There's construction work going on near my building (where isn't there construction in Boston?). Every ten minutes or so, an awful metallic rattling starts up and my entire apartment vibrates. It started around eight this morning. Maybe if it continues, it'll yank me out of this reversed sleep cycle. I'll be homicidal, but hey, I'll be awake.

Since the move, I've been shifting back to Hamster Mode. I need to turn the beat around. I'm not getting enough sunlight, and that makes anyone depressed.

I'm also running out of food, and my leftover lo mein from Jae's is slimy and inedible. Their slogan is "Eat at Jae's -- Live Forever." Clearly, they're not counting leftovers.

So the plan is to take a quick shower, stretch (carefully), go to the store for cereal and crackers and soup, then make my embarrassed, quiet return to the gym tonight for a good workout. After that: limp home, take some Aleve, and crawl into bed.

I am of mixed emotions regarding workouts. On one hand, I am in notably, significantly greater pain when I work out regularly. On the other hand, it sharpens my mind and tunes my funny (which has been stumbling along on three cylinders lately). And I haven't given up on my abs. I still want great abs.

(You want to see great abs? Check out Betty Okino's abs. Amazing. But notice that she has no hips at all and looks like a teenage boy, minus the package, from the waist down...)

I've been struggling with something. I need to write about it. I've tried a few times, but I can't put it into words. I'm a writer; being unable to express myself in words is the epitome of frustration. It has to do with returning to a "normal" life with a chronic illness, and not knowing how to do that. Not knowing how to live without having the throttle wide open (remember that song, "I Can't Drive 55"?). Knowing who I used to be, but not who I am now. Wondering what comes next, and preparing myself to find out.

A few weeks ago, I found myself (by virtue of someone's strange link) perusing the photos and stories of missing persons on the NYPD's unsolved case site. I wondered what it must be like never to have closure, to spend the rest of your life wondering what happened to your missing loved one. At some point, I figured, they must turn around and start moving forward again. That means taking their eyes off the person they lost. And that must be so sad, and so hard.

I feel as though the person I used to be -- athletic, energetic, aggressive -- is my missing person. I'm missing myself. That girl has been gone for five years now. It's coming time to stop walking backward, to take my eyes off her, to turn around and start to live again. To find out who I am now. To stop waiting and go back to living.

Because as far as I know, we only get one shot at life. One. And there is so much living I want to do. But I'm afraid.

I need to think more. In the meanwhile, please go read Jessamyn's excellent entry on the fear and confusion and search for understanding she's been handling since losing her job last month. I admire her. Go read it.

And don't forget that Towel Day is Friday, May 25th.