Wednesday, October 29, 2014
Ugh.
I TOLD YOU THIS WASN'T GOING TO BE PRETTY.
Back in September, when I was in Brooklyn, I read a great story in The Sun called "Three". It's about going with what life brings and wondering how you ever lived without things you initially didn't even know you wanted. The family in the story lives in a rural part of the country, near woods and rivers. Their Thanksgivings are filled with friends, and laughing children, and wild-caught game. A place where it's cold in the winter and hot in the summer. Where it's gloriously green in spring and the leaves turn orange and yellow and brown in the fall. I'm assuming. He doesn't mention where they are exactly, but in my mind it was somewhere with four seasons. At any rate, I suddenly had an image of standing at the kitchen sink, looking out at Monty playing in the backyard and I wanted that more than anything. The next few days were filled with images like that. Screened-in porches, fireflies, local farms, hot cider. Hot cider, guys. I was fantasizing about hot cider.
When I left grad school after one semester it was to go back in to acting. Well, that's not entirely true. I left the grad school I was at, I would say if you asked, because I didn't think their curriculum was grounded in concepts of social justice and equality. My classmates giggled when our instructor recounted the time a patient wet himself during group therapy. They were young. They spoke of their potential private practices where they could treat the worried well and whenever the issue of internships with truly sick populations came up they all got squirmy and uncomfortable. And this is me being super judgey. The truth is, what my classmates thought or did shouldn't have had any bearing on my education. If I had really wanted to, I could have seen past them, and stuck with it. But also? The program was hard. And I was terrified of it. I was working at a different school in their graduate program where it is extremely difficult to not pass. I watched idiots go through the whole program and graduate (we can only hope they didn't pass their licensing exams.) doing work that would not have sufficed at my high school. But the school I was going to had actual letter grades and real tests and students were actually held accountable for proving they were learning what was being taught and I was straight up scared of it. It may not be clear, yet, but I have an overwhelming fear of failure that I've carried around like a God damned prize my whole life.
I dropped out of that grad school with the intention of switching to the one I was working for and coasting through, but in the middle of the application process I decided to go back to acting. In retrospect anything that school could have thrown at me would have been easier than a life of maintaining a living as an actor. And so now I'm having these images of a rural life and I know that getting there as an actor would be a sysiphean task I'm not sure I want to undertake. I want to actually spend time with my son. I don't want to have to be constantly worrying about my next job in order to maintain a lifestyle. And I'm not talking about living like a king.
So, I Googled the best social work programs in the country and narrow the list down to a half dozen or so in cities I could imagine living in, did a little research and narrowed that list down to University of North Carolina Chapel Hill. Raleigh has been voted best city in which to raise a family this year, there is a large performing arts community, the cost of living is extremely low, and there are four distinct seasons (though God only knows what the climate will be like in ten years...). Yes, there are cons, but you people are always yelling at me to "BE MORE POSITIVE!" And by "you people" I mean the voices in my head.
I booked a flight to Raleigh for the first week in November so as to scout the area for potential neighborhoods to move to in January. The next day I get a call about the possibility of a gig in NYC. On the Broadway. You get it? I booked a flight to do preliminary moving research to RALEIGH, NORTH CAROLINA so I can go back to becoming A THERAPIST and THE NEXT DAY I get a call about possibly returning to Broadway after 15 years. Which is great, right? But after more than 20 years at this I've learned not to get excited until I'm moving into my dressing room (not, like, MOVING IN, like I have a heroin problem and I've been kicked out of my home so I'm "moving in" to my dressing room. Just, you know, putting my stuff in there and setting it up... I don't do heroin.) So, my initial reaction is like, "Great, now I have to put everything on hold again." Well, my initial reaction is like, "Nifty! Broadway!" and then I'm like, "Great now I have to put everything on hold again."
A few days later I'm on my couch reading "I Am Malala" and crying because I'm not on TV. I'm fully aware of how gross and icky all of this is, even while it's happening, which only makes things worse. Nothing like feeling shitty and then feeling shitty for feeling shitty. So, I did something I've literally never done before. I got on my knees and I "prayed". I was like, "Well, nothing else is working..." And I say "prayed" in quotes, because I still don't understand the concept of a Higher Power. I don't even know if I believe in one. So, I was "praying" to my "Higher Power" just asking to be made aware of the "plan". If that's a thing. And it became painfully obvious that I have a vice-like grip on my need for control. Which, good thing I chose show business! Nice and stable. Lots of control. So, I need to, like, "let go" of my need for control and "trust" that "God" has a "plan" for me. Which makes me just feel like a dandelion seed blowing along in the wind. That sounds nice and relaxing, right? Like, I just get to float along on the breeze, in the sunshine. Wherever I land is where I land. What a nightmare.
In the middle of all this I blurt out, "I want to live in Los Angeles and I want to be on T.V." So, there it is, I guess. I asked for knowledge of the plan for me and then said the plan out loud without thinking. So, it's settled, right? I stay in Los Angeles and "be on T.V." But that puts us right back where we were at the beginning. I don't know if it's realistic to pursue this path when I want to stand at my kitchen sink and watch Monty play in the backyard. Those two goals seem at odds. If I want to make enough money so we can live where we want and have a backyard does that mean I'm ever actually home or am I constantly out chasing the next job? And really, this issue is more dire than "I want to watch Monty play in the backyard". It's actually about making any kind of living and having health insurance and being able to send Monty to a good school.
I don't want to be a dandelion seed. I want to be an ant that has a very clear job. Go to the potato chip, nibble off a piece, bring it back to the... farm? Repeat. But then, at the end of the day and on weekends I want to be able to go to my nice home in a rural part of the ant country, where my ant family is happily living. And maybe we have a nice garden.
I'm going to go ahead and post this blog now because I've been worrying over it for a couple weeks and I want it off my mind. But I'm not happy with it because it's whiney and so navel-gazing it hurts. So, forgive me and please stick with me.
Monday, October 13, 2014
Sunday, October 12, 2014
False Alarm
Thursday, October 2, 2014
Who's misundertanding?
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Daisy and Jordan Drive Around Town
Here's the thing: For now I'm recording these episodes on my phone and editing them with a software I'm totally unfamiliar with. I have no idea how to do cross fades or fade outs despite much looking around. So, it's not the best sound quality, but it's definitely audible and totally listen-to-able. We think.
Enjoy!!
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
YOU DON'T NEED TO YELL (I'm sitting right here)
Don't get me started on click bait videos. But now that I mention it... UGH. My Facebook feed is flooded with videos claiming I "won't believe what happens next" or that the person is "left speechless" or "crying" their "eyes out". And most of the time it's only mildly interesting. I have ALWAYS believed what happened next. It's the "Upworthy Who Cried Wolf". You've run out of chances, Upworthy. And there may be that one amazing video that's posted that I won't bother to look at now because I just don't trust you anymore.
The video of the developmentally challenged guy wearing a bear suit and hugging people on the street? The description claims no one would have hugged him if he wasn't wearing the bear suit. Yes. Correct. No one would have hugged that guy if he hadn't been wearing that bear suit. But not because he's developmentally challenged. No one would have hugged him because we don't hug strangers for no reason. Ever. It doesn't matter your level of mental development (unless you are LITERALLY a child), if you come up to me and try to hug me I will knee you in the crotch. I don't know you. Get out of my personal space. That video does NOTHING but wastes two minutes of our lives.
That Ted Talk from the kid with Progeria telling us to seize the day? Listen kid, I'm sorry you have that awful disease. That truly sucks. But here's the thing: You are going to die in your mid-twenties tops (which he acknowledges in the talk, so don't get your feather's ruffled.). You don't have to worry about paying rent, feeding yourself, shouldering a crippling amount of student loan debt, saving for retirement, or, really anything. Do you really think you're in a position to tell other people how to live their lives? Any video with a terminally ill person telling me to seize the day is USELESS to me. All it does is make me feel guilty that I'm not "living every moment to the fullest" or stopping to smell every rose that I see. I CAN'T do that because I have to assume that I'm going to live another, what? 50 years? and I don't want to saddle my son with my debt. I'd like for him to eat and have a roof over his head and that means I have to work. And sometimes that means I have to do things I really don't like doing. And your video telling me life is precious just makes those times when I have to do things I don't like doing so that I can, you know, live my life, even worse.
The video of the woman beating the shit out of her daughter for sexting (or whatever)? Nope. Never needed to see that. I already know people are awful. I'm already trying to make choices in my life to combat that at both micro and macro levels. Watching a psychotic person beat the daylights out of a child does nothing for me but make me almost too upset to continue on with my day. Are there REALLY people out there that don't know that shit is going on? And if they don't, really, how is seeing a video like that going to change it?
Also? Comments like, "Obama is taking down this country single-handedly." I mean. It's just dumb. On so many levels. And yes, I can just ignore it, but it just seems to be going on everywhere. It seems like everywhere I go people are yelling stupid shit in my face. I stopped listening to the news in February. I just couldn't take it anymore. I made the mistake of turning it on one evening a couple months ago and the first thing I heard was a story about some women in India getting raped and hung in trees. Nope.
I don't want to be another person yelling. On the other hand, there are things to yell about. (I saw a shirt in a thrift shop from a pro-choice rally in 1994 with the words "We will never go back!" IN NINETEEN NINETY FOUR. And here was are 20 years later and womens' rights are being rolled back at an astonishing rate all over the country (You can read up on some of that here). We STILL get paid 78 cents to every dollar a man gets paid for the same work. And it's even worse for women of color.) It's just that a lot of the yelling is about stuff that is truly unimportant or just plain incorrect. And I'm telling you, guys, it's going to make us all stupider.
It's too loud. And I have some ambivalence about adding to the din. So, yes, that has contributed to my silence. But, whatever. If you want to hear my opinion, great. If not, great. I'll just be over here in this corner telling my stories. I'm going to try not to make you stupider.
Here is something to counteract my frustration:
That's for tonight. I am beat. It turns out I vowed to start blogging more often at the same exact time I have to learn a song and two plays! Hahahahaha.
Monday, September 29, 2014
Urgent Reader Pole
Here's me now:
Please try to look past my stunning beauty and be objective.
Friday, September 26, 2014
Hello Again
Before we begin, I would like to acknowledge that this will be deeply me-focused and therefore, ultimately largely unimportant in the vast scheme of things. If you want to read something truly important go here or here or here. In the words of 12 step programs everywhere, I am going to share my experience, strength, and hope in an attempt to a) be understood, b) shed light on depression (as I experience it), and c) (hopefully) reach at least one person who might be experiencing similar things so that they perhaps feel less alone in the world.
My blog has fallen by the wayside because I spent the last year in a very dark place. There wasn't light enough to share what was going on with others.
There is a growing awareness of depression. There are lots of brave souls out their sharing their experiences. This will just be one more voice.
About a year ago I started off on the path through the woods of depression. The pregnancy/post pregnancy bliss was wearing off. I was exhausted. My breast milk supply was dropping because of the alarming rate at which I was losing weight. I was starting to break out. Kurt was working full time and Monty was crying full time. I was not auditioning. My only prospect for work was a show that I was 100% responsible for writing and producing. I was overwhelmed. In mid-November, shortly after my 34th birthday, I had a major panic attack and ended up on the floor of my apartment gasping for breath.
When I was 14 I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder. I suffer from chemical depression. This is not news to anyone who has read more than one of my blogs, frankly. Chemical depression means I have a chemical imbalance in my brain that, when left unchecked, can lead to all manners of depression, from mild anxiety to DEFCON 5-type meltdowns. I was hospitalized in 1997 after a massive panic attack (I thought the bed was going to swallow me) and a subsequent severe depressive episode (I couldn't leave the house and spent hours unknotting a ball of yarn.). I have been on medication on and off since then, but mostly on since off means relapses and who has time for that?
So, my brains don't work right. That much is settled.
You know those commercials for anti-depressant medications that are either cutely animated or live-action with people who can't get out of bed to walk their dogs, or play catch with their kids, or read on the porch (??)? I mean, sure, no one wants to see a commercial about someone who hasn't showered in a week and is lying face down on their kitchen floor staring at a carving knife trying to determine exactly how much blood their loved-one(s) would have to clean up. Or maybe one with a person curled up in a fetal position in the shower with just a voiceover of her thoughts racing out of control but all culminating in her ending up dead in a gutter somewhere (I should totally direct commercials, by the way.). THAT'S depression. Or that's my depression. When the only thing keeping you from killing yourself is the guilt you feel at the clean up job you would leave behind (which, by the way, at least is something). When the overwhelming voice in your head is one that continually reminds you of all your failures no matter how trivial and that wants you to know you are the worst. That's my depression. When you sleep for 20 hours at a time. When you are absolutely positive that you can not remember any time in your life in which you were truly happy. When you are sure that anything you do will fail. When you have convinced yourself that your successes have all been undeserved or just outright mistakes. When you feel bad for your child for having the rotten luck of getting you as a parent.
That's my depression.
When I am properly balanced I know that voice is wrong. I know my successes were deserved. I know I have talent and can succeed (and have succeeded! And am succeeding!). I know I won't end up in the gutter, penniless and alone. But, my depression is very strong. It's tenacious. It really likes being around. And the fight against it is constant. Constant. Every day for me is a battle against a voice in my head suggesting that driving off Mulholland Dr. would be a peaceful way to go (and scenic, besides!). And it is a very lonely fight. Because no matter how many of us share our experiences, or how often you go to therapy or whatever, depression is a solitary fight. You can work hard to surround yourself with supportive people, but at the end of the day (or, really, first thing in the morning, at lunch, around dinner, and at the end of the day), it's you, alone in your own head trying to rationalize with a part of your brain that is completely irrational.
This has been a loooooong fight. This particular episode has been about a year long, but it's been an uphill battle since I was 13. I have gotten in my own way more times than I can count. I have let that voice echo unkind words I've heard from unkind people (or read on message boards, which, just can we take a little detour for a second? What the fuck is wrong with you people who say mean shit about other people on message boards? Seriously? Like, what the fuck is wrong with you? Do you REALLY need your shitty opinion to be "heard"? Is it that important to you to cut someone else down? Does it make you feel better?? At least at the end of MY day I don't have to deal with the guilt of having said mean, hurtful and damaging things about other people who are really just doing the best they can. Just THINK for TEN SECONDS the next time you want to post some shithead comment on someone's work. Ten seconds. "How would it feel to read this about me?" "How would I like to hear a total stranger say I'm ugly?" "What makes my opinion important?" "How does it contribute to the world to be mean?") (Wow, I feel a little better.) I have let those voices become a cacophony at times. I have made major choices about my career and life because of those voices.
In 2003 I moved to Los Angeles to pursue a career in TV and film, but also to escape a community I felt less and less entitled (or interested) to be a part of (Musical Theater). In 2007 I quit the business for my own sanity and joined the real world. By then I had spent what was left of the money I had earned as a kid. I have never been good with finances and have not saved a penny (Boohoohoo. This factors in later, I promise.) In 2011 I re-entered the business. A year later I was pregnant.
Monty is 100% the best thing that has ever happened to me. I never wanted children and I can't imagine my life without him. Monty FORCES me to be in the moment. All that is ever happening is what is happening right now. There is nothing else. And, no offense? But I LEGIT got the best one. I mean, I'm sure yours is great. But, church: Monty is the best one. PLUS, Monty wipes the slate clean. When I am not too far down the rabbit hole of despair, I can remember that every "mistake" or "bad choice" I made in my life ultimately led me to Monty. So, I am forced to forgive myself.
But you know how they say you can't get anything done with a new baby around? Turns out? Totally accurate. The only way I can imagine all those "mommy bloggers" are getting their content out is with regular childcare. Remember the part where I said I spent all my money and didn't save anything? It so happens that living in L.A. on one income is hard. Regular childcare was not something we could work into our budget. I spent the first five months of Monty's life with him pretty much 24/7. There was no time for blogging.
And then there was the depression. And the thing about social media is you're supposed to project an air of success so that people want to work with you or whatever. So, when you're depressed you don't feel like you can share much of anything. So, you stop writing pretty much all together and then you're out of practice. I'm sure you can see where that snowball goes.
But I'm standing at the other end of the woods. I can see the light and I'm almost there. I can feel the depression clinging to my heels making it difficult for me to get to that open, sunny field just over there. Difficult but not impossible. So, I'm working on it. I'm working hard, you guys. I'm working harder than I ever have before. I owe it Monty. My mother was angry a lot when I was growing up. And then she died. I don't want that for my son. I want him to think of me laughing, and singing, and dancing. So, I'm trying to get there. I owe it to myself. I can't carry around this burden anymore.
I never promised you a rose garden, but I did promise you a blog and I have been remiss in my duties. I'm going to make an effort to share this process. Sometimes it's going to look messy. Sometimes it's going to be dark. And sometimes it will be filled with joy and awesomeness. If you want a traditional "Mommy Blog", there are thousands to choose from. Some are great! Some are... not great! If you want suggestions on healthy meals for your 2-year-old, or great ways to make popsicle art, or 10 Tips on Taming That Tantrum, you will have to go elsewhere. This is the Mommy Blog about a mother who is FIRST a woman and then a mother, partner, sister, daughter, friend, actor, writer, singer, story-teller, bitcher, moaner, laugher, Al-Anoner, procrastinator, food-lover, ardent pro-choicer, motherless daughter, currently acne-ridden, person who suffers from depression, survivor. This is about that person, living her life, and sharing it with people who are interested. I'm going to do my damnedest to share this process with you.
You ready?
If you or someone you know is suffering from depression reach out. Call someone. Ask for help. Call Crisis Call Center. Most cities and towns have clinics that offer free or very low cost counseling. Call information for numbers. DO NOT let money be a barrier in getting help. You DO have options and there is hope. I swear there is hope.
Saturday, September 20, 2014
Guess Who's Back. *hint: Me.
D
Thursday, July 10, 2014
Hobby Lobby
http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2014/07/02/hobby-lobby-sex-lies-and-craft-supplies.html
http://www.aisfor.org/freedom-whore-abortion-shame-and-the-right-to-deny-me-my-rights/
Friday, May 2, 2014
Morty Shits the Bed
On Wednesday I guest judged a singing competition at a bar in Greenwich Village. It was the finals so there were only five contestants left. There were three sets in which each contestant sang one number.
There was one kid (anyone under 27 is a kid as far as I'm concerned), let's call him "Mort" (because it's one of the ugliest male names I can think of. No offense to anyone named Mort. I'm sure you're a great guy.), who I recognized but couldn't place. For his second song, Mort wore a shirt with the top few buttons undone and I could see the word "ego" etched across his chest in cursive. I suddenly remembered where I had seen him before.
When he finished his song, which was, by the way, a poor choice for his vocal type, I said, "Mort, I saw you yesterday at Shetler Studios." This didn't seem to ring any bells in Mort's wind tunnel of a head. "I was coming down a winding staircase carrying my son in his stroller and you were coming up the stairs and you seemed real annoyed by me." He gave me a look of stunned protest. "No, no," I said. "I get it. Strollers are annoying. Anyway, Mort, this song was the wrong choice for your vocal type. You have a more conversational sound that would suit musical theater songs. No one can sing everything. It's not a big deal. You just want to pick the right material." He looked a bit struck. I added that he had a nice voice, which was a lie, just to soften the blow to his "ego". The tattoo probably read, "I don't know why I joined a singing competition if my ego is this fragile."
When the third round came around the emcee announced that Mort was having a coughing fit and needed some time to recover. After two more singers went by the emcee announced that poor Mort's coughing fit had not abated and he was withdrawing from the competition.
Apparently the coughing fit was bad enough to make Mort drop out of a competition with a $1000 prize, but not bad enough to send him home or make drinking more vodka/cranberries impossible. I saw him at the bar twice after the show and both times when he saw me he began coughing dramatically, heaving his shoulders up and down like some silent film star in a movie about tuberculosis. Yes, we get it. You're "having a coughing fit."
I'll admit I felt momentarily bad for scaring someone right out of a competition. But two things allayed my guilt.
1) Mort had no chance of winning the competition. He was a mediocre singer at best. Honestly, he looked miserable on stage and it was hard to understand why he was putting himself through something so apparently unpleasant.
2) Fuckin' asshole not only didn't offer to help me get my stroller down a flight of winding, marble stairs, this motherfucker rolled his eyes and SIGHED when he realized that moving aside at the bend in the staircase, forcing me to blindly navigate the narrow part of the steps with a 20 pound child in a 14 pound stroller, wasn't going to work and so he had to (SIGH) walk back down the ten steps and wait for me to get down.
To bad for him the fucking Breeder he was so rude to was vastly more talented and professional then he and was going to be judging him in a singing competition the next night.
Oops.
I'm sure I don't have to explain that the reason you dont roll your eyes, sigh, and stand uselessly aside when someone clearly needs help is because human beings shouldn't behave that way. It has nothing to do with who that person might be and whether they may be in a position to help you out someday. You help people in need because it's the right thing to do.
Besides, you never know, if you don't help them they just might publicly shame you into dropping out of a singing competition.
I hope you really needed that money, Mort.
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
Ben Brantley is asking for it.
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Help! (I need somebody)
Photo by Kennan Miller. Hair and makeup by Catherine |
Show highlights include “One for My Baby”, “What’ll I Do” and “Like Someone In Love”.
San Francisco at Society Cabaret: Friday and Saturday, March 28th and 29th
Los Angeles at Rockwell Table & Stage: Monday, April 21st
New York at 54 Below: Sunday, May 4th
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
8 Minutes
Somewhere around Monty's 6th month birthday I was hit with a massive relapse of depression. I had been riding so high all throughout my pregnancy and for Monty's first few months. A combination of exhaustion, stress and chemical imbalance caused my mood to plummet HARD. I have had several severe panic attacks and have almost ended up in the hospital. Don't worry. I'm fine. It's just an obnoxious disease that I have that I sometimes forget to manage properly.
So that's one.
I haven't worked in a while, so we only have one income right now and that does not leave a lot for child care. All those other mom blogs you read? They have regular child care. Or their kids are in daycare or school. There's no way they're taking care of the children alone during the weekdays and getting a shit ton of content written.
So that's two.
I have been writing my new show since September. By "writing" I mean having a bunch of anxiety about it, searching for songs online, listening to a ton of music and writing and re-writing the opening a dozen times. Incidentally, the opening is going to AMAZING.
There's three.
I am telling a story at Public School on the 11th and now have to work on that piece as well. Since I'm sharing the bill with actual comedy people, I'm feeling SLIGHTLY pressured to, you know, not suck.
There's four.
Since Christmas, probably 80% of the time when he's awake Monty is happy ONLY if he's sitting in my lap. Being near my lap, or right in front of my lap is not sufficient. He needs to be IN my lap. And he's not a little baby anymore. He's a giant bruiser who wants to put everything in his mouth, most especially whatever it is I am holding and/or focusing on at the moment. He doesn't even want to do anything once he's in my lap besides stand on me and either bite my collar bone or make fart sounds on my shoulder with his mouth. I KNOW that some day I will long for the days when he wanted to cuddle in my lap, but when it's all day every day, that shit gets old FAST. Plus, biting is not the same as cuddling.
There's five.
I have one free night this week... correction: I HAD one free night this week and I ended up having to spend three hours putting myself on tape for three different projects. I am NOT complaining. I am JAZZED to be auditioning. But it takes time.
That's six.
By the time Kurt gets home from work at about 6:45 my brain is mushed and the only thing rolling around in it are the god damned tinkly songs that come out of Monty's various devil toys. Until bedtime at which point my brain goes on full power and I have to take a Xanax just to get to sleep. Techinically THAT'S the time I should get up and write, right? Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck you.
That's seven.
Also, this. I mean, come on. |
Please forgive any typos and my shitty attitude. I'm now running ten minutes late.