One panic attack subsided and another one begun.

Thanks to the darling, divine Diane, who generously took me on as a charity case, I have much less fear. She is the creative writing teacher extraordinaire who has taken me under her wing and shown me the way. After having coffee with her, I now have a stack of books, photocopies of fabulous poems, many exciting writing assignments and exercises, and a new sensation: I am actually looking forward to doing this. I believe I can do this. I know I can teach, and teaching's the thing, she said.

As for the running . . .

None Tuesday, none Wednesday. Tuesday off, Wednesday I went to the gym. Twice. TTT hit me hard after a week off, and now I know what a bad idea it is to take a week off from weight training. Then I spent an hour on the ARC machine with the intention of putting in an 8-miler in the evening. Evening came and my body ached so badly that I decided to listen to it. I went back to the gym, spent 15 minutes on the ARC, then took an hour yoga class that was perfectly blissful. I went straight home afterwards and put myself to bed.

This morning I woke up with pain in my right ankle, right hip, right shoulder, right wrist. For whatever reason, my knee is fine. I'll take it.

When I saw the chiropractor last week, I thought he fixed me up. Then I ran 8 kilometers through sand on Sunday. I think I need another adjustment. I'm going to see him at 3:15.

Despite the pain, I ran this morning. I knew I couldn't do a long run, so I willed myself to run 6 miles, joints aching all the way. I stretched quite a bit when I finished the run, but I'm still hobbling around. Damn.

I also haven't had a period in 6 weeks, which is tremendously curious. I have had a period like clockwork every month since October 1988. Through chemotherapy, radiation, going on the pill, going off the pill, backpacking through Ireland and Scotland then Canada, walking across Spain, bouts of binge drinking and other intoxicants that shall remain nameless, the stress of graduate school, breaking up . . . and on and on. It is more physically possible that I am perimenopausal than pregnant, and that is no lie.

So that got me thinking: perhaps I am perimenopausal. Months of chemotherapy and radiation, not to mention the years of cancer growth that preceeded said treatment probably aged my body considerably. Maybe this is it. Maybe my compulsion to achieve has been fueled by my biology: my body knows it only has X number of years. And I'm speeding closer to that X.

That's why I feel like an old woman. And that's why I want to party like it's 1999 in San Francisco this November. And that's why I've decided to take on three or so full-time jobs this fall. Because for me 29 is like 49 for someone else. I've got to get it while I can.

This is an old neurosis, an old battle I've fought with myself regularly PC (post-cancer).

Now I know the late period and all the aches and pains are likely from all the running and training and the ridiculous feast or famine diet I've been eating, but logic is rarely consolation for psychological distress.

Good thing I'll be seeing four members of my personal team in the next 24 hours: my chiropractor, my trainer, my therapist, and new to the team: my masseuse.

Perhaps they can help put the pieces of this broken woman back together again.