My, that's understated. I am sure you can see by my mild-mannered assessment that I'm currently on top of things. Right now I'm merely resigned to the mood swings. When they're on the down side it gets very ugly. My irritation levels are akin to the way people behave on steroids. Whump! Instant anger, instant vein-bulging, instant screaming responses to anything and everyone. Yikes. The self-pity isn't much better but at least I can kind of keep that to myself. And what is all this about? I will tell you.

It's about having voluntarily exiled myself for eight years. I am absolutely furious at having wasted so much of my life here in Nashville, though I didn't have a big choice. I am ill from the accumulated resentment and hatred of all things Southern, all things backwater, all things insular. I know I've said it before, but this is the gist of my outburst: I cannot live here. I really can't. I've been this close to a nervous breakdown, I've developed panic attacks, I've ballooned in weight, I've become cynical and morose and pitiless in my loathing for the culture I've been surrounded by. It's not the South's fault. I am a western coastal person, born and bred, and I cannot be transplanted successfully inland. I tried; god knows I did try. I learned to tamp things down and let them out slowly, bits at a time, so I didn't blow under pressure. I coped. I strategized. I got better. I stayed. But oh, I am bitter about having had to do it.

The upside is kind of fun. I am elated about our return, despite the intermediate hoohah of packing and logistics and looking for a new job. I can't wait to see my best friends whenever I want to instead of once every two years. Going to science fiction conventions is going to be a snap instead of a big deal. I'm looking forward to my first plate of dim sum, my first decent burrito, my first good Vietnamese coffee, and my first cheap bag of pistachios in eight years. I'm looking forward to dressing fashionably again, going to Nordstrom's sales, being able to buy Francois Nars makeup. I miss the Pacific ocean, the live oaks, and the December greening of the hills. I will probably cry when we see the first sign for San Francisco on the long road home, out of sheer relief.