I got another rejection letter today. I've been unemployed for a year and a half now. I really thought I had that last one. Let's face it: my career is over. I failed. I got the degree, moved to DC to start my career, had a job for 3 years and that's it.

Maybe it's time to pack my bags and go home.

What's there for me at home? Even fewer job prospects. 2 remaining friends I've kept in touch with since I left. That's about it BUT at least it's home. It's beautiful. I was born there. I lived there my whole life. I know the land. It's in my blood. It's home. At least it's home.

Ok so I'm drinking now. But you know what was really sweet? I went to the liquor store across the street and the guy who works there knows me and I told him I was celebrating not getting another job and he gave me a free bottle of sparkling white wine called Cava. I've never had it before. I'll save it for when I have guests over.

I just called my mom, who I almost never talk to, and asked her the questions that came up in therapy today: did she ever regret not having more control over her life? She lead such a conventional life for a woman of her age; got married in the 1950s at age 18, had 5 kids and pretty much did whatever her husband did: moved across the country, learned the dry cleaning business, then moved across the state and learned another business. She never had any choices. I, on the other hand, have limitless choices. I've traveled across the world, worked in a war zone, lived in a home I shared with homeless people and college students, got a scholarship for college, went to grad school, started a career of my own choosing, moved across the country on my own.

What different lives we've led. I wouldn't trade mine for hers for anything. My whole life is a result of my own choices (well, that plus dumb luck). And one day one of those choices may be that I choose when to end my life. I reserve that right. It's fitting that way. My life. My death. My choice.