I need to vent. Big time. There are a lot of things that I think about every day, and I just don't say them. But this is my safe space; I should be able to admit to all the things I'm too afraid to say out loud.

I have a happy place. I'm sure we all do. When you're stressed, or tired, or crying so hard you can't catch a breath, it's the place you think of that brings you some sort of comfort. Peace. Hope. Mine is imaginary in the sense that it hasn't happened this way yet, but I imagine that someday it will. When I think about my life and how I want it to go, a perfect day would be like this: I'd wake up early in my lake house in Ithaca. Ideally, I'd own it, but then again, I'm not very handy, and the idea of someone else being responsible for all the stuff I break is appealing. I'd make a cup of tea and wander out to the balcony; big enough to fit a hot tub (yes, I said hot tub, but not in the creepo 70's sense, in the very modern, hippie-chic sense), and a few chairs. Maybe a table with an umbrella so I could eat out there on sunny days. I'd enjoy the cold morning air, and then roll out my mat for some yoga (again, this is fantasy... and in my fantasy, I'm very bendy). No one else would be awake in the house, the roads would be quiet, and Ithaca and I could greet each other the way all the hippie's in the world intended: with peace. I'd take a hot shower, make breakfast and head off to a job I love. Something with animals or the environment. It would be tough sometimes, seeing all the unnecessary cruelty or stupidity in the world, but at least it would make me feel alive. It wouldn't pay much; just enough so that I wouldn't have to feel like I was going backwards at the end of every paycheck. I'd be able to save, pay my bills, and maybe buy myself something ever now and then. Or travel. When I'd get home, Sam or Jules or Andrea would be there, visiting or living, depending on where everyone is in their lives. We'd make an early dinner together, music playing, wine flowing. and eat out on the balcony. In the summer, we'd be able to hear the music from the festivals or the farmer's market. Then, we'd take the kayaks out for an hour or so and meet back at the house for margaritas. My boyfriend, the one who fixes everything about me that you broke, would come over after work and make us dessert. He'd love all of us because he'd know that we're a unit, that you don't get one without the rest; he'd treat them all like most of the men in their lives never did. The girls would go to bed, and we'd stay up late talking, or skinny dipping, or playing music (he, naturally, sings to me). Then we'd go to bed, and wake up and do it all again the next day. There are variations, of course. Whit and Les would come with their better halves and growing families to stay for the occasional weekend; too much wine would be had, and with that, reminiscing. And there isn't always a guy; sometimes, I do okay on my own, figuring out who I used to be and reconciling that with who I want to be. But you get the general idea.

Honestly, I don't think it's too much to ask for. I actually think that as far as dreams go, mine is pretty humble. I'm not asking for more money than I know what to do with, or a fantasy marriage with kids. I just want a job that I love and pays (most) bills, to be around family and friends who love me, in a place that isn't so suffocating. Perhaps the lake house is asking a bit much. I'll work on that.

But see, just writing it down and saying it out loud calms me. I'm not sleeping much, and I think I might actually be forced to do some sort of a sleep study. This thing with my eyes is directly related to my lack of sleep, yet these drops I have to take force me to get up every four hours. It's a terrible cycle. I have frequent headaches, from stress or exhaustion, I'm not sure. I feel more tired now than I did a year ago when I was working three jobs. And I think it's just because I'm sick to death of this place. Never mind that there is absolutely zero "culture" here, I'd just take more than three places to eat out. I'm sinking, at first slowly, but now faster than ever, and no one's going to pull me out but myself. I thought that I needed my family around to feel safe. Well, no, I know that I need them around to feel safe. I think the safe part is the part I'm sick of. I can't pay all of my bills with the money I make, so every month, something goes unpaid and the phone calls start coming in. I help out with groceries and Jules as much as I can, but c'mon. I make $1200 a month. That doesn't take anyone very far.

I love Jules, but she needs a job. And this is probably the most awful thing I've ever said, but I'm so jealous of the fact that she doesn't have one. Jealous and angry. She did superbly her first semester, and there's only one reason for that: she had the time. My first job was at 16. By 18, I was pretty much working full-time. And by 20, when my parents fell apart, I was skipping classes to pick up extra shifts at the Gap. Julia hasn't even had one. I feel that we're doing her an injustice by making excuses. We want her to stay focused on school, or her circumstances were different because of the divorce and where she was living. Both great reasons. But I feel like everyone has excuses made for each other except me. Jules gets to put school as her number one priority because it's too hard to work full time and make A's. Dad gets to be sad whenever he wants because his wife left him brutally and abruptly. And Mom gets them because her marriage was empty and suffocating.

And I get this: living with my father at the age of 25 because he's too drunk most nights to cook himself something to eat, or read the numbers in the phone book to order food. I work a job that's mediocre at best; it's a job, and I'm thankful that I have one, but it's the opposite of fulfilling. I don't date because Ben took everything good about me and made me question it, and because it's very hard to bring a guy home when your father's bedroom is half a foot away from your own. And when I come home I do one of two things: hide or clean. I will literally lay in bed all day watching movies and hating everyone, or go into a cleaning frenzy because the kitchen/laundry haven't been touched in days. When dinner time rolls around, and Julia isn't around to feed, Dad and I usually eat separate tv dinners, or order out. He goes to bed around 7:30, as he's been drinking straight vodka with a splash of soda since 4. I go back to my room, toss and turn for most of the night, and get up before he does to feed the dog and head out the door.

God, that sounds so disgusting. A pity party for Danielle. I'm not the only girl whose parents are divorced, or has an alcoholic father. And he's really not that bad; he goes to work, gets things done, and is never, ever mean. Julia refers to him as a high-functioning alcoholic. As in, if you met him out, during the day, you'd never know because he seems so together. He always drank, but it's become exponentially worse since the divorce. And I can't even take it away from him because I truly think he needs it. I'm not sure what he'd do if he had to face reality every night. It's his escape and I understand it completely. But he can't be left alone. Everyone knows it except him.

On the flip side, I think that part of him drinks because of what a failure I am. I say that lightly and with jest; I don't do drugs or have ten kids with ten different fathers. He could certainly do worse. But I think he's disappointed in what I've become. I can't imagine he's proud to talk about me to his colleagues and peers. I had such a bright future, blah, blah, blah. Well, my friend, shit happens. Things change, people go their separate ways, and most of the time things don't work out the way you think that will.

Anyway, now I'm just rambling. But I guess that's what I came here for. Stream of consciousness... all the things that tumble out when I feel like I'm drowning. It's time to face the day now. That's the bitch of it. You can dream all you want to, but at the end of it all, your reality is your reality. You can try and change it, and best of luck to you if you do, but the chances aren't good. Sometimes there is no inspiring last sentence, no afterthought. There's just... this.

I think about you all the time, but I don't need the same.

If it's lonely where you are, come back down, and I won't tell them your name.