I may be crazy, but I really don’t think I am.

I imagined my eventual return trip to Los Angeles would be wrought with tears, anxiety and unrelenting trips through the dark and damp tunnels of my mind. I figured, once off the plane, I would visit my and Chris’ old haunts, our old apartment and the park across the street, our favorite restaurants and the streets on which I used to run. In my mind’s eye, I wandered past our old bank and past the old thrift shop with the painting of the dark, gothic vampiress in the window, a work of art that taunted and haunted me during a time in my life when all I wanted was to run, my tail between my legs, back home to Boston. I figured that revisiting the ghost of that period in my life would leave me choking back tears, remembering the strife the two of us faced during our mutually-agreed harrowing stay in La-La Land.

I have experienced some anxiety these past few days, my trip dangling in front of me. I have had a couple of post-workday meltdowns before heading out to the gym. Emotions born of muscle memory, fear and anguish-of-old have recently invaded my soul, threatening to bring me down by way of severe over-eating and inevitable weight gain.

Times like this remind me of how lucky I am to still have three pills in my Lorezapam bottle. Luckily…well, skillfully, I am still managing to stretch a bottle of twenty pills across a period of six months. I think I have proved again and again that I simply do not possess an addictive personality, at least where drugs are concerned. Baked Lays potato chips, Chicago Grill flatbread pizzas and Ana’s Tacqeria burritos tell a whole other story of addictive drugs in food’s clothing. I veered away from those culinary meds yesterday morning and headed straight for the bottle (the prescription one), swallowing my usual half-a-pill, in an effort to dislodge myself from a freeze-state. I had homework to finish before leaving for my trip, yet I sat motionless on the living room sofa, dreading nothing apparent. Were it not for sweet Lorezapam, I would, no doubt, be sitting there still.

But now I write as I wait for my flight to depart to San Diego where I will meet Jonathan, now that his business trip has come to an end, and then to Los Angeles. We will drive up the coast to destination number two and have a lovely vacation, our first together.

I’m not sad. I’m in love. I’m excited to share this time with him. I no longer feel like crying about my time spent in California with Chris. Instead, I feel fortunate to have met two wonderful men in my lifetime.

I stood on the redline platform in Harvard Station earlier this afternoon waiting for the train that would bring me to South Station’s silver line. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a man next to me rocking back and forth as he stood, also awaiting the train. He pulled my focus and my first thought was, “He looks like Chris.” I hadn’t even looked at him, yet, so my very next thought was, “That’s ridiculous. I haven’t even looked at him, yet. I’m sure he looks nothing like Chris.” I looked. Aside from his Asian ethnicity, the man could have been Chris’ body double. Same hair, same glasses, same height and same full lips. I stared, just to make sure I hadn’t created the likeness, myself. I hadn’t. “The only difference,” I thought, “is that Chris would not have been moving and bouncing around so much.” After the train came and I lost track of the man, the thought occurred to me that he was Asian. Jonathan is Asian. This Asian man looked just like Chris. Now, I may be stretching here, sometimes I don’t trust myself, but if I were Chris, and I wanted to tell Robin that everything was going to be okay and wish her a happy trip, I would probably bounce around and rock back and forth in an effort to catch her attention and make sure she received my message.

I got it. I remain open and I accept the signs when they come. I am very grateful.

California, here I come.