 (in no particular order)1) A Two Woman Hamlet It is impossible to talk about this past year without talking about this show. I could go on and on about it, but I’ll do my best to condense my thoughts here. Various people throughout my theatrical education career have a) made it seem as though or b) told me outright that classical acting (specifically shows written in verse) are not my forte. Like writing, my acting abilities lie more in informal and everyday language rather than anything poetic. That being said, ever since I first read Hamlet back in high school, I have wanted to be a part of it somehow. (Gestures at my play “Dancing With Hamlet”.) Just before I left for the UK, SummerStage (one of my favorite theatres to work at in Wisconsin) did Hamlet, and I was extremely tempted to audition. I knew that I wouldn’t land any big roles, but I wanted to be able to say that I had done a production of the show so even being “third Danish person from the left” would be a big deal for me. In the end, I decided not to audition for both practical reasons (the performances were very close to when I was leaving) and personal reasons (I probably wouldn’t be cast anyway so why bother?) Cut to January 2025 when I received an email for upcoming auditions. A Two Woman Hamlet. This was Deanna bait. It sounded amazing. But, it wasn’t like I would actually be able to do it. Very long story short, I hemmed and hawed about auditioning but decided to just go for it since I knew that I’d be upset with myself if I didn’t at least try. I remember vividly walking around campus before the auditions and battling my anxiety which just kept saying, “Why are you putting yourself through this? You have never been good at classical acting. This is a complete waste of time.” I will always be grateful to myself that I shoved that little voice aside and auditioned. The joke I keep telling everyone is that I felt like a Will Ferrell in a room full of Sir Patrick Stewarts. But I guess a Will Ferrell is what Nora wanted. Make no mistake, the process was difficult. I struggled with the language a lot. (What the hell is bisson rheum? Why do I keep saying “envious silver” when it’s “envious sliver”? And that friggin four successive kings in Denmark's crown line is gonna be the death of me!!!) I struggled with memorization way more than I thought I would. But I had this amazing team to fall back on and who believed in me way more than I believed in myself. At the risk of sounding dramatic (who am I kidding…I’m so dramatic) Nora has changed the trajectory of my life. I don’t think you understand: I have been told (vicariously or otherwise) by so many people that this type of acting is not for me. And I’m sure that Nora saw me struggle at auditions (or at least became painfully aware during the rehearsal process) but she didn’t give up on me. She gave me the room to fail and try new things. She listened to my insight and asked me what I thought about the characters. She didn’t kowtow to Shakespeare or marry herself to “how it's always done.” Our little team debated so many tiny aspects of these characters and gosh darn it, dramaturgy and character insight is why I get up in the morning, friends. It was a blast to breakdown these characters and try to insert our own understanding of them into the script. And then there’s Sharmila. Early on in the process, while waiting for the bus, Sharmila and I got into a conversation about life and theatre. When we eventually parted, I felt weird, wondering if I had overshared things about my life and past struggles. This was maybe the second rehearsal and I worried that I’d thrown her into the “deep end” of my story too soon, but if Sharmila shared my sentiments, she didn’t show it. We bonded quickly, relying on each other during the craziness of this thing we called “the Hamlet game”. Nora has said that she was drawn to the pair of us because we both had great energy but it was a distinct energy from each other. I have to assume that Sharmila’s more classic and professional approach contrasts starkly with my “throw stuff at the wall and see what sticks” approach. This is not to say that I am not professional or that Sharmila is not filled with new creative ideas; I guess I’m just saying that Sharmila has always been pretty much word perfect with the text and I (ahem) have not been. Within our group is also Lolly and Marina. Lolly had a truly herculean job of playing understudy for both parts during our initial run and was good enough to step in for me during the Camden Fringe run. She does have an eye for direction and notices small things that I think others overlook. I predict amazing things for her. Marina, our movement director, was always so kind and understanding, hearing my worries and meeting me where I was. For a long time, I have also carried with me the idea that choreography (including fight choreography) was too difficult for me. I visibly tense up when someone mentions dance (ask Melody about that one workshop I attended with her). But Marina’s professionalism and kindness put me at ease. We have one more round of “the Hamlet game” coming up, and we’re shaking things up with Sharmila and I trading tracks. This means that I will, in fact, get to play the titular role, and I am over the moon about that. The role will include some pretty extensive fight choreography and lots of angsty monologues, but as long as I have my fellow Yorickans, I’m confident I can do this. 2) Theatre Production Practice Class (Dead Doves and Lemons…) I walked into Theatre Production Practice Class last January, unsure exactly what this whole thing was about. Quickly, I discovered it was centered on fringe theatre: writing it, marketing it, producing it, funding it, etc. Fringe theatre is not that big of a thing in the US (at least compared to the UK) so I was fairly lukewarm about it. Even though my script Summers in Prague had been produced at the Minnesota Fringe Festival, I still thought that fringe theatre was “less than” “real theatre”, meaning a 90+ minute show produced through a full fledged theatre company. On my first day of class, the instructor, Dr. Cameron Abbot-Betts (or just Cam), described fringe theatre, stating that it doesn’t have to appeal to a mainstream audience because it’s not for a mainstream audience thus it can tackle topics considered unorthodox or even taboo. This struck me for two reasons: it was a refreshing take on art because, yes, politics play a major role in theatres deciding what gets produced (who know who, what do we think audiences want, etc.) and I immediately compared fringe theatre to fan fiction. Both are not meant for the mainstream audience, both can tackle taboo topics, and both are easily (cheaply) made, thus possibly making them more accessible to a wider audience. The core project of this class would be to develop a show that one could theoretically take on tour to fringe festivals. At first, I assumed I’d just be reworking one of my already-established pieces to make it fringey, but all at once, an idea hit me: I need to write a show about fan fiction. I didn’t know what it would look like or if I’d even be able to do it (I’d never written a one-person show before), but the idea quickly consumed me, and I started that night. The first step was to create an online survey that I circulated on Tumblr (the fan fiction hotspot). I knew that my own story wasn’t enough to drive a narrative so I wanted to know about other people’s stories. I ended up doing three more surveys where I collected information such as favorite platforms, why people liked or disliked those platforms, why people got into writing fan fiction, what were tropes or “tags” that they looked for, what they thought were misunderstandings about people who read or write fan fiction, etc. Again, it was not all smooth sailing. I remember presenting the first ten minutes or so to the class and feeling really discouraged by some of the feedback I received. Not that the feedback was inherently bad, but a major hurdle Cam kept bringing up was the question of marketing: why would someone who has no understanding of fan fiction come see the show? It can’t just be a collection of niche jokes for a small group of people; what drives an audience to actually see it? There was a lot of writing and rewriting. There were several workshop readings where I subjected my classmates to each new rendition of the script. I don’t know that I was ever as nervous over a performance as I was for that first staged reading at The Cockpit back in June. Yes, I’d done the show for my class, but these were strangers who had no connection to me or the show. That initial feedback meant so much to me, given how relatively quickly the show had come into existence. From there, I kept working the script and took it to Lambeth Fringe and Colchester Fringe. While both were great experiences, the latter was obviously tremendous. Marketing the show continues to be a struggle, but I learned so much. I am in love with the concept of fringe theatre now because it allows me a great deal of freedom. Before, I was more or less tied to the whims of a play-reading committee, but self-producing (like writing fan fiction) is far easier in terms of getting your words and art out there. It is not the only avenue I will pursue, but it is a worthy one. 3) Portugal with Lauren and Melody Melody and Lauren might be a bit surprised to see this on the list, given how cranky I was during most of it. For one reason or another, I did not get a lot of sleep while in Portugal so I wasn’t really myself. I felt moody and distant, but even so, I look back on those two(ish) weeks with fondness. Portugal is friggin beautiful and the fact that Lauren’s friend Susie opened her house to us for a few days is even more magical. Shell-picking, skinny-dipping, chasing ducks, picking fresh eucalyptus, exploring farmer’s markets, surviving a “real” earthquake, traipsing the beautiful mountains of Fujaco (or at least looking at them), and more. There were some difficult times and a few arguments because traveling can be stressful. Moreover, being in relationships (yes, friendships are relationships) can be stressful. Melody and I have entered into a new phase of our friendship because we don’t see each other as much as we used to (seeing as we don’t live together anymore). That means that things are being tested. We are learning and growing – about ourselves, about each other, and about our friendship. Even in arguments, you’ll learn and grow. And, hopefully, the relationship grows, too. 4) Fun 4 Kids I struggled for a long time to find a job here in the UK. I assumed that, given my years of experience, finding work at a coffee shop would be easy, but for whatever reason, I could not land it. Come April/May, I was applying all of the time and maybe getting an interview, but nothing ever went anywhere. Being on the student visa, I was only allowed to work 20 hours per week during term, but that was alright with me given that I wanted something very part time so that I had time to write and act. Eventually, I picked up a job at Sainsbury’s as an “online assistant” meaning I put together the online orders by walking across the store and selecting items customers had purchased. It was not ideal by any means, but I desperately needed something. It required me to be at work by 4am and because the buses did not run that early, prior to moving to Stanway, I had to take an Uber every morning. That became expensive, but I did what I had to, needing to start making some sort of income. I left the job – not because of the hours though that was an issue. I left because, as an oline assistant, I had certain numbers I had to hit: the dreaded IPH (items per hour). Very long story short, my average IPH one week was 185, and my supervisor took me in the back room to have a discussion on how we can up that number. It had to be 190, and if I didn’t hit 190, they would have to let me go. I was flabbergasted and insulted. Anyone who knows me will tell you that I am a fast walker. I was pushing and straining to hit the numbers I was. Day after day of being told that I wasn’t good enough and all while dangling employment over my head eventually got to me. I left without a two weeks notice and without having another job lined up. (Yes, not my most adult choice, but I was angry.) I sent a text messages to the two managers in my phone saying, “Now you will have to take time and money to train someone new, and hopefully they will be able to hit the kind of numbers I was consistently hitting. You could have kept a good employee, but, instead, you chose an arbitrary number over me. This is not a good way to run a business, and you will burn through employees.” I highly doubt my little rebellion had any effect and I know that these particular managers were not actually the ones making the rules, but it felt really good to send that text message. I limped along for another month or so, trying to find anything and hoping that they wouldn’t treat me like a piece of meat. I worried that I’d have to go back to the States. And then I got an email. A recruiter representing a company called Fun 4 Kids had stumbled upon my profile on Indeed and wondered if they could put me in contact with the company. Given my background in childcare, I seemed like a good fit for their newly opened Deputy Manager position in Colchester. I jumped at the chance, though, I did partially assume that it had to be some kind of scam. I’d faced so much rejection and now this company was reaching out to me. It’s not like I hadn’t considered going back to childcare, but safeguarding standards are very different in the UK and every job opportunity required certain qualifications that I didn’t have. When I explained this to the recruiter, they didn’t seem bothered by that and said that Fun 4 Kids would offer me the necessary training. I went in to meet with the manager of the Colchester club and see how things worked before having a formal interview with the director. The interview went really well, but unfortunately, I was passed over for the Deputy Manager job, but then the admin manager asked if I was interested in a standard teacher (Playmaker) role. It would be less money, but the Colchester location was, indeed, in need of staff. I started my job officially at the beginning of November and have been there ever since. And I really like it. It’s stressful, make no mistake. I get these kids right after they get done with school so they can be pretty rambunctious, but they also can be really sweet, insightful, and hilarious. I am making way less money than I was at the grocery store, but I am appreciated in ways that I simply wasn’t before. I’m thanked and complimented regularly by my amazing team. When I make a mistake, people are eager to help and don’t patronize me. After so many months of rejection and then the awful experience of working for Sainsbury’s, I am so incredibly grateful to have this job. It’s very part time and does not require me to be up at the crack of dawn. And, honestly, I am really relieved that I didn’t get the Deputy Manager role because that just seems like way too much responsibility.  5) Every production of The Cafe Mocha Murders and Exit Stage Riley I’m coming into a new era of theatre where I am self-producing more, but I am still continually grateful for the opportunities where my already-established shows can shine. The Cafe Mocha Murders continue to be my most produced show, but Exit Stage Riley had a few productions of its own. I appreciate anyone who picks up one of my scripts and thinks, “Yeah, I’d like to try this.” Thank you for taking a chance on me. Shout out to Box In The Wood Theatre Guild (Shawano, Wisconsin), Red Door Drama Society (Winston-Salem, North Carolina), Eisenhower Middle/High School (New Berlin, WI), Warner Robins Little Theatre (Warners Robin, GA), and many more! 6) Attempting to write a doctorate proposal In an attempt to stay in the UK and make myself more hire-able, I began considering a doctorate this past spring. I had coffee with Nora where she laid everything out for me, including telling me that I was, indeed, “academic enough” to figure this out, despite my worries that I was not. I am coming at the idea of the doctorate program with an open mind because I do not want to take out another student loan so any program that I join needs to provide funding. I am applying and chatting with prospective supervisors, but I am not married to the idea. That being said, it has been quite (dare I say) fun to write up this proposal. I scoured the internet and found a bunch of proposal examples because I really had no idea how one even begins to write one. Now, having gotten lots of feedback from my academic-minded friends, the whole process is less-terrifying but still daunting. My plan is to remain in the UK for as long as I can (or as long as it brings me joy) because I find being an artist much more accessible out here. Once I am (hopefully) approved for the Global Talent Visa, I can apply for funding through the government to back some of my projects (most likely Dead Doves and Lemons) and help me develop it as well as tour with it. The goal is kind of what I’m doing now: a part time job that supplements my income and keeps me afloat while I make some passive income off of the selling of scripts and productions rights as well as touring with my shows, hosting workshops, etc. If I get into a doctorate program that offers funding, excellent. If not, that’s okay, too. My proposal involves examining the Queen of Sheba, whose story is an excellent example of politics and societal norms changing a narrative over time, combined with looking at different theatrical genres or movements and how they themselves can affect how stories are told. 7) Finishing my Master’s degree This one was simultaneously exciting and expected. Did I genuinely think that I was going to fail my dissertation? No. Was I still incredibly anxious about it? Absolutely. Passing meant being able to apply for a new Visa, though I’m sure that failing would not have automatically meant getting shipped back to the States. The actual writing of my play Letters From the Tower was not really the hard part; it was the accompanying essay that outlined the writing process, inspirations, and future plans for the show that made me nervous. It turns out that two of my coworkers at Fun 4 Kids had also finished their respective Master’s programs and were waiting for their results. All of November became a waiting game of us checking in with each other and bemoaning how long grading was taking. Eventually, one of my coworkers got his results and he brought cookies for us all to celebrate his official completion. Jokingly, my other coworker and I made fun of him as we continued to wait. One night, after work and waiting for the bus, I checked my email yet again and there it was: the notification that my results were in. My hands were shaking as I opened the email and followed the respective links. I passed and with distinction! I was so busy freaking out and reading the feedback that I missed the next two buses that could have taken me home (And I got catcalled while rereading my supervisor’s feedback. Gross. Stop. Go away, you disgusting man. I just kept ignoring him until eventually he drove away.) The next day, I ran to Tesco before coming into work to pick up some brownie and flapjack bites. When I announced to my coworkers that I, too, had brought in treats to celebrate my finished Master’s degree, everyone started laughing. My coworker who just yesterday was waiting for her results also had received her marks and had brought in treats to celebrate her completion. We teachers ate really well that week. 8) My last really good conversation with Mom I talked about this a bit back in August, but it bears repeating. Mom had been going through a series of ups and downs really ever since Dad passed back in 2020. I have no doubt that, in some small way at least, the toll of losing him played a part in her decline. I was waiting for a bus with Melody while we were in Portugal when I finally said it aloud: “I think my mom is dying.” I actually surprised myself by saying it because I wasn’t entirely sure if I believed it, but the fact of the matter is that Mom was showing a lot of the same signs I’d seen in my dad just before he passed including severe mental fog, loss of appetite, and spending most of her time sleeping. It was July and she had been in the hospital or some rehab clinic since February. Just before I left for Portugal, I had a chat with her where she expressed surprise and excitement about my upcoming trip, even declaring, “You never mentioned you were going to Portugal!” I had, in fact, mentioned this various times, and I soon realized that bringing this up only made Mom feel awful so I began feigning ignorance and would say things like, “Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry, Mom. I can’t believe I never told you. It must have slipped my mind.” Sometime at the end of June, however, (I’m pretty sure it was then) I had a really good conversation with her. Back in October of 2024, the Essex Student Union hosted a houseplant sale on campus, and I bought a cordyline fruticosa plant, lovingly naming her Miranda (after Miranda Richardson). While in my care, however, Miranda was struggling to thrive, losing leaves or developing yellow spots on the leaves that stuck around. During this particular phone call with Mom, she was especially sad, convinced that she was never going to get better. Being so far away, I didn’t know what help I could offer so I tried to lift her spirits by asking her questions about Miranda and how best to care for the plant. Mom, who had always been an avid gardener, had great advice and what started off as an attempt at placation soon turned into a genuinely lovely conversation. I was in my bathroom, squatting over a garbage can and picking off pieces of root rot with my mom on speaker phone when I realized that she was laughing. We both were. It turns out Miranda’s issues were twofold: I was watering her too much (thus the root rot) and she was getting too much direct sunlight (thus the yellowing spots). I had other conversations with Mom after that, but that was really the last time I truly talked to her. Miranda is still struggling (I think it’s mostly seasonal dormancy), but she’s come to symbolise a really special moment in time, and I will fight to keep her alive. 9) The love and support I received after Mom’s passing After getting the phone call from Dana that Mom had, indeed, passed, I entered a state of shock. I pride myself on being pretty decisive (for better or worse) but this was a new sensation. I simply did not know what to do. Should I book a ticket home right now? Should I cancel my Camden Fringe shows? Do I go to bed and pretend none of this is happening? The first person I called after getting off the phone with my sister was Melody who promptly dropped everything and grabbed a train to Colchester. I remember telling her my dilemma about indecision and saying, “I just need someone to tell me what to do. Tell me to do something.” She stayed the night (sleeping on my floor) and took me out for brunch the next morning. I still had a million things to do, but those small moments of normalcy felt amazing. Just having someone there to ground me was so helpful. The truth is that I had a somewhat complicated relationship with my mom; I loved her and I know with every fiber of my being that she loved me, but it had not always been easy for us (especially during my teenage years). My denial, my grief, and my vast array of emotions made the weeks following August 6th especially tumultuous. But, just as Mr. Rogers had taught us, you look for the helpers. Melody was a helper. The Camden hotel that gave me a full refund for the room I no longer needed was a helper. The gentleman at Sainsbury’s (who took my call when I called into work, expressed genuine sadness at my situation, and assured me that he’d take care of everything) was a helper. The Camden Fringe administrative team were helpers. My Two Woman Hamlet team were helpers (checking in on me and sending my family flowers). All of my Wisconsin friends who came to Mom’s memorial service (Lauren, Renee, Anastasia, Alex, John, Amanda) were helpers. The countless others who offered their condolences were helpers. All of the former babysitting kids who showed up to Mom’s service were helpers; it was so amazing to see you all! My brother-in-law Nick who took such good care of Dana was a helper. Everyone who checked in on my brother Will in the following days and weeks were helpers. The list goes on and on. Mom was an exceptional woman who touched many lives and gave so much. There were many gifts and opportunities she gave me, but perhaps the greatest thing both my parents afforded me was their support in pursuing my dreams. As I entered my senior year of high school, several of my peers remarked that, while they would like to pursue theatre, their parents simply wouldn’t allow it. I tentatively broached the subject with my own parents that I wanted to study acting, and Mom simply said, “Yeah. We know. Go for it.” Having never known what she wanted to do “when she grew up”, Mom was always adamant that her children should pursue whatever made them happy, and that included doing her best to see me perform in almost every show I did…including Hecuba which was, to put it mildly, not her favorite. 10) Being home for Christmas Not long after I returned home from Mom’s memorial service, I knew that I would want to be home for Christmas. It was another major factor that drove me to quit Sainsbury’s because I was positive that they would never give me enough time off especially around the holidays, but I also knew that Wisconsin was where I needed to be during that time. Unsurprisingly, my ten days home for Christmas were decidedly more fun than the ten-ish days home back in August, and while some of it was bittersweet, most of it was spent being silly with my nephews, catching up with Dana and Will, and seeing friends. One major highlight was taking my younger nephew, Noah, to an “arcade” (the play room at Pizza Ranch in Burlington) where we had a blast winning a bunch of stuff out of the claw machines. He specifically wanted to win me something and managed to get this little rubber duck that looks like a unicorn (pictured). I won three stuffed animals from another claw machine, all in the style of dachshunds that resembled elongated food items. Noah took home Popsicle Dog, I took home Banana Dog, and then Nicholas was gifted Pickle Dog. Another highlight was hearing how much Will liked his new job at IDC Precision in Mukwonago, especially that he no longer had to work in customer service and felt very appreciated there. I didn’t get as much time to hang out with friends as I would have liked, but that just made the little time I had all the more precious. Hopefully, I shall be back in the summer (but more on that later). Like any year, 2025 had some very high highs and some very low lows. As my first full year in the UK, it was pretty amazing and my only real resolution for the coming year is to continue on this trajectory of pushing myself further out of my comfort zone…and to live it up as the angsty prince of Denmark himself.
Woe and wonder ahead...
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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.
If you’d like to support me one my writing journey, consider joining Patreon or donate to my GoFundMe.  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. It’s been a while!
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