Up on the Roof

 Any time I’m on-site for work, I try to get to the highest point of a building that I possibly can and snap a picture. Since part of our job typically relies on visiting each building’s’ roof at some point, that’s not a difficult feat to conquer.

I started working at my current job about six months ago now, two weeks prior to my moving from Chicago to Madison. My first day was also my first on-site visit at a local middle school, and I was all kinds of excited and terrified. I had a vague idea of what I was going to be doing, but I didn’t realize I’d be facing my fear of heights almost immediately on that day.

I met one of my new co-workers outside of our first location for the day. He was, at that point, the only person I’d met in real life from the company. We walked into the school and signed in at the office. We then proceeded to meet up with the building engineer and get the lay of the land.

It all seemed easy enough until we got through with the boiler room. Once we finished going over the process in documenting mechanical assets, my new teammate turned his attention to the building’s engineer and told him we’d be heading to the roof next. The engineer nodded, asked if we needed any help, and went back to work once my teammate let him know we were good.

“Come on up” he drawled as he started climbing a long, metal ladder leading up to a roof hatch.

Oh my god, I thought to myself, I don’t know if I can do this without hurting myself.

I cautiously ascended the ladder, silently hoping I didn’t break my neck during my first day on the job. Once at the top, I shakily grabbed on to anything that seemed solidly bolted down and forced my knees to get it together long enough for me to steady myself and stand like a normal human. I did it! I made it up! And at some point, I’d need to make it back down…but for now, little victories! I was on a roof and I didn’t break anything (yet)! My eyes surveyed the world around me and my artist instincts kicked in. What I saw was absolutely breathtaking. I didn’t want to go back down – I just wanted to spend the day on the roof for an impromptu photoshoot with the city of Chicago as I’d never seen it before. But of course, there was much work, and much learning, to be done.

Chicago, IL – March 2017

 

Since that day, I’ve taken every opportunity I possibly can, within reason, to get on a roof and have a look around. Seeing the cities and towns we visit from this perspective is such a coveted view: how many people really get the chance to experience this?

Marble Falls, TX – June, 2017

“What in the world do you do?” I get asked anytime I post a roof picture on Twitter or Instagram, “Please be careful! Why are you up there?”

Temple, TX – May 2017

I would be lying if I said I was 100% over my fear of heights, but it’s definitely gotten easier to manage with each project. 

Arlington Heights, IL – July 2017

Now I get to be the one to encourage co-workers to come on up to the roof to take in some incredible views…and exhaust fans…and chillers…and like, a ridiculous amount of tennis and kick-balls.

Stevens Point, WI – July 2017 // photo courtesy of Eleanor Jacobson

Job Interviews and First Dates

I’ve written a lot before about dating and my general lack of the ability to do so “properly”, and sometimes general disinterest in doing so all-together. Love and romance and partnership were all things I longed for at a much younger age, but after my last long term relationship, I re-prioritized what was truly important in order for me to feel successful and happy. Having a job which afforded me mental, physical, and spiritual freedom became priority #1. It has been pretty cool living a life where I could basically be anywhere or do anything in a moment’s notice (fundage permitting), since I’m not beholden to anyone. I just need a primary source of income so I can pay my rent on time to ensure my roommates and I keep a roof over our heads, feed and clothe myself on a regular basis, check in with my brother and sister from time to time, and you know…that’s…basically it.

Having the ability over the past year to travel around the US as I pleased was pretty awesome. It taught me a lot about being resourceful and aware: Sometimes I would buy a one-way ticket to one state and another leaving a completely different state, and trust myself to figure it all out once I got to my initial desintation. As someone who’s been referred to as a control freak more than a handful of times, that’s a serious exercise in letting the chips fall where they may and trusting that you’re going to be fine.

I often attribute my 20’s with giving me the resources to know that, regardless of what comes my way, I can hack it, though perhaps I’ve been in survivalist mode since my childhood. I’ve lived by an unofficial rule book of: Let people get close, but not too close. Get comfortable but not too comfortable. Let your guard down about 75% but no more than that just in case. Be prepared to make a quick exit.

It’s a weird way to live, but I broke a lot of my rules this year and I’m so glad of it. Spending a lot of time with myself in places far from home, visiting acquaintances who then became great friends, and living in so many moments where my objective was merely “Get to point B,” was such an eye-opening experience. I truly believed in myself, for the first time in a long time. I had to.

So how does this all fit into anything in that first paragraph? Great question, dear reader.

I certainly don’t ever want to be beholden to someone or responsible for that person’s happiness, nor would I want someone to feel that way about me. I suppose that what I would want is someone who simply elevates the experience I’ve already got going on, and for whom I could do the same. Someone with whom I could grow, encourage to reach for their dreams, and they could encourage the same from me. Be each other’s biggest cheerleader and champion, but know when we each needed to go it alone. Mutual respect, and acceptance. Maybe we wouldn’t always understand each other, but we’d certainly try to. Whenever I doubt that this is a possibility, my brain shouts: That seems simple enough! I see other people who have that with their partners! It’s a real thing!

It’s what I want from a career as well, perhaps even more than wanting that from another person. Being successful as I define it means feeling like I’m doing it where “it” is living, making memories, seeing and learning new things, becoming more self-aware, and being able to pay my bills (with a little extra) while also tucking money away in both a savings account and a retirement fund (ADULTING!). And, you know, being able to buy more comic books, go to shows, travel, hang with friends on the regular, maybe one day buy a pinball table, have a cat or dog, regularly volunteer and do community service, maybe get some plants (ALSO ADULTING!).

So many people I know work in their current place of employment as a means to an end, or are biding their time until something better comes along. I was that way for almost a decade myself! I needed money so I worked. I didn’t care what I did so long as I got paid. Health insurance was cool to have, too! That all shifted for me about 4 or 5 years ago when I started thinking about my future from a different perspective. I wanted to move past entry-level admin work. I’d started on a peculiar path (funeral homes, morgues), but abandoned that (again, needed a job asap because money!) and believed that too much time had passed to pick that path back up once I was in a position to potentially do so. Once I moved to Chicago, the goal was simply to get a job because debt was piling up. I kept jumping from job to job until I found one that truly felt like The One. But sometimes, even the most star-crossed and seemingly perfect situations don’t work out for one reason or another.

As I find myself back in the job market, my approach is not simply applying to every and any job that seems to match skills I currently have or wish to enhance. What I’ve always wanted, perhaps even more than someone to love me simply for who I am, is for a job where I am valued and made to feel necessary. A job in which I can grow, and where my career goals and ideas are heard and considered. What I’m looking for is something I can put so much of myself and my heart into, and feel like I’m making a difference. What I want is for it to do the same, both for its clients and its employees. All the while my brain shouts again: That seems simple enough! I see other people who have that with their careers! It’s a real thing!

I have a lot of hope that it is.

With regards to dating, I need to come to terms with the fact that I’ll never feel like I know all the rules and “correct” ways to do it because there is no correct way. There are no rules. We, as a society, have created this bizarre social construct around how dating is supposed to work which psychs out people like me who don’t fall simply into those parameters. I rarely find people I’m so into that I want to hang out with them, and when I do, I don’t even know what to do with myself. A lot of us are like that! I spend a fair amount of time avoiding people I like due to unshakable anxiety and generally feeling like I’m bothering them or somehow disrupting their lives. My general rule is “If you like someone, never tell them. Ever. Or make sure you get super drunk and then tell them at an inopportune time!” I don’t like being stressed out about how other people feel about me and typically do not find myself as such. I’m cool with not dating if it means that I don’t have mammoth-sized knots in my stomach or feel like I’m about to projectile vom for days because I like someone and they might not like me back. It’s so much easier to hang out with cats and dogs. They are uninhibited in their feelings and not tied up in social graces! You know right away if they don’t like you!

In my never-ending quest to become a better version of me, I am hoping to channel my career-specific dedication and self-motivation into the rest of the things I do (not just dating). I consider myself a decent person who is incredibly awkward but can still read a room BUT still often feels out of place UNLESS there is something to specifically focus on (task to be completed, kitty to pet, etc). I can (and will) work harder to put more of myself out there in situations where I’m more likely to retreat inward. I’ve garnered a decent set of tools over the past year’s self-reflection to do so, and just need to bippity-boppity-boo all of this into action.

That seems simple enough. It’s a real thing.

Conflict(s) of Interest

The feeling of being out of touch with Chicago comedy and theatre has been nagging at me for a while now, even though I’ve had steady gigs. I’ve gone from techie to stage manager to comedian to actor to director to writer/producer and back to director and I’m feeling a little less enthused lately about…well…everything.

Ok almost everything. Hold that thought, though because I’m about to derail this post!

A few years ago I started considering moving. The urge to move grew more and more each year. I attributed it to my generally negative feelings toward Chicago, and started the process of figuring out how to go about getting the hell out of here. That negativity bled into everything I did, which is a huge bummer. Once I get a feeling in my head, it’s so difficult to remove it until a huge change happens (intro to a new person, new job, cool new hobby, book with some sort of life-altering message, stumbling across a cool building – I’m easily distracted). But when I decided I was truly done with Chicago and settled on a new potential home, a well of happiness opened up inside of me, and I started to appreciate Chicago in a new way.

It started a few months ago, while winter was slowly morphing into spring. I went to a late night exhibition at the International Museum of Surgical Science , which is a mixture of science and art. I’m a huge fan of both. I was considering not going (a thing I do quite often when I make plans and then get incredibly anxious), but I went, and I’m so glad I did. What I saw at the museum was cool enough, but there was a moment when I simply looked out the window and was struck by the beauty of what I saw: the sun was setting, and Lake Michigan looked so enchanting. I tried to snap a picture but nothing would do the scene enough justice to serve as a physical memory…except the actual memory. Or maybe a painting…

Earlier that same week, I hopped on a bus in Avondale only to have it break down a short distance later. It was a nice enough day, so I decided to walk home rather than wait for the next bus. I wandered the streets of my neighborhood, astonished by the flowers attempting to make a break through the ground since technically though it was spring in the Midwest, spring is still quite brisk. I looked up at the massive trees and, seeing them against the blue sky, they reminded me of paintings of brain synapses I’d seen at the Mütter Museum last summer. I took a quick picture with my phone and lo, my non-stop “pictures of trees from weird angles” instagram posts began.

As the seasons moved forward, the flowers and plants of Chicago succeeded in popping up everywhere. Chicago was reminding me that the color I so missed in life was just sleeping in a bit. My tree snaps became “every plant” snaps, and a physically artistic part of my brain which has been in hibernation for over almost 15 years jumped to a start to tell me I need to paint. I need to sculpt. I need to create something with my hands. Not to be outdone, my hands responded with: Sure, yes. All of that. But also…we need to write.

I took this with a phone. I wish Sal (my ’70s Nikon) was not broken…still…

The derailment of this post is over….mostly.

After August 11th, my venture into the world of Chicago theatre/comedy/etc will be on hiatus. Maybe over. I don’t know. What I do know is this:

-I’m a writer and I’m going to start acting like it (ie: writing regularly! Finish current writing projects which may have been on going for 5 years now! Starting and completing a short story collection! Finish transcribing, and then fleshing out and editing the crap out of, that short story from when I was a kid that is really intense and could easily be a novel!)

-I’m going to also go back to creating other things, be they paintings, sculptures, a mixture of things. Whatever. Construct things. Make something, dammit. I started crocheting something a few weekend ago and it felt amazing to be doing that again…which reminds me, I need to finish that.

-FINISH UNFINISHED THINGS even if I hate it. Because you can always edit, and jfc it would be nice to finish a thing ffs.

-Eventually, hopefully, I would like to get a new camera and do more wandering.

-Always do more wandering, even if a camera is not readily available.

Unanswered contemplations:

• Am I moving? I’m not sure. My life went through a pretty intense shake-up in mid-July, and while I’ve landed on my feet, I’ve definitely landed in a much different world and my feet are not carrying me fast enough. There are a lot more things to consider now, which are both exciting and terrifying (some terrifying in a good way, others terrifying in a literally terrifying kind of way).
• What the hell am I doing with my life? I mean…I don’t think I’ve ever had a distinct answer to this one, but as long as I’m moving forward, I’m not all that concerned. If I stop moving forward, then I’ve got a problem.
• Do I have enough time? Time is an illusion. Time is a weird social construct. Time is endless. If I have enough time to hate-watch the 7th season of Gilmore Girls, then I have time to do all of this. Also why the heck am I hate-watching the 7th season of Gilmore girls?! (real talk: It spaces out episodes of Mr. Robot really well and Mr. Robot is incredible and needs to be paced just so…and the mind-numbing crappiness of season 7 of Gilmore girls is…ugh it’s terrible).

It’s ok not to have all of the answers (except I mean, I definitely have an answer to that last one which is yes I have enough time, outside forces permitting. Life changes, thoughts change, wants change, needs change, but as long as I’m moving forward, taking charge, and doing my thing, I’m doing alright.

Right?

 

 

 

 

 

 

In 5 Years Time

I moved to Chicago the summer of 2011. Somewhere between July 15th and 17th, to be exact. There was a heat wave the week I moved here and I remember being incredibly uncomfortable most of the time, spending too long lingering in stores because I didn’t have an air conditioner. I moved here with a person who I kinda assumed was the love of my life. He insisted we didn’t need air conditioners, and bought a plethora of box fans to put in many of our windows. That simply made things more miserable, but with more wind.

Our cat, originally his cat, then our cat, then later his cat, and now I guess his mother’s cat, hated  our new place – he’s an indoor/outdoor cat, and Chicago is not the place for an indoor/outdoor cat, as many well-meaning people will assume that indoor/outdoor cats are lost and then take them home but eventually put up “Found cat!” posters. It’s odd to get your cat back from a stranger when technically they cat-napped him without realizing it.

I miss this kid a ton.

 

He moved to Chicago for grad school, I moved to Chicago because I loved him so that’s what you do when you love someone, and both of us moved here to pursue comedy further. A few weeks after we moved here, he started classes at iO. A few weeks later, I started classes at the Annoyance. A few months later, we broke up. We each kept moving forward in our pursuit of comedy, but I started doing some theatre stuff here and there. Eventually I lost touch with him and stopped doing comedy altogether, finding more enjoyment in acting, writing, producing, and directing independent theatre.

I find it difficult at times to articulate exactly how much I have struggled to enjoy the past five years. There have certainly been high points, but there truly have been solid blocks of low points. It wasn’t until the end of 2014/beginning of 2015 that I felt in control of my own life again. While major contributing factors included the loss of him or comedy, there was also the year my grandmother passed away and the subsequent years of figuring out how to navigate the complete horror show that became of my relationship with my parents and additional struggles with family members. That all put me in a much darker place than anything else I’ve had to deal with during my time in Chicago, though Chicago wasn’t a catalyst for that familial dissolution in the same ways it affected my break up with him, and with comedy.

Even with all of the afore mentioned difficulties, I honestly wouldn’t trade any of it for anything. I am so incredibly pleased with the person I have become thanks to navigating my way through some tough and unpleasant weirdness. I do have one regret: Sometimes, I wish I hadn’t stopped doing comedy.

My time at the Annoyance was like therapy. It helped me through my break up by giving me loving and supportive friends, a way to redirect my anger and sadness into weird characters, the ability to burn out some negative energy, and sometimes just gave me a place to go instead of home when I knew break up was eminent but just couldn’t stand the tension. My time performing in random one-off shows, playing with Improvised Jane Austen, working with my friend Rob on our two-person team, and fucking around with my theatre friends as we masqueraded as an improv troupe occasionally, was mostly positive. Sometimes I miss being a stoic Regency-era bachelor, robot with a lisp, or anthropomorphic plant who’s trying to catch a plane. Improv gave me the ability to be anyone but myself, which was what I wanted more than anything then. After a while, though, after I started to find me again, I didn’t need that any longer.

As soon as I disengaged from the comedy scene, I felt like a cross between a sneaky double agent and a complete nobody. There are so many comedians in this city, and we’re mostly connected via self-defined “generations”. At this point, many improvisors of my “generation” have either moved away or just fallen out of touch. Most likely, were we to bump into each other in a public space, we might make eye contact and look away quickly, attempting to determine how we know each other even though we’ve been friends on social media for years. We might share a brief smile or questionable semi-wave. I feel badly about that, but I also consider the fact that it’s likely my inability to appropriately keep in touch that ekes me further and further from a form of comedy that I used to live and breathe 24/7, and many of the cool folks I’ve met along the way.

However, through theatre, I’ve been afforded so many opportunities to stretch my abilities. I’ve helped create bigger, more permanent worlds for multiple characters to live in. It’s a pretty cool feeling, to be able to do that. I fell in with a group of weirdos who shared my off-beat sensibilities and help foster and nurture ideas we all had to create cohesive, devised, well-scored pieces of art. It was stressful. It was hilarious. It was financially, physically, and emotionally draining. It was incredible. It helped me jump further into the world of directing and producing, working on other projects I loved and wanted to help succeed. It’s still affording me those opportunities as I work on new projects and meet new people with whom I get to create newer worlds and characters to live in those worlds. And it inspires me to continue with half-finished and unpolished scripts, weaving them into projects I never dreamed I’d be able to create on my own, ever, in the real world.

Bless these nerds

I’m looking forward to spending the next year saying goodbye to this city, and the people who made sure I had balance and happiness when I needed (and resisted) it the most. I still have a lot to accomplish before I am-scray, and now that I’m so keen on being myself, just might make good on that goal to do an open mic one day – one last comedy hurrah before I hit the road.

 

UpDate #2: My “Eureka!” Moment(s)

I finally figured out what my issue with dating is! It’s been so clear all along. I’ve spent years proclaiming myself bad at dating, but it’s not that at all, actually. The answer was sitting right in front of me all along, and I get it. I’m slow on the uptake sometimes, so you’ll have to forgive me for not realizing it until now. It should have been more obvious but even so, I’m glad it’s now 100% apparent:

Dating fucking sucks.

That is, unless you’re consistently dating the same person. Or at least, that’s how I remember it? I haven’t gone on a second date in a rather long time, so I couldn’t really tell you. It usually takes one date for me to know whether or not things are going to work out with regards to online dating. And the same goes for some of the people who’ve gone on dates with me (in that I just didn’t fit what they were looking for). There’s just something that clicks, even if the click isn’t jarringly loud, on that first date. It’s a mixture of gut feelings, intuition, attraction, and like, whether or not your personalities mesh well enough to tolerate one another repeatedly without flipping a table or uhm, faking an emergency.

 

Dating caused this man to eat glass and afflicted this woman with carpal tunnel syndrome. Dating is TERRIBLE.

I know I’m picky…specific…skeptical…when it comes to online dating. I have a first impression mental check list and keep tabs on any flags, red or green (or checkered? I don’t know much about flags aside from some city/state/country ones, to be quite honest. Oh. And surrender flags. And semaphore flags, kind of. Back to this, though…). Sometimes the red flags don’t appear until a day or so after that first date, but once they start stacking up, well…they stack up quickly. And if red flags come even before the dates, well then why even meet?

I’ve been sitting in Red Flag Central for the past two weeks (hence the blog silence, my apologies), so I’ve decided to take a different approach. I came into this challenge with the notion that I would not let any weird, sad, irritating, or unrequited feelings let me get to the point where I again hate dating. But there’s no real way to avoid that. Dating fucking sucks until you start dating the right person. That’s how it works.

I’ve therefore concluded that the strange men on OkCupid are definitely not the people I wish to date and have deactivated my account. I wish them all the best, but I don’t think online dating is for me. This isn’t the first time I’ve come to this conclusion, but I really do hope it’s the last.

So now what?

I have a few hurdles to jump over or kick through before I can move on. Namely, I guess I’m gonna have to bite the bullet and ask out people I like, which is a slightly terrifying prospect. Well, it’s not the asking that’s scary. Asking is no big deal. It’s the act of putting some vulnerable feelings out into the world that makes me a bit uncomfortable. Ok, a lot uncomfortable. And it’s not every day that I come across someone and think “Oh man. I want to date THAT PERSON.” I’m an observer. When I come across someone I kinda like, I don’t really say much but pay close attention to how they interact with others. I try to figure out more about there character and learn about them as a person. This sounds kinda stalkerish when I describe it that way, but I assure you it’s all fairly normal, aside from my penchant for staring at the ground instead of making eye contact with said person.

I also have the uncanny ability to ensure that there’s no way in hell my crush should ever know that I am even remotely attracted to them. Or at least, I hope it’s not completely obvious. I am not at all slick and tend to refrain from making eye contact, speaking in complete and normal human sentences, or being within close proximity to said crush. If I do say something, it’s likely unintelligible and strange. Words fail, immediately. I’m lucky if I don’t walk into something, but I guess I kinda do that all the time anyhow. I attempt to bore a hole in the ground with my eyeballs, fit for curling up into a ball and hiding in until the end of time. It’s awesome.

pic of me

All of this to say, being less anxious and in my head about asking people out is a thing I will actively start working on in order to ensure that I don’t give up on this whole dating thing again. I think there’s an elevated expectation when you meet someone through a dating site that makes the experience more stressful than it needs to be. And by you, I mean me because I know online dating works for a lot of people. I don’t begrudge them that! I think it’s awesome if it works for other people. It just doesn’t work for me, and I know this but I keep trying it.

I usually only try online dating when I like someone I know in real life, and that’s just to throw yet another obstacle in the way. The prospect of telling someone that I like, that I like them, makes me feel like I’m inconveniencing them with my feelings. Telling people most anything about myself, at times, makes me feel like I’m inconveniencing them with my life, my feelings, my experiences, my presence. What makes me think I’m so important that anyone needs to know what I’m going through when everyone has their own stuff, good or bad?

This is a recent development which coincides with my constant need to over-apologize, again, for simply existing sometimes. It’s a crappy feeling. Having been told in the past by people that my feelings don’t matter or are inconsequential, I’ve allowed myself to believe that they’re right; that I shouldn’t burden other people with my existing. So when I like someone, I prefer to crush my crush. I break my own heart before anyone else has a chance to. They won’t like me because of (my weight, they like someone else, not pretty enough, too self-reliant, not smart enough, too weird, way too accident-prone, too much family drama, seasonal allergies, kind of a kill joy, not adventurous, too impulsive, etc etc etc). Pick one (or more!), fixate on it, break own heart, go home, eat cheese*, be sad, move on. In the end it comes down to my brain shouting “THERE IS SOMEONE MUCH BETTER THAN YOU JUST WAITING FOR THIS PERSON AND YOU SHOULD JUST LET THEM FIND THAT PERSON!”

It’s a terrible thing to do to yourself, and I don’t recommend it. I know I’m an alright person with many great qualities. I also know I’d make a great partner for the right person. I should be nicer to me. I deserve to happy.

That’s a thing I’ll need to remind myself of, but it’s true!

This week’s challenge to myself is to be more like Tina Belcher. When I was younger, I would ask dudes out left and right. Nothing could break my stride. And let me tell you, nothing is worse than being rejected by asshole middle school dudes, because they will just tell you the worst things about yourself. I didn’t really get weird about asking guys out until I guess the passed few years. But, I also wasn’t in a good headspace, nor did I have a positive outlook on dating, until recently. It’s time to channel my inner Tina and be the strong, sensual woman I was born to be. Of course, the only difference between Tina and I is that I still giggle about butts whereas she embraces them. Or at least, she’d certainly like to.

Be the Tina you want to see in the world

This isn’t exactly going to happen over night, but I promise that I will work diligently and make every effort to stop breaking my own heart, effective immediately. I will be braver with my feelings and will remind myself that existing, feeling, being here, it’s not a burden to other people. I will own my place in the world, and the love of which I am capable. I will be cautious about it for sure, but I will do it.

I mean, at least until I can get a cat or something…

 

*Fun fact: I’ve dramatically cut down on my cheese AND candy intake since the 1st of the year so the odds that I can start talking to humans I’m attracted to in a normal, casual, funny, human-like manner is actually pretty positive because I have oodles of will power and Beyoncé music at my disposal.

For the Record, I Am Also Pretty Tired of Hearing About My Ankle

I’d like to believe that, were I trapped in a truly terrifying scenario straight out of a horror film, I would survive. Or at second-best, perhaps I’d be one of the last people to die. I feel that my general love of horror, my crisis-situation skills, and my improv and acting background would take me pretty far, should a maniac be on the loose and taking people out one by one within a close proximity to me. I will mourn you, my friends, but I will avenge you! Mark my words! Unless at some point I must run through the woods with the maniac behind me. Then, I’m completely screwed because I bet you all the candy in the world that I would sprain my right ankle.

As the maniac looms over me wielding his, her, or their weapon of choice, ready to either drag me back to their house of horrors for tortures my mind couldn’t even fathom, or just maim me right there in the woods, I wouldn’t reason with them. I don’t know that I would scream. I would think to myself “Of course. I knew this would happen. Luckily I’ll be dead soon and won’t have to deal with this unspeakable pain and also how the fuck did I get myself into this?”

On Monday, June 15th, I went for a jog. I’d been doing this pretty much every morning since June 1st. It was tough at first, but I pushed myself to keep going. I used to jog all the time, but stopped for a multitude of reasons. When I took a new job at the end of May, I made a deal with myself that morning jogs would become a regular part of my routine again. I would jog to pet-sitting gigs in the morning at first. That helped. I needed to feed the cats every day, and I needed to get to them somehow, so why not jog? The pet sitting gigs were between .6 and 2.7 miles from my apartment, so it wasn’t too far of a distance. It would save me money by not taking the bus and it would be a fun way to explore Chicago. What a great idea, Jessica!

Everything was going so well until the wee hours of June 15th. Not even in a mile into my jog, I saw a guy walking up ahead of me and knew I’d need to pass him by jogging briefly in a grassy patch next to the sidewalk. I’d switched up my route for the first time in two weeks and was on my way to jog by the lake, something I’d not been entirely confident in doing until that point. I began to maneuver my way around the walking man and suddenly noticed a pot hole and a surfacing root slightly obscured by the grassy patch in which my foot was about to land, and my brain shouted “WAAAAAAAAIT!” As I’ve yet to master stopping mid-air like a cartoon, my right foot landed somewhere between the pot hole and the root, and, losing my footing and suddenly finding myself in immense pain, I tumbled to the sidewalk.

The good news is that the guy who was walking stopped to help me even though my only responses to any of his questions were riddled with expletives. My eventual attempt at levity was to make a joke about how this was all his fault (sorry, helpful stranger!). The bad news is that I ended up in the hospital being stared incredulously at by a doctor who kept saying “It’s not broken. I don’t know how, but it’s not broken,” whilst I tried to remain calm and not to vomit from the severe pain (spoiler alert – I lost that fight after a long and ungracious struggle).

My ankle whoas are nothing new.  The first time I sprained my ankle, I was six years old, running on the linoleum floor with no socks on. I tripped in the kitchen and twisted my ankle very badly. I still remember the stinging pain, and of course, the yelling (shouldn’t have been running in the house). Since then I’ve sprained my ankle sleeping walking, being tripped by a childhood bully in gym class, falling up stairs (a specialty of mine) in college, tripping over a curb, slipping off a pipe (that was a work-related one and resulted in a fracture), drunkenly running from a bar and missing the “watch your step” sign (that was kinda funny, tbh) standing perfectly still (that one was terrifying!), whilst running through a corn maze (so. embarrassing.), walking in ice and snow in Converse, and of course, a few weeks ago whilst jogging.

The worst part about a sprained ankle, aside from the ridiculous pain, is how quickly I become a recluse. There’s not much point in attempting to go out unless there’s a car involved, or lots of sitting. It’s also just frustrating not being able to move at a normal pace when you’re the type of person who weaves through crowds of slower walkers like the ghost in the intro of the Real Ghostbusters cartoon avoiding inanimate objects even though it should be able to walk THROUGH them, shouldn’t it??? Ugh, glad I got that off my chest.

You’re bad at being a ghost and you should feel bad

I know it could be worse, but that doesn’t make it any easier. It might not be as big of a blow to my emotions if Chicago didn’t only have about 3 months of nice weather, and if my estimated complete healing time wasn’t in about 3 months. This isn’t just a twisted ankle – this is bruised ligaments and tendons. This is grosssssssss. This is going to involve me being a grown up and going for PT.  And this is going to take time, something I received a painful reminder of this morning upon standing up for the the first time, after an evening of being on my feet for about 6 hours. Huge mistake. Terribly painful mistake. Kinda worth it, though, to be able to go out to a public space, have a few drinks, and spend some time with my pals.

The physical pain and deficit is crappy enough, but not being able to be social in most ways is so tough. I’m definitely a loner, Dottie. A rebel. But even I enjoy venturing out of my natural habitat and being in the company of other socially uncomfortable nerds. My people. Aaaah. I have been fortunate to have a few visits from friends, but being stuck indoors when you want to go play outside with everyone else, yeah. It takes its toll. And once you get outside, the world doesn’t hold all of the doors for you and or quit pushing past you just because you have the gait of a zombie. No. It pisses people off. I’ve become the object that everyone else now needs to maneuver around. And some people make comments, which is so unnecessary. And then you’re crying in public because it’s kind of just too overwhelming. All you want is for that sharp object-wielding maniac to put you out of your misery even though you were so close to the sun coming up and making it through. But then he/she/they stop. Maybe you make eye contact. Maybe not. But they drop that sharp object and tromp back through the woods, heading to the bloody hellscape from which they came.

This isn’t permanent. This isn’t forever. Sure, it’s exhausting and dumb, and it will definitely happen again because there’s no way to avoid it if you’re a generally clumsy human such as myself. But this isn’t the end of the fight. It sucks. Ooooh, how it sucks. But I’ll make it out alive.

True Love: a Death Story

This may be the most trigger warningest thing I’ve ever posted, so I promise to post something really happy, positive, and funny next time.

TW: Death and threats of murder, abusive ex’s, suicide, and what not. All of the death things.

I’ve written a lot about my friend Andre’s death and how it has generally kept me overly on edge whenever I notice changes in friends’ behavior. I take suicidal expressions very seriously, as it has played a big part in my life since I was 12. It’s a subject which is constantly on my mind, and keeps me on guard.

This year has been a pretty seriously growing & sorting shit out year for me, and I have a lot of unresolved issues that I’ve been sifting through pertaining to Andre and his death.

I met Andre in 2002. We were both 20 and starting special effects make up school in a small, shitty town about 45 minutes outside of Pittsburgh. He was from Louisiana and super into ICP. I was going through a dirty punk/never sober coz what’s the point phase. It was an instant friendship built on being strange outcasts (but jesus who wasn’t ?) and the fact that being a girl at this school seemed to mean everyone just wanted to sleep with you. Andre was different, it seemed. But then it got weird.

I think he meant well. He was the definitive “Nice Guy”. He was always there when I needed help. He drove me to and from work when my car broke down, and we didn’t even work at the same place. I was just starting my random stuffed animal collection at the time and mentioned that it would be cool to have a blue teddy bear and he found one for me, I think that same day. I didn’t think much of it, especially since I was dating someone. Andre hated him, and honestly he was in the right: the guy I was dating was a total creep. And when that guy punched me and I came to Andre’s apartment covered in (my ex’s) blood (oh man, long story short I kinda beat the shit out of him because hey, don’t hit people! But also he had an open wound which oh my god what the fuck were we all doing? Seriously! It was the most destructive time of my life!), he helped me get cleaned up and took me to Denny’s. There was no “told you so” outright, but it vaguely loomed over the onion rings we shared while he tried to cheer me up.

Andre helped me move to New York. We drove all of my shit to Long Island, and in the morning he was gone. He had breakfast with my mom apparently, and went back on his way. I hated that he did that, but he was always awkwardly cavalier.

I feel bad referring to him earlier as a “Nice Guy” since I don’t honestly think he meant to be a creep or anything, but for the next several years things just went downhill. He was deeply troubled. Whenever we would talk and I might bring up a guy, he’d get really angry. I cared about him deeply as a friend, but that was it. Things came to a head in 2005 when I told him that I was moving to Raleigh to live with the guy I’d been dating at the time. He told me that he wanted to be happy for me, but he also wanted to kill us both.

I stopped talking to him after that.

The move to Raleigh came and went, and after three months, I realized that the guy I’d moved in with and had been in a long distance relationship with for about a year was, as it happened, not the love of my life. We broke up. He moved out. Life went on.

At some point in the spring time, maybe April or so, I was followed on MySpace by someone I didn’t know. I just remember looking at the person’s picture and trying to figure out who the hell they were. I didn’t recognize the name, but there was some familiarity in their eyes. A few days or so later, I received an email from that same name. It was Andre. I didn’t mention before, but Andre was very short and pretty stocky. He was much smaller in the MySpace picture, and once we started talking on the phone again, he told me that he spent the past several months running and working out. I was happy for him, because he finally sounded happy! He told me about all of these plans he had to go back to the school we attended and maybe try to become a teacher. He wanted to travel, and he wanted to see me, to apologize and just to hang out. Like old times. I was a bit hesitant, but I said sure. Why not? He told me that he’d finally give me the Lenore doll he bought me, to add to my stuffed animal collection. Years earlier he’d told me about the doll, and that he got a friend to carve her a wooden coffin. He wanted to deliver her himself instead of mailing her to me. It was really sweet, so I said that would be great. Maybe things really were better. I knew that I was in a much better place myself, so why couldn’t he be, too?

A week or so later, he called while I was out to dinner with some coworkers. His tone sounded so different- hurried. Scared. He said he needed me to call him as soon as possible. I thought he was just being dramatic, so I didn’t.

He called back the next day and I was in the shower, so he got my voicemail. I didn’t listen to  his message until that afternoon, and I wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Everything is fuzzy up until the moment I checked my phone and had a missed call from an unknown number. I took a break at work and finally listened to Andre’s message. His voice was calm, unwavering; his message was a bit cryptic, though. The next message was from Andre’s brother, asking me to call him back as soon as I got this message. I was a little concerned, but I figured Andre just took off and no one knew where he was. Luckily, Andre told me of his plans so I was happy to quell any fears.

I called his brother and let him know who I was. He informed me that he was calling because they’d just gotten Andre’s phone back from the police and mine was one of the last two numbers he called before he killed himself. I started bawling and shouting “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” over and over, which I’m sure was a pure joy for the already distraught man on the other end of the phone. He tried his best to calm me down, but I abruptly told him that I had to go.

I suddenly understood Andre’s message a lot better. I don’t remember how I got home and the next few days are a complete blur. I didn’t go to work at the hospital for a little while. Instead, I hung out at the funeral home where I worked part time, thinking that would somehow be cathartic since I wasn’t going to Andre’s funeral, if there even was going to be one. I couldn’t handle it. Everything hurt. Nothing was clear. I felt like I’d fucked up by not answering the phone, or calling him back. If I could have just spoken with him, I kept thinking, I surely could have changed his destiny!

I called his brother back and apologized for my reaction. He was pretty nice about everything, considering the shit he had to deal with. He read me the note Andre left, and I started crying again. For what it physically was, it contained some of the nicest things anyone has ever written about me. And I hated it. He told me that Andre left him specific instructions about a wooden box, for me. I told him that Andre promised to hand it to me himself, so I couldn’t accept it. He understood, and let me know to contact him if I ever changed my mind.

Which leads to Monday night, when I started frantically Googling his brother’s information. I still haven’t changed my mind, but I felt compelled to see if his brother was ok. 9  years later, sure, is a bit late I will admit. I learned that the other person he called before he died, his best friend, is now married and seems happy. I learned that another of his brothers passed this year, unfortunately. I learned that his brother who had called me appears to have no social media presence, at least that I could find.

I don’t know why I wanted to find him, other than to just know he’s still alive and doing alright. I don’t think I would have called or anything. I don’t know what I would have said. How do you even start that conversation, and do I have any right to do so? I ended up stumbling across Andre’s obituary, which I must have read a thousand times in 2006. I hadn’t seen it since, though, and something about seeing it startled me more than I’d expected. I’d forgotten just how long ago he died. One month shy of his 24th birthday. Almost 9 years exactly, a little over two weeks from today.

I’ve spent these past years feeling like I should have, and could have, done more. I’ve blamed myself. I’m sure I’m not the only one. It’s a weird burden to carry and attempt to be a normal human being. His hits me the hardest because it was the most visceral. Please never make me rate just how differently all of the suicides I’ve encountered over the past twenty years have affected me. I’m sure I could do it but I would likely not leave my aparmtnet for weeks after.

In order to, not necessarily push passed this, but to maybe come to better terms with it, I think it’s important to note that I feel selfish that his death has affected me in ways that I have difficulty describing. I want to trust people. I get weird whenever someone expresses interest in me. I wish I had eyes on the back of my head so I could be more aware of my surroundings and of how people are affected, and by what. I hate that this is how it has left me, but I hate even more that I blame his death for these selfish feelings. I’m always anxious that something terrible is going to happen to people I care about, or that the people I care about will try to harm me in some way. I am so tired of being constantly suspicious of everyone’s motives. Andre’s death also started a period of friends and relatives dying every 4-6 months for the next several years, which surely adds to all of the above feelings and concerns. I think that he felt that it was his only choice, and I will never know what would have been the right thing to do even if I’d picked up the phone. We could have had a great conversation, and he may have still done it after we hung up. I will never know. It fucking sucks to have this baggage for eternity. That’s selfish, I know. I wish he hadn’t done it. But he did, and dammit if I don’t think it about it most all the time.

I will never again not return a call rather immediately, but I absolutely loathe listening to voicemails.

Resources, just in case they can help you or someone in need:

1 (800) 273-8255 – National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

866-488-7386 – The Trevor Project

http://twloha.com/find-help/local-resources/ – To Write Love On Her Arms

http://www.helpguide.org/articles/suicide-prevention/suicide-prevention-helping-someone-who-is-suicidal.htm

Second Guessing Your Own Dreams & Goals: A Love Story?

It has officially been 32 days since I visited Death School. I’ve had a couple of “are you sure though?” moments since the visit which I’ve shrugged off because, well, of course I’m sure! I’ve wanted this for a really long time! Last night though, something happened that was the biggest “Hey…but…are you sure you’re sure?” moment I’ve had thus far. I can’t decide if I should give it a second thought or if I should just tuck it in the Box of Doubts that my brain keeps on this subject, along with several other random things. My brain’s a bit of a hoarder.

Last night I had the pleasure of attending a rad Fundraiser where a piece I directed was performed by some of my talented and amazing friends. I forgot how anxious I get in social settings and spent most of the pre-show time wandering around outside or standing completely wide-eyed and motionless inside. I suck at mingling, 85% of the time…especially if I don’t actually know anyone or everyone I know is busy doing something else. Fun fact: at parties and weddings, I tend to make friends with bartenders real fast…not because of drinking (ok…partially because of drinking), but for some reason it’s just easier for me to talk to them than other guests. I always feel out of place, and spent most of last night thinking “Good choice to get out of theatre, because you DO NOT belong here.”

I’ll be the first one to admit that I feel like a complete poseur when it comes to anything theatre related. I don’t have a theatre background. I sort of fell into theatre by accident. I always wanted to be an actor and was in a few school plays and stuff here and there, but writing was my passion. Fiction. Film. And then college happened and I was hit with a decade-long case of writer’s block. I gave up and fuck theatre anyhow because the drama kids I went to school with were THE WORST. Right when I gave up, I learned about improv and realized I didn’t need to write so what’s the point, let’s just make shit up! I wanted so badly to be a comedian even though, growing up, I was constantly told I wasn’t funny. But, as it happens, there were people out there who thought I was funny! And lo, a comedian I became.

With live theatre, I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a live show where I didn’t cry or at least tear up. There is something about live theatre that moves me far more than anything I’ve seen captured on film. I am so envious of all of the people who come together to transport the audience to another place, time, world, and weave such amazing stories. I am not at all a reluctant audience member. I’ve sat through show after show of the same run just to pick up things I’ve missed, or to take friends to shows I truly loved. I used to work as an audio describer, describing sets, props, and actions of live theatre to patrons who were vision-impaired. I loved it so much. I’d try to see any shows my friends were in, and it was actually at one of these where I got my big break.

I was fortunate to be cast in two non-improv shows (unless I’m forgetting something) while living in North Carolina: in one I played a plethora of characters from works of fiction, as well as a few folks from history. In the other, I played my first dramatic role of a woman who wanted so very much to be a mother, but couldn’t conceive. I probably asked my director like a million times why she chose me for that part. Me, a comedian. Me, a woman who didn’t want kids. Me, a not-really-an-actor. She would either smile at me and tell me she knew I could do it, or she would get this look on her face that read “stop being a nerd and go be an actor.” She believed in me. And, not to be like “Hey I’m so great you guys!”, but she was right to, because each night, I would be approached after the show by women who went through similar situations as my character, or men who confided in me that they were moved to tears. It was amazing to know that I could do that, but I still felt like a fraud.

I acted a bit more when I moved to Chicago, and then was again graced with good fortune by pitching a show which I got to direct as well. I loved that show so much. It was written by two of my closest friends. My only stipulation was that a dream sequence and a sword fight were to be included in the script. It ended up being a knife fight, but it was even better than I could have imagined.

I would watch that show every weekend, standing in the back of the theatre with my hands clasped and beaming like an idiot. I found something new that would make me laugh each night. I was completely smitten with my cast, the crew, the script, our soundtrack, the world. It all felt so magical.

I went on to produce a few shows after that, helped co-write a show, acted here and there, did some art direction, and while I’ve enjoyed all of it, nothing’s quite felt the same as those two major moments…

Until last night.

I say this with love, but our rehearsals weren’t anything earth-shatteringly special. I cast my theatre company in my piece because I love them all dearly and they’re so incredibly talented that I could have given them the script when I got it in January and told them “The show’s on Feb. 10th, see you then” with the utmost confidence. But that’s not how directing works.

After standing in the lobby of the funeral home-turned-theatre last night, I finally decided to take a seat at 7:51pm. I had some water and some snacks. I tried to tune out my brain’s yelling of “You shouldn’t be here! You’re not good at this! Why did you agree to do this?! Go home!” I perused my phone. My heart rate chilled a bit as I distracted myself with social media (seriously, I was more anxious that I’ve been in months and was considering just leaving at one point before I sat down). The lights flashed, which meant the show was going to be starting soon.

There were a few acts before ours, which I enjoyed. I wanted them all to keep going because the characters were so interesting and fun. And then ‘Modern Love’ by David Bowie started, the intro song I’d picked for the piece, and it was go-time.

It was awesome.

From the time the music started til the very end, the audience’s reactions were incredibly positive and joyful. The women in front of me were my own barometer of how the night was going. They had the most delightful things to say about everything, from Modern Love to our home-made Walking Dead sound effects, they were absolute peaches. And they had no idea who I was, which made it all the better. I suck at taking compliments (Brain: these people are just being nice because they have to, to your face!), but I really dig anonymous ones (Brain: Okay, maybe you do actually deserve them).

I’m going to leave that world behind me, and I don’t feel ok with that right now. I’ve been slowly withdrawing from everything I worked so hard for during my time here in Chicago. I don’t even perform comedy anymore…hell, I don’t perform anything anymore! It is just hitting me now that I may not have the opportunity to do stuff like this in a year or so. As a funeral director, you’re pretty much always on call. If I think making schedules for rehearsals now is one of the most grueling tasks, attempting to schedule anything when I’m a funeral director will be nearly impossible, unless it’s a short term project.

Thinking about not doing anything theatre-related is actually causing me a ridiculous amount of anxiety as I type this.

I don’t want to miss out on any opportunities to better myself and live my dreams, and maybe it’ll actually be a lot easier than I think to be involved in theatre and a funeral director. I feel like I haven’t used my time in Chicago at all how I should have at all.

I thought that writing this all out might put things into a better perspective for me, but I’m even more conflicted now. Obviously I’ve got time to ponder the whole thing but man…I wasn’t expecting this at all.

Seven

My friend Yancy recently shared this article on Facebook, and it was probably the first time I read something about suicide and didn’t feel incredibly sad. Within the past several years, I’ve become a lot more open with how suicide has affected my life. I’ve spent a lot of time being ashamed of it or worried that people would treat me differently, but the more I open up about it, the stronger I feel. It’s painful and difficult at times, but I think it helps people to better understand why I react the way I do to certain situations or why I’m quick to jump into someone’s life if I noticed any odd behaviors, signs, or red flags.

By my count, and as far as I’m aware at this time, I can name seven people in my life who have committed suicide. That is not something that I’m in any way happy about, but it is a fact. The first was an 8th grade classmate. Several other classmates went since him. One was a former roommate, one a former coach. One I knew since I was 9 & he kept me sane throughout high school. One called me right before he did it. I had no idea that was what was on his mind, but it was.

There’s no way that the loss of a loved one will not affect your life in some way, regardless of how they died. People who have experienced loss via suicide are no different; we’re not special. We’re may be a bit more guarded and concerned and more willing and wanting to love people as hard as we can once we’ve let them into our lives. I tend to keep most people at arm’s length because you never know when someone’s going to exit your life, and in what amount of permanence. It’s my worst habit – worse than over-scratching mosquito bites, procrastinating, and not returning library books on time, all combined. I’m really bad at peopling and have a difficult time expressing how much the people I truly care about mean to me because they could be gone in an instant.

One of my major pet peeves is when people refer to suicide as a coward’s way out. I think it goes beyond a pet peeve, actually. It tends to throw me into a bit of a blind rage if I think about it for too long. Suicide is not something that people consider lightly over brunch or a while brushing their teeth. The decision to take ones own life is a last resort and, for some, the only thing that makes sense. There are people who find ultimate clarity once they’ve made the decision to end it all. It’s sad but peaceful. It’s not necessarily meant to be understood by those of us who remain, but that’s because our paths are different. The living tell themselves a variety of things to assist them in coping with the hows and whys of suicide. Accepting that it was the right choice for that person is a shitty thing to have to do and it’s ok to never accept it! I haven’t. But that doesn’t make it not true. I think it takes a lot of strength to know what you need to do, regardless of how horribly extreme other people will see your actions to have been.

Please don’t misunderstand me: I am not at all pro-suicide. I am more pro-free will. I think about it like this: There have been many times when I’ll see something posted on facebook and think “wow, that person is very wrong” and so I will explain my position on something that they said. This will either turn into a bunch of adults discussing various points on a topic, in a civil manner (I have witnessed this! It can happen!), or a ridiculous amount of name calling from strangers, angry messages, and blocking (more often than the afore mentioned civility). I always enter into these conversations knowing that I’m not going to change anyone’s mind, but maybe I will present to them facts that they never actually considered. They can then either take my opinions into consideration, or they can call me horrible names and stuff. To me, it is in the sheer interaction that is important, not necessarily the outcome. I can’t change your mind but I can let you know that I see you.

Regardless, it’s important to talk about things. Putting your feelings out into the world reinforces the knowledge that you aren’t alone and maybe there’s another way instead of an extreme. If Andre had told me “Hey, I’m going to kill myself tomorrow,” would I have been able to change his mind? This is a question I’ve been asking myself for almost a decade, and there is no answer. It’s not that simple. But will I spend the rest of my life telling everyone I know about George, Andre, Randy, Jason, Nick, Ben, and Jeff? Yes. I will. Jeff saved my life and he’ll never even know it. His death turned my life around completely as a depressed and miserable teenager who regularly thought about how much better the world would be without her in it. None of them took the coward’s way out. None of them died in vain. While I wish they were all still alive and I’m not ashamed of their actions. They had their reasons, and I hate that more than anything. But they’ve helped my understand things I never thought possible, and to be more aware of the people around me, even if I’m afraid to get too close sometimes.

2015! 2015! Wait…2015?!

Welp, we’re just over a week into 2015 and it’s showing a LOT of promise thus far. So much so, in fact, that it’s slightly terrifying. But in a good way? I don’t know. This past week has been a rollercoaster of emotions, mostly positive! Just very strange.

I feel like I’m stuck in between several different worlds, and it’s not exactly concerning, but it’s a strange feeling. Kind of, I guess, like how being a superhero might feel, minus the literal ass-kicking. I wake up and go to work, just like everyone else. All I can think about is school, pinball, writing, and how, HOW, in the span of five days I keep losing my freakin’ Ventra card (that’s for public transit, non-Illinois readers). Like, I’m clumsy and forgetful but…what the hell?! Is my coat pocket eating them in order to keep me warm this winter?! BTW, congratulations to whomever picked up a Ventra card with “Riker” sharpie’d at the top of it. That card *was* my Number One 😦

Work is kind of tricky right now. Sometimes I feel like I’m lying to them simply by being there. At this point I don’t believe it makes sense to leave of course, and I certainly feel like I have my place in the office, but I feel like a short-timer even though I’m not planning on school til next year. Not only that, I kind of do have to lie sometimes when talking about next year and my future with the company. It’s so strange; when I started there, everything was a complete mess and I wanted nothing more than to run and never look back. Now though, I feel a responsibility to the office (of course, mostly because I work there) and so there’s a little bit more at stake because I’m not just the “new girl” anymore. I mean shoot, that guy who called me Jennifer for five months finally learned my actual name!

On Saturday, I’m heading out to Wheeling to check out my potentially future school. I’ve been referring to it as Death School and I hope people don’t think that’s callous. I always worry that folks’ll think I’m too glib about such a serious subject, but then again, most people familiar with me just get it? I definitely believe that, out of all of the things I’ve done in my life, my background in comedy will be my strongest asset in venturing back into death. Now, please don’t mistake that to mean I’m going to try to make people laugh. On the contrary (but I mean, if it happens, it happens). I believe that I was rather ill-equipped to have had careers with death in my early 20’s because I didn’t know how to turn off serious-mode when I left work. Through improv, I’ve developed my listening skills much better and have an easier time reading people in difficult situations. Empathy is something I’ve often been told I have, but my own experiences with death in the past decade have sharpened that quality greatly. I also know when to shut the fuck up. That’s an important skill no have no matter your profession.

I’m slowly compiling a growing list of questions to ask the Program Director/Vice President when I meet with her on Saturday morning. I know that this is a field in which I can be incredibly successful, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous about what my time in school would be like. Sure, in my head I’m thinking I’m going to move to Wheeling, get an apprenticeship right off the bat, go to school and work hard, but I don’t know how realistic it is to get an apprenticeship that quickly. What if it makes more sense to stay in Chicago and get a car instead of moving to Wheeling? What if it’s impossible to work in a funeral home  while I’m going to school and I struggle to find an apprenticeship after I graduate? I don’t think I realized at the time how lucky I was to get jobs in a funeral home and a morgue (a fucking MORGUE…and believe it or not, those are tough jobs to get as you’ll see evidenced by the fact that, for the last seven years, I’ve been working in tech, education, and real estate but could devote several scrap books to hospital rejection letters, if I were into scrap booking). I wish I could redeem some sort of “Hey you were on the right track but you kinda fucked up” coin to get jobs like those again.

But that’s not how life works, and what’s done is done. The most important thing is that I have this strong and focused desire to work in a capacity where I facilitate a comforting and helpful environment to assist humans, be they living or dead, through the end of a life.

Simply knowing that leads to another odd feeling. After spending so much time trying to understand my purpose on this planet and going through some of the most amazingly wonderful and absolutely gut-wrenching experiences simply trying to answer that question, I…answered it. It’s overwhelming, in the best way.

One thing that I didn’t expect was the incredible amount of support from my friends. That’s not to say that they aren’t supportive, but I don’t know, I’m not sure how to explain it. I expected a “Cool” or “Wow that’s neat” or high-five or whatever, sure. Ok. I forgot how many people knew me back in my “Deathica” days. The people who I told about my dream funeral home or how I wanted to teach a class to help everyone prepare for their deaths. The people who knew about my wanting to pursue taxidermy as a hobby because it just felt like a thing I’d be good at since I missed working in a morgue. The people who weren’t freaked out when I said stuff like “I miss working in a morgue.”  It’s not that I forgot about them exactly, but I didn’t know they were all just waiting to champion the heck out of my dream once I realized I was ready. This isn’t “just” a new career path. This is gonna be my life.

I’ll get calls at all hours of the night that I need to pick up a body, from someone’s home or a hospital. And it’s not just a body. It’s someone’s parent, sibling, child. Someone’s best friend. Someone’s greatest love. Someone’s only other person in this entire world. I’ll be the person who guides loved ones though a sea of commerce to try to make sense of something which often doesn’t make sense. I’ll see these people after the fact, in passing at the store or a bar or somewhere, and they’ll feel infinitely sadder once they see me because of how we know each other, regardless of whether or not it was a “beautiful service”. I will become eternally creepy to small children, which is a pretty serious goal of mine. I will act as a human representation of Death, regardless of whether I’m wearing a suit & heels or t-shirt, skirt & Chucks. And I’m more than ok with that.

Saturday morning, I will come face to face with my future. It took a lot to get to this point, and it’s not going to be all cake and rainbows from hereon out, but it’ll be pretty damn close.