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JAN. 11. 2015.

I'M REALLY EMOTIONAL TODAY.

It's strange realizing that seven years ago I replied to a Craigslist ad for vocal lessons. The weekly appointments were the highlight of that winter and spring -- shortly after finishing a temporary job position where my sister was out on maternity leave. The hobby was something for myself. I was trying to discover if I had the potential to improve, or if it would ignite my courage to explore other creative outlets that may be more fitting.

One afternoon, each week, I took a ride along east side Manhattan toward Grand Central station. The 4 train seemed more polished than the subway line I normally travel. The florescent lights were brighter. The cart felt more spacious. The automated conductor was clearer than the mumblings I was used to. Still, all the rush hour fuss was faint beyond the tunes from my headphones. I was in my own world, reading The Power of Now while listening to favorite tracks off of an overshadowed pop album, Blackout by Britney Spears.

The self-help book kept reassuring the reader to live more consciously in the present moment, rather than giving into distractions of the past or unpredictability of the future. I remember another book with a similar theme, The Secret, suggest that once a specific desire was in the forefront of your mind, taking actions toward that goal would set the universe in motion, to attract opportunities that would be in your favor.

It must of stuck.

When autumn was approaching, my plans to move were becoming a reality. Switching out seasonal clothing was an excuse to slowly start setting aside items to pack. Light blouses, skirts, dresses, bikinis... It made space for the dreadful sweaters and thick plush socks. It helped to reassure myself to continue on with this west-bound idea. But, for the most part, it was a means to convince myself that this goal would finally manifest at some point. I was being productive, while also being very complacent with ambiguous plans.

I made myself sick.

Sometimes I blame it on over-thinking and a bland diet. Other times I figured I had caught a bug while hugging a PSU friend. It was the first Friday of 2015 and he stopped by to try a local Spanish restaurant. It would have been the last time he'll see me before returning home to New Jersey. We met up, before I was heading off to a much later lunch date with another college friend. He ordered arroz con gandules, pollo, a side of yuca, and -- my absolute favorite -- maduros, which I've always called amarillitos since a Puerto Rico vacation. He asked about what I had planned to do when I got out to Cali., how were my parents handling it all, and how I had spent the holidays.

In a nutshell, I told him about New Years day.

Mom, my aunt, cousin and I got ready to visit my grandmother. Mom packed a few DVD options for entertainment while we eat lunch. They chose a family-friendly musical. After I ate two plates, ridding hunger pains, I laid on the couch opposite my cousin. My aunt sat in the rocking chair while Mom was in the recliner. Once the credits were rolling, Grandma started sorting through Christmas cards to hand out. Mom burst into tears.

   I didn't know how to tell her. I didn't know how to tell her. She doesn't know. Mami, she's leaving.

My aunt ran over to comfort her baby sister. I sat up, stunned for a moment. It was never a secret that I had planned to leave in October, so give or take a few months didn't seem devastating. I couldn't help giggling as I tried to talk to my mom. Yes, it's heartbreaking to see your mother cry -- the strong forager, protector and counselor of your life -- but as her chubby cheeks bunch up, it dawns on you how vulnerable they are. Almost like a baby.

Grandma didn't seem too pleased. "Why ' you leaving" felt more like a scolding than a question. I made light of my plans: how temporary and open-ended they were in order to ease her worries. I went to the bathroom just for privacy. As I closed the door, I overheard my cousin present to them the potential rewarding experience this could be for me. I glanced at the mirror and started to cry. Toughen up. I took some tissue, blew my nose, and flushed the toilet. I washed my hands like a typical bathroom break. I didn't want them to see me cry, too.

He was mid-way into his Caribbean lunch as I finished the story. My cousin defended me; diplomatically, as usual. I went on to explain how Grandma was worried what effect the separation would have on my cousin. He's like another big brother who troops through random adventures with me in the last ten years.

"You're not going to cry, are you, Ang?" I nodded the tears away.

JAN. 12.

Since making the reservation days before Christmas, every possible chance to gather family and friends seemed inconvenient -- either to my restlessness or to the expected holiday plans; sometimes both. I would remain still with each passing day. In denial. Time had no patience for my anxiety. Days were wasted with some form of bogus justification.

People were busy. Or so I would assume.

Later that night, while having a drink with my cousin and two friends, one encouraged me to just send the invites. I typed a short message and hit send. In the coming days, the invitations were scattered through various methods, and names would suddenly come to mind. The wondering. The disbelief. My effective, organized planning skills were disoriented.

I spent the greater portion of last week in bed with sinus, sore throat and a slight fever. It doesn't surprise me that I'm writing this entry as I sit in the ER waiting room, 12 hours before my flight.

The family doctor had little to recommend beside a nasal spray. Is this really happening? Is this really how I'm going to spend the last few days in New York? The thought of it getting worse, like the ear infection after New Years 2014, freaked me out about getting through packing, seeing everyone and traveling. Aleve did the best it could to subside the pain, but I was still aching, mentally.

I wanted to see my brother, his wife and kids, and visit my sisters and their kids. She asked about having an intimate gathering at home, something special. I had originally planned on a local bar/grill meet up, then going to the city the following night to see those who live much further. Anything "intimate" would have disassembled all the effort to remain detached from my surroundings. Be still. In denial.

As I said last time, I have a tendency to get sentimental on the drop of a dime. Friday night the boys went out with me for a drink and chocolate cake. We wandered through the neighborhood like old times.

"Okay, let's go around and share our favorite 'Angelina moment.'" "The brownies!" "Remember that time you fell asleep in her bathtub?"

I started to cry and laugh, and kept eating my lollipop, hoping I wouldn't cry hysterically. We hadn't spent as much time like this for a long while. A part of this sadness is missing a certain time and space, wanting to re-experience those moments and wondering of moments lost. Nothing's ever the same.

Sunday morning, my best friend and her boyfriend were getting ready to drive back up to Boston. They had come to celebrate this new journey that previous night and got to meet some of my former coworkers. Barely having slept, we bid farewell and I was wide awake in bed.

I cried. Looking at my bedroom. Walking through the kitchen. Mom passing by, wearing our matching polka dot robe. Dad shuffling in his slippers to the bathroom, wearing his homemade pajamas. All these people wanted to see me. They traveled all sorts of distances. They shared stories. They gave me the biggest hugs. They wished me the best of luck. "Once you land, I'm texting, calling, emailing everyone out there. You will get work!"

I thought over how much I played down the possible permanence of this trip so it's not a big deal to everyone, or big enough to disappoint myself. Then I realize I am incredibly loved, as I stare into the mirror: Wow, this is what I look like in the morning?

Despite how much I'll miss everyone, I started to wonder what could happen in my absence. Maybe the two people I mediate between will begin to collaborate better. Maybe the friend who inspires me will recognize they had the creative fortitude within themselves all along. Maybe the innate psychologist will be delighted by all my social observations and comparisons to include into their studies.