raison d'être.

College feels like a million miles away. It feels so far that it nearly feels like it didn't happen, or barely happened. I don't remember it. I didn't drink heavily. I didn't party hard. Sometimes I'm shocked by the amount of "doing" that I just didn't. I went to class; I auditioned for one play (and got so embarrassed by forgetting my monologue that I dropped out of the theater school entirely); I wrote for the Daily Iowan; I hosted a weekly radio show for three years on KRUI 89.7. I  called it "The Early Morning Airstrike."

Higher education — it's supposed to be this time of self-discovery, learning, adventure, finding out what you're good at, trying things — but I don't really think I did those overarching things. I was busy doing this and then that, creating friendships that when looked at closely these days aren't all that close (at least not anymore). Both of my college roommates ended up in Los Angeles post graduation, yet we seldom get together. It's no ones specific fault. We just lead different lives, have different interests, different priorities. We're different, after all. When I really think about it, it's unbelievable that we've made it this far because we are so different.

This time last year, I was just ending a sub-chapter back in a University setting. I was behind a desk, working in an office, watching students linger outside classrooms, skateboard past signs that say "No Skateboarding," and wear business suits as an assignment — And now a full year after that, I'm left wondering, where did it all go? Even if you're in the same decade, it's unbelievable how different a 20-year-old is from a 29-year-old. The incremental change each day of those 365 days from 29 to 30 hits you the day before your birthday. It isn't incremental at all. And now that keep hitting these painful numbers, it feels like I've somehow moved further away from something rather than toward something else. I don't think I'll ever feel my age again. Maybe when I'm 80. By then my hips, knees and eyes won't let me skip past the truth like they do now.

I'm not old. I'm not. I'm really not. But, I feel old. I feel left behind. I have this overwhelming sense that my life is passing me by. I'm sure I'm not alone in this. Like I didn't just waste a couple decades. It seems that for most people their job is where they find their satisfaction, their reason to be, "raison d'être." And as a performer, it's tough to know that my career is somewhat in the hands of others. Yes, I can create my work — I can write for myself — I can join teams and perform shows, and so on, and on, and on; I can do all of these things, and that is amazing. But what does it matter if no one sees it. If no one thinks it's good enough to pay for. Where is my worth? I have so much control, but what is control anyway?

Google defines it as "the power to influence or direct people's behavior or the course of events." But this is only a half definition to me. Control can direct, sure, but when you're out of control there is also a direction, and it's not always down. The relationship between control and success is a lie.

I have so much less "control" than I think. I can do what I can to direct the course of my life, but life will do what it wants, and other people in their lives are doing the same, and my life will intersect with theirs, and there will be "right time and right place," and then the less popular, but more common, "wrong time and wrong place," followed by the confusing, "wrong time and right place," and then of course, the ever frustrating "right time and wrong place." If we're looking at life as a Punnett Square based on life situations: Time and Place as the main variables — "right time and right place" accounts for just 25 percent of what life hands you, the rest, darlings, is unfortunately 75 percent the mismatching of everything else. We cannot control time. So inevitably control is for nothing.

If I want to make any money at my creative craft, that alleged control I love to have so much, goes to the birds. Others write my paycheck. It's incredibly tough.

Where does that leave me?

It leaves time as the constant variable that won't allow itself to be controlled.

the past/ sitting/ and the future.

You can light the fire that's in your head

Put it off, tomorrow will come instead

We don't watch the tower that tells us when

Pull the wicked flower out from its bed.

The Dodos, "Walking"

This time last year I was passing through Arizona, crossing the border into California, and eventually rolling up into Los Angeles onto Russell Avenue. A new apartment in my continued life, a new part.

One of the most generous, caring and scattered people I've ever met and loved forever, Carly Mandell, was in tow. And sweet, thoughtful, generous and gentle, Alli Arnold, was waiting with fresh homemade cookies and beers. Everything I saved from my old life was with me, ready to be part of what my parents called my "new adventure." (I originally thought that was a rather condescending sentiment, but then again, when my sister Colleen moved out here in 2008, my parents referred to Los Angeles as "Camp Hollywood" for two years.)

Three-hundred-sixty-five days isn't that many days (even if spelling it out makes it seem the opposite), and the longer I am here, the more I realize that truth. It's so funny. The first question new people ask of you tends to be, "How long have you been here?" or some derivative, and after about three months, I literally became old news; that felt so good. It feels good to be considered part of this insanely transient city where people are like migrating birds, telling themselves: "I'll give it a month," "I'll give it a year," "I'm just testing out the waters," "I'm going to see what I'm made of," etc.

But then you meet the people that are here for decades, that grew up here, that have no intention of leaving — and you're a baby to them, this one-year-old baby with chubby cheeks, a can-do attitude, and more blind faith in their talent than maybe even armed with talent. But as Steve Martin says in his book Born Standing Up, "Persistence is a great substitute for talent."

In some ways I thought moving here would change everything, but it didn't. It didn't change my drive — it encouraged it. It didn't change my energy — it grew it. It didn't change my goals — it clarified them. Making this move has made my life more pointed. I know where I want to go, and all of my choices (I hope) are evidence of that, down to the variety of jobs I've held since landing in La-La-Land.

Even now, after months of go-go-go, for the last four weeks I have spent an unusual amount of time sitting down — first in my car — then in a chair — that's in my office. So much sitting at this new job, a short term gig that will take up my days until the end of the year. It's too much sitting for me. I don't know how so many people do jobs like this for their whole lives. The only logical reason that one could do this much sitting is because it's what you have to do in order to keep living in Los Angeles because living is expensive and when you're not at this job you're trying to be a paid actor. (Run on sentence to illustrate my psychotic ability to do a million things, however frantically/poorly.)

I am so thankful that I know this won't be how I spend my life in the long run. I am so thankful that I am not content to bounce around from day-job to day-job without the hope that my persistence, talent, comedic sensibility, look, and all these things a million people have, but that I somehow illogically think will make me different — will actually make me different.

And it's fine. It's fine that this is what you have to do. People don't talk about the grind they had before they did what they want to be doing. It's the first chapter to the rest of your life. So right now, yes, it seems that most of my life is going from one sitting job to the next job I sit at, but fortunately for me, there's a smattering of film projects, sketch shows, improv performances and auditions in between. I am so thankful.

But seriously — I cannot believe how much sitting I do. (My next post will be a break down of the amount of sitting I do, if you're curious.)

So here's to being here for another year, and all the years after that.

On Writing When You're Not Sad.

It's a frustrating thing to be happy — and it seems to infect most people. There's this inkling feeling that it won't last. It's painted best in Robert Frost's poem,  "Nothing Gold Can Stay."

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

My best writing, or at least, the writing that I connect to most emotionally I write when I'm so sad. That's an interesting concept, too, that in my mind, best equals emotional. When I have too many feelings welling up inside me I can't help but emit them through writing, through performing, through singing. I cannot help myself. Perhaps it's the notion of something good must come from this pain; I have to create something beautiful, something real, something heartfelt to make this moment have more meaning than just wallowing alone in my: "I am hurt. It hurts. It will pass."

But, why, why can't the same be said when I'm happy? Why is it harder for me to express my joy creatively? Is it the distraction of how happy I am, I don't want to reflect on it for fear that it will dissipate before me? There are too many questions.

Periodically I look back on this blog so I can see who I am or was throughout the years. I have often noticed the amount of writing I did or didn't do during years of hardship and during times of happiness. I can so directly see the correlation between my writing and my relationships. At the start of 2010 I wrote a lot. Not coincidentally, my longest relationship ended. And, then the Fall of 2010 happened, my writing slowed to a trickle — I was in a new relationship. Flash to 2012, I wrote a ton again. That was a hugely difficult year full of car accidents, breakups, job transitioning — the gambit. And then again my writing picked up as I picked up and moved to LA. Spring of 2014 happened and again, a flood. It's frustrating to know how much my writing is a reflection of my emotional state. I love what I write when I am sad. I don't love being sad, though; and I don't want to manufacture emotion. I can't anyway. I've tried.

But even right now, as my life is on an upswing, I am all smiles, yet full of lackluster uninspired stories. I have people in my life I'm excited to see, and that are excited to see me. I have parents that love me, that call me unexpectedly, that fly across the country to spend time with me. I have siblings that are kind, that go out of their way. And while it's not as if we don't carry our baggage or throw one another under the bus on occasion, those moments pale in comparison to how my throat chokes up when I think of what my life would be like if they didn't love me like they do.

So, here I am, waiting for it all to fall apart so I can write a heartfelt blog post, script, poem, song, etc.

NO!

That Frost poem always left me feeling so negative. Now though, I'm attempting to grasp how, yes, things fade, but other things take their place. When a flower blooms and dies, in a few weeks or days, or whatever, time happens, and a new bloom takes its place. Life will always be up and down.

That's comforting.

But God, is it tiring to have all those feelings and be writing and emitting so much. It has to stop. There has to be respite from it. So many writers (comedians, screenwriters, novelists, etc) get their material from things they're pissed about, things that have hurt them, or how they have been wronged. It can soften the blow, or cause you to relive it. You just have to know from where it's coming and to where it's leading you. And sometimes, just sometimes it's better to look at the world without a critical eye.

It's too taxing on your soul otherwise.

A "goodbye to my old life" list.

A few years ago I made a huge list of all the things I had accomplished in my first year after graduating college. Today I went through my "pieces of paper with notes, bits and bots written on them." I have a lot of these. They're on scraps of paper. They're on receipts. They're ripped out from notebooks. They are a collection of the things I deemed important at some point in the last year or so.

I found one particular piece of paper that's a to-do list of things I had to get done before moving to LA. It's the longest list. I made it during a meeting at work. I remember thinking "I don't have anything to add, and also this meeting isn't pertinent to me anymore, but I guess I'll stay."

To Do:

• iPhone (Sepho) - I see where my priorities were. I don't know what Sepho means
• MacBook Pro - I ended up waiting to purchase one of these until about two months ago.
• Final Draft - Still haven't gotten it, but my brother, Kevin, gave me a copy of MovieMagic which has been really a great system.
• Boxes - I'm assuming at this point I thought I was going to rent a Uhaul and have everything perfectly packed into 3x3x3 boxes on boxes on boxes. I didn't end up doing that and most of my furniture is at my old apartment with my old life and my best friend to keep it company.
• Shin compression - For those of you who don't know, when I was hit by a car, the woman who nailed me hit my shin pretty hard too and tore the fascia, which is essentially the casing around all of our muscles beneath our skin. When it tears, the muscle becomes herniated, so I have a slight bump. I am self-conscious.
• 5 video sketches - These did not happen, but that's ok. I did a lot of other writing.
• Invent America - This is one of those sketches. My friend Erin moved away onto a boat for a while so we ended up never doing it, but it would've been cool, and we still can at some point.
• Apartment sublet - This I did. No thanks to my nut landlord (SUSAN, the hateful) who every single time I talked to her made me cry or made me yell — either way, I was a teary mucus-y mess. Some people are just volatile. I've never dealt with a worse person.
• Sell bed - I did this too! My cousin and close confidante Kathleen got this bad girl. 
• I ended up giving mostly everything else away or leaving it for the perfect Cynthia Bangert (desk, chair, couch, rug, kitchen chairs)
• Mail art - This was a stupid idea. I just wrapped it in blankets and put it in my car. It took up a lot of space, but it was worth it.
• Pack stuff for Kev and Col (my siblings) to take. Neither of them took anything back to LA for me because they said they didn't want to wait for baggage claim. True story. It's fine, but at the time, I was like, "Really? Whatever."
• Talk to MA (that is my Chicago agent that, while very kind, was not very good)
• SketchTest - I did this. It's a great show in Chicago where you can essentially put up ideas, thoughts, semi-finished sketches and see how they work in front of people on a stage)
• Ireland - Sept 25-Oct 6 - This was the best trip. I am so glad my mom, sister and I could do this together.
• Shower for Quinns - My cousin Brian got married, and my mom wanted me to help her throw the shower. I did. And it was nice. My cousin Colleen is getting married later this summer and my mom wanted me to come home to help throw the shower again. I'm not, but it would've been nice. I think I have to stay in LA without going anywhere for a while. I am going home at the end of August though for the wedding. It will be good.
• Michigan? - I'm really sad I didn't make time to go to Michigan last summer. I haven't been in so long, and it's really one of my favorite places. 
• Call David B - David Balkan is one of the best people I think I know, or that's out there in the world, period. I feel very lucky to have a mentor and friend in him.
• Call Kevin - Kevin is my baby brother who I love so much. It would have been next to impossible for me to feel as comfortable as I have been able to be in LA without him and Colleen, our sister.
• Call Col - Colleen and I are really lucky to have one another. Sometimes we don't tell each other what's going on in our lives, and I hate that. I hate not knowing how she is doing and that's become less and less of how our relationship is. I'm glad she's my neighbor. And I'm glad she cares about me. I get scared when I think about how we're all getting older and it makes my heart stop when I think about a world where one of us won't be there and the other will.
• Call Alli - Alli was my first Chicago roommate. She was my first LA roommate. She moved back to NYC, and I completely understand why, but I miss her, and I took our friendship for granted when we lived together. I'm really sorry about that.
• Car insurance for Pat Anderson - had to get it, also had to get a car. I really like my car. Pat Anderson is my lawyer. Or was. I am finally done with dealing with insurance claims and medical bills and the general stress that living after a really scary accident brings up. It's been 2 years. Things are ok.
• Credit cards - I don't know what this means. I think I was concerned about my credit score because of all the medical bills. But we're good here.
• Contact Bank of America - Ugh, the worst bank. I canceled all my things with them. A weight was lifted.
• PG Sched Sept, Oct, Nov. - I used to schedule the PG shows and for whatever reason was always stressed about it. I think I just took on too much because I didnt want to deal with things in my life, so I was just busy all the time. For those that are very close to me, thanks for seeing beyond this crazy person exterior.
• Meeting with Thomas about doing calendar - Thomas Einstein is a very good friend to me. He took over the scheduling with Jake Miller, and they've both been amazing. I talked to both of them at length last week and feel very lucky that despite being very far apart, we are close.
• Long Pause - My sketch group. I am forever thankful for the day Chris Bragg came into the Annoyance while I was interning and invited me to be part of my favorite group in Chicago. Thank you.
• Chris Gaines - One of the craziest shows and most fun casts. It was just a fun idea that Greg Ott dreamed up. He's a really good writer, and I like him a lot. I felt, I don't know, just lucky, I guess, that he invited me into the show. I only wish Bryan Duff had stayed in the show. That idiot.
• Goodbye Party 10/12? Honestly, this was a weird night. I said goodbye to those I love.
• Denver (Aug 19, Sept 1, Sept 9, Sept 30) - My iO improv team's final shows. So fun. Great group. Miss it. Love it.
• Annoyance Party - August 25 - I don't think I went to this. No, I did. This was the party right before they closed the old space. Now they just opened the new space. And, I so look forward to seeing it when I'm home later this summer.
• Brian Q wedding 10/11 - That wedding was a good time.
• Alinea - I took myself out to a fancy as hell 10 course dinner with my friend David Blum, Jessica Maciejeski and her lovely boyfriend Blake. I don't know how to spell Jessica's last name, and she goes by "The Treat" on facebook, so I will never know.
• Commercial and online? - What does this mean?
• Sept 5 - massage? - My old boss and friend, Casey bought me a massage for my birthday because he is the kindest.
• NYC (?) when? - This did not happen. It couldn't have. There is no time.
• CTA - I still have $100 in CTA money that I guess I can still use despite that new thing they have that begins with a V. I don't know. Vesta? No. I don't know. I could google it, but this is more fun.

So, this is my list. It was so full. Everything happened so fast, too fast. And, there still wasn't enough time. Carly and I left Chicago together on October 15th at 4pm. I know. I had to stop at the dealership in the morning. My mom came with me in a different car. When we pulled away from each other, she turned right and I turned left, and we held up traffic for a long time at the intersection of Route 41 Skokie Highway and Park in Highland Park. We were looking at each other from our separate cars, going into our separate lives, waving at each other and crying. It was really hard. Her face.

I write in coffee shops so I don't cry when I write, but I'm crying right now at Coffee+Food on Melrose. Well, I'm tearing up because I can't be that girl. I can't be the girl who openly weeps at Coffee+Food on Melrose. 

Carly was a champ. A real champ. I am so glad she was my transition friend. She is light. She is joy filled. She is what it means to be excited. And she's not a terrible driver, despite that police officer in Nebraska who wanted to give her a ticket, but then didn't because we are so cute. I'm not a great driver. I'm not a bad driver. I just want to go fast...like Ricky Bobby. Ha. Anyway. We had a goodbye coffee at Asado with Joe and Cynthia the day or so before: our quartet. We all cried. Even Joe. I want to remember what he said, "Oh, we're doin' this?" I think was along the lines.

When I went to get Carly on the actual day, she was so funny. She had a purple backpack for the week.  For anyone that has ever seen her in the world ever, you know the bag I'm talking about. Girl does not leave home without it. And she also had an orange creamsicle colored towel that we ended up using to clean off dirt from my car because I thought it was stupid to get a carwash while on a road trip, even though we legit could not see anything at one point. I mean, it is stupid, though, a carwash on a road trip, please. I kept that towel.

With every mile I got further from Chicago and closer to LA. Obviously. But it was weird. It was the slowest motion. My life changed, and I was witnessing the change. I was the one driving. I was the one making it happen. I was doing this to myself. I don't know how to describe it. It was like my heart kept falling when I would look at the mile markers or the "Welcome to" whatever state signs. This thing that I had dreamt of doing for years was finally happening. I was doing it. And I remembered why it was so hard and why it took me so long to do it — because of people. I knew how much I would miss my people.

I'm still shocked by how much I miss people. I don't know if it's shock, but I think it's a little that I did not know the depths of some of my relationships until I wasn't there in them, living them anymore. Even as I fill my time with work, with new friends, with new experiences, new shows, new improv teams, new everything, it's hard. 

I already had a whole life in Chicago. I didn't realize how deep my investment was there. And, I cashed it all in for something new. That's exciting, but it's scary. Los Angeles is the first place I've ever moved where I have no intention of going back to my old life. This is it for me.

I can't come up with a title that doesn't sound trite. Perhaps, Living Real.

Lately I've been listening to probably too much music, and I'm at that annoying point where every time I hear a song, I think, "Oh, my God, that is so my life." I am fourteen again. Woo. The Head and the Heart's "Lost in My Mind" flipped onto Pandora at that moment. So, you know what I mean despite the lameness, yeah? In other news, it turns out Katy Perry and I could be best friends because we both have personal whoas. Shoot me if I ever sound this stupid again. I actually hate that I'm writing all this forward intro crap.

ANYWAY. It's been kind of a whirlwind of a week since my last post, which is mostly good. The kind of stress that goes into being honest is unexpected, but it's freeing. I'm sort of done talking about what it means to be real, though. Not that I will cut someone off if I find myself in conversation about it again. I could talk about it forever. It's just, it takes a lot to stop pretending. I am so used to wearing a shield that I sort of don't know what to do with myself right now. Sorry if that sounds real asshole-y, "I'm sort of done," ugh, it's just, what I mean is I want to start actually living more real — not just writing real.

Like, I need to talk things out so that I can know if I'm on the right page with the people in my life. I sort of feel like if I'm not talking to someone regularly it's as if they don't want to know me. No one is a mindreader unless they're a mindreader. That's something I wrote in my last post, not the mindreader part, but the feeling of thinking people don't want to know me. I'm at this point where I can't tell if I should take another step out and tell people I want them in my life, or if it is better to just move on. Who knows if they feel the same way? Oh, the sheer amounts of opportunities missed due to personal gridlock. It's weird. It's so weird.

Actually, something weird happened the other day. I don't normally do stand-up a ton, but it's something that I'm weaving into my life intermittently. It turns out I like to stand up in front of people and open my worldview to them. (We're all shocked.) It's a special kind of rush...knowing you might just blow, and you don't have anyone to blame it on, except maybe high ceilings that swallow laughter. I like to say doing stand-up is like having a conversation where you can't be interrupted, and if you are, you get to go off on that audience member, and everyone is like, "Yeah, lady, you tell them!" That hasn't happened to me much, which I appreciate, though I would sort of love to yell uninhibited sometimes.

Normally I just talk about how much I love my family and maybe tell a story about us all being insane together...things I'm comfortable talking about. A lot of stand-ups find things to gripe about and because it's a shared experience, audiences laugh. They laugh from recognition. That's a very cool kind of laughter, but I love laughs from surprise. What I mean by surprise laughter, is they didn't expect to hear what they heard, but they recognize it still, the laughter of admittance that they understand. I love to surprise myself most of all, probably because I'm a narcissist. (I'm not really a narcissist, and I don't think I actually know any true narcissists in the way that Narcissus, that Greek god, was.)

Anyway, I did a whole set based on honesty, relationships and being real. The first line of the set I got dead silence (which is what I was seriously hoping for, chill out), and then it got laughter because it stopped people in their own brains. It's very uncommon for a comedian, let alone a female comedienne to open with, "Hi, I want to be married." Cats out of the bag! Surprise! I want a lot of things, and this is one of them.

It was so amazing, guys. The fear, anxiety and silence that took over the audience (mostly single male stand-ups) opened the door to the rest of the set: being honest about our hopes for ourselves and the people in our lives — people want to talk about it, apparently, as many of the other comics ended up referencing my set in theirs. It's not as if I want to get married to just anyone anywhere anytime, and not today by any means. But it's real. It's a part of who I am, and I explained why.

There's an unwritten rule in Hollywood that you can't say you want to be an actor on a sitcom, or you want your own HBO stand-up special, or you want to write the next big Blockbuster, what have you. But, clearly if you've made it as far as Los Angeles, those are things that you likely want, and saying you want them makes them more real. It opens you up to others. How are they supposed to know who you are and what you want, if you don't tell anyone?

So, I said it. And I kept up this new trend in my life of being truthful, and it felt fucking good. There's that old ditty, "Truth in comedy," to which I say, "There is comedy in the truth." It has less of a ring, but I think it's clearer. What I think the first means is make your comedy truthful, whereas the latter means, tell the truth, and it will be funny. The difference is slight. It has to do with where you start.

All those things I said before, those are my dreams. And we don't tell what our dreams are because if we tell other people then they know if we didn't get what our dream was. As for wanting to be married, especially as a new-to-LA actress, that's just something you don't say. You don't say a lot of things, life is all about the things that you do not say to one another. There's embarrassment that comes from voicing this particular desire. I would say that the number one thing you don't say as a woman in your twenties or thirties is, "I want to be married." Not everyone wants to be, but I would say most people at least want the comfort of a serious relationship. I'm not going to qualify this much anymore, because I don't think it should have to be, other than to say, marriage is a really great thing if it's between two people who really want to be married. It's being with the person who has your back, is excited to see you, and who you have the freedom to totally be yourself with all of the time — and vice versa, that's important.

Of course, we aren't going to always be 100 percent ourselves with someone else until we're ok with ourselves alone, but that's the goal. You can't be yourself with someone else until you're yourself by yourself. Did you get all that? I had to read it aloud a few times. And that's why relationships should be treasured, given time to grow and fostered with connection.

this is not a poem, this is the most real thing i have written to a group of people who might read this and i am very scared.

This is coming from a place of honesty. I haven't written as myself in more than six months (i.e. my entire time since moving to Los Angeles thus far), choosing purposefully to write through the narrative voices of made up characters in made up settings with made up scenarios — or poems, so many poems. Often these stories and characters are versions of me, or the people in my life, as is the case with many writers, so it felt like I was still able to express what I thought, experienced and have been feeling. But as I continue to think about it more, I know that this has very much been a response to me not wanting to be really open about my fears, my future, my everything. It's my own little "arm's distance away." And because I love telling stories and creating worlds, and I'm good at it, I didn't know the level of self-destruction I have begun to take on.

There's that term, "take up your arms" when referring to battle. Every day to me feels like a battle, and I am so alone. I am fighting off those I am closest to every single day, and I am seriously fighting off those who could potentially want to be close to me. I'm doing this, and it is sabotage.

I don't want to share.

And, I don't want to do it because I am afraid. I am afraid that the things that make me who I am won't be good enough in the eyes of the people around me: close, far, unknown, known, doesn't matter. This is not ok. And, it's something I didn't know was a real problem until very recently, even though it has been boiling since September 2012, if we're being real, and I am. If we're really being real, then I would say it goes back further, but 2012 was the hardest year of my life. I feel like I'm not conveying the real gravity and impact of this period of my life or that it won't seem like that big a deal, but it really was. I am scared that you won't think it was as awful as I do.

In very short, because I am scared, awful things happened, and then I was fake-ok for a time. Performing was good, and I was insanely productive, but all the while I was going through a very destructive phase that involved things I have only told a very select few. But mostly, it involved me not being myself because I am afraid of being hurt. I don't know if I can go through that again.

The other day a truly good friend of mine was talking to me about her perception of me. Besides the multitude of kind things she believed to be true about me, she mentioned how I once told her that I didn't want to be seen as weak. This struck a chord — the idea of being weak. She said, the things that you say about yourself and believe to be true of yourself are in the eyes of others the furthest from how they actually perceive you. The example in her own life was that she didn't want people to think she was mean, and if there is one person in this world with a gentler disposition, who goes miles out of her way for the benefit of others, it is this woman.

I am so concerned about others seeing me as someone who can handle it; someone who doesn't need others. I thought because I still spent time with friends and family, made phone calls and sent emails, 'liked' things on Facebook, sent a note, whatever — that that was enough, but those things, while good and nice, have to be matched with the freedom to really share. It is not easy for anyone to share honestly. And, truthfully, I don't think one should share everything with everyone all the time — this is not what I am advocating to anyone, and least of all to myself. But for those I'm closest to or want to be close to, there is not real love, compassion, relationship, etc. unless it is met with the vulnerability to say you need someone, you want someone, you care about someone, and open yourself up to the possibility of them hurting you. For real connection, I have to be willing to take down this facade of being too cool, of having a game face, of using comedy and stories and small talk, in order to feign comfort. It's a faux comfort. Real comfort, though, that is what we all crave, and that's why many of us spend so much time alone. I'm the only person I can truly just be myself with. No one knows, no one sees. In truth, I want the comfort I have alone but with someone else. 

But I am afraid, so I protect myself. 

I find myself neglecting people, waiting for them to make the first move, and pretending like I am ok when they don't. I convince myself they don't want to know me anymore, and I am afraid to tell them I want to keep knowing them. It is gridlock because we all do this.

I verbalize the words: "I don't need you" every single day. I've said it to my mom, I've said it to my dad, I've said it to my sister, to my brothers, to my friends, to boyfriends, to teachers, to confidantes, to anyone that could remotely affect me. I've said it to friends about other friends. I say, "I like them, I care about them, but I don't need them." 

This, this is something I have said about those I need most. If I admit that I need them, then for me, it feels like they have the power to wound me. The truth is, they have it anyway, because I do care, they just might not know how much. And this perceived notion that I don't care lets them off the hook to show how much they actually care, if indeed they do. (That last bit was me protecting myself even as I write about being open. It never stops.)

The truth is, I care about the people in my life deeply. If you're in my life at all, I care about you. I am so afraid that I don't have the capacity to share who I am fully. I am so afraid that I will be rejected. I am so afraid. It's like a sickness, my fear.

Even as I write this now I find myself censoring my words, my heart. I'm afraid that someone will read this and think: "God, she is so freaking dramatic. I'm so glad she moved to Los Angeles so I never have to see her again unless she makes it, in which case, ugh, I am so jealous, because honestly, she isn't even funny or pretty, or nice, or anything."

I thought this thought the other day: "We are all scared people pretending not to be." I am a huge offender. 

Another phrase I use to hold people at bay is this: "Everyone is the worst, and I am the worst of all."

This comes from a place of shame. Shame is like a cancer, and it will destroy you if it isn't addressed. Shame is what we feel about who we are, and it's why we hide. It can come out of regret, it can come out of past hurt, it can seemingly come out of nowhere. For me, it comes out of past hurt, of past heartbreak. Not always the kind involving a girl and a boy, though it's been known to happen (both me breaking and being broken), but also heartbreak from friends, of let downs from my parents, of jobs I didn't get, of hugs not given, of love and compassion I didn't give myself; in short, when something happened that made me feel like I was not enough.

I listened to a Ted Talk another friend emailed to me (I know, haha, Ted Talks, but those are good!) and the woman, Brene Brown, talked about shame, courage, authenticity and vulnerability. 

She said this:  

"Shame feeds into our sense of worthiness. Those that have a strong sense of love and belonging believe they are worthy of connection. "

After talking to another dear friend about how hard it is for comedians to accept praise and compliments, I concluded that for me, it has a lot to do with the innate feeling that nothing quite fills me — discontent. The irony is that performers are perhaps the neediest people when it comes to them, but accepting praise (love and belonging) is difficult because we can stop for a second and be ok with our apparent success. For me, I always felt being content was the opposite of being driven. This is faulted. It is just not true. Being discontent, not accepting love from others, keeps us out of and feeling unworthy of connection. One can accept love/praise/compliments/etc, and still strive to be a better version of themselves on stage and otherwise, a more real version of yourself, yourself. Your real self.

To have real connection with others is a result of both parties being authentic: letting go of who I want to convey I am, and just be who I am: being vulnerable. 

I am not a vulnerable person, and my personality and actions are often calculated. As I'm writing this, I am rewriting, trying to be more clear, trying to show what I want to show, trying to be authentic, but somehow feeling like I am not, while still writing well, while still making a point, while I don't know. It's as if I want to share more about the specifics of my life, but the truth is I don't want everyone to know my truths. But, I want to be open to those who want to know me and who I want to know. The nitty gritty truths of our experiences aren't what's truly important, but rather they're things that draw us closer to each other. I don't think it's appropriate to tell everyone everything all the time, I'll say it again, but we're not alone in those experiences. And to try to go it alone is an upward and losing battle. I'm realizing this, and to keep myself an arm's length away is really hard and very lonely, and it's not worth it.

I'm just trying to have courage to share what I am going through as a person, because I think a lot of us go through this. A lot of people think we have to be some version of ourselves so someone somewhere will think something of us. Some. Some. Some. I'm trying to tell the story, the truth of who I am with my whole heart. I'm trying to have the courage to be imperfect, to be compassionate to myself so I can show compassion to others, to be real, to accept not except that being vulnerable means being ok that someone might read the first line of this and think, "Fuck this bitch. She is too much for me." It doesn't feel good, but it's necessary in order to be open.

I might be too much, but I would rather be all of me, then just some of me.

There is more, there's always more, but this is where I am at today. Hopefully I don't delete this tomorrow.

with you.

"I can't believe how empty your house is."

"Believe it, Serge."

"I don't want to," he said. "If I believe it then it's real, and then you're —"

Serge cut himself off, and the six-foot frame lanky before her turned away.

"—then I'm gone?" Hannah offered. She was wearing a pair of jean shorts and an oversize grey t-shirt she'd stolen from an ex-boyfriend. It was hot in her apartment, but they had already removed her window unit.

"Yeah," Serge said.

Repeating him, "Yeah."

"I'm going to miss you." Serge was still faced away from her. He was fiddling with her curtain. It was one of the only things left in her bedroom. This curtain and a slew of dust bunnies where her bed used to be were the only markers she'd been there at all. Hannah was thinking of just leaving the curtain there, but when she remembered how much it had cost her at World Market, she decided on keeping it.

"I know," Hannah said. Her face was soft and warm, the kind of face that a child has but is supposed to lose when they grow up, but hers stayed the same — big eyes and round cheeks, and just one freckle left of center on her nose.

Hannah wanted to say she would miss him too, but she didn't want to give him the wrong impression, which is to say, she didn't want him to think that this was the time for him to profess his love for her. It was too obvious, how much Serge loved her. And Hannah had known for a long time. She had known and she had let him sit with it because she cared about him, but not in that way and couldn't help that she was the only person who could make his unrequited love requited, but she couldn't actually. We all think how simple it would be if love was returned when it was offered. It's not fair, though, life.

You love who you love, Hannah would catch herself thinking after spending the day with Serge. Then she would text back and forth with whoever guy of the week she crushed on at the moment. And of course, those texts would go no where, and she would be alone, and Serge would be there, until one day he wouldn't be, because eventually we have to leave those sorts of situations. You settle so that your heart stops aching. You settle because you think it's the only escape from the continual brokenness that's yours until it's not. But, you always know you're settling, and the ache dulls, but it doesn't stop existing. It's just a soft stab...a shard of glass from a broken vase that shattered months earlier.

 "I know, too," said Serge. He wanted to say he knew she wanted to love him. But needs, wants, desires, unrequited, some things just are those and nothing more.

Serge looked at her; he wanted to grab her hand, wanted to hold it, wanted for his to be the hand she wanted to hold. He wished he was wearing his shoes, but he wasn't, and he suddenly felt like he shouldn't be there anymore. It would be awkward though, to just say he had to go and then have to spend a few minutes locating his shoes and then putting them on. He couldn't just up and leave.

 "Can you help me with this?" Hannah had broken eye contact with Serge. It was all too much. She was pointing to the curtain. It was white, and the bottom of the fabric had what looked like a summer grassy motif printed on it. It looked like an afterthought, and every time Serge had seen it in the past he thought that.

Serge turned to face her again, resigned to his shoeless feet.

"You're sure you want to bring it with you?"

"No," she said, brushing a loose hair from her eyes, a motion that undid Serge. Four feet apart might as well have been a world away, and they both knew it.

There was too long of a silence.

"It's better than nothing," she said.

Serge moved to the right of the window and began loosening the rod.

"You're right."

Unlikely Acquaintances Who Become Friends.

There are thirty-seven cars on her street right now. She knows because she counted them. Earlier, Joanie (don't ask, she hates her name) went for a run...what was going to be a run, and instead, she got sidetracked into a conversation with her neighbor Manuel (that's pronounced Man-Well, not Man-You-Uhl, like she originally thought). They are in their building's downstairs lobby. He's sitting on one of the Pier1 Imports chairs that no one sits in normally.

"Hello pretty neighbor," says Manuel getting up to greet her. This is how Manuel speaks to all of his female building-mates. Just your typical overly friendly 65 plus Latino neighbor.

"Hi," Joanie says. "So good to see you." They hug, and Manuel gives her a small kiss on her cheek, very close to her right eye. Joanie tags on that last bit because Manuel's face is so expectant, his cracked corn cob smile visible behind dry lips.

"We are good today," he says hoping she's with him in his we-ness. She is. Manuel reminds her of her church growing up. There was an usher at Christ the King who was, well, too excited to lead people to their seats. He would say, "Today is the day, is the day, the day for you to sit...!" and he would guide them down the center aisle to whichever pew looked most empty, and shake everyones hands proclaiming the peace of the Lord be with them. She can't remember his name now. It's not really important, either.

"I'm just on my way out, Manuel," she says still smiling. Joanie is wearing bright violet running shorts with a zebra stripe down each side, Nike stitched onto the right, and a black dry-fit tank claiming: Strength. The green iPod nano currently playing her Top Tracks playlist is clipped to her arm. It will inevitably get annoying, as it will certainly hit the inside of her bicep. Eventually Joanie will elect to hold it.

"Oh, yes, yes. I see," Manuel says, adjusting his short-sleeved button up that is indeed buttoned up all the way. "I would fall down." He laughs at this sentiment.

Joanie smiles. "Me too," she admits, a girlish giggle cropping up.

Joanie hadn't gone for a run in over a month. The last time she did she was not three blocks from her apartment when she just face-planted, licking the pavement. As far as she could tell, no one had seen her Total Life Fail Moment, but in reality, someone did see and periodically when that someone is doing dishes and annoyed at her husband, she thinks of that girl who tripped and fell and smiles, laughing to herself. Her husband asks, "What's that about?" assuming she's laughing at him, because everyone assumes they're being laughed at when they're the only other person in the room, but she wasn't. She was laughing at the girl who fell, Joanie. Joanie doesn't know she exists, so the woman is no one important, thus she has no name.

Manuel shares his smile with her again. "Please, please, go on."

"Oh, thank you," Joanie says, turning her music down finally. "Are you going to be OK today?"

"Yes, I'm waiting for my daughter to come get me." He looks anxious.

"That's great. Are you getting lunch together?"

"Yes." He pauses, and Joanie starts to turn her iPod back on, but then, "She's looking at my apartment."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

"Is she helping you with something?"

"I'm going to go move in with her."

The unlikely acquaintances who became friends both look sad.

Finally, "When?" asks Joanie.

"This weekend."

"So soon?"

"Yes."

There's another long pause. Manuel's gaze is affixed to his friend, and then he hears a car pull up.

"Is she here?"

"Yes, this is her. Arabelle."

"Beautiful name."

"It is."

"Well, I guess, I'll —" Joanie cuts herself off. She didn't expect to be so sad. Manuel's her kind neighbor, but just a neighbor. A friend, who's about her own father's age. And Arabelle is about her age, maybe a little older. "I'll get going on this run. You let me know when you leave, though."

"Ok," says Manuel. He grins, waves at his daughter. She gets out of her turquoise RAV4, "Hi dad!"

Joanie waves, then turns to go, beginning her brisk run. A Ryan Adams song begins to play.

"Hello Gracie you're a good little girl. It's a beautiful world, oh when you're out in it. Last time I saw you playing in the yard, you were running with children and the old people were smiling..."

perspective

From my perspective this is what you did. This is what happened. And this is why it's never going to happen for us. This is why I can't love you even if by some magical circumstance you got it together, which you won't, so I won't trouble my brain anymore with nonsensical thoughts about you. Foolishness. Utterly.

There were two people who liked each other. They told each other so, and then all the trouble found its way into that. As trouble tends to do to us weak people. Into those feelings. Into those people. This is what happened.

There were two people who wanted to make it work; they thought they did. But it was one more so than the other. A slight push, then an unnecessary pull. So, to make it easier on the one who wanted it less, the one who wanted it more tried to make up for the slight. Tried to convince the other through nice words and nice thoughts and nice feelings and nice nice nice, and this made the other one only more scared and more closed off and more childlike and more more more. This is what happened.

So these two people won't make it work because one person can't carry the whole load and they shouldn't have to and they shouldn't have to feel like they have to overcompensate for the let down that became the other. And the other shouldn't say anything bad about their non-partner. Because they were never in it together. This is what happened.

The other shouldn't make them feel like they did something wrong by carrying, by wanting, by hoping, by living bravely. What is that anyway? What beautiful words to characterize the actions of another: carrying, wanting, hoping, living bravely. Those are exemplary.

Living bravely and living recklessly are not the same. If you can be brave as recklessness takes you under water, threatens you into drowning, attempting to steal your very heart — then you are more than most. And we are not the same.

From my perspective, this is what happened.

I'm glad for it.

done

--> There’s a place I’ve been where the walls are wearing skin

Where no one lives inside, it’s just an empty hollow hide

The snow falls briskly, leaving you thin, so prickly

Where short, short skirts tend to silken shirts

and we are all so low.

There’s a place I’ve been where you would only hear that pin

Where no one says hello, how dare you consider your friend your fellow

The sky turns purple, orange, red, you might as well rip yourself to shreds

Where wavy hair meets a woman’s stare

and she whispers hello, goodbye.

There’s a place I’ve been where all you want is out

Where children fear

and I tear

Where there is no air

and I tear

Rip it. Deface it. Call it Nothing.

There is a place I have been.

a love letter to snacks

Dearest Snacks,

You know who you are, and this is why I admire you so. It's not your sweet melt-in-mouth goodness, or the crunch that's come (oh!) unexpectedly — it's that's mellow feeling you hollow out inside me that magnetizes me to you without a fight.

But, Snacks, it's clear to me that perhaps our love affair is lopsided. Perhaps I need you more than you need me. Perhaps you can just as easily find another unassuming girl who could get swept up in all you have to offer — and maybe she'd have no guilt in indulging you. I think you actually said this to me once, that I liked you more than you liked me, and then you swiftly exited through the backdoor. I found it rude at the time, and I honestly can say that I don't know why I'm even bringing that up to you now.

I apologize. This is a love letter for Christ's sake. I was going to say for Hershey's sake or Crunch's sake, but I decided to go for sincerity and got the Lord involved. Even just then I would have substituted Lord for Truffle or something insanely perfect, akin to Christ. Or a something like a Whatchamacallit.

This, my darling Snacks, is a love letter. And I love you, Snacks. I love you so much.

Dammit. I feel like a fool for how long I've loved you, stood beside you as you taunted the chubby kids with your soft exterior, and smooth as butter (and sometimes butter) center. Loved you as you made me feel bad about myself. Loved you even when you stood on the top shelf, just out of my reach, but not my sight. You're cruel, but I love you anyway.

I do, Snacks. Please, please — I beg you. Don't leave me ever. The sun couldn't set without the moon there to step in, just as I couldn't live without you. Don't ever say I can't have you. Don't try to make me enjoy you in moderation. I will have all of you or none of you. Anything else would be too painful. You agree, don't you, Snacks?

All or nothing when it comes to you, Snacks. I won't have it any other way.

You understand, don't you? I'm sorry it has to be this way. I love you too much, and maybe, just maybe, that's my problem. But, I won't talk to anyone about it, Snacks. I can only console this imminent grief with more of you. Treat my disease with that which will make me worse.

Let me know how you feel after reading these prose, and if you feel the same as I, either leave me alone forever, or meet me at the Jewel. Aisle 5. You know where to find me.

Love forever, or never,

Brigid E Marshall

dads. my dad. dads.

Sheila & LarBear. 2012.

This is, I guess, more pertinent, or timely, than most of my posts. Mostly, because it's non-fiction, and it's about my dad. Oh, Larry Marshall, a man that in every moment is a dedicated daddy-o, entrepreneur, non-shirt-wearer when in the yard, self-described short-ditty-songwriter, avid gardener and amateur real-estate aficionado. My dad has always been a driver in my life. It took a long time to realize that he drove so hard because he hoped that the six of his kids would drive ourselves in the same way. He did good.

I will always prefer striving to stagnant, type A to slacker.  In short, I'm an Annie Edison, as opposed to a Jeff Winger. I don't know how to be content, so to this, I say thank you. There's always more out there.

The pair of us would make lists as I grew up. I don't know if he did this with my siblings; I have an inkling this particular habit sank into my sister Colleen's life though. We are so similar when it comes to how we go about dreaming and working to achieve. Perhaps it was a "Father of Girls" move. How lucky were we to have such a caring, thought provoking man as a dad? And remains so.

Me & Dad. 2013.

These lists, ah, these lists, they'd be the lists comprised of all sorts of things: what I was interested in, books I wanted to read, books I'd read, places I'd like to visit, places I'd visited, my favorite facts, things I loved, goals I set, goals I accomplished, people I admired, and so on into all spheres of life. I have kept many of these lists throughout the years: a hoarder of the relics in my own life. And for my unsurprising love of memoirs, I've kept track of myself for years in hopes that eventually I'll be able to piece together where I've been, where I'm going and where I want to be by the time I'm old. To this my dad laughs, then reflects on how he has grown and changed over the years. He'd think about if it were his little life lists. "I look pretty good, right?" A common catchphrase, more than a question. Then, he'd twirl the hairs on the back of his head, smile a side smile, and continue, "...feel like I'm 17, but then I remember I'm not. Doesn't matter. I feel it. Ya know, Bridge, you're as old as you feel." When he said this to me for the first time, he was in the midst of growing his hair a little longer in the back — he called it his stylish baby curls, while everyone else called it a mullet.

 

Birthday. 2010.

He discovers things and shares them with me, and luckily for me, he has promised to keep doing so. The other day he texted (by the way, it was a very exciting day when he learned to text) me about wanting to go to the Elbo Room or the Hideout to check out "Who's who in music land." Someone had recommended he'd like Robbie Fulks. Always an adventure seeker, despite living in the suburbs.

There was a time I remember so clearly: I was a teenager, Armageddon had just come out, and the film's album couldn't get enough airplay. When Chantal  Kreviazuk covered John Denver's "Jet Plane," my dad was so in awe of the song that when he came home one evening, and I greeted him in the driveway, as I was prone to do, he told me to get in his parked car, so we could listen and then re-listen to it over and over again. My favorite moments are when he turns to me and says, "I'm a pretty cool guy, right?" And, he genuinely wants to know my opinion, all the while genuinely believing himself to be a "pretty cool guy." He genuinely is.

I forget how lucky I am to have the kind of parents Steve Martin tends to play in movies. See Father of the Bride or Cheaper by the Dozen, if you're not sure what I'm talking about. Few people know what I have, and I am so thankful.

Colleen. Brigid. Dad. Christmas. 2012.

Something like it.

There were pictures everywhere in his apartment. Not pictures of family or friends, or anything that would speak to who he really was, but rather these faux antique prints. They were cool, mind you, but it bothered me. I couldn't quite figure out why until now. Something inauthentic about the nature of his life. I laid down my coat, as I had a few weeks before, on the floor. He picked it up, put it on the back of a kitchen chair. It hung there limply. We sat. We sat and starred at one another for a few seconds, each taking the other in. It felt like it had been a while, yet none at all, and at the same time it genuinely felt like it wasn't real. Oh, the irony.

A few weeks really isn't very much time. Don't we all let time slip by without even noticing? Years go by before our base instincts of "Wait! What's happening in my life" kick in. It's adult time, and a lot can happen in adult time. Blink, and you're thirty, or fifty, or dead.

It was late when I came over. Rain swept across the street, my wedges drenched in January precipitation. Not wearing enough make-up for it to run. Buzzed in. Door opened. Welcomed.

"So what's been up?" I asked, knowing his answer would be as void of content as my question.

"You know, just been busy." Ding ding ding. A pause. "You know."

But I didn't know. That's why I asked. How easy is it to get out of actually knowing a person? Very easy.

"Yeah," I smiled. "I know."

A few minutes later, jokes exchanged, conversation came easier, and with that a comfort we all long for. But it's a fake comfort. A fake relationship. More like a relationship that in the end no one wants, so we discard it like the groceries we intended to eat, but instead let spoil.

There are smiles that in the end mean nothing, and a connection that is no connection at all. So we sit at the bottom of the bin; it was anything but pretend, because it happened. And we both wish it didn't.

"And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile" -TS Eliot. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Brain Aneurysm.

Sometimes I keep myself busy just so I don't have to think. Isn't that terrible?

Your Hand in Mind, Explosions in the Sky

Music without lyrics does something to me. It's almost like reading a book — where you can imagine the characters, the feelings, the emotions, what things look like — while with music, you're imaging the places this song has come from, what it meant to the musician, and what it means to say.

Some music begs for lyrics, requires them to give the piece worth, but not here.

Favorite Words. &. the Right Now.

1. Pedestrian.
2. Lexicon.
3. Turbulent.
4. Sheesh.

Language fascinates and excites me. People frustrate and encourage me. Arms length protects and separates me. Imagination propels and challenges me. Hurt defines and kills me. Sarcasm helps and destroys me. Happiness flees from and revels in me.

These are my things. They're mine. They're who I am. Today.

Over-Rated

1. Most things.
2. Greek life. Or, college parties in general.
3. Having pets (unless it's a pup). Think: cats, hamsters, fish, et. al.
4. Caring.
5. Sleep.

So, I will be brief:
Throw your cares to the wind, because the nice thing about wind is that it can't hurt you.