I've taken to running again. Though I've run before for exercise, the vein that drives the behavior is almost entirely new: Running is a rather wicked form of escapism.

For the last few days, I have found myself running when I could think to do nothing else to squash the anger, anxiety, and fear that grips me at any given point of every day.

Equipped with running shoes and a heart rate monitor, I run: 20 minutes, 30 minutes, one hour, two hours. For the longer runs, there are a few breaks, but mostly, I need the rhythmically soothing thumping of my feet on the road — and of my pulse in my ear.

I run past the point of exhaustion and through pain. When I feel as if I need a break, I quicken my pace. If I feel that familiar twinge of pain in my knee, I shuffle to a tune on my iPod with a faster tempo, turn up the volume, change my stride and run faster.

Ignore fatigue, run through the pain: These things don't matter. It's all in your head. Block it out and move on. Increase your speed and these demons can't keep up with you.

This is what I like to believe. It's insane at best, and nowhere close to being true — but that doesn't stop me from trying.

At the end of the run, more often than not, I find myself exhausted to the point of immobilization, and the demons I worked so hard to escape settle back into my head...

Oh, the joys and pains of being a woman. Sunday morning, I found myself in my temporary New York City digs in need of personal maintenance. You know, those womanly chores we love to hate — or maybe just hate — with a passion.

Being that the prior week was so hectic, I hadnít had time to pay attention to myself, and by the weekend, I was a mess.

I needed a shampoo and a shave like nobody's business. The shampoo was going to be easy, I figured. So I decided to begin with my least favorite chore — shaving, though I decided to use one of those hair-removal-in-a-tube deals.

Ordinarily, I don't subscribe to chemical hair removal, because it's so messy, and because there's just something strange about the process.

But my heightened need for hair removal — summer equals skin exposure — and the fact I get so impatient when I shave, made me take the plunge.

I wish I had checked the water situation in the apartment before smearing the hair remover on.

Thank goodness it was merely a lack of hot water, and not a full-on drought. If that had been the case, I would be going through the remainder of these horrid New York summers hiding vanity-induced chemical burns under long pants.

It's all in the name of beauty, I suppose.

Why in earth do we as women care so much? What's it all for?

Is it really for ourselves?

Ah, student life.

That day was a continuation of last weekend as far as life in the super-fast lane is concerned. Once again, I played it fast and loose with my blood sugar, going much too long between meals. If my mom reads this she will have my hide when she visits next month, but the day had me shuffling too many things that too many people place way too much emphasis on. I'm sure there is a line of unsatisfied customers somewhere. I can't be concerned with that.

All in all, I am happy with the way things turned out. I did not let other people stress me out, I prioritized the way I thought necessary, and bonus — everything got done.  Now, if I can manage to keep down the dinner I waited too long to eat, it will truly be a banner day.

The moral of the story: Do the things you deem most necessary first, make sure you understand the consequences of all your actions, and most importantly, pack some protein in your bag for those days you spend on the go.

"You look tired."

This was how a conversation with one of my colleagues, Dominic, began earlier in the week. Rightfully so, as sleep is a luxury I cannot afford these days. I don't know how anyone else feels when someone makes a comment such as this, but I was relieved and happy. As a matter of fact, I told Dominic that this was the nicest thing he could have said to me.

I know this may sound odd, since "tired" can — and in my case, does — mean that I am looking a bit haggard, and that the bags underneath my eyes could be used for a two week vacation in the Rockies in January. So why did I take this as a compliment? Simple. It means that there are people that take the time to assess other people's conditions.

It means that some people do in fact realize that I am not Superman, and that I get fatigued. It means that there are people that realize that I am human, and am susceptible to the same flaws as the rest of the population — if you can even call fatigue a flaw. (I don't.)

Of course, the fact that Dominic said this does not come as a shock, as he is one of the more sympathetic people I have met since moving to NYC.

I am just happy anyone noticed at all.

This is the worst I've felt in years.

This past Thursday, I was hit with the meanest case of the flu I've ever had in my adult life, complete with fever-induced chills and a chest-rattling cough. Even my abs hurt from all the convulsing brought on by this illness. Insult to injury, as was discussed in a previous post, my "friends" — save for one, were nowhere to be found. If any of these other "friends" had been ill, they would be begging for me to make some of my kick-ass chicken soup. And I would have, because that's what friends do.

But I've already discussed the need to divorce my friends, so I will move on.

Friday was the absolute worst of the whole ordeal. I awoke suddenly in the middle of the night unable to breathe. My air passage had all but closed, and the portion that was still open was blocked by all that fun stuff that comes with being congested. I was frightened, and rightfully so. Single, isolated and on a fifth floor walk-up: Does it really get any worse than that? If I couldn't have cleared my air passages that night, there is no guarantee that I would be telling this story today.

These are the things that keep a single person awake at night - they also manage to consume the greater part of one's days. I am sure my thought process will return to normal once I've recovered, but for now...

Last week, I unofficially started a liquid diet: coffee for breakfast, coffee for lunch, beer for dinner. No, these aren't lyrics to an Amy Winehouse song— this has become my life.

Last week, for some undefined reason, I felt as if my world has fallen in on my head, resulting in my first real panic attack in over five years. This was the worst it ever was, and I spent the entire weekend crying until I hyperventilated, and hyperventilating until I vomited. I also woke up Sunday morning — which also happened to be my birthday — covered in hives. I am sharing all of this with you for a reason — I want to remind all of you out there that it is not necessary to be in a relationship to suffer abuse.

The truth of the matter is this: I am a perfectionist, I am obsessive-compulsive, I am overly critical, and I think I am one of the world's best multi-taskers. This is simply a recipe for disaster, and a "rationale" to take on self-hating and self-destructive behavior. How many of us out there have, on one or more occasions, said any of the following to ourselves:

1. I can't believe you just did that! That was really stupid. What were you thinking?
2. You're an idiot.
3. You don't think you really need to eat that, do you?
4. You should have that done by now.
5. You're incompetent. No wonder you're single/your "friends" don't call.

Would we let our partners say these things to us? Why do we keep saying them to ourselves?

Divorce may affect men differently, but it still affects them.

I caught up recently with a friend of mine who is in the process of getting a divorce. During the course of our conversation, he made reference to times during the process that he likened to being in a coma. He described this as a four-month period where he was emotionally dead to everyone around him — himself included — as he shuffled through life on autopilot.

He also spoke of instances of binging on self-destructive behavior: extensive intoxication, reckless driving and the like. I am sure many of us can relate to some of these instances, or at least the feelings of hopelessness, loss of control, or the lack of desire to even attempt to make something out of the mess that is your life at that particular time.

While listening to him, I was reminded of my own process, and how during the early stages, I grappled with the same emotions: desperation, hopelessness and a longing for change while simultaneously lacking the intestinal fortitude to do anything about it. I also found it amazing — almost comforting really — how similar our stories were through the process. It was a reminder to me that the pains of divorce are not just a feminine trait.

After 31 years of existence, I can finally say that I don't mind staring at myself in the buff. I came to this realization last week as I was waiting for the hot water to find its way through the pipes of my grandfather's house. I assessed my appearance in the not yet foggy mirror and thought to myself, "not bad, not bad."

This has got to be a sneak peek of what is to come — the security thing, I mean. For as long as I can remember, I have had "naked issues," not wanting anyone — myself included — to see me au naturel.

No, I am not turning into a narcissist and no, my body is nothing near perfect — I could still stand to lose a few pounds and tone up a bit. But with blemish-free, supple skin, and no sins of gravity taking its toll, I am not doing too badly. It is quite enviable actually, the skin I'm in.

So much more important than the physical appearance of my body is the fact that I am mentally in a space where I can appreciate my body for what it is. Strong. Resilient. Mine. I know that being okay with one's body has less to do with the actual shape of the body, and so much more with the shape of the mind. I am finally beginning to find comfort in all aspects of who I am, and owning my nakedness is just another step in the right direction.

I rushed out of the house in the morning to meet with my friend, The Bleeding Heart, for one of the last power study sessions of the semester. Soon I will be one semester away from graduation and the great unknown — otherwise known as the job market. Being that I have decided to put off graduate school for at least a year, this is one of my newest concerns. (Un)Employment, however is not an immediate fear, as I have bigger fish to fry.

Final exams bring a time of stress and panic, as well as an abandonment of personal accountability and impeccable hygiene practices. Case in point, my leaving the house without bothering to look in the mirror, or comb my hair for that matter. I hadn't even realized that I had neglected this portion of my personal routine until it was too late.

Several hours into the study session, I excused myself to visit the ladies' room. It wasn't until after I washed my hands that I looked in the mirror — and nearly jumped out of my skin. The figure in the mirror was a disheveled mess of a human being. I stared in wide-eyed amazement and thought about how embarrassed my mother would be if she knew her daughter had exposed herself to the masses in this fashion.

This is how I choose to expose myself to the masses? My mother would say, "And you wonder why you're still single?"

Good thing for me that during finals, most people look like this.

This was the decision I came to early last Saturday afternoon, and I'm hell bent on keeping this promise to myself. Thus far, I've done several workouts, slept in when possible, and hopped a plane to visit a dear friend. As I write this, I'm actually eating Wisconsin cheese — in Wisconsin.

Ironically, none of this has occurred at the expense of productivity. Having been able to accomplish all of this, I'm left wondering why I can't seem to incorporate this stress-free existence into my regular routine.

I find it slightly funny — well, more annoying than funny, actually — that this seems to be something I can rely on in a pinch, but it's not around for the long haul anymore. Is this what life is all about — getting older and stressing more? More accurately, not stressing more, but allowing stress to sit in the driver's seat and dictate to you where you're going to go? I find this utterly unacceptable.

I also have to wonder when I let this type of scenario creep back in and take over. During the years right after my divorce, I found myself willing and able to overcome many obstacles — most without breaking a sweat. Now I find myself getting wound up tighter than a slinky and ready to pop at any moment.

As a matter of retaining my sanity, I'm going to have to find a way to bring the Zen back into my life — it's so much better this way.