep up this tradition. I also started resenting those 30 before 30 lists. The world doesn’t end when you turn 30, you know? Those lists are stupid.

I might have been a little feisty over the fact that I never created one and still have a shit ton on my over-all life bucket list to do. (Two things: I really don’t think those lists are stupid. Ok, maybe just mildly stupid. And how much is a shit ton? Because I use that phrase a lot more than is probably acceptable in hip culture and I have no idea what it actually means.) 

The good news is that life doesn’t end at thirty and I still have a shit ton (there I go again…) of time in my life to accomplish my goals. In fact, I might just accomplish three or four of them later this year. So I’m going to embrace 30 and throw 29 out the window.

Yes, thirty can be scary to think about. There are expectations of both your own making and from those around you but I’m pretty sure the thirties are better than the twenties. So I’m going to go bask in that fact and enjoy myself because if the first half of this year is any indicator, this year is going to be epic.

I’ll also bask in the fact that the morning of my birthday, my first patient of the day tried guessing my age and pegged me at 20. I think I nearly killed her when I told her I was 30.

So it’s with full irony that I now own not one, but two gaming systems. At 30 it would seem I am having my second childhood thanks to Brand About Town and Nintendo who have hooked me up with a Wii and most recently, a Nintendo 3DS. I have played MarioKart and hula hooped on my Wii (as well as done far too much yoga that resembled Dance Dance Revolution according to my “center of balance” that the Wii Fit gave me during February’s Fitness Challenge.) and as soon as I got my 3DS Morgan commandeered it and now thinks that Face Raiders is the best game in the history of ever.

Mainly because there are a lot of really bad pictures of my face flying around on there that she can shoot at.

I have only one game on the 3DS right now, Super Mario Brothers, a game I actually did play at my friends’ houses growing up. I’m just as bad now as I was then. Actually, I take that back. I’m worse. Definitely. The amount of times I die within five seconds of starting is embarrassing. And kids master this! I can’t even get past the second level. I did once but then died immediately. I think I fell off a ledge or something, not even taken out by a spiky turtle or those damn owls.

I’m going to let you in on a little secret: I’m actually having fun with it. I have never been a video game person (they call those ‘gamers’ right?) and sure, a five year old can easily beat me at Super Mario, but at nearly 30 (nine days and counting, people) I am having fun playing video games. So thank you, Brand About Town and Nintendo for making me feel young again.

Disclaimer: Brand About Town sent me a Wii, Wii Fit Plus and the Nintendo 3DS all free of charge because they are awesome (and didn’t realize how badly I sucked at video games). My opinions, and my ability to turn yoga into Dance Dance Revolution, are my own. 

My weekend sort of started on Thursday evening when I headed over to my friend Chad’s to drink some beer, have some pizza and finish up a puzzle we started last weekend. It wasn’t terribly exciting but I really enjoy these low key, silly nights of “puzzling” and talking shit. Being here over two years I’ve finally have developed some strong, wonderful friendships and I’m enjoying this new stage in some of my relationships, this one with Chad included. You know, the comfortable, known each other for a while so we have the easy rapport that comes only with people you’ve known for a couple years. And when you start yelling at the puzzle pieces for not fitting, they give you shit but don’t really think you’re crazy.

At least I hope not.

Friday I spent relaxing at home, which was much needed after a busy week. I took a peaceful walk through my neighborhood right around sunset which helped ease my way out of the work week. It was a great start to my weekend and I had a busy Saturday as well so I needed to rest up for it.

The weekend officially started on the patio of Brasserie Ten Ten with bellinis and some amazing brunch fare with my friend and former coworker Margot. It was utter perfection. The sun was bright and warm, there were flowers blooming in the flower pots and the little scramble I had in it’s own dutch oven was divine. We ended our morning with a trip to Boulder’s first Farmer’s Market of the season. I rarely get that much there but I always enjoy the energy of the place and dreaming of the beautiful vegetables that are on display from the local farms, not knowing quite what I’d do with them.

Saturday evening I went out for dinner with a friend to The Pinyon which I was sad to learn today is shutting it’s doors for good. It’s some of the better food I’ve had in Boulder, last night’s meal no exception. There’s not much I like more than good food and great conversation and I certainly got that in abundance on Saturday. I capped the night with seeing Bela Fleck and the Flecktones at the Boulder Theater which was a really fun show. It was a late late night with an early morning hike this morning with my friend Donna and my exhaustion paid out with my passing out on the sofa this afternoon, something I rarely ever do.

I also spent quite a deal of time out in my backyard this afternoon getting some sun (and luckily not falling asleep and getting horribly burned!), watching an Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations marathon and topped off my Easter with a nice dinner with my friend and temporary roommate on the patio.

This whole weekend was entirely perfection and I wish it wasn’t over but I know this isn’t the last one. It’s been over a month since I’ve left my last job and I still can’t get over having my nights and weekends back. I love it. 

I hope you all had a lovely weekend! What did you do?

Well…I’m letting them go.

Sometimes I have a hard time with that concept of letting go. Specifically: letting go of control. I tend to want to control every little  detail of my life; I want to know how it’s going to turn out ahead of time, I want to make sure I influence the outcome as much as possible and to put it lightly, it can drive me crazy.

I should try that more often.

It spirals and spirals and spirals until I’ve freaked out about it as many times as a person can possibly freak out about something. It all ties right in with my anxiety issues and this path I take, not all that frequently luckily (Side note: I almost wrote freakwently. I MEAN, REALLY, FORMER ENGLISH MAJOR?), does not help my nerves at all.

Eventually, though, I take a step back and ask myself exactly what the fuck is going on and decide to stop freaking out about it because of the shear utter ridiculousness of it. I don’t have to control everything, I can just let things take the course they are meant to take. After writing that last post I had a good sit down with myself and was like, Look, self, you have been looking forward to entering your thirties the entire year. Why are you now freaking the fuck out about it? TAKE A CHILL PILL ALREADY. 

So I did. And SURPRISE! SURPRISE! I feel better about life. Funny how that happens. When you decide to let go.

Instead of freaking out more, I baked these incredibly delicious (and incredibly labor intensive) lemon raspberry cupcakes, went to a potluck in South South Denver and sat on my friend’s porch while the sun went down drinking beer and eating kabobs. And guess what? The world didn’t end because I wasn’t freaking out about it.

Part of me just wants to show up in a small little village and just live there. I mean, it sounds so romantic. So unrealistic, too. I’d most likely end up in Dublin, my sensible city-girl side of my brain would rationalize to myself, knowing that I’d probably cry a lot in a small town. But can’t you imagine it? The quaint little, very green, village with dirt roads and cows and people who have ridiculously awesome accents? Then that other side of my brain would start in on the well what would you do with all your furniture? And your car? AND WILL YOU STOP RUNNING AWAY FROM EVERYTHING ALREADY?

The thing is, I’m turning 30. I’m excited to get to that number, I’m really looking forward to this new decade but shit. Thirty. I haven’t done most of what I wanted to do by now, I’m not in the place I thought I would be and it’s causing me to have multiple life crisis’ a day.  You’ve heard it all before here on this ol’ bloggity blog that I like to ignore more often than not nowadays. I know that no one really is where they’d thought they’d be and that it’s ok that I’m not but oh, the expectations. The ones I place on myself, the ones my mother has that she harps me about every other day. It’s exhausting.

And enough to drive me crazy.

When I freak out about my life, I do what comes naturally–I run from it, or try to anyway. It’s not that I don’t enjoy moving, it’s why I do it, but I need to make this move, this huge, life-altering, going to another country move because it’s what I want, not just because my life isn’t going the way I want it to. I sure as hell won’t find what I’m looking for there, or anywhere, if I don’t find it first within me. Only then can I be happy. Or so I keep telling myself.

The itch to wander is there, though.  I’ve always wanted to live overseas and the location usually varies between Paris, Munich and Ireland. I keep putting it off and putting it off. At what point do I just do it already?

At the same time, I’m not ready to leave Boulder. I spent the weekend unplugged (meaning, I didn’t turn on my computer, my iPhone on the other hand…) and out in my backyard soaking in the gorgeous 84 degree weather we had both days. I drank beer and did a surprisingly hard puzzle with my friend Chad, started rereading the Harry Potter series and finished the first book under the sun. I managed to sunburn only one arm while on a hike in South Boulder and even had my first paid design consultation on Saturday afternoon. I’ve been going to potlucks that my friend Nicole (who has my old cat Zoe!) hosts that I was never able to go to because of my old job’s schedule and have really enjoyed getting to know new people.

Basically: my life is pretty damn good. A little lonely sometimes, but it’s still a good one. What part of that doesn’t stand up to my expectations? And since when do my expectations that I had when I was 22 still apply today? I have to keep reminding myself that I still have a lot more time to figure all this shit out and that my mother means well. (And keep playing that on repeat.) Things always have a way of working out, I always manage to get by and there’s never been a situation I have not been able to get through and rise above. I will get through this.

I just may freak out a little bit more and threaten to move to Ireland a few more times before I’m through with it. Whatever happens, 30 is going to be my year. The 30s will be my decade. My 20s were fun, no doubt about it but I’m ready for a bigger adventure.

Bring it on, 30.

It started at my first architecture job in New York right after graduating. It was my first week at work and I was staying a little late, helping one of the girls organize the materials library. I had taken off my three inch pointy toed black heels (a staple in my NYC wardrobe for years) so that I didn’t hurt myself while climbing up and down a small step ladder. I was holding about 20 lbs of stone that needed to get up onto one of the upper shelves, requiring me to step up the step stool. I took one step up, lost my balance and stepped back down.

Right onto my toe. I nearly threw up, especially when I saw how quickly it turned black.

My first week of work and I was on workers comp. Hi, I’m Ashley and I broke my toe in two places because I stepped on it.

At my last job with the furniture store, before I learned what shoes I could wear and which ones were perilous (it always revolves around my feet doesn’t it?), it was like being an ice skater only you never knew where the ice was exactly. The floors were waxed pretty much every week and we had a couple spots that would take everyone out. On one particular occasion, I was walking up towards the front desk and had a question for my coworker. I called out her name…

And completely wiped out.

We’re talking feet up over my head, in a dress, landing on my butt on the floor in front of my coworkers and all the customers in the store. I didn’t really injure myself too badly, aside from a swollen wrist and a bruised ego. We did have a good belly laugh, though and I never did live down the fact that I made sure that my coworker saw me fall.

When I said I’ve survived two weeks at my job, it certainly wasn’t without that tradition of hurting myself and I must say. Breaking my toe was effing painful but what I did to myself this time? May have taken the cake.

I live closer to work now than I did before so since Friday was going to be a gorgeous, 75 degree day, I decided to walk to work. It was early, around 7:10 in the morning which is far too early for my brain. Or at least that’s what I’m consoling myself with after what happened next.

I was maybe five minutes from home when I tripped over the sidewalk. Or a stick. Or both. Whatever it was, I LAUNCHED myself forward, taking four or five running steps before falling flat on my face. iPhone went flying into the street, coffee following right behind it and the only thing that kept my head from bouncing off concrete was my purse.

It knocked the wind out of me. It hurt so badly that I didn’t know whether to cry, throw up, or both. Neither one I did , mainly because I couldn’t breathe enough to do either of those actions. But of couse my first priority was to make sure that my iPhone hadn’t died and that my coffee hadn’t spilled all over the place. Both were safe and intact, don’t worry. Who cares if I couldn’t breathe? At least those two things were okay.

It hurt to breathe, it hurt to move. Walking was a huge effort and all I could think of was, ohmygod what if I have internal bleeding? I don’t have health insurance! I guess I’ll find out if I die. After prodding my stomach and ribs I gathered I hadn’t done too much damage. Once my brain receptors stopped focusing on my ribcage and stomach, it started noticing the scrape on my wrist and my hurting elbow.

By the time I left work at five, I was still in a ton of pain. It was a huge effort to take deeper breaths and my stomach felt like it had been used for a punching bag. By the end of the night my back had had enough of being in third place to the rest of my body and made it very well known that I had wrenched it pretty badly as well. Two days later and it still hurts to move but at least now I know I can get up off the sofa without too much effort whereas yesterday my back was so bad that it took me a good five minutes to coax it out of a horizontal position. A few lovely people witnessed my pain last night during #winetoreach when they made me laugh and I had to attempt to stop myself it hurt so badly.

Hurting myself at thirty certainly is different than hurting myself at twenty. Twenty-five even. I remember being sixteen and running into a lodge wall going pretty damn fast while skiing. I hurt for a little bit but was just fine the next day. This time around my body is taking it’s sweet time bouncing back and I know I’m lucky that I didn’t actually break anything. There was one sacrifice made in my clumsiness. My Tom-Tom GPS system’s screen shattered. It happened to be in my purse and is one of the many things that found themselves between my ribs and the pavement.

So yes, I survived my first two weeks of work. In more ways than one.

Be sure to check out my travel blog, The Wanderscapes! I’ve been busy this weekend over there redesigning and writing two posts: one on how I’m related to the town drunk in Ireland and on the reemergence of the two year itch.

To be honest, I’ve been feeling a little…empty. I’m not even sure why; I have a new job that I’ve been enjoying and has made me feel like a new person, I have great friends, live in a beautiful place and have happy daffodils sitting on my coffee table that have made my apartment smell heavenly. I even just spent the weekend in Winter Park for my first mountain getaway where I ate horribly, played really raunchy games that made me laugh so hard I cried, soaked in the hot springs under the glow of the stars and had a ton of fun. There has been a lot of BIG, LIFE CHANGING THINGS being talked about with a friend of mine. My life is great and I know it is but like that pink elephant, my emptiness is just sitting in the corner of the room, making itself comfortable with no intentions of leaving.

It’s not a new emotion, I’ve felt this way since probably October or November and with a few exceptions where I seemed to have come out of my funk and gotten over myself, I have just let this emptiness settle around me, cuddling me at night in it’s not very warm embrace. I sit here booking plane tickets for really fun adventures and what usually elicited excitement and thoughts of OMG THIS IS REALLY HAPPENING!!!!, is met with the same listless, dull,  whatever. Shrug of the shoulders. Moving on. Next.

I live in one of the most happiest places in the country and instead of happy, I’m…well, I wouldn’t say miserable (although it does venture there from time to time), because I’m for the most part pretty content, I’m just…I don’t know. I’m just not happy. I can’t get it up for life right now. I’m like a 45 year old man who realizes that he’s going to need to pop some viagra if he wants to get it on with his ladyfriend.

And that bothers me. I usually have no problems with picking myself up after I fall down but the thing is, there was no definitive fall. There’s nothing concrete to pick myself up from, no one thing that stands out as yes, that broke me for a little bit and now it’s time to move past it. No break up, no falling out with a friend, no life crisis. One day I was rock starring it out, and then the next I woke up feeling kinda blah about everything for no reason whatsoever and that gray cloud has hung over my head ever since. For example: I should be at peace and super happy with the world right now since I just came back from an awesome weekend away that involved a lot of relaxation and belly-laughter but instead, I’m just blah.

You could say I’m depressed but I’m not even sure it’s that. I’ve been depressed. This doesn’t feel like it did before. There’s certainly no THE WORLD IS ENDING, MY LIFE IS OVER, I’M GOING TO CRY MYSELF TO SLEEP NOW feelings that I had when I was a teenager and dealing with teenage crap. There’s no extremes here…no elation, no devastation. Instead, a lot of middle ground. I will cry randomly for no particular reason and have gotten myself into hysterics when one small, teensy thing happens that usually wouldn’t bother me at all but because I have a pile of things that have already been stacked up on top of me, I lose it.

When I’m out and about, I’m pretty content. Then I get home, or find myself in a car (whether alone or as a passenger) and I’m not content anymore. That emptiness fills up the room and starts poking me. Prodding me, taunting me, never leaving me alone. It knows what buttons to push to kick start the anxiety that has felt way beyond my control lately. I don’t know what to do about it. I’ve chalked a lot of this up to the return of the really bad insomnia that tortured me while I lived in New York. My sleeping habits have slowly been deteriorating to the point where last week I think I got a grand total of 8-10 hours of sleep the entire week. I’m constantly exhausted and a big part of me feels like this is a huge contributing factor to the way I feel. (And then I laugh about how ironic it is because I work for a sleep therapy office.) But I think there’s more to it than that. Something deeper that this sleeplessness is just bringing out.

For the first time ever, I’m willing to talk to someone about this, I’m willing to accept that I may need outside help and to seek a professional and get medical help if necessary. But just when I’m ready to do this and get over my pride, I lose my health insurance and lose that option to seek that outside help. It kind of sucks and I kind of feel all sorts of lost about it.

I did not start this post with the intention of spilling all this. I was planning on bullet pointing what has been going on, keep it pretty rainbows and unicorns, but I guess my fingers had other plans and tricked my brain into getting a little more personal. Oh, hi, vulnerability. I really do not like you.

Also, getting this out there sort of makes me feel a little better. I’m still just kinda blah about it though.