I really enjoyed being alone for a lot of my San Francisco trip � probably because I wasn�t alone for all of it � and when I would have meals or a coffee break I would sit alone at restaurant and caf� tables reading whatever paperback I had in my backpack. One of the books I read was Bitter Harvest by Ann Rule, which recounted the story of Debora Green, a doctor from Kansas who poisoned her husband with ricin (he survived) and then set her house on fire while her kids were sleeping � two of her three kids died. (And the dogs too.) She was described as a bit of a loner, always felt a little out of place when hanging out with other people, awkward, uncomfortable, much happier being by herself and reading books. Well, damn, if I didn�t see some of myself in that. Not that I�m the type to kill people or dogs, certainly � I�m not that messed up � but sometimes I just feel so bad at the human interaction thing, even though it�s something I crave at the same time. I totally vacillate. I want to be with people. I want to be alone. I am afraid to go out and meet new people. I know how to be a great friend and a wonderful lover but I rarely know how to get there.

(Damn, this all feels so rusty and awkward. I guess the only way out of that is to keep writing through it.)

Last night/this morning I had this dream, very vivid, that it was my last day in San Francisco, and I had met this man that I was spending time with. He was tall and blond with blue eyes (reminded me of Guy Pierce from Memento) and I was terribly attracted to him (funny, too, since dark hair/eyes is much more my type, if I can be said to have a type.) I wish I had written this out earlier, as it�s now somewhat hazy, but I know that as I was just hours away from returning to NYC, he asked me to marry him and move to SF, just out of the blue. I was reluctant at first � I barely knew him; hell, we hadn�t even kissed or anything, the proposal was my first inkling he was interested � but I agreed. We flew back to the east to have the wedding, and I remember coming up to my parents� house. My parents were both outside yet sitting separately � my mom on the lawn, my dad on the stairs � and they both knew what I was coming home for before I told them, and they were trying very hard to be happy for me yet it was obvious how heartbroken they were at the idea of me leaving. At one point we were alone, this nameless blond dream man of mine (although it was weird, I never really had a head-over-heels-in-love feeling about him as I often will in dreams � there was always an undercurrent of what am I getting myself into?), we were alone in my parents� living room and that was when he finally kissed me, and it was delicious, to finally touch him. I have vague impressions of being topless, both of us, of being very lost in the kissing and the heat of our touching and yet it progressing no further, and liking that.

I have been constantly interrupted in writing this by my job duties (which is as it should be; how I am looking forward to getting my computer this weekend, hooray!) and most of the rest of the dream was fuzzy anyway � I do remember getting ready for the wedding wearing a gauzy white dress and trying red roses in my hair � and I woke up before the actual wedding and again, so clumsy this entry, what I�m getting at.

It seems like a distillation of my longings and my fears, and I think that the two combine in a way that I get stuck in limbo � I long but am too afraid to act on it. I long so much for the touch of a lover but I�m terrified of the steps involved in meeting someone: the awkwardness, the putting-myself-out-there, the heartache of rejection over and over again, the self-talk that convinces me that I will be rejected that prevents me from even beginning the process, yada yada yada. (I am embarrassed to admit that I have this fantasy � and yes, yes, that�s part of it, my comfort in fantasy � I burrow like nesting, in these fantasies � of someone reading this diary and falling for me because of it, and that translating to real life. I feel like this space has become such a strong reflection of who I am (I am so me here, as clumsy and awkward and embarrassed as I really am) that I feel like if someone could read these pages and want to be with me � and I look at those pictures of me in San Francisco and I think she looks like someone a man could want to get to know, have fun with, hold close as if she were a different person than me � than perhaps it could be something genuine. (Ack! Sentence structure! Editing! Perhaps later!) Because as it stands now, I can�t imagine falling in love with someone and showing him these pages, for all the ugliness and vulnerability I show here.)

And then there�s the longing to go back to San Francisco, the little voice in my head that says you could live there and be happy. Which may just be shorthand for the voice in my head that whispers you could be happy, really, if you let yourself be, if you loosened up and stopped feeling so obligated and guilty and frozen, if you let yourself be you without fear and second-guessing. (Somedays I fear I�m this guy deep down at heart; although I suppose linking to The Onion sort of shoots down that fear!)

When I was doing The Artist�s Way (I got waylaid by the bronchitis and vacation and the fear of going for a week without reading) I was feeling spectacular. Waking up early, feeling refreshed, feeling fresh, bursting with energy, alive. (Not to mention that my writing was better.) I think I got scared.

And oy vey, the guilt! I still sting at the sight of my parents in my dream, so disappointed and hurt at me leaving. I think of doing what Steve did, going to California and never looking back (although still coming back), and living his life so fully, and I envy that and I want it yet it scares me so, and how I hate how difficult it is to separate from my parents. I still can�t quite figure out how to separate from them without hurting them � and I think that�s part of it, I don�t think I can and that fear of hurting them is keeping me stuffed down inside. And perhaps it�s more of a fear of the thought of hurting them. My mother always talks the talk of letting us go, of not being overly involved in our lives, but I wonder how much she means it. And my father is so good at pouring on the guilt about not visiting, whether it�s visiting them or my grandmother, whatever. And while Marty can ignore it, it is like a knife through my heart, this feeling of disappointing, letting them down, and I hate that I do this to myself. I can�t be myself around them sometimes, which I do think is part of dealing with the good old family of origin, as we social work types call it. I can�t talk about what�s important to me, and it�s mainly in my head, this feeling of having to maintain the role of the good daughter above and beyond. I feel like if I were to move to California, I would break my parents� heart, and that feeling alone has pretty much dashed any thought of genuinely moving. (Well, that and not seeing Chloe and the new baby grow up, and leaving all my friends, and the not-so-small issues of money/place to live/job/breaking out of my comfort zone.)

I hate to sound like I�m bashing them; it�s more my own inability to break out of this mold that�s frustrating me so.

When I was home this weekend I wore the Fat!So? t-shirt I bought from Marilyn (it�s pretty much the logo from her book - which she signed for me, whoo hoo! � on a black long t-shirt.) I wore it as a nightshirt, and just the act of wearing it in front of my family when I woke up was excruciating. I felt like there was this unspoken tension; not even five minutes after I woke up my mom said �you should probably get changed� and I know that we needed to leave soon and it could have been completely innocent that she used those words instead of �hey, you should probably get ready� but it didn�t feel that way even though I am probably making a big deal out of nothing. But I guess the point is that I didn�t feel nothing. I�m the one putting myself through agony.

I think I want them to applaud and accept everything I do and everything about me, and then I�ll be comfortable doing and being who I am, instead of just being myself and just saying (through words or deeds) �this is who I am, like it or not.�

I can�t believe I�m almost 30 years old and still having these entanglement issues.

Damn. I�ve gotta get out of here. Brian and I are hanging out tonight and I miss him dearly and it will be great to see him, but I need to get my butt moving to get down there at a reasonable hour!

Oooh, and before I forget, my other friend Brian (he doesn�t have a number!) whom I know from a bunch of fat acceptance websites and has posted lots of great comments here as Bstu, has a blog that I�m really enjoying � do check it out!

And a quick shout-out to Yi Shun for getting me out and about and social last night. Among our many activities, we wound up at a Mexican restaurant on 102nd and Bway where a guy in a big black sombrero literally poured shots of cheap tequila down our throats. Tasted like rubbing alcohol, but it was good to get out.

Thanks for putting up with my incoherence, dear readers. I get so discouraged so easily, but damned if it doesn�t help immeasurably that there are people reading out there who care what I have to say.