November 7th, 2003

It has been quite some time since I wrote a post about grief.

I couldn’t tell you why. Maybe it’s that I’ve had so many things happen recently that I’m too distracted to think about my dad. Maybe it’s because I typically write during downtime at work and am unwilling to go there. Maybe it’s part of getting older and distancing myself from my dad’s death. Don’t get me wrong – I miss him often. The Eagles Super Bowl, my brother having a baby, my nephew’s music career taking off… but it has been awhile since I’ve felt true grief.

Today I’m breaking that streak.

I’m writing a book about the year my dad died. All of the time I’ve spent on the book so far has been on the events leading up to his accident. The weight of replaying his death was pushed aside as I reveled in taking a walk down the path that led me to my 8th grade friends. It stung a bit when I talked about the ways my dad and I didn’t quite see eye to eye but I’ve made peace with a lot of that.

Maybe I’m more of an optimist than I give myself credit for because I didn’t think it’d be hard to replay the days right before his accident. I thought that since I replayed them in my mind hundreds of times, writing them down would be no different. Oh, how naive I was mere hours ago. Because as I started to write about the last time my dad picked me up from school, I had to choke back tears and fight to keep myself together until I got to a good enough stopping point to grab my stuff and head back to my apartment.

I know writing this book is ultimately good for me. It’s helping me realize things about myself that I truly didn’t know existed. It helps me process my thoughts and gives me some sort of control over such a horrific part of my life. But sometimes it reveals parts of me that I wish didn’t exist.

My guiding light is to be as truthful as humanly possible when writing about events that happened fourteen years ago. The whole reason I’m writing this book, aside from my own selfish desire to record my life and prove that I went through it for something greater than pure pain, is that I want other kids going through similar situations to know they’re not alone. I would have given anything to know a story like my own when I was a teenager. I would have loved to be told by someone who has been through it that it’s okay not to be okay. That I’ll never fully have it all figured out but the good days will eventually outweigh the bad and at the end of the day, the worst year of my life would also hold some of the best days of my life. So I’m not masking how I feel, which I’m coming to find is hard as fuck.

The chapter that got me today is called November 7th, 2003 and is about the last time my dad picked me up from middle school. He called me out on wearing a skirt that my mom told me I couldn’t wear to school and I was irritable. He took me out for ice cream and our conversation was forced. He was trying to reach me and I just wasn’t there. I didn’t want to be reached. I was a pissed off teenage girl who just wanted to be anywhere but with her parents.

I told him that he needed a new car. I was embarrassed because we had an old car and I was now going to a school where a lot of my friends were more well off than we were. He told me the only way he could afford one would be if someone crashed into him. I secretly hoped it would happen. I didn’t want him to be hurt, or anything like that, I just wanted the car to be banged up a bit so we could get a new one. That’s not what I’m having a hard time with. I understand and accept that it was an uncanny remark that ironically foreshadowed what was to come. While I was convinced at first that those words caused my dad’s death, I didn’t live in that ridiculous theory for more than a day or two.

The part that haunts me the most is what came next. My dad parked in our driveway and sat for a few seconds in the driver’s seat. I wondered why he wasn’t getting out. I followed suit and allowed the awkward silence to float over the car. After a few more seconds he looked at me and said the sentence that I wish I could erase from my brain.

“Sometimes I feel like you don’t love me.” 

“Of course I do!” I shot back. But despite my best attempt, I don’t think I convinced either of us. He smiled at me, got out of the car and headed into our apartment. I remained there and felt like I had just been punched in the gut. Because the truth was, I couldn’t find it within myself in that moment to love him. I wanted to. I knew my dad was one of the best around and that even our recent inability to see eye to eye couldn’t erase that.

I sat in the car for a few minutes eating my ice cream between sobs. I wanted so badly to be able to tell my dad that I loved him and mean it. I searched and searched for the love I knew he deserved but kept on coming up empty. I wanted so badly to be able to run up to him, throw my arms around him, and tell him that I loved him but my broken thirteen year old heart had been through too many changes in too short of a time and I blamed him for all of it. In the moment, I couldn’t tell him that I loved him. And I knew I couldn’t fool either of us.

I felt like the worst daughter in the world. I knew my dad was a good man and that I was lucky to have him as a father. I wanted so badly to say that I loved him, I knew deep down I did, but I didn’t feel it in my heart. I couldn’t help but wonder – What was wrong with me? Why was I so broken?

After calming myself down, I made my way up to our apartment. My dad, resilient as ever, already outwardly moved past what must have been one of the most heartbreaking exchanges of his life. He was all smiles when I walked in, as if nothing had happened. Looking back, I’m sure I hurt him. Every parent fears the day their child resents them. While they recognize that it’s the natural way of things, and that it’ll pass, no one enjoys the moment it knocks on their door.

And I know every teenager goes through a period like that. But not every teenager’s dad gets in a car accident the next night that would eventually end in his unexpected death.

That’s what’s so cruel about losing a parent at thirteen. You don’t get to grow up and apologize for how selfish you were as a teenager. On the day you finally realize everything your parent did for you, they’ll be long in their grave. You don’t get to look back and laugh at the way you acted and you don’t get to make up for your mistakes.

With my mom, I was able to have that conversation where I tell her I see how much she sacrificed for us and she tells me it’s a mother’s job. Where I tell her that I’m sorry for the way I treated her and she reassures me that every teen is like that. I didn’t get to do that with my dad.

And yes, I know he knew. I’ve been told every single comforting phrase from every single person in my life. He’s watching over me and knows. Everyone is like that as a teenager. He would never want to see you beat yourself up. He loves you and you love him and that’s what matters. I’m a good person.

But there’s a difference between the closure you get when you can have that physical conversation with someone and trying to read the mind of a ghost.

No matter how much I’ve tried to forgive myself, or how many times I’ve been told that he knew I loved him, I’m sitting here fourteen years later with the same pit in my stomach and hole in my heart. And honestly I don’t think it can be repaired. The only way I could ever patch it is if I had been able to have a conversation with my dad about that day. That opportunity is just something that can’t happen.

And that’s okay.

We all have sharp, broken pieces. We can smooth out as much as possible, but there will always be some holes. It’s part of being human. We try to ease our suffering as much as possible but there will always be some things that hurt as bad as they did on the day we got those wounds. And we will spend so much time trying to twist them and pretend they’re not there. We’ll search for any words from friends, family, therapists, teachers, books… anything to try and fix it. Our loved ones will try and patch it up for us because it hurts them to see us hurt. But at the end of the day, we can’t fix everything. And that’s one of the most beautifully human things about us.

I don’t hate myself and don’t live every day regretting what happened on November 7th. It’s one unfortunately timed day out of a million wonderful moments that made up my relationship with my dad. It wasn’t the defining moment. My worth isn’t defined by that single exchange and I can live with what happened. Most days I forget it even happened.

But sometimes it creeps up, or you decide to rip it wide open by writing a book about your life, and you want to crawl back into your thirteen year old body and hide away in you reading teacher’s classroom or group therapy room or behind your stack of books. Those nights are hard, lonely, and unable to be smoothed over with good intentions or reassurance.

I’ve been down this road before, and know that at this point in my life, it ends with waking up tomorrow feeling fine. But tonight I’m sad. And that’s okay. Because my dad died as the result of car crash when I was thirteen and that really fucking sucks.

That’s what grief is.

It’s ugly, it’s uninvited. But it’s real, and it’s the truth.

Striving for Normalcy.

I’ve been thinking more and more lately about myself as an adolescent. There’s something about being 27 that makes my heart hurt for my teenage self. As the kids in my life are making their way into high school and college, I am realizing how young I was when my dad died. I wish I could time travel back to my thirteen year old self and just let her know that her ability to get through the day, however great or horrific it was, is admirable. That everything, indeed, wasn’t fair and there was going to be one hell of a road to come. That a single unfair death wouldn’t prevent losing others she loved prematurely. I’ve become increasingly interested in myself at that age and often try to remember every moment of those days.

Earlier today, a friend posted a status that made me think back to my teen years after my dad died. It reminded me about all of the ways I just wanted to be normal again. I think it’s fair to say that most teenagers just want to be “normal” – whatever that means to them. I wish I could go back and tell myself that I would never be normal again. That when there’s an earthquake nothing ever settles back into place. Instead pieces fall into a different pattern. It doesn’t mean that things won’t be be okay, it just means that you’ll always be defined by this life changing event.

The day after my dad died, my best friend and her family came over. After a long night of tears, denial and pure exhaustion, it was a relief to have them there for me. To be able to talk to someone my age, or not talk at all. She hung out with me in my room for awhile and we cried, talked about school and I’m pretty sure we napped. Eventually we made our way to my kitchen where her parents tried to get food in my family’s bellies, a large task when so much of the real estate is being filled with grief. After lunch, her dad mentioned that it was almost time to go to cheerleading practice. I assumed I was going, and asked if he was driving me as well. All the adults looked at each other until one finally broke it to me that it wouldn’t be the best idea to go today. I protested, saying that my squad needed me there, and I was told that they would understand me missing this practice.

All I wanted to do was go to cheerleading practice. I wanted to work out, be with my friends, and get the hell out of my apartment. I didn’t like the idea of my squad sitting there and finding out that my dad died. I wanted to show up like nothing happened. It was the first time I learned that things weren’t magically going to go on as planned. A few days later, I finally convinced my family to let me go to practice, but with the caveat of my aunt coming with me. I remember thinking it was weird as hell, but if it got me back in the gym I’d roll with it. I walked into my gym and had a pep talk in my head. I knew that I was going to have to set the tone for the rest of the season. As it was before the funeral, no one but my best friends had seen me yet, and I didn’t want to be treated differently. So I decided to go in as happy as I could. After a few good friends who knew my dad got the opportunity to tell me how sad they were, I changed the tone to focus on the practice on hand and had a normal practice. It felt so good to do something I knew how to do. Something that was in my everyday schedule. As I was out of school, and my small apartment was busting with family that lived far away and priests making plans and fruit baskets and cold cut trays and a freezer with so much food in it, we had to find creative ways to store it, I was so happy to be in my element.  A part of me that existed long before my dad died.

The second time I realized people were always going to perceive me as “different” was my first day back at school. I had already seen my friends and some of my teachers at this point, so I wasn’t too nervous to go back. Again, I gave myself a bit of a pep talk at my locker and told myself I can either be pitied or show everyone I was back to being the funny, charismatic little eighth grader I was at the time. I don’t remember what I said, but I do remember cracking some sort of joke in my homeroom that felt like the weight of grief was lifted and I could let everyone know I was normal again.

The day I got back was the last day of presentations about the Salem Witch Trials, or something like that. Before my dad died, I finished my project. I wrote something on a piece of paper, and aged the paper over the flames of my stove and pasted it on a little piece of wood that I carved to make it really authentic. I was insanely proud of my creativity. It was actually a bit of a relief to have something to work on during the week I was away. It gave me a distraction and a chance to sneak away in such a crowded apartment. Throughout the day, my teachers would ask who didn’t get to present yet, and we would raise our hands. One by one, the students left to present got called on. Eight kids with their hands up went down to four then down to two. After the second to last person was selected, I figured they were having me go last because I was out for so long and it was only fair. After the last person went, I prepared myself to present, only to find my teacher offering closing remarks and dismissing us back to our normal classes.

I was confused as hell. I had my project – I even made sure she knew I had it by raising my hand. I went up to her after and she explained to me that I was excused from the project due to the circumstances. That I wouldn’t have to worry about the grade because the teachers discussed it and I was good to go. While that may bring some relief to one kid, I was devastated. I tried to hide my disappointment but my chest burned and my eyes were welling. At the time, I couldn’t comprehend why I was so upset. I probably attributed it to how hard I worked on my project only to be deprived of the opportunity to show it off. But I think I realized the last shred of normalcy, the last bit of my life before my dad died, was gone.

With that project, I could have proved to my entire class that I was fine. Nothing was different about me just because my dad died in a car crash. Look – here’s a witch’s poem (or whatever shit I wrote) to prove it! This was made by me before my dad died, and it’ll carry me into the aftermath and prove to everyone that I’m just fine! The first day back at school, and look at Annie presenting in front of the ENTIRE class! But instead I was raising my hand until I was the last kid left and never called on.

I tried to keep my life as normal as possible and looking back, I see that pattern seep into every element. I hated going to the school psychologist, and literally ran away after two sessions. I hated being in her room. Normal kids didn’t have to step foot in it, normal kids didn’t even know who she was. Walking out of her office was a visual representation to anyone who was around that I was different. Instead, I responded much better to hanging out with one of my teachers during lunch and talking about everything (to which I’m in lifelong debt for). While a lot of it had to do with how much I loved her and she cared for me, part of it was also that it was a familiar setting. I knew her before my dad died, I spent plenty of time during the day in her room so it was comfortable to me, and the worst anyone could think was that I was a teacher’s pet. I wasn’t seeing a specialist who was only there for special kids. She was my teacher.

I didn’t respond to any child psychologist. Instead of working one on one, I very much preferred being part of a teen grief group. Instead of having to tell a stranger about my life, I was able to sit in a room of peers and talk about anything from boys to our dead dads, or not talk at all. It made me feel less alone, less like a sad story, and more like a typical teen.

In high school, I hated the inevitable day where a teacher found out about my past. I didn’t like the way people looked at me when they found out that my dad died. I absolutely hated telling them how. I didn’t like people trying to fix me, or break down my walls. At that point, I was still close to my former teacher and already had the people I needed to go to. I wanted to just be like any other student – I didn’t want to be anyone’s Ellen submission tape.

While I went to college in Chicago because I wanted to pursue comedy, I think a large part of my ability to move so far away was because I thought it would be a fresh start. After a teenage life of being defined by the worst moment of my life, I was eager to get the hell away and start new. And while it worked for awhile, I got to the point where I was just shoving every bad part of my past to the side until it eventually blew up in my face. My desire to be normal, in each stage of my life, meant keeping a tight lid on every emotion I had until I was in a situation that I deemed safe enough to spill out a bit – my teacher’s room, my grief group, or in my own room. This caused me to have panic attacks, insomnia and insane bits of anxiety.

I wish I could tell myself that “normal”, as I knew it, didn’t exist anymore. The harder I worked at getting there, the harder it was when I had my moments of clarity where I realized I wasn’t really normal. I wish I could tell myself that the best I can do is pick up the pieces and figure out a different way to put them together. A way that wasn’t quite the same, but still worked for me. I probably wouldn’t listen to myself, knowing myself back then, but I wish I just let shit crash all around me then figure out how to get through it instead of trying so damn hard to hold everything in place.

A few years ago, after suffering the loss of three friends, I got to the point where I couldn’t handle it anymore. I felt like I couldn’t catch a break, and it became impossible to try and pretend that I was normal. Everyone in my Chicago life knew about my friends, so I opened up more about my dad as well. I started writing and talking to my family about my grief. Since I was older, more friends could relate to me and I felt less alone. I realized that living in a new normal, where I acknowledged there was a line in the sand – the life I had before my dad died, and the life that was given to me at 2am on November 11, 2003. I was too far into my new life to ever think there was a chance to jump back. That brought relief to me. As I got older, grief started touching more people I knew and I no longer felt alone. I realized there wasn’t any such thing as normal, rather a set of circumstances we find ourselves constantly trying to navigate. While it sounds sad in theory, knowing that life could never go back was relieving. It’s much easier than striving for something that never really existed, only to come up short.

Everyone you know is just trying to get through the day with the hand they’ve been dealt.  Even the most normal looking person lost someone they loved and is just trying to navigate their new normal. Once we realize we can never go back, I think it’s much easier to move forward.

Don’t call me strong for surviving.

I hate when people misuse the word strong. Which is a shame because it happens a lot. I wish it didn’t eat away at me. I wish it didn’t churn my stomach and make my body fill with panic and anxiety. But it does.

Everyone means well when they tell you you’re strong. They admire you or are inspired by you or simply don’t have the right words for the moment. They want you to know that they look up to you.

Here’s my thing. If you look up to me, I’d rather you do it for my talent or some admirable quality I hold. If you want to call me strong physically, or because I stood up for someone who was being put down, or because I bit my tongue instead of lashing out, feel free to. But please stop calling me strong because my dad died.

I know death well. Five people that I loved very much died early in my life. Three of those deaths were sudden. And with each death, more people tell me how strong I am.

I’m not strong because I survive. Honestly, I don’t have any other choice but to go on.

When someone calls me strong because I have a dead dad, it feels patronizing. It feels like they’re really saying “I could never be/would never want to be/am terrified of being you.” It makes me feel empty and misunderstood. I am not strong. Call me a survivor, call me resilient. Before you go telling me how those words all essentially mean the same thing, let me tell you why they don’t.

They convey more of an idea of being knocked down suddenly, spat upon, thrown into a situation unwillingly and unexpectantly. They cover the nights I still spend sobbing from the pit of my stomach because it’s hard as fuck to love dead people. They account for the days I can’t eat or get out of bed or that time in high school where I spent an entire summer staying up until the sun rose because I was too scared and ridden with PTSD to sleep when it was dark. They show the times I had to run out of work because I couldn’t choke back the tears or stop the panic attack from happening or wasn’t expecting to have something set off a memory so vivid I had to throw up.

Strength is controlled and calculated. It is taking a situation and plowing through it. It’s stepping up and being brave and choosing to put on armor.

Resilience is standing there as shards of glass come flying towards you at a million miles an hour, bending your spine and getting cut and bleeding but still having to face the storm. Survival is dragging your body through tar because you don’t have the choice. It’s having to live when you feel like an alien in your own body.

Strength is a badge of honor. Resilience and survival are lifetime sentences.

O Captain, my Captain.

When I heard that Robin Williams died, I felt like someone hit my chest. It hurt. I read the articles while on the couch with my roommate and tried to convince myself that I couldn’t possibly be this upset about a celebrity dying. But I was. I made up some bullshit excuse to leave the living room and went to my bedroom where I cried like a baby. I cried for hours, eventually fell asleep, then woke up and cried again. I have never felt this way about anyone I didn’t know and I felt like a psychopath.

I felt stupid. I was grieving a fucking celebrity while the world had so many more important issues that I should be upset about. I felt like a horrible and selfish person to be this wrapped up about an actor dying when more horrific things happened today. Other news hit a few hours later and I knew that I should divert my attention to those stories. That they should be taking up my newsfeed. But I was already encapsulated in the grief that was Robin Williams and was unable to process anything else. I felt like a horrible human for my selfishness.

Here’s the thing: it’s one of those dead dad moments. One of those times where you can’t explain the magnitude of your grief because it has so many layers. You want to process everything privately because you know that people won’t understand. You feel insane. But here I am, at 2am, knowing that I have to start my day in 3 hours, and I still can’t stop crying. So I thought I’d attempt to process my emotions by writing them here.

When my dad died, I didn’t like to talk about it. The only person I openly talked to was my teacher, but even with her, there were things that I wouldn’t touch. I didn’t want to deal with a few dark emotions. The depth of my guilt, my immense depression, and the fact that I felt like I didn’t deserve to inhabit this earth. I felt guilty for having the privilege to live. I didn’t tell anyone about this because I feared that they would mistake it for being suicidal. I wasn’t suicidal – I was never in a state of wanting to harm myself – I just felt guilty for living while so many good people died. It was a secret that I didn’t want to share with anyone, so I turned to movies and books to justify my feelings and teach me how to get over this hurdle.

I found Dead Poets Society among the stack of movies that went largely untouched since my dad died. I remember the first time I watched it. It was a winter night and I popped it into the VHS in my room. I was glued to my TV. I cried the entire time, rewinded it, then cried again. I felt like the movie was made for me. I was a high schooler unwilling to face my own emotions, so I used poetry to help convey them. I wrote dozens of poems weekly, but refused to share most of them with anyone else. I was afraid that they weren’t good enough, I didn’t think people would care about what I had to say, but most importantly, I didn’t want to let anyone in. I was someone who looked for mentorship in my teachers. I was a teenager who felt worthless. I felt like Dead Poets Society was written for me. John Keating became a mentor and his words became advice. I would watch the movie, come across a line, rewind it, then repeated this process for as long as it took for me to memorize his words. At a time when I could tell no one about my feelings of worthlessness, Keating gave me the advice I so desperately needed.

Robin Williams played so many different roles that I loved. Genie, Peter, Mrs. Doubtfire, Sy, Teddy Roosevelt… his roles in Flubber, Jumanji and A.I. (Yes, I loved the movies Flubber, Jumanji and A.I. and no, I’ve never seen Good Will Hunting. Shut up.) He appealed to me as a person and comedian – kind, silly, someone who smiled with his eyes and emoted with his face, able to reach an audience of all generations, someone who had a quirky personality that annoyed a lot of people but didn’t comprise to please them, dark and vulnerable at times but on fire when in front of an audience (I especially understood this).

But to me, he was always John Keating. I know that he’s a fictional character that someone else imagined, wrote and created. But to me, he was my captain, my vessel to teach me that my words, hell… my life, mattered. That I was here for a reason and my voice needed to be heard. The one-sided conversation that allowed me to get the mentorship I needed without having to open up. Through him, I gained the confidence to share more of my poetry, and myself, to the outside world.

Losing a parent does things to you. Inherently, you get attached to things and hurt deeply when they’re gone. To me, the death of Robin Williams felt like the death of John Keating. I thank him for bringing that character to life so that I could learn how to make the most of my own.

We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, “O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?” Answer. That you are here – that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?

I’ve seen this room and I’ve walked this floor

I started this blog two months ago. I was sick of hearing Millennials talk about how much life “sucks” in your twenties. I was afraid that my friends weren’t even considering that happiness is always an option… even when everything seems bad. So I published 20 ways to be happy and since then I strive to make every other post I write bring happiness. I want to remind people that life is so good if you let it be.

It was recently brought to my attention that happiness isn’t so easy. I realized that I keep on pushing this concept that you can make a conscious decision to be happy, however, people who suffer from various illnesses don’t consciously choose to be upset. It’s a chemical imbalance. That’s when I realized that everyone who reads my blog couldn’t possibly know my own story and history.

Baby I’ve been here before / I’ve seen this room and I’ve and I’ve walked this floor / You know I used to be alone before I knew you

I know that depression is a rough battle to fight. I understand that you can’t just wake up one day and be happy. I’ve been there. 

For a solid 8 years, I battled all kinds of demons. In high school, about two years after my dad passed away, I became so paranoid that I wasn’t able to go to bed until sunrise. I spent the entire night pacing around, scared to death something would happen to someone. After two of my friends passed away in college, I was so depressed that I spent days crying in bed… I didn’t go to class, talk to anyone or eat. Each traumatic event took it’s toll on me – I was miserable. Friendships were ruined because I refused help, my dignity was lost and I seriously thought that happiness was impossible. I didn’t tell a soul how I really felt. I was too embarrassed. Ever since my dad died, everyone told me how strong I was. I didn’t want to let everyone down by admitting that I needed help.

After about two years of serious mood swings and battles against depression, I hit rock bottom. One of my best friends dropped me from her life because I was too much work. I’m not sure if she thought that I was acting this way for attention or just sick of me refusing help… but she was gone. I had no more options – I conquered my fear and went to a psychologist.

Ever since my dad died, everyone tried to get me help. It was overwhelming to me. School psychologists, child psychologists, school counselors, art therapists… it was too much. I was sick of telling my story over and over again. With each new person, I had to start from the beginning. I felt so guilty about my dad’s death and it was too painful for me to relive. So I ran. I ran away from every single professional looking to give me one-on-one help. I would go for one session then disappear – I wouldn’t show up to the second. I spent many classes ducking into the bathroom because I knew that they would look for me. I preferred being in a group and  thought that I would be fine with group therapy… but it only allowed me to hide behind other people’s emotions instead of working on my own.

So here I was… twenty years old and finally getting the help I needed. Within the first session, my psychologist diagnosed me with PTSD. While it was terrifying for me to have a name for this extreme paranoia, insomnia and overall depression, it was the first step to my recovery. From there, we could fix it.

Here’s where my idea of making a daily conscious decision to be happy comes in. When I was going through therapy, I had to relive a lot of shit I would rather avoid. Reliving everything only meant that I became more paranoid and upset. I knew I couldn’t last in this mindset so I taught myself to count a blessing everyday. I made a conscious decision to take at least one minute a day and devote it to reliving happy memories. It was tough… some days I really had to think to find something worth being happy about… but I always found something. There was always something worth living for. From there, I took other small steps towards happiness. I admitted to my family that I never got over my dad’s death and needed help. I realized that I broke key relationships and I apologized… to my friends, my sorority sisters and most of all… to myself. I forgave myself for all of the shit I did in the past. When I finally got over my past, I restructured my life to allow for happiness in the present. I ditched friends who didn’t have good intentions, found roommates that I loved and surrounded myself with a group of good people eager to contribute to my happiness. I lost my fear of being emotional and told people how much they meant to me. I allowed myself time to be selfish and took up dance and improv. I was finally happy. 

It didn’t happen overnight. In fact, it took a solid two years after seeing my psychologist before I considered myself stable. But everyday I made the decision to take one more step in the right direction. I trained myself to think this way. As I write this, I promise you that I’m 100% happy in life. My dark days are far behind me… and I have therapy to thank for that. You guys, it’s possible to be happy.

So I know that sometimes I can generalize and make it seem like happiness is right next door… but I also understand it takes work. My intention is not to be unsympathetic to anyone’s circumstance. I  just want everyone to know that you have one shot at a beautiful life and you deserve every bit of happiness. Get yourself the help you need to allow yourself the ability to live a happy life.

You deserve it. I promise you… you really deserve it.

He should be the one on stage

Today was my dad’s birthday. It’s the 9th one without him and I have to say it’s the toughest one yet. In November, it will be ten years since he passed away. Each year brings something different… this year is no exception. What people don’t understand is that the days get easier and you can find true happiness after loss, but deep down it always hurts. Every success has this bittersweet feeling to it because you can’t share it with them.

Why was this year harder than any other year? He would have fucking loved that I’m fully immersed in the Chicago comedy scene. My dad worshiped the comedians that the Second City cranked out. Every time I step foot in that building I miss him. Some days are tougher than others. This year when I had the incredible opportunity to meet Aykroyd and Belushi, it killed me that I couldn’t talk to him about it. He was who introduced these people to me… I grew up watching Coneheads and learned to play harmonica at a young age to compliment the Blues Brothers impression he taught me. My dad was, hands down, the funniest person I’ll ever meet in this lifetime. I feel guilty… like he should be the one on stage. He even had his own set of self-proclaimed “Three Amigos”:

A few months before my dad’s accident, he came and saw me in my first “real” show (that wasn’t held in my living room or elementary school cafeteria). It was a musical review that wrapped up a summer camp I went to in Newtown, CT… I pretty much just smiled, sang and did some choreography in the back all while trying not to pass out or puke. My first “big” show was the last one he would see. At the end of the show, he gave me some flowers with a card that simply said, “I feel like this is the beginning of a great career.”

It wasn’t until this year that those words really sank in. He chose the word career… not hobby, activity or pastime… career.

My dad understood following dreams. When he graduated high school, instead of going to college, he joined a minor league football team and was eventually drafted by the NFL. He worked hard and followed his passion. He paid his dues, took criticism from his coaches, applied corrections and didn’t once apologize for wanting to achieve his dream. So many people told him that he was foolish… but he did it.

Even though I have so many people in Chicago supporting me, I feel like there’s always going to be this void in my life. I was lucky to have parents who cultivated my creativity and allowed me to chase my dreams. I wish so much that my dad was still here to support me in this endeavor. I know that he would have been extremely supportive and excited for what each new milestone brought.

We shared comedy… we both understood it. We both had this insatiable desire to make other people laugh… to allow them to forget about all the bad in this world… all of their troubles and hardship for just a second. We were a duo… he would set me up and I’d go in for the kill. He used that word – career.

It’s hard to admit that I want this to be a career because other people aren’t as supportive. I don’t care in what capacity… I could be performing, directing, teaching or running the PR… shit, if someone offers me a fair wage to mop the floors, I’ll do it. I just want to be able to make a living off of it, to be surrounded by a creative and positive atmosphere. To make a living out of making people happy. A lot of people tell me to be realistic – which I am. I understand it’s tough and it will break your heart and there’s so much competition. I get it. I hear you. I just want someone to tell me what he did… that I’m in the beginning stages of what will be a great career. Someone I could go to and talk about wanting to make a career out of comedy without feeling the need to apologize for it. My dad would have been that person and it kills me that he can’t be.

But alas, if there’s one thing that I learned in the past ten years it’s that there’s nothing I can do about it. He’s never coming back. He’s gone. There’s no use in living in the past. So what do I do? I think of him often. I imagine what he would tell me. I think of the hard work, rejection and perseverance that he saw down his road to the NFL.

My dad was a wonderful man. Everyone loved him… and I mean everyone. He didn’t have enemies and his services were flooded with friends who were heartbroken by his loss. Think of that… no enemies. No one to talk poorly about your character at your services. Are you living a life like that?

While reading The Chris Farley Show, I came across a passage that was so closely related to my father, it took my breath away. I had to reread it over and over again to make sure that I was reading it correctly. I was allowed a brief second to relive the memory of my father. It read:

“There were times, for instance, when Chris and I’d be on the highway, going through a tollbooth. He’d do a bit in front of the tollbooth talker, and it’d make the guy laugh. [Let me note that my dad did the same exact thing at tollbooths] At first you were kinda like, oh, that was a little weird. But on the other hand it was like, you know, he just made that guy’s day. That guy’s gonna go home and tell his wife, ‘Yeah, this big guy came through in a car today and did this thing with the steering wheel…’ One of the cool things about Chris, and one of the noble things about Chris, is that if he made somebody’s day better, he could ease the pain and sadness in the world just a bit, that was why he felt he was here.”

I have big shoes to fill. I’m up for the challenge.

“I’m going to spend the rest of my life missing him”

If you have a computer, TV or any friends then you probably know about last night’s Glee episode. It was painful to watch. Losing a friend, or any loved one, is really hard… let alone grieving in front of a national audience. I cried from beginning to end… not necessarily because of the story line but because I know all too well what losing a friend is like. While overdone in parts (I mean, it’s Glee…) the writers did an excellent job of capturing what grieving is really like.

Within the first few minutes, Kurt said the line that everyone who ever lost someone can relate to… “I’m going to spend the rest of my life missing him”. I remember the first time I realized that death is permanent. It sounds silly… like you should obviously know that you’ll never see the person again. However, when you’re so close to someone, you never think of the possibility that they won’t be there anymore – even after they die. When my dad passed away, I had this moment about a month after the services when I realized that I may live for 70 more years but will never see or hear from him again. It is this grounding and permanent feeling… and I think that single line captured the emotion so well – “I’m going to spend the rest of my life missing him.”

Another very real moment was when Santana stormed out of the room because she just couldn’t be there anymore. She said that she thought coming back would help but everything just reminds her of Finn. A few years ago, we lost a coworker and friend to cancer. It was horrible – anyone who worked at a camp understands that it’s a family. Our friend Danny was diagnosed with lung cancer and within months he was gone. It didn’t make sense… he was in his early twenties & didn’t smoke – if anyone could beat the odds, wouldn’t it be him? It was one of the most devastating things we’ve been through.

I was still in Chicago when it happened & I wanted nothing but to get home and go to camp. Two weeks after the services, I finally returned to work and thought it would make me feel better. For a couple days it did but then I had my breakdown. I heard a stupid song or something and lost it. I kept on expecting to see him pop up around camp and every inch of that place was attached to a memory. It was really hard to go to work every morning after that. Everyone was grieving, including the kids. Danny was the one who bonded us – he was the leader. We never imagined camp, or life for that matter, without him.

When Santana was talking about how Finn was a better person than she was, it struck a chord. That’s what we were all thinking when we lost Danny. It was this thought of… well, if one of us has to go – why are you choosing the role model? The one who genuinely loves his job and never complains? The one we all look up to? Eventually you make it to a place where you realize that you’re able to carry on their legacy. You’re able to take on the traits that made him the best. We all kept thinking – if he’s gone, who is going to be the one to do this, or the one to do that? Eventually you realize that you’re going to have to step in and be that person.

When Finn’s family was packing his things and Kurt’s dad went on his rant about ‘why didn’t I give him more hugs,’ anyone who lost a loved one could relate. There are so many regrets. A few months after we lost Danny, a close friend of mine, Amanda, was killed by a drunk driver while she was on her bike. Two nights before her accident, she texted me to see if I wanted to hang out. I was tired and cranky, which meant I just disregarded her text message… I did that a lot to her. I saw her all the time so I never felt the need to try hard in our friendship. For months after her death, I was so hung up on that text message. Why didn’t I hang out with her that night? Why didn’t I at least give her the decency of a text back?

There are all these little regrets we feel with loss. It’s stupid because they are mostly centered around ‘normal’ behavior that is only escalated because of death. Why didn’t I treat my dad with more respect? Because I was a thirteen year old girl – that’s how they act. Why didn’t I answer Amanda’s text message? Because I was tired, cranky and assumed I would see her in a few days anyways. You have to remove the guilt and realize that it doesn’t mean you’re a bad person. There’s nothing you can do to fix it but forgive yourself.

The last scene that was incredibly relatable was when Sue was telling Santana that Finn had so much potential and it’s all pointless now. My friend Amanda was an incredibly talented filmmaker. She was a hustler… always finding a project to work on or creating one herself. There was no doubt in our mind that she would make it. The entire film department knew who she was – she really made her mark. She had this philosophy that you never had to be a starving artist if you believed in yourself enough… if you took every opportunity that came your way. She spent all these years and put in all this hard work to get ahead by the time she graduated from DePaul. Then she was killed and I felt like, well… what’s the point? What’s the point of working hard towards a goal if you don’t know what tomorrow brings? All that hard work, ass kissing, money and time spent… and she’s gone.

Now, as someone working hard to achieve her own dream, I understand that it’s not pointless. When Amanda realized she wanted to make films, she never looked back. From that point forward, she spent every waking hour doing what she loved. Those were the happiest days of her life. It doesn’t matter that her life was cut short… she did far more than most people did. She went for it – I mean, really went for it. She was happy every second that she worked towards her goal and that’s what matters. She inspired her classmates, friends and family to fearlessly chase their dreams. It wasn’t pointless.

Losing a friend at a young age is hard. You had all these plans and expectations for the future that just vanish. You feel guilty for living longer than they did… every second of your grieving process you wonder why it happened to them instead of you. However, I feel like I’m a better friend because of it. Losing Danny and Amanda made me realize the importance of being a good friend in the time I have. I realized that I’m not invincible because of my age or good health – you never know what tomorrow brings. So make the most of every single day. Steve Jobs once said, “I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: ‘If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?’ And whenever the answer has been “No” for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something.”

Live your life so that there’s something to look forward to by the end of the day – you never know what tomorrow brings. Be fearless.

How to deal with your friend’s grief

We all feel awkward about it. A friend of yours had a death in the family and you just want to help. But how much are you actually helping vs. hurting? As someone who has been on both ends, here are my 5 tips for dealing with a grieving friend.

1. Never ask how it happened

This is my cardinal rule. NEVER ask your friend how their loved one died. It’s selfish. If they are willing to share the cause of death with you they will. Oh trust me, they will. It’ll be one of the first things they say. But if they don’t offer up that information – DON’T ASK. Personally, I hated having to explain my father’s death. Every single time someone heard it was a car accident, they had this look of utter despair on their face and I just couldn’t deal with it. Put yourself in their situation – what if you had a loved one pass away from an overdose, suicide, bad fall… would you really want to replay the story over and over again? In the end, it doesn’t matter how the hell they died. The concentration isn’t on them. It’s on your friend and helping them in their time of need.

 2. Don’t send flowers

Flowers are a nice gesture and they show you care but when someone in your family dies, you get so many flowers. Trust me; there will never be a shortage of them. Think creatively instead. When my grandma passed away, my aunt’s office delivered sandwiches to her house before the wake so no one had to worry about finding something to eat while getting ready. When my dad passed away, some of my friends wrote long letters. That meant more to me than all the flowers combined and I still have them. Here are a couple suggestions: a gift card to a restaurant so the family can have a night out together, Visa gift cards to help pay for gifts during the holidays, offer to do the grocery shopping for them for the next few weeks or put together a basket of their favorite magazines, candy and CDs. My favorite idea is to offer to babysit during the services. Most families have kids in them and it sucks having to decide which parent is going to be able to make the service. Instead, go to the wake in the first hour then offer to watch the kids of the family. It’ll mean a lot.

3. You don’t know how they feel

So stop claiming that you do. Even if you lost someone close to you, your pain is different than their pain. Hell, I can’t even claim to understand how my brother feels and we lost the same parent at the same age. Everyone has a unique relationship and unique feelings. The second someone claimed that they knew how I felt, I immediately put my wall up with them. If you lost someone close to you around the same age as this person did, it’s ok to relate and let them know what your experience was. It’s not bad to offer advice, just don’t ever say “I know how you feel”. If you haven’t been in their shoes before then don’t try to relate to them. A 13-year old doesn’t care that you lost your father at 40. It’s okay to not be able to relate. The number one person that I went to during my grief period straight up told me that she felt bad she hasn’t lost anyone and couldn’t relate. That didn’t keep me from going to her when I needed someone to talk to. In fact, I respected her more for being honest.

4. Don’t be afraid to visit

I think that a lot of people hesitate to visit the family at home during the week of services because they’re afraid they’ll bother them. That’s so far from being true. When my two best friends and their family came to be with me the morning after my dad passed away, a huge weight was lifted off my shoulders. I will never forget my landlord stopping by with their baby to hand deliver their gift. The truth is that when you’re going through a tough loss, you and your family are grieving together, which means you can’t escape it. Sometimes you just need a baby to play with. Also, stick around at the wake. I know that people don’t like wakes but nothing felt better than knowing that there was an entire room filled with my middle school friends to escape to during the services.

 5. It’s OK to be the distraction

Not everyone is going to be the therapist. Sometimes you have to be the distraction instead. That person who will provide the fun in life. If your friend doesn’t want to talk to you about their loss, that’s totally fine. When I went through this, I only talked to my 8^th grade teacher… I didn’t want to talk to anyone else. It’s overwhelming having 10 different people wanting you to open up to them. That’s why we need the distraction – the friend you know you’ll always be able to have a good time with. It doesn’t invalidate your friendship. They need you just as much as the therapist friend, just in a different way.  

 

When all else fails, just ask the person what they need. They’ll let you know.