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.