Coming On Christmas

As I laid atop my bare mattress this morning in my underwear, listening to Sarah McLachlan and weeping into some cold pizza, I realized something truly profound: I fucking hate the holidays.

I am impressed with how long it's taken me to realize this. I am one of the most obsessively self-reflective people I know, and one would think I'd have some foggy idea that winter turns me into a fat, labile stoner with bad hair and a penchant for not getting dressed. But really, I had no earthly clue until I spilled hot chocolate all over my sheets this morning like a spaz and then cried about it.

I knew, of course, of my various diagnoses throughout the years: Seasonal Affective Disorder (which, frankly, I believe everyone has a little bit of), depression, etc, etc. Even the SAD didn't tip me off, though. I was just vaguely aware that I sucked the most when the sky was cloudy, and, as such, hibernated until the sun came out.

Interestingly, for me, it's not really the holidays that do it. Maybe the stress associated with them makes things a bit worse, but as a tried-and-true agnostic with no family members even remotely close to my age, I'm altogether indifferent towards Christmas. I like giving presents when I'm not broke. (Which, evidently, is always, so that might lead one to the conclusion that I do not, in fact, enjoy the gift giving.) It's the winter. It's the bare trees and bleak sky and everlasting gray snow that turns the whole world into disgusting mud puddles that last until mid-May.

And I think it's the loneliness. One of the worst parts of depression, for me, has always been the loneliness, the complete inability of other people to do anything except hold your hand. I spent most winter nights in Amherst reaching out desperately, trying to find someone who would take care of me. I was constantly getting dumped in December or January by friends and boyfriends (and grad schools and jobs) alike, no doubt because I turned into a giant fucking bummer.

It was never that they wouldn't take care of me. It was that they couldn't. When you're in a hole, you're in a hole. Ultimately, you're the one who has to get yourself out. Sometimes, that means first sitting in the bottom of the hole in your underpants with a pan of brownies and Netflix for far longer than you'd like.

This year, the winter is particularly lonely. It's so dry here, and gray, and at night I'm cuddled with a humidifier and takeout (and JUST takeout. No complimentary pan of brownies to follow up—damned if I'm going to gain back those sweet fifteen pounds I lost attempting rond'u'jambes), trying to be okay. I think a lot about how I'm headed back to the East Coast for a few weeks, and how worried I am about the snow. I think about one of my closest friends, and meeting her new baby, and how content she seems. I think about the future I've given up on and try, without success, to find a path to a different one. I think about the lives we've lost this year, and how frightened I am to lose any more. I think about who I trust. I think about how selfish I feel, how there are so many people who hate this time of year for so many better reasons than mine. I think about running away, and I think about starting over.

Mostly, though, I have this odd, disconnected feeling that somewhere outside the dark haze of my little hole is grass, and sun, and warmth. And I find some solace—not enough, but some—in knowing that the seemingly unreachable warmth comes ever closer.

Showing the Blade Where to Cut

This has been a hell of a couple weeks, loyal readers.

If you were along for the ride a year ago, you might be familiar with my post about how slightly obese black bitches don't make show bidness bank. (If not, check it out! That's the link. Right there. Slightly obese. Click it.) Well, this fall, I had a brief, sweet moment of thinking I was wrong.

I was fortunate enough to be cast in a hilarious spectacle of a Vegas show about divorce and middle-aged singlehood and Kegel exercises, thanks to yet another open-minded director. I've been musically teaming up with him since April, and frankly, the man has saved my life. He was the one who pointed me towards this show, and he was the one who called me and shared in my joy when I was cast.

I spent two weeks of memorizing the elusive words to "Gay Guys Are A Girl's Best Friend." Days on end working out the dance moves to "Greased Rabbit." (I am as uncertain of how to execute a rond'u'jambe as I am of how to spell it. Pretty sure what I just typed is Swahili spelling for something else entirely.) Hours working out vocal riffs and high B flats and awkward tritone leaps. Needless to say, by the time I got an email informing me that the needs for my role turned out to be different than previously anticipated, I was exhausted and didn't give a rat's ass.

Okay, so that's a lie. The rat's ass bit. I cared, but I was too busy trying to catch up on sleep and evenly distribute Aspercreme on my hamstrings to actively be sad. It took a day for me to start obsessing over what I might have done wrong, two for me to really mourn it. A week for me to remember I'd rescheduled major surgery to do the show.

I lost the equivalent of my dream job, my first truly professional salary-paying role. Hard not to feel like a useless asshat.

Another thing happened too, a life-changing, foundation-shaking thing: Paul and I separated. We both are, in all honesty, okay, and it's a good move for both of us. We're still friends. We always will be. He's still my person.

It goes without saying, though, that I feel a bit adrift in all of this. I moved here so Paul could go to school and we could be together. Now we're not. I also don't have a job keeping me here; the show might've forced me to stay put for awhile, but no longer.

So what now? I've been sleeping on couches and beanbags and mattresses, completely lost, figuring out who my real friends are in this bizarre little town. I wake up every day feeling a little better, and I go to sleep every night feeling, usually, a little worse. Because whatever purpose I had at one point—two weeks ago, even—has utterly escaped me.

My life vest of sorts throughout this loneliness and aimlessness: The Chalk Boy, a show at with Cockroach Theatre. I'd desperately wanted to audition for it, but couldn't because of the time constraints on the first, now lost show. All six of my friends were involved! How could I not?! Troy was directing, and when I realized I couldn't do the show, I forced my musical skills upon him once again. I thank my past self time and time again for weaseling my way into this production, because if I didn't have it, I'd be permanently nested in Troy's beanbag chair outside his bedroom suite like a homeless dog. (Which did happen once anyway.)

The Chalk Boy, a new play by Joshua Conkel, follows fifteen-year-old Penny Lauder (heartbreakingly played by Memory McAllister) as she navigates the loss of her first love, markedly vapid Jeff Chalk. He's lame and he's terrible and he doesn't act like he loves her, and then he gets kidnapped. (The town cares. I personally could do without him.) We also get to witness a brilliant self-transformation in Penny's best friend, closeted Breanna Stark (Natalie Senecal), who gives of herself time and time again. Trisha, a classmate of the two girls (played by Brenna Folger), is that girl that made all of us miserable in high school: the bitch for bitchiness' sake. Only after everything has fallen to pieces and come back again do we find out how lonely she truly is. Nicole Unger, a close friend of mine and one of my favorite actors, seamlessly transitions between a plethora of roles, going from Penny's wretchedly pathetic mother to a frightening stranger in a heartbeat. She also cleverly and touchingly portrays Lauren, the head of the high school's Fellowship of Christian Athletes. As Penny, Breanna, and eventually Trisha dabble in witchcraft, Lauren is pushed to the edge, and her crisis of faith is one of the most moving scenes in the play.

This blog post is not a review. It is in that it's how I think—critically—which in itself is sometimes kind of a problem and god knows I wish I could turn my brain off like ever—but I certainly am not writing all this so you don't have to read the review in the LV Review Journal (which, by the way, gave our little show an A, right here: http://www.reviewjournal.com/entertainment/chalk-boy-hits-every-note-compelling-story).

I write it because I love these people. I love this art. I live for this art. And on opening night, as I sat in the audience, feeling Penny and Lauren's loss in my gut, I realized that the music that I wrote and chose for this play is the only thing I've created since moving here that I am truly proud of.

I really, really want you to come see this, loyal reader. For me, certainly. I could use an ego boost, but I know that this is damned good work on my part.

But I also want you to see it for these women. Memory bares her soul on that stage in the only way she knows how, and it hurts to watch her hurt. Natalie's presence and investment in her character is astounding. Brenna's comedic timing and energy propels us through so that we can face the hardest parts. And Nicole's moments of honesty, in every character, always, always hit home.

What I saw on that stage last night: I am every single one of those girls. I am right now, and I sure as hell was when I was fifteen. And until I saw the show come together last night and saw the audience's emotional investment as Penny found comfort, I didn't really know that I was going to be okay after all of this.

We're all every single one of those characters. I could talk to you about archetypes and psychology and the brilliance of this playwright, but really, I'd rather you just see it and feel it and know, as deeply as I know, that we are nothing without love to build and destroy us, nothing without art to anchor us and make us whole.

And you're not gonna fully understand the title of my post unless you see the play. So buy a damn ticket.

The Ethical Ass

This morning, as I tried miserably to drag my ass out of bed to go to my twice-weekly therapy appointment, I struck up a text message conversation with my buddy about a former lady friend of Paul's. We'd run into this woman out at one of the local bars, and in catching up, she'd made some underhanded jab at me that I didn't think to take personally until about three days later.

Still fully submerged in my sheets, I told my friend what had happened. As I was vigorously typing with my thumb, I thought to myself,  "Miserable bitch is just bitter that some man she was in love with who didn't give a rat's ass about her is now about to marry someone hotter."

...and then I thought, "Oooh. I do that."

To be fair—to be fair—that's not really true. I mean, I am certainly a miserable bitch at all times, and I'm certainly bitter that some man that I was painfully in love with who treated me terribly is now marrying someone else. But she's definitely not hotter than me.

Skinnier, definitely. And definitely some kind of Manic Depressive Pixie Dream Boat thing. But not hotter.

Before I proceed, I need to clarify that I love Paul. I LOVE Paul. There is no way I could pledge to marry a Republican if I didn't love him with every fiber of my being. And there is no one else that I would rather spend the rest of my life with, raise kids with, be poor with, have terrible pets with. I am painfully excited for our wedding, and even more excited to face whatever comes later with him.

But I also need to clarify that it takes me approximately forever to get over things. When I was a kid, I'd cry easily, and my parents would say, "Oh, don't worry, honey, you're just sensitive." (More on that later, no doubt.)

I openly admit this: I have never been in love with anyone the way I was in love with this schmuck Jeremy. Jeremy fueled a passion in me that was intense, unique, and dangerous, and I loved him, and I hated myself.

Our relationship was terrible. It lasted for maybe seven months, and I probably was legitimately miserable for a total of four out of those seven months. He was "polyamorous," meaning he felt that he had a genetic need to be in relationships with multiple women at the same time. Really, he was just intellectualizing his sluttery. (Please note that I do not feel this way about everyone who identifies as polyamorous. I just think he in particular sucked at it.)

I loved him for that intellect. God, I loved him. I loved the reading he did and the discoveries he made and the conversations we had and the mind that never turned off and that hunger for knowledge and even his self-delusions. I was certain that it was only a matter of time before he figured out how to be honest with himself about why he felt the need to sleep around. I couldn't understand—and still don't—how anyone could be that intellectually capable and not be honest with themselves.

I tried really hard. I really did. When I was not with him, I went on dates with other men and maintained balance in the openness of the relationship, or I sat at home eating ice cream and watching Netflix and trying not to think about where he was. My need for him grew exponentially out of his inaccessibility.

And I compromised myself terribly. I have never been interested playing second fiddle, so to speak, but I loved him so much that I swore it was worth it. He had a book about polyamory called The Ethical Slut, and he lent it to me. I tried for months to read it and got maybe three chapters in before it earned a permanent home on the floor of my car under a yogurt container and a Ryan Adams CD.

I was a person that I disliked when I was in this relationship with him. I was paranoid that he'd leave me at any moment. I ate a ton of weird vegetables I hated to cater to his crappy half-assed vegan diet, I tried way too hard to be funny and clever and kind (which are all things I am anyway, so fuck you, asshat), I cried more than I ever have in my life, and I let his gross sex drive and weird little mind take precedence over what I needed instead of insisting—rightfully—that we have an equal partnership.

It was not worth it. Where I stretched desperately, unreasonably to meet his needs, he saw my needs and thought nothing of them. Where I struggled to make a place for myself in his life, he saw that place and rented it out to others.

The only security I had in the relationship was that I was the only girlfriend allowed to keep a toothbrush at his place. It was wretched and stupid, but the location of that purple toothbrush was the only tangible proof I had that I mattered to him. It was a promise he'd made to me—"you're my primary, you are the only one who gets to keep a toothbrush here"—and one night, I went to his house, and there was another toothbrush in the cup.

I tried to ignore it, but I couldn't. He refused to even consider telling the woman to take her toothbrush back, and he dumped me, two days before he was supposed to come home for Christmas with me, a week before he declared that he was heretofore monogamous with this chick. He married the same woman a few days ago.

The night he dumped me, I made him walk me to my car so I could a) give him his Christmas gift and b) throw The Ethical Slut at him. It was one more thing to hate about myself, one more crappy compromise of my being. I get angry and physical sometimes, and I am definitely capable of some messed up shit, but I do NOT throw books.

I am one engagement ring, three years, and 3,000 miles removed from this relationship, and it angers me to no end that it still hurts like it was yesterday. I am not a private person, nor a selfish one, but I gave myself to this man in a way I never had before. I gave of myself and was open in every way (except, of course, for the way in which I might've been like, "Oh, right, this is the worst relationship ever for me and I need to bail post haste"), and I was so open that I needed him, unhealthily. I hate, also, that I never took responsibility for myself; never put my foot down, didn't leave when it became clear that all I was getting out of the relationship was my own love for him.

Old hurts are old hurts. Six months after he made me leave, I met the man I knew I'd marry.

The problem I'm having now is not that the woman I was slighted for now has the last name I hoped would be mine. Nor is it really that I'm just bitter, nor is it that I am nauseated at even the smallest possibility of running into him.

The problem is that a gargantuan part of me was chewed up and spit out by a man who fancied himself to be operating under ethical standards; who is so deluded by his hypocrisy that he sees himself as having done nothing wrong. And that ruined, confused part of me is, unfairly, hidden from Paul.

Paul knows that part of me exists. He knows everything about me, and really, probably knew all of this before I did. He knows I'm drawn to his even temper, his honesty, his truth. He knows I couldn't help but hide behind those parts of him after something like my relationship with Jeremy.

And I'm sure he has known for years this thing that I finally discovered in therapy today: that I am sometimes so wickedly, idiotically, undeniably blind to parts of him that are too much like Jeremy that I am fucking up our relationship without meaning to. Most notably: I am so repulsed by and afraid of the passion in Jeremy that I once loved dearly that I behave as though that similar passion in Paul doesn't even exist, even though it was obviously the first thing I noticed about him.

I have been heartbroken before. No big deal. Happens to everybody. And I know that eventually I will get over this stupidity. The progression is already happening—I rarely, if ever, think about him on a daily basis. And obviously, as I continue to identify the issues in and around that relationship, the pain will ease. Never in a million years or a thousand perfect conditions would I choose another relationship with Jeremy over this thing of utmost beauty that I have with Paul, and I do say that honestly. But damned if I'm not sitting at the Haymarket Cafe anyway, listening to Damien Rice on this rainy day in Northampton, longing for something that I don't even want.

And I get it. By no means am I as aggressively bitter as Paul's former lady friend. (Not in any actual reality, anyway. If I actually tried to be confrontational, I would somehow end up buying the woman ice cream.) I blame Jeremy's new wife insofar as she exists, but it truly and easily could have been anyone who replaced me. But someone I loved with all of me and then some destroyed me to make someone else happy. So I get it. I really do.

Hide your wife, hide your kids

When my dad used to drop me off at school on Monday mornings, he’d kiss me goodbye and say, “Careful crossing the street, honey; the white people will use you as a speed bump!” I was twelve.

What the hell, right? It was a joke, clearly, but twelve-year-old me wasn’t up for understanding something so loaded and so ridiculous at 7:30am. I was busy hoping my pants were long enough and flared right, that my hair was in the right kind of messy bun, that people would think my necklace was cool instead of nerdy. I did not have time to suspect every white person at my Princeton University feeder school of racism.

Nor did I really care. I am pretty sure that throughout my childhood years I thought my father alternated between being insane and being a rock star who could do no wrong.

I learned to read with children’s books about the Underground Railroad, Malcolm X, Marcus Garvey, and Harriet Tubman. I had the black American Girl doll—she looked like me—and I ate peanut butter, which, I was always quick to point out, had been invented by a black man. I made my parents friendship bracelets with red, black, and green thread. I learned early on that my people were strong, proud, and brilliant, and that nothing could keep us down.

So I came from some pretty impressive stock. That was kinda cool. At some point, though, it occurred to me that I did not identify as a “black child.” I was just a freaking kid. Therefore, the white friends that I inevitably made at this prep school of glory were just kids too, and I saw no real point in qualifying each other.

I began to seethe when my father made jokes about white people. I had no idea what the hell he was talking about, and he went on and on about racists and not being able to trust white people and this and that, and I had this unrequited desire to call him out, loudly, for being racist himself. Somehow, it took me a while to understand that my own father had to carry bricks to school every day, because if he went unarmed, the white kids would beat him up for being black.

I think it was Gandhi who said, “An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.” Or whatever, maybe it wasn’t, but whoever said it had a valid point. Violence and hatred simply begets more violence and more hatred.

The crossing guard at the school where I evidently could have been used for traffic control is white. We’re Facebook friends now, some twenty years after we first met. We don’t have a hugely personal relationship, but we comment on each other’s pictures and wish each other happy birthday and the like. He always looked out for all of his kids at that school, and I was no exception to the rule. We all loved him, and he loved all of us genuinely and without bias.

After all those years of love, I’m now livid about some Facebook status he shared earlier today about a white guy on a scooter who got beat up by some “black Travyon crazed thugs…”:

…[T]he owner of a New Haven, Connecticut motorsports shop…was out test driving a moto scooter…when a mob of black Trayvon crazed thugs pulled him off of the scooter and beat him to a pulp.

He was so severely beaten by the racist thugs that he has no memory of the attack. Luckily there were witnesses and police are pursuing leads. Media is reporting the attackers as only ‘youths.’

Where is the outrage and 24-hour none [sic] stop coverage..of course there is none…we need to share it so people see the media bias.

(Chances of ‘hate crime’ charges – 0%.)

There’s a comment by the original author attached to it: “Help spread the word about what is really happening and who the racists really are.”

I have no idea if this is a real occurrence or not. I haven’t looked it up and I don’t plan to. But hear this: EVERYONE CHILL THE FUCK OUT.

It does not help to beat up random white people on scooters. It does not help to shoot a kid who probably was just getting a snack.

We still live in a racist country. Trayvon Martin is dead because of the color of his skin. God knows I’ve been glared at in Tennessee and have had assumptions made about me by TV stations and even rejected by boys, all because of the color of my skin. And, my brethren of the majority, I appreciate your empathy, and I’m glad most people know that this shit is wrong—but you don’t know what it means to have these things applied to you. You don’t. You’ve never had to. And you won’t ever. Not in this country. It's reserved for the oppressed.

But you know what? Our President is black, and so are our neighbors. And you know what else? Our other Presidents have been white, and so are our neighbors. We are black, white, queer, straight, Asian, Latino, women, men, bipolar, depressed, autistic, blind, deaf. None of us will ever go away.

There seem to be a few people pointing out various issues in the white community and complaining that the media is biased for not making a big deal out of them. I’ve seen a post circulating on Facebook about a white toddler who was killed in a convenience store robbery, and that post has the same complaint on it.

Let me explain something. Trayvon Martin literally was murdered for no reason other than he was black. Black men who kill white people for being white go to jail, or they die. (And frankly? If the justice system does it right all day every day, jail is fine by me. Murder is murder.) George Zimmerman got off scot-free. There was heavy-duty coverage on the case because this has been an ongoing problem. Because even though we did elect a black President, not much has changed. Because the justice system is still biased, not the media; God love the media for giving Trayvon what they could. Because we still think it’s okay to kill someone based on an assumption we made about him. Because some white people are still scared of people of color. Because some people of color are still scared of people of color. Because hundreds of years ago, someone made a terrible judgment call and decided it would be great to enslave a group of people he didn’t understand, and here we are today, doing the same damn thing. Hide your wife, hide your kids. Ain't nobody safe in this place.

We will not get anywhere if we do not stop drawing color lines and pointing fingers. Every crime like this is a crime solely fueled by hate. The problem is not solely the justice system. The problem is the people. ALL of us. It does not matter what color you are. You can still be judgmental, racist, and mean. Similarly, you can still be minding your own damn business in your crusty hoodie or on your lame scooter.

I had no intention of commenting on the Trayvon Martin/George Zimmerman issue, mostly because it just makes me angry. I also tried to stop myself from commenting on this woman’s post that our crossing guard shared, because that made me absolutely livid. (Bitch, you wanna point out who the “real racists” are, maybe you shouldn’t then be openly hoping that the black women in the picture with the scooter guy are mocking him, as your other comment so classily stated. Okay, I feel a little better now.) And I’m tired of hearing about all this, honestly, and I’m not entirely sure what me being disgruntled is going to do for it. I’m one weird little person who works from home in her underwear, inappropriately quotes Family Guy in serious situations, and is terrified of carpenter ants and small children. If this Daddy’s girl can’t change her father’s mind about white people, is she really going to change the minds of those she doesn’t know about black people, or anyone else, for that matter?

But I've reached my limit. I’m tired of the way everyone treats everyone else. People are just people. Fix the damage—fix the justice system, let’s maintain that “all men are created equal” thing—and let’s start moving on. I know all too well that it’s not that easy, but if we don’t move on? Our kids will grow up to be bigots. Our kids will get screamed at and kicked at and shot at. Our kids will go to jail for something they didn’t do, or they’ll get off for doing something terrible. And we will be right back where we started.

I’m pretty sure it’s okay to make fun of hippies though.

(I’m baaaack.)