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.)

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.

I’m back.

I decided to start routinely writing in my blog again.

There are a couple reasons for this.

The inciting incident is a conversation I recently had with someone where I was talking at length about my post “My Worst Moment in Improv”. I mentioned how, in the aftermath of that post, I started backing away from both writing in my blog and improvising as a whole. I didn’t expect so many people to read my words and wasn’t prepared for the reactions I received. I was contacted by classmates who expressed regret in not stepping in on scenes that went too far. I was contacted by too many women who shared the same sentiment. I was contacted by theaters in other cities that asked me for advice on how to implement change in their own theaters, like speaking out about an issue makes me qualified to write their harassment policy for free instead of hiring a HR rep. I started slowly, and subconsciously, backing away from improv as a whole. I was tired of having to speak on behalf of all women. I was disgusted by the handful of people who shared my words & were the same people I saw inflict harm on women in the community. I was sick of showing up in buildings, including the one I worked in, and having the words “So I read your article. To play devil’s advocate, isn’t it more dangerous to deny creativity?” being said to my face. I was frustrated that I was being asked to explain consensual scene work like some kind of expert, yet was not being paid for the energy it took out of me. I was done with men stepping up to prove that they’re “good ones” like I didn’t have the ability to read them upon meeting them. I didn’t expect the reaction to consume so much of my energy and just grew tired and disenchanted by the entire community. A lot of that was on me. I wasn’t bold enough to just tell people to fuck off. I felt a sense of responsibility to continue the conversation and educate people who were inquiring. But clearly it took more out of me than I thought, because when I look back, that article is what caused me to slowly back out of the improv game and stop writing in my blog.

Two years later and I found myself back in a class with an instructor I trusted and admired for years. During the class I did the same exercise that the article I wrote was based on for the first time since a bunch of dudes thought date gang rape is a great group scene idea and I checked out completely. I felt disconnected and just wanted to get through it. I did, without incident, and was proud and sad and just thinking a shit ton. I came to the realization that I allowed my experience a few years ago take so much from me. I was pissed at myself for letting that entire experience keep me from two things I love – writing personal posts and improvising. After a high quality long conversation on a sticky and humid summer night, I decided to throw myself back into both writing and improvising.

The second reason is because in a month, I’ll be having major knee surgery for a dumbass accident I had almost two years ago. During a rehearsal, I made a dumb physical choice and fucked up the cartilage in my knee. I have already been through one surgery and two counts of learning how to walk again and am dreading this last round. The surgery will require that I do not put any weight on my leg for about six weeks. Short term recovery (being able to walk well, swim, exercise lightly, etc.) will take six months and I should be fully recovered in a year. While I’m grateful that this will be my last surgery, and that I have really good insurance to cover a highly specialized and expensive procedure, I’m really dreading sitting on my couch again. It’s really hard to be in limbo for two years while I watch my friends go on with their careers and lives. I did not think that my mid-twenties would be defined by this injury. I hate thinking about where I’d be if I didn’t have to take so much time out for recovery. While I want to be happy for my friends and their achievements, it’s hard for me to hear about their trials and tribulations in the comedy world while I’m stuck in this knee limbo unable to do anything. Before this accident, I felt like I was constantly creating, performing, writing, and working hard to achieve my goals. I finally got some of that wind back this summer, and now I know I have a year of recovery starting soon. I cried like a baby last night upon realizing that I might have performed for the last time before my surgery. So I’m trying to be proactive and reintroduce things I can do while recovering. One of those things is this blog.

So I’m back. Because I need this outlet again. I have a lot of thoughts I’ve been bottling up and my Facebook statuses weren’t providing adequate space. 

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:

Be selfish sometimes.

What’s up world? It’s nice to meet you. My name is Annie and I’m 23 years old… which means that I have tons of experience being inexperienced. I like to think that I know shit, although most of this letter is as much of a reminder for me as it is a notice to you. I’m obsessed with happiness and enjoy living life optimistically. I’m sure you’re like… oh, well everyone can’t be happy, you asshole. Some people have real shit going on. To this I say… you should read my previous posts. But whatever, I forgive you.

So here’s everything I think about the world. Here’s my unsolicited advice to you:

Don’t be mean. It’s such wasted energy. You don’t have to love everyone… you don’t even have to be super nice all the time. But don’t be a dick. Nothing is worse than watching two people going at it… biting back and forth. It doesn’t matter who started it – you both look stupid. If someone is being an ass to you, kill them with kindness. Make them feel bad for ever mistreating you. Be the bigger person. When you just stab back, you’re showing them that you deserve to be treated poorly because you’re not above doing it yourself. Be a genuinely nice person… and if you can’t be nice, just shut up and walk away.

Spend your time wisely. I can’t stress this enough. I learned really quickly in life that we don’t have enough of it. Stop talking about wanting to do something and just do it. Stop giving yourself excuses. You’re not too old and you’re not too busy. I hate hearing someone talk about how bad they want to try something… only to hear “oh, but I could NEVER do that!” Why not? You’re not going to know unless you try. Prioritize in life. What means the most to you? Who means the most to you? Spend your time with people you love… people who treat you with kindness and care. Sometimes the person you need to be with the most is yourself. Time spent in relaxation isn’t wasted… you need it. And stop saying that you’re too old to start a hobby. I hate that shit. You’re never too old to begin doing something that you love. Age is but a number… your desires and personality stand the test of time.

Choose good friends. You are the only person responsible for this. You are the only person to blame when you get upset over a bad friend. Cut them loose. There are so many people in this world who are willing to love you… why waste your time with someone who doesn’t? They’ll make you feel inferior and insecure. Your friends are supposed to support you and if they’re not doing that, let them go. You don’t owe them anything.

Leaving doesn’t mean running away. When I moved from Connecticut to Chicago, I wasn’t running away from anything. I love my family and I love my hometown… leaving was actually a little difficult, and increasingly so as the years went on. However, I knew that I had the chance to branch out and find who I am. I knew that there was something more for me to discover. And with that…

Do what’s good for you. Be selfish sometimes. This makes me think of the Billy Joel song, “James”. Do what’s good for you, or you’re not good for anybody. I used to feel really guilty about moving. It felt selfish… I knew my mom missed me and I felt horrible when I wasn’t home for the rough times. But coming to Chicago really made a huge difference in my life. I found that I was a happier person because I was able to find my people and felt like I really fit in here. I’m able to do my comedy thing and be in an environment that I wouldn’t be able to enjoy back home. This makes me an overall better person to be around. If I wasn’t selfish in my move, I wouldn’t be good for anyone. I would probably still be depressed and searching for something to grasp onto. Instead, I’m doing what I love… which makes me a more lovable person.

Learn how to get through the hard days. We all have them. Those days where getting out of bed is an impossible task. You feel like it would be so much easier to give up and you have no idea how the hell you’re going to survive your pain. Life suddenly feels so long and you wonder if things would be easier if you just went away. No one understands you and you can’t stop crying… or worse, you can’t even begin to cry because you’re so numb. No matter what people tell you, you can’t believe that it’ll get better… you feel so helpless. But it always gets better… always. Everything is temporary. Let yourself feel what you feel and don’t apologize for it. Live through your pain with the knowledge that tomorrow is a new day. All you have to do is go to sleep… when you wake up you’ll have another chance.

Ask for help. Admit your flaws and troubles. Open up and let people know that you’re not okay. That you need someone to talk to. You’ll be surprised by how many others have been there before. The happiest people you know are probably so damn happy because they know what darkness is like. Everyone carries a secret bag of shit… they just may not wear it on their sleeve. If you never ask for help, you’ll never receive it. People can’t read you as well as you think they can… and don’t sit there angry when no one asks you what’s wrong. You have to reach out.

Let others know that they’re important to you. They won’t always be in your life. People move or drift away… or sometimes their season in your life comes to an end and you no longer depend on them like you used to. Let them know they made a difference, that they taught you something, while they’re still there. Maybe they’ll be in your life forever, maybe they won’t, but let them know that you care for them while they’re around. Your mentors aren’t immune to times of self-doubt. Let them know that they make a difference.

Above all, be yourself. Which is hard, right? Well sometimes it’s as simple as checking in with your body. How do you feel? What do you want? What do you have to do to get there? Who is important to you? Are you being true to who you really are? I stopped lying a while ago. I try my best to always tell the truth. That’s how I know I’m being myself. If I feel like I’m trying to conform to fit someone else’s expectations, I question whether or not I really need that person around. When you’re being yourself, other people who are likeminded will be attracted to you and you’ll form this group of people who you really care about. Who you feel like you’ll never have to “fake it” around. This will make you love life more than anything.

Be kind. Don’t be afraid. Know that most people want you to succeed. 

Perpetually single

You may want to play this while reading…

I’m the perpetually single friend. I dish out dating advice without much experience and have tons of platonic guy friends. I’m not concerned about my biological clock ticking and my longest relationship was when I was twelve. I’m not jaded and I’m completely happy being alone. My self-worth isn’t dependent on who I’m dating and I don’t have trust issues or some deep body complex.

The only “perpetually single” stereotype that I can own is that I’m picky. I’m not picky in the traditional sense… I don’t need someone who is brilliant, beautiful or rich. In fact, my ‘type’ is a normal guy. All my friends know it – invites out will be accompanied by “and I have this group of completely average guys coming too, you’ll love them!” My perfect guy is probably named Jim or Chris or something… he went to an okay school, isn’t above ordering specials at the bar and doesn’t judge me for wanting to change into my oversized PJs the second I get home from work (they have sheep in outerwear on them).

So how am I picky? I’m not willing to waste my time on someone I don’t care about. I have the opposite problem of everyone else – I grew up in a very stable and loving household. My parents rarely fought, but at the same time, they were rarely over affectionate. They were best friends and didn’t need to impress each other. I’m sure that there were bumps, hurdles and many fights but at the end of the day, they were just two people who were not only very much in love, but also liked each other a lot too.

I ‘dated’ quite a few guys and it always ended the same way. The second I found myself changing anything about myself for someone, I gave up. I hate to lie and shouldn’t feel the need to lie about my past or change for someone. It’s too hard to keep up with… and it’s not me.

It took me a long time to find myself. For a really long time, I wasn’t ready to focus on anyone but myself because I was so determined to get better, to be happy.  Maybe that meant missing out on the fun times and heartbreaks that come with young relationships but honestly… knowing exactly who I am and being happy with myself was worth it.

I always laugh when friends try to give me a pep talk about being single… like I need it. You’re so sweet, nice, pretty, funny, smart, [insert other compliment here] – you’ll find someone!  I want to scream at them sometimes but I stop myself because they mean well and I need to stop being a dick. But I hate this concept that someone is inferior without someone by their side. I could be dating someone but call me crazy… I choose to wait for someone I actually like.

Being happy alone means that I’m able to take things slow and trust that I’ll meet the right person. Someone who doesn’t get embarrassed by how incredibly strange I am and isn’t intimidated by the way I speak my mind. Who doesn’t just think of me as a physical entity but as a person who sometimes just wants to lay in bed and chat about why old people are the most adorable things in the universe without trying to touch me (because there’s nothing sexy about that topic). Who doesn’t think I’m vain when I talk about how much I love my hair but also doesn’t think I’m disgusting on my third day of choosing sleep over a shower. If this person never comes along, great. I’m fine with that.

While I’m at the point in my life where I’m ready for a relationship, I’m also perfectly happy being alone. I love my friends and am extremely proud of my life. All I ever wanted was to be happy. Like, really happy. Like, really purely extremely happy. Also, surrounded by friends that make me happier. And I have that now. Anything else is a plus.

Please give me the opportunity to talk to you about one of the biggest influences in my life. This was before comedy, college or any concrete dreams. I often talk about her, but haven’t told her story. So please, if you’re any type of fan or enjoy my writing at all, indulge me in the guilty pleasure of reading about one of my favorite people in the universe.

Recently, I came across this article and it made me think of my 8th grade teacher. When I was 12, my world changed. My family moved to a new part of town, which meant that I would have to start a brand new school in 8th grade. While some people may think nothing of this, my world was falling apart. Not only did I have to start a new school, but my cheerleading squad was dissolving and we had to start from the beginning. To an 8th grader, nothing in the world could be worse. That is, until my dad died. To understand what my teacher meant to me, you have to understand where I came from.

On my 13th birthday, my dad decided to throw me a surprise party. He brought my two worlds together (my old friends from my previous school and new friends) and we had a blast. I was incredibly happy. After the party, my mom wanted me to write a thank you note to him. Since I was a 13 year old, I cried and refused for hours until I finally wrote it down. A few weeks later, my dad picked me up from school and took me to get ice cream. After the trip, he told me that sometimes he felt like I didn’t love him. Two days later, I got a phone call at my best friend’s house saying that he was in a car accident.

His injuries weren’t life threatening. He was supposed to be released. On November 10, 2003, my mom and brother went to the hospital vending machines to get my dad a soda. I was left alone with him. His dinner was delivered and since he had bad whiplash, he needed me to feed him. Newly thirteen, and I had to feed my own dad. I remember pleading with God… telling him that if my dad made it out ok, I would be the best daughter in the world. I wouldn’t let him doubt whether or not I loved him for one second. That night, we were told that he was cleared for release the next day. I planned on taking off school to help my mom bring him home. His doctor stopped by on his way out and literally said, “Welp, I hope I never see you again!” We said goodnight and left the room, knowing he would come home tomorrow. After we left, he called me back for a second. He said, “Hey, Bird!” (my nickname). I leaned back to see his face. “I love you,” he said. “I love you too,” I replied. That’s the last time I ever saw him. About six hours later my mom woke me up telling me that he died overnight. To this day, I don’t know why.

Only hours after the news, I was begging to go back to cheerleading practice. I couldn’t wait to leave my house. When someone close to you dies, your entire life becomes mourning. I didn’t like that. I wanted to leave. Finally, a week later, I was allowed to go back to school.

I remember the day I went back. I was standing at my locker in the morning and thought, “Well Annie… you can either be funny or be pitied.” The second someone came by me, I cracked a joke. I wanted to let people know that I was still Annie. I wasn’t about to let that identity go, especially in a new school. My school set up a meeting with our child psychologist. To please my family, I went to the first meeting. After that, I ditched. Every. Single. Time. I didn’t want to be different. In a world that was crashing down, I still wanted to be known as Annie.

I kept up this facade for about a month, until my friend Cristin realized that it was all just a facade. She told my 8th grade teacher, Bevin, that I was struggling. She arranged for me to meet her during lunch because apparently she was “easy to talk to” however, Cristin didn’t know that I wasn’t easy to move. I remember being in line for lunch when Cristin told me Bevin wanted to chat with me. I’m not exaggerating when I say that Cristin had to drag me there.

The first thing Bevin asked me was whether or not I wanted some of her soup. After that, there were no more questions. I was allowed to just speak. I spent two whole periods in that room, and for the first time, I opened up about how much this killed me. About all the impossible guilt I held. About how awful I was to my dad. About how unfair I was. I cried. She cried too… because it was sad. She admitted that she didn’t know much about the subject because she never lost a parent. I told her I didn’t care. For once, I had someone just sitting there ready to listen. She didn’t evaluate me, she didn’t try to diagnose me, she didn’t even try to make me feel better. She just listened.

Do you know how important that is? To just listen and respond as a human? In a world where everyone was trying to relate to me, to understand me, to study me… she just listened. She didn’t have a predetermined script to read from. We had human conversations. My entire life had become professionals trying to read me like a textbook and Bevin was just.. well, there for me.

I went to her at least once a week during lunch, if not more. And it wasn’t until I had a 9-5 job where I realized how big that is. During her “break”, she helped students. Do you know how many times someone has come up to me during lunch wanting me to do my job? I always respond with, “oh.. I’m on lunch. Do you mind coming back?” She never ONCE did that. Her room became the only safe place in my entire life.

When I graduated middle school, our relationship didn’t stop. Instead of lunch breaks, she spent hours after school with me. Why? I wasn’t even her student anymore. She could easily ignore me and go home. But she never did. She was ALWAYS there.

I love her with my entire heart. In a world where I would talk to no one, she was my person. She single handily kept me alive. While everyone commended me on my strength, she looked past it and saw that I was breaking down. She was my rock… the only thing that kept me going until I graduated high school. She never said no to extra hours put in, she never made me feel like I was wasting my time, and she always went above and beyond to make sure I was okay. I feel like there is nothing in this world that I could possibly do to make her understand how incredibly appreciative I am of her love. She’s who kept me going.

But what makes me mad is that the school board doesn’t know this. The administration doesn’t understand. The parents of children who are failing won’t stop complaining. Tests will never reflect the depth of her love and character. She will never be evaluated on saving someone’s life.

I don’t understand it. When I look at how successful I am today, it’s not because I was a decent student. To be honest, I wasn’t a great student at all. Because when you’re a part of a single family home, you are just trying to keep your head above water. You spend so many sleepless nights worried about how much your mom has to work… or heartbroken over how the love of her life was taken from her without any justice. You lay awake paranoid that someone else will die… or that someone will break into your apartment and take your family. The worst thing in the world already happened, so what’s keeping anything bad out? You feel extreme guilt over the death… wondering how things would be different if you were a little nicer. So it reflects in your schoolwork. Deadlines pass without you realizing it, tests come without having time to study and endless lectures are spent with your head a million miles away. So to be honest, I don’t remember the lessons.

I remember the open door. I remember her offering me soup. I remember her crying, saying that she’s so sorry she can’t relate… only to be relived that someone is finally being honest with you. I remember her teaching me to feel through books and express myself through poetry. I remember year long conversations of her telling me it wasn’t my fault until I was finally mature enough to believe it myself. I remember her trying to teach me how to drive when I was terrified to do it myself. I remember her staying hours after school let out to talk to me.. only to drive me home and stall dropping me off because we still weren’t ready to say goodbye. I remember a moment during my 8th grade trip to DC where I was homesick, only to have her turn to me on the bus and ask me if I was ok. I remember going away to college and getting a phone call from her saying she was finally engaged… then married… then eventually pregnant twice… and not being able to convey my feelings of joy over her own dreams coming true. To this day, no matter where this crazy life has led me, I still feel like I’m at home with her.

And when I see that she’s frustrated with the school system these days, I get upset. Because I never want her to compare her success as an educator with a standardized test. I never want her to second guess whether or not she’s meant to be a teacher because of an administration. I never, for a second, want her to feel inferior or doubt her profession. Because if she never found this job, I wouldn’t be who I am today. I owe so much of who I am, and who I will be, to the endless hours in her classroom… well after the automatic lights turned off and we waved our hands to turn them back on.

This is what I want the school system to see.

I’m so incredibly happy in life these days… that wouldn’t be possible if you weren’t my teacher. I love you so much… and thank you from the bottom of my heart.

How I (try to) combat regret.

Regrets. Yeahhhhh. When bad things happen, it’s your natural instinct to feel shitty. To be honest, I didn’t feel great going into 2013. The impact that 12/14 had on our community made the New Year seem superficial – I’m given this brand new year… but why? Why am I fortunate enough to have a clean slate? The shootings that day changed all of us in different ways. I realized that I wasn’t invincible. That at any time, something horrible could happen and I could be gone. With no tomorrow guaranteed, why was I still dwelling in the past?

22 years old and I was already living a life chock-full of regrets. I had two types of regret – the first being things that I never did. For example, I felt unbelievably guilty for how I treated my assistant principle who ended up giving her life on 12/14. I felt sick to my stomach when I recalled how disrespectful I was to my father.  I still mourned the fact that I was “too busy” doing nothing to hang out with my friend the day before she died. These were all things I didn’t do. Thank you’s I never said… kindness I never gave. The worst part about this type of regret is that there is nothing that can be done but move on and learn. At some point, you have to look in the mirror and forgive the person looking back at you.

This is why I’m so emotional. Why I pour out all of my feelings into letters to friends who deserve to know how I feel about them. I don’t care if they think I’m overdoing it, being cheesy, or if I seem vulnerable. It would be an insult to the memory of those I’ve lost if I didn’t do it. If there’s one thing I learned from losing people, it’s that you have to open up and say thank you. Congratulate a person on a job well done. Let people know that you believe in them. Don’t be afraid to tell someone that you love them. Send an email at midnight letting a friend know how much of an impact they had (and continue to have) on your life. Tell them that you’re a better person for knowing them… that your life wouldn’t be the same if you two never crossed paths. What do you have to lose? Are you afraid of appearing weak? Of being rejected? I doubt that your friend will reject kind words. If anything, your friendship will grow more meaningful. And if worst comes to worst, yeah… rejection sucks. But regret is painful. Really painful. Regret follows you around for the rest of your life. Don’t regret words unsaid.

The second type of regret came from things that I haven’t done yet. I felt guilty for getting out of shape, never pursuing comedy and giving into the 9-5 lifestyle. I thought that this was how my life was going to have to be. A younger version of me swore that I would never work in a cubicle… but here I was. I slowly mourned the ideals I once had and accepted my new lifestyle. So many other people do it – so it can’t be that bad, right? I reached my peak of fitness a few years ago… there’s no way I would be in shape again. Oh, and that comedy thing? Hah. I was a dreamer… that was a cute dream.

Then I realized that I was only 22… I was way too young to accept a fate that I wasn’t happy with. I joined a gym, signed up for Second City classes and started going to yoga during lunch to get my mind off of work. It was that simple. There are so many things in life that we have control over. That we can control. You’re never too old to pick up a new hobby. You’re never too out of shape to get back into shape. Change the things you can to tailor a life that brings you more pleasure than pain. It’ll make the painful things that you can’t change tolerable.

With those small changes, I owned 2013. It was my year. A year full of happiness and free of regrets. Things started to fall into place. Away went insecurity, bad friends, and depression… in came love. So much love. If you’re still looking for a resolution, make one with me. Strive to make 2014 a happy one. Live a life free of regrets.

Now go write a letter & send it to a friend.