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.

My scar.

Last week I went to one of my routine orthopedic appointments following my knee surgery. These days the appointments are less exciting than they used to be, which is a good sign. After two years of diagnoses, MRIs, physical therapy and both a minor and major surgery, the mundane check ups to see how I’m healing are welcome guests.

My surgeon, who looks like he could be the star of his own Dr. Oz spinoff, asked me to lay down. He grabbed my book and tossed it out of my way with a chuckle. “What a fitting novel,” he laughed. I blushed as I saw him holding “Misery” by Stephen King. I told him that I was happy to fall in love with Stephen King after my injury because I can experience Paul Sheldon’s broken legs at a different sensory level than before my own injury.

After a series of routine tests, he sat down and started typing his notes. “You can start using cream now,” he told me. “For…” I started. “Scarring,” he finished for me.

It was funny. The idea of scar treatment cream didn’t even occur to me. Before my surgery, a few friends offered advice or ideas about preventing scars, but since the surgery the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. I guess focusing on getting by without putting any weight on my leg for two months, relearning how to walk and returning to work without slipping into a deep depression were enough to distract me from the idea of my scar.

I obviously knew it was there. It stared at me each time I put my leg up to watch television. I remember meeting it a week after my surgery. My PA laying me down on the table so I wouldn’t pass out like I almost did after my first surgery. She asked me if I wanted to see my scar before wrapping it up again. I decided that I did, because I didn’t want to crack my head open in the shower seeing it for the first time. I slowly pulled my torso up, took a little peek at it and breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s not too bad,” I said to my mom who was shielding her own eyes. I inherited my disdain for gore from my mother.

In the weeks that followed, I assigned my scar the personality of my recovery. When I was frustrated after being told that I would have to be on crutches a month longer that expected, I posed a photo of it on Instagram with the caption “this bish.” When I accidentally locked my knee and had a wave of pain more intense than anything I ever felt before shoot through my body, I glanced at my scar like it was her fault. I rubbed it occasionally after physical therapy as a reward massage for her hard work.

The truth was, I liked my scar. She’s ugly as hell, but I like her. She’s bright purple, takes up all the real estate of my left knee and messy, resembling more of a serpent than a straight line, but I’ve grown to like her.

I like her like I like all my scars. She tells my story.

My first scar is a raised wedge about three inches long on the left side of my lower back. When I was in seventh grade, I was at my brother’s best friend’s house and his sister turned off the lights in the room we were in. I stood up and tried to navigate to the light switch, only to trip and hit my back on a sharp object. When the lights came on, I saw a table saw lying next to me. I ran into the bathroom and found some bandaids to patch it up and didn’t tell my parents because I was afraid to go to the hospital. Two days later, when it was still bleeding, I mustered up the courage to tell them. Too late for stitches, it was already starting to scar. My parents cleaned and patched it up with some gauze. For the next few weeks, it would reopen as I tossed and tumbled through cheerleading routines. It finally settled into my skin and healed. Whenever I look at it, I think back to the days where we spent hours in Joe’s basement as young teenagers. I remember endless parties with him and my father, who both passed away since then. I laugh at my reluctance to go to the hospital and wonder if the next girl to wear my cheerleading uniform ever noticed the blood at the waist.

My second scar is on my hand. It’s almost impossible to see if you didn’t see it when it was worse. It’s from when I was in 8th grade and the aftermath of my dad’s death. Back then, the new fad was rubbing an eraser against someone’s skin until it started to burn them and tear their skin off. Even before Tide Pods, we found our idiotic ways to wreck havoc on our bodies. I was depressed, but never suicidal. I didn’t want to cut myself or inflict pain in a way that could have greater consequences, but the desire to erase the numbness from my soul was still there. So I would use my erasers and rub off the layers of my skin on the top of my hand. I made two inch marks that resembled an equal sign. Whenever I was feeling particularly depressed, I would take an eraser and rub as fast as I could until I felt pain. It became a bad habit – right before they would start to heal, I would rub them again. It’s not a habit that I’m particularly proud of, but whenever I step out of the shower and can see the redness of the scars coming out, I think back to those days and that tortured teenager. The scars remind me to take time and reflect, to be proud of who I am. Back then, I couldn’t talk to my family about my dad. It wasn’t that they weren’t willing to talk with me, it was that I pushed away the words whenever they came. I was closed off and distant, too numb to emote. It would take me many, many years to get to the place to open up to my family. The scars remind me that I’m no longer alone in my grief. That I flipped that pencil around and found words to use instead.

My third scar is about two centimeters long on the tip of my index finger. If you didn’t know about it, you might think it was just a fold in my skin. When I was a freshman in college, I was trying to fix a pin with a pair of scissors. The scissors slipped on the pin and lodged themselves into my index finger. I pulled them out and panicked at the sight of the blood gushing out. I ran into my dorm bathroom and ran water over the injury, which only caused more blood. I felt light headed and started to pass out. I grabbed at my shower curtain and fell into the bathtub. I pulled myself out and steadied myself on my wall then sunk down to the tile floor to gather my thoughts. I wrapped some toilet paper around the cut and starting making my way down the hall to my RA’s room. Since it was spring break, no one was really around, and he was the only resource I had. By the time I got to him, I was covered in blood and he freaked out. Our public safety car drove me to the hospital, where I sat in the waiting room alone. I looked around at mostly drunk people with swollen eyes from bar fights and started sobbing. This was the first time I was in a hospital since my dad died, aside from visiting babies, and I was terrified. Eventually I saw a doctor who glued my finger back together. Whenever my finger throbs in pain from sun exposure, I laugh thinking about how my roommate, when I returned, thought I cut myself shaving. There were bloody handprints lining our hallway, bathroom and room. It looked like a horror movie. Yet she thought I cut myself shaving. It reminds me of one of the best years of my life.

So here I am with my fourth scar. Or, more accurately, fourth through seventh. Three tiny, almost invisible, scars from my first surgery, and one giant one running down my knee from my open knee surgery. This is just one more chapter in the story of my life. It reminds me of the show I was rehearsing for when I broke it. How devastating it was to have to cancel the show. It took three days until I finally found myself sobbing with my writing partner by my side and my director on Facetime, both holding my hand while I was the last to come to the conclusion that doing the show in a wheelchair was not the best idea. It reminds me of the extra months my writing partner and I gained to create the show, and how that show was the single best piece of art I ever made. I threw every single piece of myself into it – both physically and mentally – and the payoff came. It reminds me of our trip to San Fransisco to perform the show, and how I appreciated every single step I took in the city, knowing that my first surgery a week later would keep me from performing, or walking, any time soon. It reminds me of the long walk I took with my mom the day before my second surgery, both of us knowing that we wouldn’t be able to take another walk together for a long time. It reminds me of facing my biggest fear, which was general anesthesia, and the anesthesiologist who cracked jokes while giving me my medicine so I would feel more at ease.

It reminds me of my physical therapy team and how excellent they are. How resilient I was through the three times I had to relearn how to walk. It reminds me of walking into physical therapy after each Eagles playoff, and super bowl, win and celebrating because the whole staff was also cheering for my birds. It reminds me of watching both the summer and winter olympics while trying to build enough strength to tackle stairs. It reminds me of my perseverance. Of finding ways to make it work and learning how to live in a wheel chair for a couple months. It reminds me of my mom boxing my sister in my boxing ring and of my brother pushing me around the Field Museum. I think back to learning how to improvise without using my body between surgeries. Of the last show I did before my major surgery, and how hard I cried myself to sleep that night knowing that I had just performed for the last time in the foreseeable future. It reminds me of how I had to put my dreams and goals on pause for two years while I got better. Of the cupcakes, care packages and time spent with friends and family recovering.

I’m not someone who loves every part of her body. As much as I try to stay body positive, I have my demons. I hate myself when I gain too much weight and would do anything for calves small enough to fit into boots. I despise this wrinkle that is growing between my eyebrows because of the way I scrunch my face when I concentrate and spent hundreds of dollars on creams to reduce the acne and redness in my face. But one thing that I will always love are my scars. Each one tells the story of a stage in my life that contributed to the person I am today.

So you can keep your fancy scar creams. I’ll keep this ugly, crooked scar. Most of my peers will have one in fifty years anyways… I’m just ahead of the trend.

To the girls in my life.

Girls,

We usually communicate through snapchat and dance parties, cards and sleepovers and many, many jokes and laughs. I think about you more than you may realize and try to live a lifestyle that does right by you. I’ve watched you grow up into young girls, preteens and teenagers and I am so proud of who you are.

I’m usually the comic relief. The cousin coming home from Chicago for a party or celebration. The babysitter who lets you mix sour punch straws with popcorn because I’m just as curious as to how it tastes. The bridge between my generation and your generation… in return for me making sure that you don’t set the house on fire, you serve as as a distraction from the bleakness of adulthood.

I was looking forward to you seeing a female president so early in your lifetime. When I was your age, I didn’t think women could be president. I don’t mean that I didn’t think they’d be able to be elected, I mean that I genuinely thought there was a rule that women were not allowed to be president. I’m happy you won’t be as ill-informed. I was elated at the prospect that for some of you, you would only know a black president and female president in your lifetime, and ready for the task of helping you understand the historical significance of that feat.

Instead you have a president that does not respect your body or mind. One that is racist, islamophobic, xenophobic, homophobic and sexist. I hope you learn what those words mean and then how to fight them. I hope you get bossy and fight back for any of your friends that may fall victim to the bullying or violence that your president elect’s words have incited. I hope you understand the privilege you have and stick up for those who don’t. I hope you are taught history as it happened instead of a PG, whitewashed version.

The adults in this country elected a man that says it is okay to grab your bodies. That criticizes women who do their homework and show up prepared. That has been accused over ten times of assault. That has bullied women for the way they look and harassed them on tape. Who sees us as sex objects or nasty women. And you weren’t able to have a say in it, and for that I’m sorry.

Because someone is an authority figure does not mean that you have to accept their behavior. If a man on the street were to say these things to you, I would have you run as far away as you can from them. Just because the president elect is saying them doesn’t mean you have to support it.

The president elect won’t be the first, nor the last, man to say or do these things to you. I’m not naive enough to think that you will never experience them at school, work or in the world around you. If and when you do, I hope you are bossy. I hope you learn how to say no and that no is the final answer. I hope you scream and yell and seek help when needed. I hope you speak up for other women instead of putting them down. I hope that if you are ever violated, you know that it is not your fault and that those who love you will help you fight back. I hope you never accept limitations and that you promote intersectional feminism. I hope you know that you can love whoever you want to love. I hope you fight like hell to be treated equally, and I hope you win. I hope your generation can be even nastier than mine. You have a lot of fighting to do.

Fight back with intelligence. He’s afraid of your potential. Reclaim the names he calls you. Own being a nasty woman, a bossy kid, an angry feminist. Speak up and work hard. That’s what scares him the most.

Know that there will be a female president. Personally, I hope that our next elect will be a lesbian woman of color. While I’m not sure if it’ll happen in our next election, I know that it eventually will. We just have to work at it.

Work hard, study hard, and don’t let anyone tell you what you should or should not do. Women are not limited. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

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.