Late start to 2010...

I started 2010 in a motel near Byron Bay with the man I thought I would spend the rest of my life with, and an accidentally acquired pet. We were on what was meant to be a romantic and exciting road-trip, covering over 3000km in three weeks to end up in South Australia where I'd accepted a new job. We'd met in NSW three months before I moved to regional Queensland, and much to everyone's surprise, especially ours, we'd fallen head over heels for each other. We agreed it would end when I left, but three months later he moved up to join me. So far, so fairytale, except the stress of living together so soon, missing his friends and not really enjoying our respective jobs lead to the break-down of the brutally honest communication we'd prided ourselves on, and the build-up of resentment. We'd blamed the location and agreed that a new start would do us the world of good.

Of course the problem wasn't the town. It was us. Ten days after arriving in South Australia I went out for a walk, came home and told him it was over. So here I am on the last day of February 2010, 30 and a half, single for over a month, sitting in the kitchen of the house we rent together wondering where the first two months of 2010 went, and feeling not unlike a lost child with no clue about the direction of her life.

My life has always swung from extreme to extreme, with family members teasing me that I always land on my feet. It never feels like it at the time. It was easy to blame the location for my unhappiness and discontent last year. In 2008 I had a body that fit into my clothes, a diverse group of positive friends, a busy and happy social life and a workplace I loved. 2009 however yielded lovely but disillusioned, unhappy colleagues, stressed, unreasonable bosses, flesh that was barely restrained by the clothes that had once been loose, and a sluggish mind filled with desperation. When the option of leaving arose, I jumped at it, crossing my fingers that I wasn't just running away.

So, I'm still here at the kitchen table. I've been at work for nearly a month and I love it. I still have a lot of anxiety about whether I've bitten off more than I can chew, but I feel alive with every new challenge, no matter what it takes from me. In one of my sadder moments towards the end of last year I'd written a list of 100 things I wanted to do. Some were relatively feasible - get a dog; some were going to take a bit more planning - see Machu Pichu. I've dug out the list and revisited it a little. I've changed it to goals, and I'm going to tackle a small one and a larger one every week. Or maybe every two weeks, I haven't decided yet. I'm going to be kind and allow myself a little flexibility. The first two are to finish unpacking, and to write. The first one will be finished by the time I next write to you, and the latter is a work in progress. I joined a writer's group a month ago. I haven't once read something I've written; I'm too scared. They have almost all published, and I don't know where to start. The next meeting is tomorrow evening, so I'm going to start in a few minutes. Wish me luck.