September 21st is an anniversary of sorts for me; today marks two years since I hit rock bottom: the two year anniversary of my would-be death day. 

As someone who has grappled with depression for the better part of her life, “blue periods” are nothing new…neither are the fleeting thoughts of, “Perhaps it would be better if I just wasn’t around.”  I assumed (whether I was ready to admit it or not) that these dark moments were universal and everyone experienced them.  It was only after the 21st of September 2023 that I came to understand that wasn’t the case.  But more on that later.

By coincidence, September 21st is also the anniversary of my arrival into the UK.  I hadn’t been thinking about that when I booked the tickets – it had more to do with when I was able to officially move into my housing.  As my good (read: best) friend Melody and I took off from Chicago one year ago, raising our glasses of wine to the coming adventure, I was also thinking of how far I had come since the previous year – and how much more I had to do.

Many things led to my version of rock bottom on September 21st 2023 but possibly none more than the new medication I was on.  It affected me in various ways including profuse sweating episodes, insomnia, severe depression, and more.  (For the record, the medication in question was called Atomoxetine.  I expect it works for some people, but it definitely did not work for me.)  To add to the mess, I had recently acquired a brand new hyperfixation (again, nothing new for me) and I was drunk.  Not just a little drunk – I was plastered.

I was home alone and had just purchased a bottle of chardonnay (Kendal Jackson, of course) with the hopes of writing a bit before going to bed at a respectable hour (I had work at Starbucks the next morning, afterall).  Like most drinking episodes, it started off merrily which prompted me to drink more.  I was in love with the warm and fuzzy feelings of life and intoxication; I didn’t want the party to end.  But there’s always a line, isn’t there?  There’s always a point where the good feelings slowly begin to sour until they morph into despair…at least for me.  Still home alone and trying desperately to find the good feelings wine had afforded me, I kept drinking, eventually finishing the whole bottle.

This is where my hyperfixation came into play.  The story goes that Pablo Picasso had many “muses” over the course of his lifetime, often using them as the catalyst and model for his work before discarding them when he didn’t find inspiration in them any more.  Obviously, I don’t agree with his methods, but the fact remains that an artist can’t always help where they find inspiration.  I’ve lived long enough (and written enough) to know that I have followed a similar trajectory as Mr. Picasso.  The only difference is that my muses don’t know who I am.  

I’m not saying that every play of mine was written specifically for a certain person or with the hopes of having so-and-so play a certain part.  (Cafe Mocha Murders was created out of sheer resentment after so many people told me that they were only interested in murder mystery comedies so I threw my hands in the air and declared, “Fine! I’ll write you a murder mystery comedy!”  In the end, I really enjoyed the process and the piece, but that’s a story for another time.  Anyway, where were we?)

What does happen with my work is that a certain someone is the impetus for an idea: one example is that the original inspiration for the character that would become Václav in Summers in Prague was Benedict Cumberbatch.  I was about twenty-two and imagining (daydreaming about) what a night in Prague would look like with Mr. Cumberbatch.  That led to an idea which led to another idea which eventually became the show we all know and love today.  (If you don’t know and love it, please go purchase a copy off my website or find it for free on New Play Exchange.) ;)

That is how my hyperfixations usually work: a beautiful man plus a silly daydream plus a spark that takes me down a certain path to create a certain show.  Perhaps other writers have a far more intellectual approach to finding inspiration, but that’s how it gets done over here.  

Yes, I often pined for these hyperfixations and, yes, there was the occasional episode of ennui upon remembering that this beautiful man didn’t know who I was, but these affairs were short-lived.  However, beginning in 2020, things got quite tumultuous.  It was becoming increasingly harder to separate the fantasy from real life or exit the world where I was walking around Prague with one of these muses.  I now have the wherewithal to know this sudden shift in my my mental health had a lot to do the pandemic (and assuming that the theatre was dead), turning thirty (I thought I was over my quarter-life crisis), and the death of my father (which was incredibly shocking to everyone in my family).  Unable to recognize exactly what I was going through, I simply lived in the wild rapids of my emotions: feeling ecstasy instead of mere happiness and despair instead of simple sadness.  This also made my “love” for my hyperfixations more intense.

I only really began seeking help (outside of my monthly therapy sessions and established  antidepressants) because of issues with my hearing.  To make a long story short, I have long had issues hearing people in conversations, especially in crowded rooms, and assumed that I was experiencing hearing loss.  A meeting with an audiologist, however, showed that my physical hearing was perfectly fine, and then a discussion with a coworker put the idea in my head that perhaps the problem was about my brain processing the information rather than my ears picking up the sounds.  I got a referral from my general practitioner and finally got to meet with a behavior specialist who concluded that I had ADHD and promptly put me on Atomoxetine.

…which brings us back to September 21st 2023. 

I was drunk, despondent, and heavy on this medication that was wrecking havoc on my life.  Now, for whatever reason, I had not yet concluded that Atomoxetine was the cause of all my issues: I had only been on the medication a couple of weeks and chalked the sweating up to the changing seasons, the insomnia to stress, and the depression to my general disposition.  The following incident would put things into focus for me.

In this incredibly vulnerable state, I did something incredibly stupid and Googled my latest muse.  I knew that he was in a relationship with someone, but it was that night I learned that she was significantly younger than him – younger than me, even.  And that became the thing that broke me.

I was thirty-three and struggling to achieve (what I thought to be) any real success with my writing.  I felt old – as though I had somehow wasted all the best years of my life.  I should be farther ahead.  I should be better.  I should be younger, skinnier, blonde, beautiful, and the mother of my muse’s children.  I should be her.  But I wasn’t.  I was fat, ugly, struggling writer me.  I had often bemusedly asked the question, “Why bother?” but that night, it became real.

I wanted to die.  It all hurt too much.  If he couldn’t love me, what was the point of it all?  I once had promise, but now all I had was debt.  I once had people telling me that my work was so good, but now all I had were people asking me if I still worked at Starbucks.  Someone else already had everything I could ever want so why should I keep trying?  The hurt was unimaginable and crippling.  I laid in my bed, unable to move, unable to cry, feeling like I was being swallowed by the sea.  

What was the fucking point?

I contemplated the ways I could kill myself but quickly concluded that I didn’t really have the means to do it.  It was the only time in my life I’d ever desired to own a gun, and had I actually owned one, I would not be here now.  I feel very strongly that had I had access to a firearm that night, I would have killed myself.  

The best I could do was hurt myself…so I lit an incense stick, blew it out, and then peppered my skin with the hot end.  Once it went out completely, I’d light it again, and go back to scorching my legs and my arms.  (Why I didn’t just use the match, I don’t know.)  To this day, I don’t know why the act of self-harm seemed to help.  I don’t think it’s something that I can explain logically because it’s not a logical sensation; all I can say is that I was hurting so much on the inside that I wanted to hurt on the outside.  Somehow that would make it better.  

There are still scars on my leg and a large one on my hand from that night.  If you look at my hand just right, you can still see the tiny marks.  

So how did it end?  What pulled me back into the light?  

Melody still wasn’t home yet but even if she had been, I don’t think I would have been in the right mind to have discussed this breakdown.  I was being tossed about in the frantic waves of my mind, thrown back and forth between complete despair and believing maybe I would live through this.  By this time, it was well past midnight and I had to be at work in a few hours.  During one of my high points, I quickly messaged my friend Lauren to ask if she had time to chat the next day because I was going through a rough patch (understatement of the century), but almost immediately I fell into another low point and promptly deleted the message.

This is where it plays out like a dark comedy because I was slowly sobering up and with no means to actually kill myself, I said, “Well, may as well go to bed.”  I took a shower, feeling more vulnerable than ever, laid down in bed, and cried myself to sleep.  The next morning (after maybe two hours of rest) I wrapped my hand in a bandage and told everyone at work that I had burned it while cooking something in the oven at home.  I was an old pro at traversing dark points, but even I knew that this was new territory; somehow this was the point of no return.  I don’t remember a lot of work from that day; I’m sure I was just going through the motions and more morose than usual.

I was on my break when I realized that Lauren had messaged me.  She’d noticed that I’d reached out to her, asking for help and then noticed that I deleted said message.  The time between me actually sending it and me deleting it couldn’t have been more than a minute, but somehow Lauren still saw it.  Call it a technological fluke, call it divine intervention, call it drunk Deanna’s conception of time being a little skewed…either way, Lauren was involved now and worried. 

And that’s really what got me started on the journey to getting better.  Lauren saw the message and reached out.  I called her after work and then called my therapist.  Later that night, I had a serious chat with Melody and showed her my wounds.  During these talks, I realized just how much I had been lying to people, especially in regards to my mental state.  Prior to Lauren actively reaching out, I hadn’t considered bringing Melody into the discussion (because I didn’t want to worry her or maybe because my anxiety was telling me she wouldn’t care).  

All of these conversations were difficult to have because it forced me to acknowledge that I had a problem: with parasocial relationships, with depression, with my current medication, and with my own self-worth.  It was incredibly embarrassing to come to terms with my issues because obsessing over a celebrity is not something that a thirty-something-year-old woman does.  But it is.  Here I am.  

It’s also difficult because admitting that what this “muse” and I had was nothing more than a parasocial relationship meant stripping away all of the fake romance I’d built around him.  I love love.  I love true connections.  I love good romantic stories about people genuinely helping each other and forming amazing teams and then doing some kissing.  I love that.  And I want that – with every fiber of my being.  A large part of me still doesn’t want to acknowledge that it’s a mental health issue; I want it to be real.  I want him to be the answer to all my questions even without having ever been in the same room as me.  This particular hyperfixation still follows me – even though most of my muses only last about a year.  This guy, however, won’t let me go…or maybe I refuse to let him go.  

I’d love to say that it’s gotten easier, but it just gets different.  My therapist tells me all the time that healing is not linear, and I have had my fair share of weak moments.  There have been arguments with people I love, angry phone calls, and more drunk nights where I fill my journals with angsty poetry.  The best medicine for it all has been the real world: finding the beautiful things that make up the real world.  They aren’t grandiose trips to far-off places with a charming man who can’t take his eyes off of me, but they’re late night chats with friends over a bottle of Shiraz, they’re waking up early and seeing the giant moon illuminate the clear sky, they’re getting smothered in hugs from my nephews, they’re hearing genuine people give genuine feedback on my work…they’re looking down at my hand, seeing my scars, and knowing that I survived.  

​

Sometimes the hardest part of my day is just getting out of bed.

​I’m well aware that I am not the first person to say this, but today it struck me pretty hard as I did my normal morning routine: slowly wake up, grab my phone, scroll a bit, tell myself I should get up, scroll a bit more, eventually stumble upon something that makes me sad, wallow in the sadness, start scrolling again, and repeat the cycle.
I know mental health has its own form of inertia: a mind in despair tends to stay in despair unless a different, more powerful feeling pushes it out of the way. Lying in bed and feeling sad is easy because of this, and it can sometimes require a herculean effort to overcome the stagnation.
Obviously, making the choice to avoid social media – or at least the accursed doom scrolling – would definitely help; it’s something I’m working on. But sometimes good old depression doesn’t need to ride in on a phone. It’s already there as soon as I wake up, taking up space in my bed and desperate to talk about all the terrible things I’ve ever done as well as all the wonderful things I’ll never do.
This morning, I awoke and started my morning in this usual fashion – ending with me in the fetal position, wrapped up in my blankets, and slowly beginning to wonder, “Oh, what’s the point?” Getting out of my bed requires so much work and it’s so cold! It’s warm in my bed and in my bed I won’t run into one of my flatmates and have to awkwardly make conversation that clearly neither of us really want to have. In my bed, I don’t have a laundry list of things to do, people to call, projects to finish, or a homeland that is ripping itself apart from the inside out. I can dream and pretend that things are different. I can think about a different life. I can pick up my phone and scroll and look at pictures of things that aren’t mine – and people who don’t know that I’m alive – and wistfully wonder, “What if…?”
And in the space between that wonder and reality, there is depression. Like some second-rate Geronimo, I leap from where I am and try to land on the other side of the gorge, where everything I want is waiting. But I’ll never stick the landing. I barely make it over the ledge before I tumble into the rocky pit below; here there is only darkness.
In that darkness, it’s so easy to just sit and wallow. As stated, some days that’s how I start my morning, and some days that’s all I do: wallow in the pit.
I know how to get out of the metaphorical hole, but – Dear Lord! – it looks so difficult. It looks impossible, even though I know it’s not. I know that there are steps. The first step is throwing off the covers. The cold hits me right away, and I'm tempted to stop the journey before it can begin. The second step is pulling my body from a sleeping position to a sitting position. The temptation here is to stare at the wall and disassociate. I allow this, but only for a few seconds.
“You’ve come so far!” I tell myself, “Don’t give up now!”
I breathe deeply and, in one fluid motion, I rise. There are no balloons, parades, or marching bands, but it feels like a victory. I am not happy; goodness no! I’m still so very sad, but unlike in the bed, this sadness is accompanied by a stupid little thing called hope. I have hope that once I wash my face, make my bed, take my medication, and have my blessed coffee, I will feel better. Perhaps I won’t feel good, but I will feel better, and I can build on better – much more than I can build on sadness.
Dreaming about my future and the life that could be is not innately unhealthy; goals and aspirations are important for any individual as we move through life, but aspirations can turn into questions of, “Then why isn’t it like that now? What am I doing wrong?”
I stand on one side of the canyon, but I cannot spend too much time considering the other. The weight of wanting is sometimes too great to bear. Being ambitious and having a goal needs, like so many other things in life, balance.
As I stand and actually begin my routine, inertia follows suit and I start to feel relief.
Of course, this is not to say that my mood continues in a straight line upwards. As my lovely therapist is constantly reminding me: healing is not linear. Throughout the day, I feel the pull of depression and anxiety. I sneak a quick glance into the pit and the comfort of its nihilism calls to me. Again, I have to pull myself back and hold onto hope. Sometimes I just have hope that there is hope. I have to willingly make the decision that eventually I feel better because the other option is despair and wasting away. I am continually making the choice to be better, and with continually choosing to get up, if for no other reason than because I’m so sick of feeling sad and giving happiness over to someone or something that doesn’t know I’m alive.
It’s a battle and no one has any idea. The celebration is a one-woman party. This isn’t the kind of achievement that you feel comfortable discussing. I can’t call up my friends and giddily inform them that I didn’t kill myself today. My sister and my cousins flash their engagement rings and adorable chubby babies; my fading scars are pale in comparison, but the fact that they are healing is something. It’s something to me.
All of this floods my brain in the morning, and it’s all of this that I have to wage war against. All of this I – more or less – conquer as I rise and cling desperately to hope. And nobody has any idea.
It’s hard out there, friends. Be kind to one another.
here to edit.

​

In lieu of an actual blog (since things are kind of busy right now), I've decided to simply post some of the mini projects I've been working on here in grad school.  My classes this semester are Creative Writing Workshop, Dramatic Structure, Screenwriting, and Dissertation Preparation. 

I was more than a little nervous when I looked at my class schedule (especially when I compared it to Melody's incredibly hectic workload over at East 15), but my tutor assured me that I am taking enough classes (one of my worries) and that I will need the "free time" (not in class) for projects.  

Before we get to the works of fiction, let's give you some updates.  Story time!

If you read my last UK update, you'll remember that I was struggling to obtain my ADHD medication; the news my doctor had given me (about needing to be re-diagnosed AND finding a specialist AND waiting one-two years for said specialist) had really sent me into a tailspin.  Well, upon receiving my official letter of diagnosis from my US doctor (thanks, Paula!), I went BACK to my UK office (surgery) and ended up meeting with a different doctor who had a starkly different opinion on my predicament. 
When asked how long I'd been on Vyvanse and I told him it'd been over a year, he seemed far more optimistic about the time frame...especially since I had an actual letter from an actual doctor.  He said he'd discuss the issue with the medication stuff and hopefully get back to me by the end of the day what that time frame would look like.

I went into this appointment merely to get a better understanding of my options and hopefully to get the ball rolling on ONE DAY getting my medication through NHS.  I was planning on still reaching out to various private organizations (thanks, Amanda Shoe, for suggesting some!) and I asked Dr. Ahmad if he could recommend a specialist.  To my surprise, he advised me to hold off on finding a private doctor until he knew for sure what the medication staff would say.  I chalked that up to hopeful optimism and left still trying financially plan for this massive £500 bill that was in my future.

And then the next day I got a text message from my doctor's office saying that my medication had been sent to my pharmacy. 

I stared at the screen, unsure what to make of that. 

Surely that didn't mean that I could just go pick it up, right?  Surely that meant that the prescription had been sent over, but the pharmacy would reject it or come back with news that they were out of the stimulant (as the pharmacies always were).  I gave it a few days (still with several capsules of Vyvanse to get me through).  And then on Friday, I finally just called the pharmacy to ask if they, indeed, had my medication.

The very nice woman on the other end put me on hold to check, and that wait seemed like an eternity.  

When she came back, I had to verify my date of birth and then (ever so nonchalantly), she replied, "Yes, it's here and ready to be picked up."

I was silent for several moments, "It's...it's ready?  As in...I can just show up and pick up the medication?"

The pharmacy technician was clearly confused, "Yes.  You can come pick it up."

I searched my mind for any reason why this couldn't be true and fumbled a bit more.

"And, uh...it's Vyvanse, right?  I mean...its not called that in the UK...I'm from the US...and it's not called that here in the UK but it's Vyvanse, right?  The UK version of Vyvanse?"

I was beginning to spiral but in a good way.

"The medication I have here for you is Elvanse," she said plainly, her sober English tone bordering very close to annoyance.  I hardly blamed her.

"I'm on my way now!" 

"Alright, darling."

I practically ran to the pharmacy and even as I walked in, I couldn't believe it.  Even the technician handed me the little white and green bag, I couldn't believe it.  I definitely didn't believe it when the cost came to £9 for a 28-day supply (that comes out to a little over $9.  Back in the States, I paid $70 for the same medication.)  I kept thanking the pharmacy staff, which I'm sure only added to my newfound reputation as the flighty, over excitable American.  

I called my group chat with Melody, Lauren, and Allison and left a very long voice message that was mainly me just panting and rambling: panting because I was excited and because I was running.  

When talking about the incident later with Melody, she very wisely pointed out (I'm going to misquote her a bit here, but the general vibe is still there), "When dealing with anything medical, always get two people's opinions.  Honestly, though, that kinda works for anything in life.  Always ask at least two people.  Never take one person's view as the gospel truth."

(For the record, I do not hold any ill feelings towards the first doctor who gave me the grim news of a one-two year wait; I am sure that she was operating the best of her ability with the knowledge that she had at the time.  Doctors are amazing and can't be expected to be connoisseurs of every medical thing under the sun. I am glad that I went back and glad that I was proactive.  Executive dysfunction is sometimes very difficult for me, especially when it's things that you need to do.)

Second story (not as long as the first one!)

I am having a really amazing time, BUT it has occurred to me that I am often alone.  As I get older (and I partially blame the pandemic), it's become incredibly easy to just be a little introverted homebody.  Back in Milwaukee, if I wasn't at work or being pulled along to social events with Melody, I rarely went out.  Now that I'm not at Starbucks and don't live with Melody, I have to find my own forms of meeting people.  (YIKES!) 
Because of this, I'm trying to attend more events and push myself outside of my comfort zone.  One such event was this past Friday: an open mic for musicians at Lakeside Theatre on campus.  I am not a musician in ANY form, but I thought it would be a good way to get out of the apartment, support the arts, and maybe meet some people. 

I had spent the day writing, doing chores, talking with my sister, going to the gym, etc. and by the time 6pm rolled around, I was looking for any excuse not to go.  I don't want to put on makeup, it's too cold outside, it's too far of a walk from the bus station...on and on it went.  But I did end up going if for no other reason than to be able to say I tried.  

And I'm really glad that I went.  As stated above, I am not musically trained in anything so anyone who has that talent and that drive to practice is like a friggen superhero to me.  There were varying levels of talent and experience on the stage, but I still marveled at them all.  How do you play the piano and sing AT THE SAME TIME?!?  You're basically playing two instruments simultaneously and that's mind-boggling to me. 

I spied a poster advertising the next open mic event...spoken word poetry.  As I listened to the music, the idea entered my mind that maybe I should give that a try.  The actual event isn't until the end of November so that would give me plenty of time to pick something and practice.  Before I lost my nerve, I pulled out my phone and emailed the address listed on the poster, asking if I could join the spoken word open mic.  

The MC approached the mic at one point and announced that several spots were still open and if anyone wanted to perform anything, they could do that. 

"Anything," they said, "...you don't even have to sing or play an instrument!  Read some poetry, whatever."


A thought, spurred on by a glass of sauvignon blanc, entered my mind: Oh! I could do that!  

It was almost immediately followed by a second thought: No, you can't!  You could never do that! What would you even read? You need time to prepare!  You don't have makeup on!  You'll mess up and everyone here will remember you as that weird woman who read poetry at an event for musicians!  Sure, the MC said you could do it, but they probably didn't mean it.  Don't embarrass yourself in front of these people, Deanna!

I went back and forth and back and forth...

I got up and stared at the sign-up sheet and then lost my nerve and sat back down.  I got up again and stared at the sign-up sheet.  While the anxiety still banged its pots and pans, it couldn't drown out two overwhelming thoughts: 

1) I have been on campus for over a month now and I have never seen any these people before.  None of them are in any of my class.  If I mess up, then who cares?  I will probably never see any of them ever again.  
2) If I don't sign-up, I'm going to regret it.  This journey is supposed to be about doing the things you said you could never do, Deanna, so sign the fucking sheet and do it.


So with very little make-up on my face (found out after the fact I had a smear of lipstick across my teeth) and a poem I'd written seven years ago, I wrote my name down, got another glass of wine, and waited my turn.

I definitely messed up more than once and I know that I moved around too much (something my undergraduate theatre professions accused me of regularly.  Jay would be so disappointed.) But I did it.  And it was fun.  I haven't acted in anything (really) in over two years and that sweet rush of adrenaline felt good.  It felt good to be seen and to speak and have people looking at me.  Whether their applause was out of politeness or not, their feedback was not the end goal of the night.  The point of it all was just do it.  And I did it.  

People did applaud, and some even approached me afterwards to tell me how much they appreciated my poem (I'll include it below.)  I handed out a few business cards and got into a great small conversation with someone named Maria (we exchanged Instagram handles) about what it's like going back to school in your 30s and how smelly some 18-year-olds are.

Do the thing.  Just do the thing.


I'm done telling myself that I "can't do" that thing. 

Now, onto the works...

(This is the poem I read at the old mic event)

:::

I had a conversation with my thirteen-year-old self the other day
She smiled politely, but I could tell
She had questions
Thirteen-year-old me is not a very good liar
“Okay,” I said, “What do you think?”
She was quiet for a moment and then,
“You’re very pretty”
Thirteen-year-old me is not a very good liar
“No, really. What do you think?”
She was about to open her mouth when I added
“And you can tell me the truth
I don’t care too much for bullshit”
Her eyes widened
Thirteen-year-old me can’t believe I just said bullshit
“It’s just…”
She started
Not making eye contact
Wiggling too much
Uncomfortable in her own skin
“It’s just…you’re not…very…”
The words drip out of her like molasses
Slowly…so slowly…
“Thin”
She finally says
“You’re kind of…fat”
Twenty-seven-year-old me is a somewhat better liar than she is
That remark stings
But I don’t let her know
She continues to stumble on her words,
“I just thought. Maybe
MAYBE
By now you’d have figured the whole fat thing out”
I almost laughed
But I knew what a fragile doll she is
“What else?”
Thirteen-year-old me eyed my left hand
I  laughed
“Nope. Still fat. Still single.”
“Do you live on Broadway?” She asked
I shook my head
“Milwaukee”
“Oh! Do you work at the Milwaukee Repertory Theatre?”
I laughed again
“No
I’ve worked at some theatres
Had some plays produced
Directed a little”
I wanted to explain that the Rep gets their actors from New York
Or Chicago these days
But I didn’t think that will help the situation
“And you’re…how old are you again?”
“Twenty-seven”
I may as well have told her I was a hundred and two
She wanted to ask so badly
She wanted to ask the same question I’ve asked myself
Every day
Every night
The difference between twenty-four and twenty-five
Was day and night
One day I was a recent college graduate trying to figure it out
And then I was an adult with nothing figured out
She wanted to ask so badly
And finally she did
“So…what exactly have you done with your life?”
“Well…
Like I said…
I’ve worked at a couple theatres
Nothing too fancy
But I’m trying
I’m trying really hard”
Before I could say more, she began to cry
She’d held it in so long
She’d taken deep breaths and blinked
Trying to push back the feelings
But she couldn’t do that forever
And here they are
She began to cry
And just like that, the grief tuned to anger
At bone-crushing speed, she jumped from one to the other,
A telltale sign of a diagnosis
She won’t get for another five years
“What have you done with your life?!”
She demanded it now
The fury in her eyes comes from sorrow
Sorrow and fear
That we all end up the same way
Single
Fat
Not at the Milwaukee Repertory Theatre
Complacent
She goes home every day to complacency
It’s another member of the family
Who sits at the dinner table
And follows her to bed
Who goes out to restaurants with her
And orders the same thing over and over again
Always saying, “This time…something new”
But something new never comes
She wanted to know so badly that somewhere along the line
Complacency died
I knew this
I knew she was speaking in anger
But we’re so much alike
I couldn’t help but speak in anger, too
“Let’s get a few things straight here, little miss,”
I started,
“You don’t know anything
I don’t know anything, but you
You know even less
You are
Stupid"
And then
The two of us were crying
For even though time separates us
One facet of our beings has never changed:
The need to be self destructive
We were crying
Wheezing
On the verge of hyperventilating
We were so upset with ourselves
And then we took a breath
Age (and drugs)
Have helped me come up from the lows faster than she does
She was sobbing still when I finally said,
“This life is not that bad
This life is truthful
You wanted to walk out of high school
And marry a movie star
You walked out of high school
And got educated
You took a road trip
You threatened to leave
You did leave
You wrote terrible plays
That people will always remember
You wrote incredible plays
That people somehow forget
You stood at the bow of the catamaran
And chased whales across the Pacific
There’s a dog
And several men
And an angel
And everything in between
This is not the life you wanted
But it is a life”
I wanted to tell her to ask Dad more questions
I wanted to warn her about the car accidents
I wanted to suggest a thousand things
But the future is hers
And no one likes spoilers