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.

Teens these days.

(Photo: Carol Kaliff, Hearst Connecticut Media)

Today kids across America walked out of school to protest gun violence and the inability for our government to pass common sense gun control.

That’s incredible. I can only imagine being a government & politics teacher, or any other branch of history/American studies, and witnessing your students actively participating in and organizing peaceful protests. Or deciding not to participate because they didn’t agree with the protests. Either way, it’s a teach by doing moment. It’s teaching kids to be actionable instead of simply memorizing facts or spitting out theory.

Facebook is flooded with posts of alum, teachers and parents talking about the school walkouts or walk ins, where assemblies are being held in memory of the students killed due to gun violence. CNN is live-streaming the walkouts and the words of our CT Senator Chris Murphy. Across the nation kids are holding up signs stating their beliefs and desire for the adults in charge to be actionable. They are no longer complicit and trusting that adults will get the work done. The Parkland students showed them that their voice matters even when they are unable to vote. That you don’t have to wait until you’re 18 to voice political opinions.

I was young for my grade and didn’t turn 18 until I was in college. I remember being furious that I couldn’t vote in the primaries that year, even though I would be 18 by the general election. I was always highly opinionated when it came to politics, thanks to my mother who was always a well-informed citizen and my brother, who walked into the Democratic Headquarters at 16 to start volunteering. I would tag along with him, making calls to remind democrats and independents to vote, checking in on our elderly residents to see if any needed rides to polls, attending Chris Murphy’s debates when running for Congress, joining the Young Dems chapter my brother helped start and my favorite part of the process: going from poll to poll on election night to watch them count then ending back at Headquarters or a restaurant to hear the results roll in. I couldn’t vote, but I was more engaged in the political process than most adults.

Which was why I was furious when adults would undermine my intelligence in my teenage years. I would often hear that my opinions, and the opinions of my peers, were just echos of my family’s beliefs. I understand the thought, and recognize that may be true in some cases, but I could never understand why my civics teacher would take so much time explaining our nation’s workings to us, only to tell me that my opinions were just something I inherited from my parents when I got in a fight with a classmate over Bush’s reelection. Of course my family influenced my beliefs, but I was also smart enough to research and act on my own. I was old enough to hold opinions.

I remember a car ride where my mom and brother were talking a politics. I listened without much input, thinking instead of my recent civics lesson on political parties.

“What if I’m a Republican instead of a Democrat?” I asked my family.

I was constantly the lawyer of the family. I always wanted to think about situations from a different angle. A contrarian, always thinking of the other side before agreeing with my family.

“Your beliefs line up with the Democratic Party,” my mom replied.

“But what if they don’t? What if I’m a Republican instead?” I asked.

“Then you can be a Republican.”

I went home and did all the research I could on both parties. I spent hours trying to understand the difference and political platforms. I weighed policies against my moral beliefs and found that I did side with the Dems.

All of this was done my freshman year of high school. Clearly I was already intelligent and thoughtful enough to question my beliefs and recheck them against my political affiliation. My thoughts and opinions haven’t changed much. They evolved slightly with the times and my maturity. Whereas I used to think we should eliminate marriage entirely, calling everything a civil union, so we can eliminate the religious context of marriage, I’ve realized that battle gets misconstrued and calling everything a marriage is a better angle. I used to be much more fiscally liberal that I am today. I used to be pro-choice under medical necessity but am now entirely pro-choice. Tiny tweaks, but my adult mind is still in line with my teen mind.

So I still get angry that I was always underestimated. That adults did not believe that I researched my policies enough. To be fair, this still happens. I was constantly accused for siding with Hillary instead of Bernie because she was a woman, when in reality I thought she was the most qualified candidate we ever had and her fiscally moderate policies enabled me to reap benefits while still covering costs of social security and welfare.

People may say that I was a different type of teen. That not everyone was as mature. Well then, why not teach them to find their own opinions instead of dismissing them?

I think adults fall into an awful habit of thinking kids don’t know enough. We talk down to them and assume they can’t possibly understand. But clearly they do.

Today’s teens are living in a world where any question they have can be answered in a matter of seconds on their phones. Teenagers are actually MUCH better at recognizing “fake news” than we are. Aside from their obvious increased technical literacy, they’re also taught how to seek out information. As students, they have access to online encyclopedias and academic research. They’re constantly being told not to trust sites like Facebook and Wikipedia, and instead fact check every piece of information they want to use. They’re writing research reports and getting graded on whether or not their facts are confirmed. They’re much better at finding the truth than we are.

Without the ability to vote, I believe they’re getting antsy. I remember talking to my cousins, just shy of 18, about how much it sucked to be unable to vote in such an important presidential election. And now here we are, with massive school shootings happening at levels that I can’t even comprehend, and they’re done with us adults. They can’t vote, but they can speak for themselves and remind politicians that they’re voting very, very soon.

We need to stop underestimating kids and instead listen to them. That’s how I treat the kids I babysit. I never want to influence their own moral and political beliefs, so I just listen to them and encourage them to think about where they stand. The other day a kid I babysat was doing a project on trans kids and I found that she knew way more than even I did. I offered no opinions and instead just let her inform me on the topic. When I was watching some younger kids, someone came to the door who was running for local office. What followed was an hour long conversation with the kids about what their platforms would be and how they can run for office within their school. While I would steer at times, like suggesting they invest in scientific research when they said they wanted to stop all hurricanes, I let them carry the conversation.

We invest so much time and money into our kids and their education. But often when they want to show us the results of that investment, we don’t listen. While what happened at Stoneman Douglas was horrific, it is inspiring to see the students use their voices and speak up for themselves when a politician is dismissive of their question. Unless you’re a teacher or school employee, the topic of school shootings will ALWAYS impact the kids in your life more than it will ever impact you. Empower them to use their voices, especially if they’re teenagers. I’m so proud of these teens who are speaking up for the students in Sandy Hook who are still too young to speak for themselves. There are no longer only parents representing their students, but students themselves being actionable.

Keep going teens. Stand up for what you believe in and know that your mind is worthy of respect and your opinions are worth being heard.

Moving on.

When I moved to Chicago, I thought I’d leave before college graduation.

I wanted to be a teacher and it made sense to my seventeen year old self to only go to an out of state college for three years then come back to CT or NY to get certified within that state. But when I changed my major three days into my freshman year, that plan went out the window.

I was supposed to move back to the East Coast after college graduation. Actually, I did move back to the East Coast. Well, kinda. I did not renew my lease in Chicago. I packed up and planned to move home but was called in for a job interview. The day before going home, I put all of my stuff in storage then went on the interview. I figured that if I didn’t get the job, I could come back and get my stuff. Then I packed all my clothes and headed home. We immediately went on vacation for a week where I found out that I was being called in for a second interview. After vacation, I headed back to Chicago and took the job. So essentially, I just over packed for vacation

When I started working in Chicago, I had no immediate plans to leave. I always knew I would eventually end up on the East Coast, but I never had a definite time frame. My standard answer was that I would be in Chicago for two more years, which turned into three, which turned into four. Two years ago, I was ready to pack up everything and move to Los Angeles but breaking my knee put those plans on hold. I wasn’t too upset about that though because Chicago always pulled me back.

I’m nine and a half years into my extended stay in Chicago. I love this city with my entire heart. I love the people I met and the strangers who greet me with the kindness and optimism that can only be traced back to the Midwest. I love taking an hour long walk after work along the lake and finding myself still in awe of our skyline. I love the neighborhoods I lived in – Lincoln Park, the Southport Corridor of Lakeview and now Uptown. I love that I always find something new in the city like how expansive Montrose Park is or where to order the best Chicken Shawarma plate. I love when I find myself back on DePaul’s campus and replay the memories: the quad where I used to run through the sprinklers after a night of drinking, the dorm where I met my best friends, the hall where I was initiated into Chi Omega. I feel the pit in my stomach churning when I find myself by my old place on Cornelia, wishing I had enough money to buy the townhouse that I loved so much. I like the way we all gather inside for long nights of beers and Christmas lights in the winter and eat outside every night in the summer. I love Eagles games at Mad River, our annual Christmas Trolley and late nights after comedy shows at Old Town Alehouse. I love how it’s in the middle of the country so flying to either coast is not a hassle. In college I cried on every ride to the airport down Lake Shore Drive. I knew I would be back soon, but I never wanted to leave. I would strain my neck looking back at the skyline on the way to Midway until it was completely out of view.

I never wanted to permanently live in Chicago. I stand by that. For every reason I have for loving Chicago, I have another reason I want to be home. The thought of raising children so far away from my family is worse than leaving Chicago. I don’t want to be a long distance aunt anymore. I missed a lot of my nephew and cousins growing up and while I don’t regret my time here, it’s bittersweet to see all the time lost whenever I realize how old they are. While I pride myself in being a lot more present these days because I’m more financially stable, I want to be able to join in on all the little things the next generation of my family will bring. I want to be at sports games and school plays and whenever I have my own kids, I want sleepovers with cousins and dinners with grandma. Beyond family, I miss New England. I miss having four seasons instead of two and being so close to so many major cities. I don’t like that each time I come home it’s an event. I want to be able to visit with friends without feeling like I’m stiffing my family. I’d like to be able to relax instead of making sure I got to see everyone while home. And I miss New England falls. GOD how I miss New England falls. I miss the hills and the trees and the mountains. I miss the foliage and the scent of October. I miss being able to hike up real trails instead of city paths.

But each time I think I’m ready to leave, something pulls me back. It’s not easy being in love with a city so far from home. I wish New York or Philadelphia had the same vibe as Chicago.

I know that in the next few years I’ll be leaving this city. Where I’m going next I’m not too sure of. I don’t know if I want to spend a year in LA living in warm weather for once before returning to the East Coast, or if I just want to head straight home. I’m not even sure of where on the East Coast I want to live. While I’m 90% sure I’ll end up in New York City, which would split the difference between my extended family in New Jersey and my immediate family in Connecticut, I’m not positive. I may jet out to California in a year then head over to New York City a year or two later. But whatever way I split it, I have two years max left in Chicago.

I’ve set dates on moves before, so I know things can change. But the problem is that I keep on delaying my departure which makes it more difficult to leave. I fall more in love with this city with each passing year. There are some good reasons why I haven’t left Chicago, like breaking my knee and wanting to stay with my medical team until completely recovered, but the truth is that I’m also terrified. I wasn’t scared of going to college. Everyone made some sort of leap that year. And while I was constantly scared after college, it was also a normal transitional period. But here I am, in my late twenties, and there are no external forces like going to college or joining the workforce to push me out. This decision is completely self-motivated and I’m the only one that can execute it. I’m scared that I won’t find the same support group I have here. I’m worried that moving closer to my family will keep me from hustling in comedy. I’m concerned that my constant indecisiveness on where to live will be what keeps relationships from forming.

My friends in Connecticut and Los Angeles will all confirm that I’m not a great long distance friend. I miss and love them but get distracted when I’m in a different city. I push away from the ones I’m really close to because it hurts to know we no longer live close enough to be dependent on each other. I try to separate myself so I’m not disappointed when their life eventually goes on and they find someone to fill my void in their new city. I want to change these things about myself, but I know that it’s something I struggle with.

I know that Chicago will always be here to visit. But I loved being a resident. I know my close friends will remain my close friends and I’ll probably come back as often as I jet to the East Coast right now. And I know that if I ever find that I made the wrong decision, there’s a three story walkup on Cornelia Ave. that I’m more than happy to put a down payment on.

I chose the perfect city to become an adult in, both legally and mentally. Any pain or hurt is almost always the result of loving something, so I’m thankful that I found myself in a city that I loved so hard.

After almost 10 years, I’ll finally answer the most frequently asked question of an East Coast transplant: Chicago is WAY better than New York*. But sometimes the thing we love most isn’t what fits best.

*(Except for the pizza. NYC thin crust over Chicago any day.)

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.

Our friend, Joe.

A few weeks ago, we lost one of the most exuberant humans I’ll ever know.

I don’t remember meeting Joe and I couldn’t tell you when the Neumullers went from being acquaintances to family. It all happened way before I started forming concrete memories. Since I can remember, Joe has been my brother’s best friend. They met playing tee-ball and were by each other’s sides until the end. He was my parents’ honorary son and our brother.

I’m no stranger to grief. I know how it can leave you alone for hours just to creep up to you late at night when you should be sleeping. I know that it melds days together until you forget what day it is. I know how it can disappear for a period of time then smack you right in the face.

Since Joe’s death, I’ve been trying to find the words. Any words, really. But each time I sat to write this post I gave up right away because there is absolutely nothing that I can write to convey the type of person he was. It felt selfish, self indulgent. Like I was seeking public therapy. Most of the time, it just didn’t feel like enough.

How can I possibly string words together to paint the image of someone so alive? It’s impossible. But I’ll try because it’s the only way I know how to pay tribute to Joe. I have three people subscribed via email to this blog, which means they get an email every single time I update it. One’s my mom, the other is my aunt and the last person is Joe.

Whenever I have a night like tonight where I’m restless with the memory of Joe, it’s always the same image that flashes through my head. He’s laughing. Joe had an infectious laugh. That’s a phrase that I fear being too cliche… but it really applies to him. I think I’ve heard Joe laugh more than I’ve heard him talk. He laughed constantly and uniquely. When we had his parents over for dinner before I had to go back to Chicago, the Joe memory that was constantly coming up was how much love he had to give. He wanted everyone to be happy, to be laughing, to be having fun. That’s what the Neumuller house is – the fun house.

Growing up, whenever we were at their house, it was for a party – whether or not it was formally a party was irrelevant. While they hosted an array of amazing annual parties, every hangout was a celebration in itself. It was a dream as a kid – they ran a daycare which meant that space to play was plentiful. We spent hours climbing the large rock in their front yard only to be pushed off. Hide and seek was on a whole new level complete with long discussions as to where exactly out of bounds would start. Every winter party came with the promise of hours spent in the hot tub, daring each other to open your eyes underwater or run into the snow.  The intercom system in their house was used as a way for his sister Jackie and I to communicate with our brothers during playdates and sleepovers. We all played for hours until Jackie and I inevitably made our way into her room and fell asleep on her ladybug infested floor.

Joe was a brother to us in every way possible. Whenever we played flag football, he showed no mercy on me whenever it turned into tackle football. I didn’t get a free pass from him and my brother throwing me to the frozen ground then sitting on my head. He dated all of my best friends… though I did date his neighbor, so I guess we’re even. Whenever a boy talked to me in high school, my brother and Joe would run up to him and scare the shit out of him before turning away and cracking up hysterically. My dad affectionally slapped him across the head more often than not. Every new year in high school was brought in by streaking down their street banging pots and pans and the only scar on my body is from falling on a saw at the Neumuller’s house while we were playing in the dark.

He loved everyone, hard. He would do anything for the people he loved. He had a loyalty to him that was unlike anyone I know. He absolutely loved his family, was infatuated with his girlfriend, Mina, and was a member of the greatest group of friends I’ve ever known. My brother and Joe’s core friend group is made out of outstanding individuals that have been friends since the day they met. While they’re always open to initiating new members, it’s incredibly rare for anyone to drift away. They’re the type of best friends everyone hopes for.

The best marker of a good friend is never knowing when they’re going to show up at the door, and never minding when they do. Some of my fondest memories of Joe are from days that he just stopped by and ended up staying for dinner, a baseball game after and then slept on our couch for two days. My favorite Christmas included him riding along with my brother and me while we were Christmas shopping then coming over the next day to spend Christmas Eve with us. My mom and I were just sitting there, getting a little toasty after dinner, and Joe showed up to come to mass with us.

The best recent memory that I have with Joe was the day I was going back to Chicago after a visit home. He picked me up and we were driving around as he asked me about comedy, writing and everything I was doing in Chicago. He told me that he was proud of me for going after what I wanted. He talked about how I used to sing and act and how it all just made sense. He went on about my blog posts and how much he loved reading them. We spent the entire ride talking about my life since I left Danbury and the person I morphed into. That’s who Joe was – the most supportive, loyal person you could ask for. He never held back telling you that he was proud of you and supported you in everything you did.

I’m just one of many who misses the shit out of him. I’m angry and confused and in denial. I’m mad that he was in that accident. Furious. I can’t, and don’t want to, make peace with it. I keep thinking that I’ll see him again. That I’ll get to talk to him about what I’m doing. That we’ll be able to pile into his truck for a night out that ends at the Eveready Diner and with a fishhook stuck on someone’s ass because they sat in the trunk. That he was just out of town and when I go back home I’ll be able to stop by and spend time with everyone in his family, including him. That he’ll just pop up unexpected in our house on my next trip home yelling “BIIIIIIIRD!”

The harsh reality is that it’s not going to happen. We have to keep living and the only way I can see that happening is by keeping him alive too. By having love practically gushing out of our pores. By stopping by to see old friends. By laughing to the point of being incomprehensible. By taking our relationships, family and friendships as seriously as Joe did.

After my dad died, The Neumuller family didn’t let his memory die. Even when I tried suppressing it, the entire Neumuller family kept him around. They still do. When we’re together it’s as if all the memories of my dad happened yesterday. They never forgot him or let him become some ghost that we’re not allowed to talk about… they talk about him like he’s still here. I vow to do the same for them. I know that one of the biggest fears of the family is that we’ll forget him. And I assure you, we won’t.

I’m not religious, so I really don’t have a concrete idea or belief when it comes to the afterlife. But I have a very vivid picture of what I can only hope went down the day Joe died. I imagine my dad sitting somewhere, with a cooler of beer next to him. Jackie helped shape this vision by placing my dad on his red cooler watching the Superbowl. Then I imagine Joe walking up and my dad just looking at him and going “Fuck…. You too?” then Joe nods and my dad cracks open a beer, tosses it to him and they watch the game together.

My two sources of stability.

Sometimes I wish I didn’t write about grief so much. I wish I didn’t talk about it, I wish I didn’t think about it, I wish I wasn’t that person who can’t seem to let it go. But the truth is that 11 out of my 24 years were spent in the world of grief – almost half of my life. It’s what I know and, like it or not, it defines who I am. It’s what I consider myself an expert in. It would be much cooler to be trilingual or a dog whisperer, but ya know. Whatever. I’m learning to accept my fate.

My dad died as a result of a car crash when I was 13. What makes as a result different than in? Well, to make a long story short: someone crashed into his car, he was fine, and then he wasn’t. It’s a bitch because it gives you this thing called hope then robs it from you. Yeah, I’m a little bitter.

When I think back on that time, there are two things that gave me the stability I so desperately needed. These two things are what I am thankful for every single day, because without them, I have no idea how I would have survived.

The first is my relationship with my 8th grade teacher, Bevin. I can’t mention this time without mentioning her. I wrote a post about her last year that I urge you to read. In addition to the many life lessons she offered, she taught me that you have to reach out to people.

I hated being vulnerable, and I still don’t love it. I’d rather hide behind writing. Bevin was the one person I could talk to, which was convenient because I couldn’t run from her. I loved to run. I could run from therapists, my family… practically everyone. But Monday through Friday, without fail, I had to see her at least once in her class.

This taught me a very important coping mechanism. I don’t like reaching out to many people. So when I do, I make sure it’s to someone I can’t avoid. Someone I have to see at least once a week, no matter what. I don’t always reach out looking for answers or advice… sometimes I just send a cryptic text full of bullshit. Putting it out in the world makes me feel better – it’s like an insurance plan. Most days I’m fine, but in the off-chance I freak out, there’s someone around who already knows what I’m going through because I’ve sent them a text saying “I’M SUCH A FLAKY BITCH” or “WHO THE FUCK DO I THINK I AM?”. Someone who I don’t have to explain anything to. Someone who can just calm me down. I’m a high maintenance friend and I’m incredibly thankful that these people put up with me (Sophia, Jay, Katie, Annie Con – thanks for dealing with my shit, guys).

The second is a place called Healing Hearts. It’s a bereavement center for kids and teenagers. I grew up there, and as much as I wish I never had to step foot in the place, I’m so incredibly thankful that we found it.

Healing Hearts taught me that I’m not alone. In a world where I was forced to mature early, I was able to be a teenager here. I felt normal, a feeling that I still desperately try to chase. Everyone just got it. I wasn’t different, I wasn’t pitied… I could just exist. Having a community like this was everything… (Christine, Diane, Samm, Hannah and E.J. – I owe you guys the world.)

I could complain about things that I felt awful complaining about to anyone else. I was able to complain about my mom working so much without feeling awful. I could complain about how jealous I was of my sister. I complained about how my teachers were unsympathetic, how my brother ruined my chances with boys, and how unfair it was that I wasn’t cheerleading captain. Most of all, I could complain about the way the world treated me in this new normal. We were able to make charts with the title “Things I Wish My Living Parent Understood” without feeling guilty.

I could admit my darkest feelings of guilt. I could talk about regret without hearing the “no regrets” speech, because everyone else regretted things unsaid too. I talked about how much I hated myself, how I couldn’t even fathom a way to like myself after how awful I was to my dad. We were able to make charts with the title “Things I Wish I Could Tell My Dead Parent” without feeling guilty.

I could choose to not talk. There were days where I was so incredibly depressed that I didn’t even have the energy to talk. That was okay. I was never pressured to talk. No one thought I was hiding some deep, dark secret in my silence. Even when I didn’t talk, I had my feelings affirmed through hearing my friends talk about what was on my mind. We were able to make charts with the title “Things I Wish I Could Say” without feeling guilty.

I could find the humor in my situation. While the group was open to anyone who lost an immediate family member, we all had dads that died. So we made dead dad jokes. We laughed at strange things that happened at funerals. We made fun of people who didn’t understand how to talk to grieving people. We were hysterical over all of the times we used our dead parent as a cop out for homework we just forgot about. We laughed our way through things like “Emotional Bingo” and found it hilarious that someone made a living out of making board games for half orphans (what we called ourselves, “Hos” for short). We shared in the wonder of nailing the college essay. We were able to make charts with the title “Things That Are Still Funny” without feeling guilty.

I could be selfish. My life was now consumed by wondering how everyone else was feeling – is my mom okay? How’s my brother? Is my sister hanging in? How can I be less of a burden to everyone? But when I walked into Healing Hearts, it was all about me. I was separated from my family for an hour when I could sit in a room with my friends and therapists. Not my family’s friends, mine. For at least an hour, it was all about me. At the same time, they took care of my mom too. There was a parent’s meeting at the same time. I knew she was getting the community she so desperately needed as well. Knowing that she was getting help freed up my mind and allowed me to focus on myself. It also brought my mom and I together. As much as I rolled my eyes at memorial ceremonies where we would bring in my dad’s favorite food and light candles, it forced my mom and I to grieve together. We were able to make charts with the title “Things That Make Me – ME! – Feel Better” without feeling guilty.

Most importantly, I was in a place that understood me. That didn’t try to fix me. Everyone else was trying to fix me, like I was some machine that could be oiled up and sent on my way. They didn’t do that at Healing Hearts. The teenagers in my room, as well as the adults who worked with us, understood because they have been there. They don’t tell you that everything will be okay, because sometimes it won’t be. They don’t tell you not to feel guilty because they still feel guilty too. They let you sit in the shit, talk a little about it, then walk away with a little less than what you came in with. That’s what it was. Moment to moment, get a little better every single day. Take one step forward, fall fifty steps back. There’s no measured progress, as new years come with new challenges. Just show up. Just get there.

When your world falls apart, you desperately seek some sort of stability. You feel like anything could be taken away from you at any moment and thrash around trying to grasp onto something. That’s what a community does. Take it one moment at a time. We’ll always be here.

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?

My guide to happiness, part one.

Understand your pitfalls.

Know yourself and understand where you struggle. Stop wishing to be normal… normal doesn’t exist. Instead, just be in tune with your pitfalls. By understanding and accepting your darker sides, you’ll be able to deal with them a little easier. When I was fourteen, I had my first panic attack. I literally thought I was dying, as the symptoms are very similar to a heart attack. I’d stay up all night, come to terms with my inevitable death, get tired, eventually fall asleep and wake up in the morning amazed that I was still alive. I was so sure that I had some awful terminal illness. When I finally found out that they were panic attacks caused by anxiety, they were easier to manage. Did they go away completely? No… but when one came, I knew exactly what it was. I went from staying up all night thinking that I would be dead in the morning to learning how to breathe deeply and isolate myself so I could ride out the attack. It didn’t happen overnight… but since I learned how to manage my anxiety, I’ve had significantly less panic attacks.

Once you understand something, it becomes less scary. When you know your struggles, when you can see where they come from, you can manage them easier. Pretending that they don’t exist won’t solve anything. You have to learn how to live with whatever crap you have on your shoulders. You have to learn how to ride out the waves.

Let people know how much they mean to you.

This was my biggest regret when my dad died. I felt as if I let him die without knowing how much I loved him. I was so caught up in my teenage angst and didn’t make the time to have those conversations with him. The truth is, most of us don’t. We’re so scared of being rejected that we hold back our feelings towards those we idolize, love or care for. There’s nothing wrong with you for wanting to guard yourself. It’s human. It actually took me three deaths to realize there’s no time to hold back how you feel. When I lost my dad and two of my friends unexpectedly, I realized that I need to let people know that I care for them while we still have time together.

So I write letters and tell people that I’m appreciative of them. I let people know that they made a difference in the way I look at the world. The truth is that everyone is human. Even if you think that someone is perfect and flawless, they have moments of self-doubt. Your kind words of gratitude may be what makes someone realize that they’re great. Don’t ever be afraid to let someone know they changed your life.

Be kind.

To everyone. I always say that it’s not hard to be kind… because it really isn’t. You have to practice patience and self-control but it can be done. I hate people who fight… grown adults who yell at each other. Nothing gets under my skin more than this. Being kind doesn’t mean that you always have to be happy with someone, but if you’re angry then treat them as a decent human being and have a conversation. Be levelheaded.

Don’t make fun of people. It’s so stupid… I hate this. I hate when one of my friends posts a picture, or video, of some homeless person on the street who is clearly has an intellectual disability. I love people who have intellectual disabilities and I know that they’re so damn lucky to be in a loving family. These people on the street weren’t as fortunate, that’s all. If you don’t want to help, just leave them alone.

Ah, and finally, the hardest of them all… being kind to those who are awful to you. This is where patience comes into play. When someone is yelling at you for no reason, all you want to do is scream back and tell them they’re shit. I know this. I dealt with it every day for two years. I do believe that there are bad people in the world. However, I also believe that if you treat these people like shit then you’re sacrificing your character for someone who honestly isn’t worth it. My mom taught me this lesson… some people just aren’t worth your time and energy. She always told me to consider the source… don’t let words from someone whose character you don’t believe in affect you. If you dislike them as a person, why are their words hurting you? They’re invalid words. They don’t mean anything. They hold no weight. Once you’re able to realize this, you’re also able to let their fighting words fly past you and speak with them levelheaded. Stick up for yourself, but do it in a professional manner. Let them know that their behavior is unacceptable… but do it in a kind way. Through an intelligent conversation. Your opinions hold more weight when they’re executed with a clear mind. If you yell at them, you’re just as bad as the person you’re yelling at.

Go for it.

What do you really want? Be honest with yourself. What do you want to do in life? Why aren’t you doing it?

You’re going to come up with a million different reasons. I came up with four years’ worth of reasons. I came out to Chicago to pursue comedy then avoided it for four years. Why? Because I was terrified of not making it. Before I even got started, I was scared. Here are just a few of my excuses: It’s stupid idea, it’s too much money, I don’t have time, what if I’m not good at it?, if I really love my family then I’ll move home after graduation instead of being selfish, that’s something that I should have done earlier… now it’s too late, what if I fail? There were a million more excuses.

Then want to know what happened? I almost had my comedy dreams stripped away from me. I was moving home without ever trying… I was leaving that dream behind. Then I got a job in Chicago and a week later I found myself on a train back to Chicago. It was a second chance. This time I’ll just go for it… because nothing felt worse than having to explain to my friends back home why I never got started.

So I signed up for one class. That’s it. Just one class. It changed my life. Let me say that again… it changed my life. My life changed forever. I became happier, a better person to be around. I met mentors who changed my life. I quit my awful job. I learned that I deserve more out of life. I learned that failure isn’t as scary as never getting started. When I was little, my dad used to tell us “shoulda, woulda, coulda’s don’t go on the scoreboard.” You may fail, you may succeed… but do something. Don’t live in regret. One class just over a year ago evolved into 15 classes, 26 shows, 33 original sketches, a blog, an internship, a new job and an incredible community that I couldn’t imagine my life without.

That kind of stuff happens when you go after what you want. You find that you wanted it because it fits you like a glove.

Don’t expect the world to hand you anything, especially happiness.

No one is going to do it for you. Work hard, maintain a good character and strive for happiness. No one is going to bring you happiness. No one. No person, doctor, object, amount of money or success will do this for you. You have to work really hard at it.

I know because I spent a long time wondering if I was ever going to be happy again. When I finally went for help and was diagnosed with PTSD, I learned that I was never going to just be happy naturally. No one is ever happy naturally. We’re all fucked up in some way. When that illusion faded, I realized that I can teach myself how to be happy. I literally wrote one thing down every single day that I’m grateful for. One thing a day to extract happiness from. Sometimes it was hard… sometimes it was as simple as “I’m happy I’m alive”… and when I couldn’t find anything in my life to be happy about, I looked around me… “I’m happy my mom is healthy,” “I’m happy that my nephew was born,” “I’m happy that I have a bed to sleep in.”

This taught me to extract happiness from the world around me. That no one was going to come up to me and tell me that I’m cured, or that it’s time to be happy. I learned that shit happens… all the time. Bad things will always happen. However, when you learn how to extract happiness from the world around you, the bad things won’t seem as scary. You’ll feel like you can deal with that one awful thing because you have lists of incredible things to be happy about.

I kept my list for 42 days, exactly. I know this because I still have it. After 42 days, I no longer needed a list. I had trained myself to extract happiness naturally. I worked really hard for those 42 days – I was sober, I stayed away from most people, I avoided anything tied to a bad memory… I just focused on myself. After 42 days, I felt like I could start being the young, vibrant person that I wanted to be again.

Happiness didn’t just appear after 42 days, but I knew that it was coming. I felt like I was in recovery – knowing that better days were to come. And they did. They came about two years ago. I realized one day that I was purely happy. I was no longer self-conscious, paranoid, selfish, ruled by anxiety, depressed… I was better. I was happy all the time. Bad things have happened since then, I’ve cried a lot, but I didn’t let those things rule my life anymore. This is my new life. I am in control.

This formula won’t work for everybody. Everyone has a different way to heal. This is just what worked for me.  But what I’m getting at is that you have to work for the things you want in life. They’re not just going to come. That never happens.

my father moved through harm of laughter

I used to write a lot of poetry. It was my main way of coping with my dad’s death. This evening, I happened upon my old portfolio. I found hundreds of poems… from when I was ten to when I stopped writing at about nineteen. Poems about depression, happiness, hope and anxiety. It was such a wonderful look back on my emotions & everything that I’ve been through. But my absolute favorite poem was one that I wrote when I was fifteen about my dad. It was inspired by E.E. Cummings’ my father moved through dooms of love. One thing that I didn’t even realize, until tonight, was that E.E. Cummings wrote this after his own father’s death. Mind blown. This poem is my favorite because I felt like I was able to describe my father in the most vivid way possible. Enjoy.

my father moved through harm of laughter

my father moved through harm of laughter

through duty of charity through need of release,

laughing as we woke as we fell asleep

my father moved through cheer of sadness

 

this strength he bared

though apparent and hidden

would break the sturdy tree in half

a glance of his eye would tear its roots

 

fresh and new though older than most

was the person who, since late october

planted feet in air firmly on ground

raised feet on ground to touch the air

 

and should a child start to weep

my father could sing her gently to sleep

but he kept his wisdom at a hush

though he knew how a rainbow could cry

 

Tearing the grass from a desert

my father moved through victories of defeat;

praising the day each sunset promised

preaching one’s dream into life

 

humor was his song and humor so raw

billy crystal would bow at the presence of a joke

and humorous so now and now so humorous

belushi would cry from one word

 

quick as a shooting start more quick

smart though not bearing a degree

so strictly(and rather apparent

to both of us) stood my father’s words

 

his skin was skin his breath was breath:

no unhappy man but one wished him happiness;

no mute frog wouldn’t croak

endless hours to hear one joke

 

a man just like any man

but a smile that put pearls to shame

his sweat smelled no glory in it

yet the work he put in was idolized

 

his parents were irish and damn proud

yet he was jamaican puerto rican italian

he had but four children to his name

yet a handful came with the new sports season

 

very careful, never foolish in risks

since he was grateful for being forgetful once

his care was not enough to save

for it was another who killed him

 

i am now moved through guilt of innocence

through a life of death

through failure of success

yet through humor i feel alive

 

and nothing quite so least as truth

–i say though carelessness is why i hate–

because my Father lived and entertained

the world will laugh once more.

“Let her cry.”

Grief is a tricky asshole. It creeps up on you midday on a Tuesday afternoon… seemingly out of nowhere. You hear a song, you read an article, you have a flashback… something small that makes you remember what you lost. Sometimes it’s the stupidest trigger. Yesterday I was having a normal day when someone sent me a text. It was stupid, it had nothing to do with loss but it set me off. My friend was being protective of me and fighting a battle that I can’t fight alone and somehow it got me thinking about my dad. Before I could even realize what was happening, it was too late. My eyes couldn’t stop producing water no matter how much I tried to distract myself. In the blink of an eye, I became that girl crying at her desk.

This only happens a few times a year, but when it does, there’s no turning back. Everything resurfaces. Anything that pulled at your heartstrings in the past few months comes back heightened. Yesterday I went through every emotion possible – regret about things unsaid, jealousy for those who still have their parents, anxiety over my uncertain future, this one emotion that I still can’t find the right word for… it’s this emptiness accompanied by a feeling like someone is stretching every limb to its breaking point and I’m not sure how much longer I can take it before they all fall off… it’s what I feel when I realize that I’m never going to see my dad again. But most of all, I just wanted to stand up in the middle of my office and scream at the top of my lungs:

I’M FUCKING TERRIFIED!

That was the root of it. I have a lot of pressure and stress in my life right now and it terrifies me. Not in the exciting, thrilling and adventurous way. But in the “Maybe I made a huge mistake by coming out here and life is really fucking hard right now and I’m honestly not sure that everything is going to be okay” way. Whenever I’m that scared, I always just think that maybe everything would be a little easier, a little better, if I still had my dad here. Maybe his advice is what’s missing from this equation. Because honestly, he would know this feeling more than anyone in my life. He took risks and he followed his pro sports dreams and I like to think that he had days where he was fucking terrified. The control freak inside of me is angry that I can’t do anything about it. The optimist inside of me is disappointed that I’m depressed. And the thirteen year old inside of me just really fucking misses her dad. Grief has been a part of 10 of the past 23 years of my life… and I still don’t have it all figured out.

I tried so hard to control my emotions. I was the only one left in my office, which made it harder because I didn’t necessarily need to pull myself together… but still, I was at work and I felt pathetic. So I texted my friend who knows these emotions all too well, and who I would see later. Someone to not only validate my emotions but know that I’m feeling them in case I lost it later that night. Someone to give a heads up to. Then I cut off contact with everyone for the rest of the day. Someone’s kind words could set me off. Someone’s sarcastic remark could fill me with rage. I’d be better off not talking to anyone.

So I went from the girl crying at her desk to the girl crying on the train. When I got to Second City, I basically ran through the building with my head down, praying that no one would see me. Even a friendly hug would set me off, I was just a ball of hyper sensitive nerves. Touch me and I won’t be able to regain the little control I had over my emotions. I grabbed dinner, retreated to a quiet corner and read until my class. Then something interesting happened.

I was headed towards class when I bumped into one of my friends. “HEY!” I said to him, with genuine excitement in my voice. I surprised myself. Where did this uber sensitive grieving ball of depression go? When did I decide to be happy? Why was I now okay with seeing my friends? The rest of the night went like that. In class, I was actually present. During my rehearsal, I laughed and improvised and stayed out of my head. My rehearsal ended in a dance party that I loved every second of. Elated by my happy state, I took the L home with some of my teammates and hopped off at my stop.

About three minutes after leaving my friends, the tears came again. Out of nowhere, escalated by the fact that it was raining and dark out, I started losing my shit. I made it to my bed and cried like a fucking baby. Left alone to my own emotions, I was terrified again. I felt like it wasn’t all going to work out. I was angry because I hate being upset. I JUST HAD A FUCKING DANCE PARTY, HOW COULD I BE DEPRESSED AGAIN? I felt helpless and didn’t know what to do. So I cried myself to sleep.

How do I feel this morning? Much better.

You see, a few years ago yesterday would have been much more complicated. A few years ago, I would be upset for days about this. I wouldn’t let myself get distracted. I would pour over why I felt a certain way and try to figure it all out. But somewhere along the line, I realized that life is much easier if you let yourself deal with your shit. When you’re upset and crying, be upset and cry. When you’re excited to see someone, be excited. When you’re scared shitless, be scared shitless. If all of those emotions happen within one hour, so be it. Stop evaluating how you feel and why you feel it. Just fucking feel. The best way to get through your emotions is to allow yourself to feel them without being apologetic.

But then again, I’m just some girl who cries on the L.

Cue Hootie:

Let her cry, if the tears fall down like rain
Let her sing, if it eases all her pain
Let her go, let her walk right out on me
And if the sun comes up tomorrow
Let her be, oh, oh.