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.)

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.

Sexism and Pain

As the #MeToo and #TimesUp movements gain power and voices, I’ve been nursing my most recent story in my head. I was quick to jump on with accounts of my own harassment, assault and constant struggle to be taken seriously in my career. I think it’s time to talk about my most recent medical journey as well.

Two years ago, I was rehearsing for a show when I bent backwards to narrowly escape a fencing jab. My left knee gave out and I crumbled to the floor. An intense and sharp pain shot from my knee through my whole body. It was the worst pain I’ve ever felt.. so bad that when my writing partner went to grab her car, I started throwing up. My knee started swelling immediately and I couldn’t put any weight on it without unbearable pain.

The morning after I went to the ER, the hospital called me to let me know they found a small fracture in my kneecap and advised me to get to an orthopedist as soon as possible. As it was Friday, my options were limited. I called every orthopedic office until I found someone with a Monday appointment.

That following Monday, I saw Dr. Trash for the first time. (Why I’m concealing the identity of a doctor that doesn’t deserve protection is beside me, but his pseudonym is not only fitting but also very close to his actual last name so it works.) I didn’t think much of having to wait over an hour past my appointment time in his office (all doctors operate like that, right?) and didn’t care that he rushed the appointment. All I cared about at that time was getting the medication needed to ease my pain and the doctors note to clear my absence from work. He asked about the injury and I explained it to him. I told him that it felt like my knee twisted and that there was bone on bone. He laughed at the description, citing it’s impossibility. He looked at my x-ray for about 30 seconds then diagnosed me with a dislocated knee. He advised me to stay in a thigh to ankle immobilizer and come back after two weeks.

I went home and, despite my medication, was still in so much pain that I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t even lay in my bed because laying flat was uncomfortable. For the next two weeks, I just dealt with the pain and powered through it.

Two weeks later, I went back to Dr. Trash’s office. When I said that I wasn’t doing any better, he said it was probably because I wasn’t icing or elevating. I told him I was doing that constantly and my office even got me a special chair to elevate. He told me I would be sore for a bit but that’s “just how teenage girls’ bodies are.” I was 25. I thought it was a weird comment but didn’t think much beyond that at the time. He wrote me a script for more pain meds and pushed me out as fast as I came in.

I started PT and spent the first month relearning how to walk because the immobilizer stiffened up my leg. I was in constant pain. I started to get worried that something more was wrong. My roommate has a strong history of dislocating her knee and I’ve seen her recover before. Her recovery was much shorter and appeared to be less painful, but I thought “oh well, everyone’s body is different.”

A month later, I was back in Dr. Trash’s office. At this point, I was starting to get really concerned. After relearning how to walk, I was finally starting to strengthen my knee at PT and it was met with intense, localized pain.

When asked how I was doing, I told Dr. Trash that my pain was getting worse with physical therapy. I told him it was localized and that it almost felt as if my knee was like a puzzle that didn’t quite fit together. He dismissed my pain, stating that these things take time and I would be sore for awhile, but I told him that I wasn’t sore, I was in pain. He told me that the way teenage girls’ bodies are stacked puts pressure on your knee and therefore causes discomfort. I revealed to him, yet again, that I wasn’t a teenage girl and that my pain wasn’t discomfort – it was sharp, localized pain. He mentioned my teenage girl body yet again, and said this is all common for girls dislocating their knee. I told him that I was concerned I tore something when I fell, and asked why I didn’t get a MRI. He told me that he usually doesn’t issue MRIs for women with knee dislocations since dislocations are so common in, you guessed it, teenage girls. Defeated, I gave up.

I feel like I need to clarify at the point that I never had a “teenage girl’s” body. I grew boobs and hips before I ever knew what they were and never hosted a typical teen body. As an overweight 25 year old, I DEFINITELY wasn’t hosting one. I also grew up as an athlete and had my fair share of sprains, pulls and thrown out necks. I had chronic pain due Lyme putting water in my knee as a kid and carpal tunnel as a teen. I understood the difference between long term ache and “holy shit something is wrong.” Something was wrong.

Over the next two months, both of my PTs and I started getting frustrated with my lack of results and increased pain. There were sessions that brought me to tears because I was in so much pain. No one knew how to help ease it and it seemed that everything they did made it worse. I recall holding my breath and concealing my tears as my PT rolled out my patellar tendon because the pain was so bad it sent goosebumps to my skin. (Turns out she was rolling right over the actual trouble spot without realizing it.) Defeated, my PT checked in with me one day. “So it’s just a dislocation. Your x-ray didn’t show anything else, right?” “Aside from the ER showing a small fracture, nope.” “And your MRI was clear?” “I didn’t get a MRI.” “Why?” “My doctor won’t prescribe one.” “You need to push for a MRI.” he mumbled under his breath.

That was the jolt of confidence I needed to make another appointment with Dr. Trash. I decided I would push as hard as possible for a MRI then take it to another orthopedic surgeon. The night before my next appointment, I ran into my old roommate who broke her femur when I lived with her. As I was telling her about my rough recovery from a seemingly simple injury, she asked me who my doctor was. I told her it was Dr. Trash and she told me to run away from him. He was the same doctor who did her leg surgery wrong, and when she questioned him about her pain and bowed leg, he dismissed the pain and told her she would just have to wear long skirts for the rest of her life, like her problem was that superficial.

The next day I went into Dr. Trash’s office with more confidence than I had over the last 8 months. When he asked me how I was doing, I was honest and told him worse than when I came in. I told him that I was in immense pain that only got worse with PT. He told me women tend to feel pain worse than men, especially when it came to TEENAGE GIRLS DISLOCATING THEIR KNEE. I was done with his shit, and demanded a MRI. He told me he doesn’t prescribe MRIs for women’s knees because of the high statistics of TEENAGE GIRLS DISLOCATING THEIR KNEES. I told him I was not a teenage girl, and even my limited medical knowledge told me that there were enough ligaments and cartilage in the knee that a MRI seemed appropriate. He told me “honey, you didn’t do any damage to your cartilage or ligaments, you dislocated your knee.” I asked him how he was so sure, and again he gave me the stats on how common of an injury it was with teenage girls. He told me insurance would never cover the MRI. I told him I didn’t care, I’d pay full price for it. He then, defeated, told me “Well I guess I can falsify your prescription and tell them we’re looking for floating cartilage or something so insurance will accept it. Will that make you feel better, sweetie?” I resisted the urge to punch him in the dick, said yes, grabbed my script and walked out of his office for good.

After getting my MRI, I went to one of the best knee surgeons in Chicago. In my first appointment, he spent more time that Dr. Trash did in all my appointments and told me that the problem was that I chipped a chunk of cartilage off my leg. He said it could be seen a bit in the x-ray alone, but was clear as day in the MRI. The MRI also showed bone bruising and minor ligament damage, all of this caused by… my bone coming together when my knee twisted. EXACTLY WHAT DR. TRASH TOLD ME WAS IMPOSSIBLE. My new doctor, Dr. Hair, told me nothing was impossible in medicine. A few months later, I found out that the second thing I felt, my knee feeling like a bad puzzle, was also true. I had surgery that revealed a piece of cartilage as big as a nickel chipped off and lodged itself into another part of my knee.

It has been almost two years since my initial injury and I’m still recovering from my most recent major knee surgery which should correct my defect. I spent eight months of that time with a doctor who dismissed my pain and diagnosed me off of statistics instead of symptoms then didn’t listen when I told him I was in pain.

I wish I knew at 25 what I know at 27. You know your body. Trust it and listen to it, and the second a man starts comparing it to the statistics of teenage girls, run to a doctor who will listen to you. I heard stories that women often had pain dismissed by male doctors but had never experienced it myself. I wish I listened to the little voice that kept telling me something more was wrong, but instead I trusted that someone who thought my biggest symptom was being female knew more than me just because he had 50 years of medical experience. Every single day I’m thankful for my PT and old roommate who gave me the confidence needed to run away from Dr. Trash.

When I think about that time in my recovery, I fall into a depression. This injury changed everything for me. It kept me from performing and pursuing my comedy dreams, cost me thousands of dollars, made me miss months of work and stopped me from being a typical mid-20 something. Instead of going out, I had to relearn how to walk three different times. I spend $90 a week on PT. I lost friends because I couldn’t do anything for weeks at a time. For two years, I couldn’t perform or hustle like I used to while I watched peers get closer to their dreams. My plans of moving to LA were replaced with surgery dates and recovery windows. When I realize that this all could have been resolved in a single year instead of two had I not gone to Dr. Trash, I become furious.

So, ladies (and gents too), what can I teach you? Listen to your bodies and trust that know them. You are not reduced to a statistic based on your gender. And the second a doctor starts dismissing your pain or comparing you to a teenage girl, run the fuck away.

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.

Why improv is really important.

This past Thursday was awful. There’s no sugar coating it. It just was. Life happened and I was just trying to stay afloat.

On Thursdays I have my conservatory class at Second City. We’re more than halfway through the term, and have an audition coming up, which means we work. Hard. Our teacher pushes us and doesn’t let us slack. Since I’ve had this teacher before, he doesn’t let me rest on my bag of tricks and pushes me to expand my range. Which is what I’m there for, which is what I love about him as a teacher. But on Thursday I just wasn’t having it. My only goal was to last three hours without running out of class.

So I let myself slack without feeling bad about it. I was proud of myself for even going. I was elated when I did something useful and wasn’t hard on myself when I was called out for being in my head. Just show up. Just commit. That’s all I that expected.

Then during break I got some really rough news. I felt like someone gutted me, like the tiny sliver of control I had (and so desperately needed) was stolen and smashed on the floor. I was devastated and done. Just done with it all. The numbness that I felt for days suddenly became raw emotion and I didn’t know what to do. My body went on autopilot and I went back to class.

Autopilot Annie went up to my teacher and told him all that I could bring myself to say: “Just so you know, some really weird things are happening in my life right now and if I have to leave, that’s why.” My teacher told me to leave and take care of myself, but I knew that to take care of myself, I had to stay.

I turned around to find my class expressing genuine concern and sympathy for me, and not that fake puppy face shit, but genuinely asking if I’m okay. I assured everyone that I was fine, while trying to reassure myself that I would be. I sat down and kind of thought to myself, “Welp, now you have nothing to lose.”

The next hour and a half was spent not caring. I didn’t care about being good, or challenged, or expanding my range. I only listened to directions enough to perform the exercise, without trying to find exactly what he wanted. Everything went away: worrying about making my scene partner look good, worrying about whether or not I knew what was going on in a scene, finding relationships, setting up premise… all of it was forgotten.

I just wanted to laugh. I just wanted to make my classmates laugh. That’s it.

What I needed during that second half was an escape from reality. So much shit was in my head from the past week and I just wanted to feel happy again. I was sick of being numb and not having control. I so desperately wanted to be happy. And I was.

My teammates were so willing to join in on the fun. We all let loose and just fucking played like kids on a playground. My teammates and teacher just let me run around like a loose cannon and do whatever the hell I wanted to do. And for 90 fucking minutes I was able to leave all the shit behind and enjoy the moment. That’s what improv does. That’s why we do this.

So often we get bogged down in the hard work and late nights and forget that it’s about spreading joy, and bringing joy to yourself in return. Do you understand how powerful having the ability to improvise is? You’re able to escape whatever shit is happening in life and just play. Not only that, but you don’t do it alone. You have an entire team ready and willing to go down that hole with you. Ready to support you in any capacity.

I can’t tell you what I did on Thursday. I vaguely remember buttering biscuits and gutting someone. I blacked out and don’t remember the rest. All I remember is the incredibly alleviating feeling of forgetting that anything in my life was wrong. That’s what improv does. It reminds you that there can still be joy and fun, even when it feels like nothing is fun anymore.

At the end of class, my teacher came up to me and told me that I was really fun, and funny, and fucking weird… and that he hopes everything is okay. My classmates did something similar. And while I usually avoid any and all compliments, I really needed that reminder. I’m so fortunate to have such a wonderfully supportive and loving team. I know that it’s rare and special and I cherish the fuck out of every second I spend with these guys.

It’s natural to get caught up in pressure, expectations and being so tired because you are working so hard. But every now and again, give yourself permission to throw everything away and just play. It’s really important.

Writing what’s true.

When is the last time you fell in love with a song? What song was it? And I mean fell in love… where you want to scream out and let the entire world understand just how magnificent the song is… but at the same time know that no one will ever understand.

That happened to me a few weeks ago. I’m obsessed with P!nk. It goes beyond her talent (more on that later). I thought I knew every song she has released since 2003. That is until November 11th, when I stumbled upon a bonus track from Funhouse that I heard for the first time. This was a bonus BONUS track – I have the CD, it’s not on there. Or I just never needed to listen to it as much as I did when I “found” it.

It’s called “When We’re Through” and I have listened to it at least once a day since I found it. Not only is she incredibly talented, but she sings and writes from a place of truth. That’s why I’m obsessed with her. Every album release of hers comes with a song that feels like it’s straight out of my head. She is incredibly underrated when it comes to being a lyricist.

The lyrics of “When We’re Through” read like a blog post that I never got around to writing. They are extracted from feelings I couldn’t articulate, conversations that I never had, moments that were experienced in solitude. Everything that I want to say said through a vessel that I just didn’t send out myself. She says it best in her song when she says “Janice sings to me just like she’s sitting by my side and I wonder how many times she sat like me and cried.”

In every interview, P!nk talks about writing very matter of factly. How do you do it? What’s your inspiration? She answers in a very honest and innocent way… I let myself feel all of my emotions and just write what I know.

She isn’t just my favorite artist (of any form) but my constant inspiration as well. No, I don’t write music. I don’t even write poetry anymore. But that’s irrelevant. Her music is just the format that she chooses… her ability to write vulnerably from a place of truth is what I constantly seek.

Sometimes I write for myself… but honestly, I write a lot for other people too. I write what I’ve experienced, thoughts I have, feelings I feel, in an attempt to connect with someone in a way that I do with P!nk. In that “I never knew anyone else thought this” way. To give that comfort that comes with knowing that your solitary thoughts aren’t lonely. I benefit from it just as much as my readers/audiences. The sense of comfort I feel when someone emails me to tell me that they felt like they were the one who wrote my post on grief is one that I can’t articulate. The pride I get when a director tells me that they know exactly what I set out to say after seeing one of my sketches is incredibly satisfying. It shows me that I’m doing what I set out to do – write what’s true and hope that someone else can connect.

Writing (or saying) what’s true isn’t always easy. Most times it comes with the fear of looking weak, hurting someone’s feelings or appearing conceited… like you know more than everyone else when you’re really just trying to figure it all out. I feel those feelings a lot. I feel selfish, I feel manic, I feel fake, and I often feel hypocritical.

The hardest part of writing what’s true is that I have to sometimes admit that things aren’t okay. That part terrifies me. I’m the type of person who extracts happiness out of every single thing I can. I love to love life. I’m no longer the type that enjoys being a victim or being hurt. I know that there’s a limited amount of time left in my life and I want to enjoy most of it. However, that’s just not how it is. That’s not what is true of life. The truth is that sometimes things really suck and sometimes you’re really depressed. Sometimes you can’t change how you feel… everything around you can be wonderful and you still are crying while listening to NPR at your desk.

I went through a bout of depression this fall. I go through that kind of shit every now and again… but I’m the type of person who aims to pick my head up, remind myself that things will be okay, look around at all the good, put everything into context, take a deep breath and be happy. I saw nothing wrong with this. It came and went like waves. I wrote about it, let myself cry when I got home and figured that tomorrow would be better. That worked fine. Until tomorrow wasn’t better.

So what do I do when I can’t shake it myself? I’ll reach out to people in my very discrete and “I’m fine but hypothetically…” way. Most times people tell me everything will be okay. That I’m strong. That I’ve been through worse. But my current friends don’t do this. They tell me that sometimes things won’t be okay. That I just need to sit in my shit and not worry so much about having it all together. That I can’t control my emotions and in trying to, I’m just wasting energy. And while this is a much harder thing to hear, it’s what is true. So I stopped fighting them and telling them they’re wrong and tried being upset and being vulnerable. What happened? I survived. I learned. I’m still learning. It’s really fucking hard and I really don’t like it… but it’s honest.

In P!nk’s song, she says: “My friends have asked the question, Baby, will you be okay? I wanna tell them yes ‘cause I know that’s what I should say. But I’ve got no crystal ball and I can’t bring myself to lie and why should I?”

That line hits me hardest… I can’t bring myself to lie and why should I?

Why write anything but the truth?

Enjoy:

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.