Blog

3/18/2025

UK Update 3/18

0 Comments

Read Now

A Two Woman Hamlet. I don’t know how to fully articulate how amazing this experience has been. Perhaps the best way to illustrate my adoration for the three other women with whom I’ve worked (Nora, Sharmila, and Lolly) is to talk about my most recent therapy session. “I’m just so worried,” I explained to my lovely therapist, “that since everything is going so well and we are all getting along, that means that something bad is going to happen. We’re going to get to know each other SO well that we grow to hate each other or MAYBE they never really liked me to begin with and they’re just pretending to like me or MAYBE–”
And then my therapist cut me off and taught me the word “catastrophizing.” It’s a cognitive distortion. Essentially, this is your anxiety talking, Deanna, not facts. We may very well get sick of each other as we move forward with the process, but we’re all professional individuals who (I believe) are capable of taking a step back if and when that happens.
Part of the struggles with A Two Woman Hamlet was (of course) learning lines. I haven’t been in a show since 2022, and the rehearsal process for this production was quite short. But I still had expectations of what I was supposed to achieve and learning the lines should have been a walk in the park. But, of course, they weren’t. I struggled a lot and rather than making me feel awful or yelling at me, Nora (and the rest of the crew) were so encouraging.
There was a three-day stretch there where we didn’t have any rehearsal, and I’d given myself the deadline of learning ALL OF MY LINES within those three days. The night before we went back to rehearsal, I realized that I was barely off book for Act 1 and called Lauren, Melody, and Allison crying. I didn’t want to let my team down, and I was beating myself up because I should have started learning lines sooner. (At this point, we still had about two weeks before opening but darn it Sharmila was basically completely off book and I didn’t want to disappoint her!)
Of course, Lauren, Melody, and Allison talked me off a ledge, and when I went into rehearsal the next day, I was honest about my struggles in learning the lines. Sharmila hadn’t arrived yet but Lolly and Nora showered me with encouragement and praise, assuring me that I was doing a great job and that what we were attempting to do was very demanding. Their praise prompted me to tell them how amazing they both were. And when Sharmila arrived, we had to shower her with praise, too! It was a very sweet, loving, and uncomplicated moment of four women believing in each other.
Furthermore, one day I wasn’t feeling 100% mentally (we all have blue days). I messaged Nora beforehand just to tell her that I was physically fine, but I didn’t feel like myself so if I was quieter or slower at rehearsal, that was why. She very lovingly told me that if I wasn’t feeling up to it, I didn’t have to come into rehearsal, but I hypothesized (correctly) that getting out of my apartment and doing crazy Shakespeare stuff might shake me out of this mental funk. She told me that if I (at any time) needed to leave rehearsal, there would be no questions asked. I don’t know if this solely had to do with me, but when I got to rehearsal, Nora began our warm-ups with a dance party. And it helped a lot. It’s a rare thing to find a leader who actually listens and understands mental health issues. Thanks, Nora.
And, yes, we are moving forward with A Two Woman Hamlet. I had coffee with the crew last week so we could talk about fringe festivals. The dates have not been officially solidified, but it looks as though we are definitely taking A Two Woman Hamlet to Camden Fringe this August which is neat.
Speaking of Camden Fringe, I am officially taking my one-woman show there: August 15th – 17th. Three performances, all at 4:30pm at Hen & Chickens Theatre.
The show (Dead Doves and Lemons OR Everything You’ve Ever Wanted To Know About Fan Fiction (but were too afraid to ask)) (yes, it’s a long title) was technically written for my Performance Project class, but I was having so much fun with it and was so intrigued by the idea of a fringe festival that I just decided to jump head first into the world of fringe theatre.
However, I had been so focused on A Two Woman Hamlet that I put Dead Doves and Lemons very much on the back burner. Perhaps it was not the greatest of moves to sign up for fringe festivals and start touting a show that was still a work-in-progress. My showcase was last week; thus, any respite after ATWH was short-lived as I jumped almost immediately into putting the finishing touches on my script, adding some sound cues, and hoping for the best. I had been workshopping the show with some of my classmates and they had very nice things to say about the piece, but they all have (at least some) basic understanding of the fan fiction world. I was terrified that the show wasn’t funny – to anyone but especially to people who have never heard of Archive of Our Own.
My fears were assuaged when I came in for a tech run with Lakeside’s Samuel and Harry. I kept hearing hearty chuckles from the light booth during the run of my show, and that gave me some confidence that I was headed in the right direction and this thing I’d been calling a comedy was, indeed, a comedy.
And then the actual showcase went very well! I got some really great feedback on the show and my professors commended me for doing so much in a short amount of time.
I know (I KNOW) that if you follow me on any of the social media platforms, you’ve already heard this but please allow me to shoot my shot. We still have a fundraiser going on through The University of Essex for Dead Doves and Lemons. The school hosts a crowdfunding platform for students to tackle projects. I’ve been told that asking for £3,000 is ambitious and probably won’t happen, but I’ll be ambitious and try. We’re currently at £1,034 which is amazing. (Here’s a link if you’re interested or want to learn more). Alright, thank you for allowing me to beg for money AGAIN. (And thank you to everyone who has donated already! I have to write Amanda Schumacher a piece of fan fiction. I’m guessing she’s going to ask for an Arnold/Helga fic, but I could be wrong.)
I’d like to maybe be able to take the show back to Milwaukee for a few performances so I can show all my friends and family what I’ve been working on, but we’ll see… ;)
Between A Two Woman Hamlet and Dead Doves and Lemons, I’ve had a lot of photos taken of me. And the ATWM photos are ones that I don’t have control over. As someone who has struggled for the vast majority of her life with body dysmorphia, it’s been shocking, scary, enlightening, terrible, and amazing all at the same time. I have a theory that we don’t like the way we look because we don’t look at ourselves enough; thus, we get shocked when we actually see ourselves. I look at my friends all the time because they’re right there in front of me and so I know that they might have a double chin or frizzy hair or yellowish teeth, but I don’t gawk at it because that’s just who they are. It’s them and I love them. Furthermore, those features take a backseat to the better attributes (both physical and personality-wise). We rarely have a chance to become accustomed to our own visage because we aren’t staring at ourselves the way that others are staring at us. What I’m trying to say is: go take some pictures of yourself and learn to love your beautiful face, gosh darn it!
I wrote a short story for Creative Writing Workshop last term, and it was published in a book of prose and poetry! Yay! Cannibalism!
Some of you might remember that when I first came here to the UK and found myself a GP, there was an issue with my ADHD medication. It was a confusing time because the first doctor I spoke to told me that I would have to get re-diagnosed but the waiting list to see a specialist was two years and there wasn’t much I could do BUT THEN the second doctor I spoke with said that they could most likely refill my medication right there due to something-or-other-NHS-medical-jargon-stuff. This second doctor got me my medication and things were going swimmingly. (Everyone at the pharmacy looks so sad when I say that I have to pay for my medication, but my Elvanse is £9 (about $11) here and cost me $70 back home…so I don’t really mind.
ANYWAY, things were going swimmingly until December. I got an email from my doctor’s office while I was in Scotland for Christmast saying that as of March 31st, I would have to get my ADHD medication through someone else (I’d have to find a specialist rather than do it through my general practitioner.) The email was addressed to me, but it was also very much directed at the government and Essex politicians: “These services, historically provided by secondary care, have in recent years moved into primary care but without the necessary resources to deliver them…There have been numerous requests in recent years to Suffolk and North-East Essex ICB that they properly commission and resource this…As they have chosen not to commission these services from us we have concluded that this work needs to transfer back to the hospital.” Essentially, the NHS is VERY underfunded and understaffed and GPs simply can’t have this extra bit of work. Which I understand. But is frustrating.
Because they gave me until March 31st, you’d think that would be plenty of time to find a specialist. And I did find one. And I asked my GP to refer me. And they did. And I filled out some forms. But scheduling an appointment can take 16 weeks (or more!). I got all the paperwork in at the beginning of February so theoretically that’s when my 16 weeks began. I’m getting my Elvanse next week so I will definitely have enough through April but what happens after that, I’m not sure. It’s not the two years that I was originally told, and I’m a bit more comfortable with going off my medication in the summer, compared to right in the middle of classes. The real issue, however, isn’t the lack of concentration (which is annoying) that comes from going off Elvanse but the withdrawal symptoms. My depression takes a nosedive and I have really blue days. The best thing I can do right now is keep checking in with my specialist, taking care of myself, and being honest with people if I am having bad mental days.
Despite all the wonderful things happening, my depression has been pretty awful lately. It’s not all the time, but when it does rear its head, it’s suffocating. I visited my GP today to A) absolutely positively verify that they were definitely going to cut me off of Elvanse starting March 31st (they are) and B) Was there anything we could do with my depression medication given how low I’ve been feeling lately? I know that everyone in the medical field is running on fumes so I’m trying to give my doctor some grace, but his bedside manner is (to put it mildly) not great. When I brought up the depression medication, he looked at my file and said, “Well, you’re on a pretty low dose right now. We can just double it. You wanna double it?” Theoretically, doubling the dosage sounds fine, but the nonchalant way he discussed it felt very…off. And then he rambled off, “With stuff like this, sometimes things get worse before they get better so if you have suicidal thoughts, call a helpline or 111. Right. Anything else I can do for you?” I suppose I’m grateful that we’re talking candidly about mental health and thoughts of self-harm; it’s good that it’s not a taboo subject one “simply does not discuss”…but perhaps we could do with a little more sensitivity.
I’m still struggling with finding work; to be perfectly frank, it’s been incredibly frustrating. THREE TIMES now I have gone in for an interview, felt it went very well, was assured that they were comfortable working with someone on a Student Visa, and then just never heard back from them. Twice it was for an afterschool teaching/daycare role and the last was for a local theatre. I call. I email. Nothing. They ghost me without so much as a, “We decided to go in a different direction.”
I’ve gotten into the habit of buying myself flowers every week when I go grocery shopping. I recently discovered that there’s an Aldi nearby, and they usually have a “bargain bin” of day-old flowers that are still in pretty good shape. It’s cheap and brightens up my room a little. I’m currently enjoying a small bouquet of “rainbow” tulips here on my desk.
I’m going to London this weekend because my (platonic) wife Melody is acting on Shakespere’s Globe!!!
I’m also going to Portugal in July with Melody and we’ll be catching up with Lauren! I have not seen Lauren since September and I’m so excited to sit on the Portugal beach with two of my favorite people and just chill.
Last thing: I’m sure I’ve talked about this before, but it bears repeating. I was nervous to study anything having to do with creative writing (once upon a time I said I would NEVER go to school for creative writing) because so much of this process is subjective. “What if my professor simply doesn’t like my style and then fails me?” I’m happy to report that that is not the case. Moreover, there’s so much of life (and so much of theatre) that feels like a competition. There has to be a winner: someone who is the best. But working with my classmates hasn’t felt like that. They create something that is amazing, and the amazingness of their art doesn’t take away from the amazingness of my art. We can both be artists creating something and making the world a better place without having to choose one over the other. I haven’t been to many fringe festivals, but I’m anticipating seeing a lot this summer and autumn, and I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m going to enjoy myself. We’re all artists creating our own work. We need each other.

If you’d like to support me one my writing journey, consider joining Patreon or donate to my GoFundMe.

0 Comments

3/11/2025

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.

0 Comments

2/1/2025

January UK Update (Yes, I know it's February 1st)

0 Comments

Read Now

It’s been a while!

My second term started up and I am staying VERY busy with lots of projects.
Because I am not in classes as much as I had anticipated, I’m looking at my time here as like a (very expensive) writer’s retreat. It’s given me time to work on projects I’ve always wanted to tackle as well as try new things – because my professors told me to.
One thing I’m working on is a one-woman-show. Specifically, it’s for a class taught by the director of the Colchester Fringe Festival (Cam is so cool!) We’re going to learn how to market, budget, and develop shows, and while this knowledge can be applied to other types of shows and different theatre needs, for the class we have to develop a show that could potentially be produced at a fringe festival. Because I’ve never written a one-woman (or person) - show before, I thought that would be a fun challenge. I don’t know if I will actually take it to a fringe festival, but I’m looking forward to dipping my toes into this area of storytelling.
While discussing what fringe theatre is in the class, I saw a lot of similarities between fringe theatre and fan fiction: smaller scale, topics that usually aren’t (or can’t be) discussed in the more mainstream platforms, sometimes looked down on as being “less than” because it isn’t “professional” enough, etc. From that retaliation, I decided (almost immediately) to write a show about fan fiction. I had no idea what that looked like or what exactly I was going to do. I did know that my own personal story surrounding how I got into writing fan fiction wasn’t enough to sustain a 60(ish) minute play so I created a couple surveys on Google Forms and shared it on Tumblr. I reached out to the fan fic readers and writers there, asking them to share their stories and insights on why they started reading and/or writing fan fiction, what they like about the community, what they don’t like about the community, what is the biggest misconception about fan fiction and those who love it, and more. Like I said, I have NO idea if this idea will work (Cam said it “had legs”), but the past week has been a rollercoaster ride of learning about The Organization for Transformative Works, copyright laws, the original Spock and Kirk slash fics, the Omegaverse court case, and more. I’m having fun! We’ll see what happens!
In addition to writing, I am also in a play! I am acting in a play! I have not acted in a play in three years (Tessa’s Tip-Tapping Toes back in 2022 was the last thing I did). What’s more, the show is called A Two-Woman Hamlet. Yes, Hamlet! If you know me, you know that Hamlet is my favorite Shakespeare play. (Gestures at MY script Dancing With Hamlet.) If you would ask me, “Deanna, what is your dream role?” I would hem and haw and be embarrassed to admit it, but I would say, “Anything in Hamlet.” And now I’M GOING TO DO IT! A production went to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival a few years ago, and now Dr. Nora (so lovely), a former lecturer at the University of Essex, wanted to produce it – hopefully take it to a couple of fringe festivals in the area. For the time being, we only have a staged rehearsal coming up in March at the Lakeside Theatre. BUT I wasn’t even going to audition because, while I love Shakespeare (and LOVE Hamlet), acting Shakespeare is not my strongest suit. However, I had spent a lot of time alone last term (writing can be a very solitary profession); thus, I wanted to push myself, get out, and go meet some people. I went to the audition to socialize. And while in the auditions, I did kinda feel like a fish out of water. The way I described it to people is that I felt like a Will Ferrell in a room full of Sir Patrick Stewarts. I told myself, “I’m not good at this classical acting stuff, so I’m just going to have fun and be ridiculous. They’re telling me it’s a comedy so let’s make it a comedy.” And to my great shock, I was cast! I had my first rehearsal on Sunday, and I’m so excited to scratch this acting itch again. We basically just sat around for four hours, doing script analysis, discussing character relationships, laughing more than was probably appropriate for a Shakespearean tragedy, and reiterating that Hamlet desperately needs to see a therapist. As the title suggests, it’s a two-person show and my costar is the lovely Sharmila. Unlike something like Adam Long, Daniel Singer, and Jess Winfield rendition (The Complete Works of Shakespeare Abridged), this script is not a paraphrased comedy but features the actual text. As stated, classical acting is not something I have a lot of experience with, but so far I am enjoying the challenge.
On top of all of that, I am directing a staged reading (or “staged rehearsal” as it’s often called in the UK) at the Lakeside Theatre. My cast is delightful and so talented. I couldn't have in-person auditions so I just held virtual ones: fill out this Google form (so many Google forms) and send in a 1-2 minute monologue. I know now that if I’m ever in this situation again, I need to specifically ask for comedic monologues because I was very lucky with the amount of people who sent me material, but the vast majority of the work I received was heart-wrenching dramatic pieces. I kind of had to take a leap of faith when casting some of the actors and hoped that they could pull off the comedic elements of the script, and – luckily – I banked on the right actors. I also made buttons! (Visit my RedBubble page!)
I also got a new tattoo. It’s a nightingale holding a love letter, and it has several meanings to me. One of my favorite playwrights is Oscar Wilde and he has a truly beautiful short story entitled The Nightingale and the Rose. It’s largely about superficial love versus true love, but I also see elements of the artist’s struggle in it – how you can give everything to create a beautiful thing and still someone may never be able to see its value. A year and half ago, I got back into the world of fan fiction and have really (really) loved being a part of this community. It’s been a great outlet for me to channel my hyper-fixation energy and has helped me remember why I liked writing in the first place: because it’s fun. I love a good love story so my little nightingale delivering a love note is a nod to that part of my love as well. (And, of course, I’d be lying if I said the tattoo is also paying homage to Good Omens, which is a show that has had a profound effect on me.) I stumbled upon this artist (Caleb Bauer) on Tumblr back in September and fell in love with his work. He mentioned that he enjoyed designing tattoos so – unsure what I wanted – I sent him a message, wondering if he’d be interested in designing something for me. After some back-and-forth, he came up with my nightingale dude, and then I let it sit for a few months just to make sure that I actually wanted it. And I did. I got the actual tattoo at Inkwell in Colchester; Harry was my tattoo artist and he is amazing. (He’s currently in Australia with his partner and is low-key terrified of spiders so keep him in your thoughts and prayers.)
I turned 35 a few weeks ago, and that seems so strange to me because – in many ways – I still feel like a twenty-something college graduate who is just floundering and trying to figure things out. The day itself, though, was pretty magnificent and involved heading out to a local coffee shop (that has a ton of board games) and playing for several hours. After that, Melody and I sat around the cinema room at my apartment complex, ate too much pizza, and watched Mystery Science Theatre 3000. All in all, a perfect birthday.
Looking back, Christmas break was rough for me, and that was mainly because I had so much free time and spent a lot of it alone. I tend to get caught up in my projects and can easily spend days buried in my work. I say that this is all fine, but I’m not kidding when I say that several days would go by and I never talked face-to-face with another human being. I am also still struggling to find a job but am trying to remain hopeful. As I said, I’m working on putting myself out there more. Back in the States, I had several extroverted friends as well as Starbucks – both forced me to get out of my apartment and go talk to people. Now that I don’t have those, it’s up to me to form relationships. The various projects I have coming up are helping and I have a standing twice-a-month “date” with some of my classmates to meet up at the same coffee shop we went to on my birthday and play games. But this all happens because I make the choice to go out and talk to people. It’s something I’ve battled for the better part of my life: I am an introvert, and being alone can be very comfortable but it can also drive a person crazy.
I recently got into a new podcast called What Went Wrong. It’s all about the film industry and, while on the surface, it seems like its sole purpose is to make fun of terrible movies, it’s actually more about the politics that go into making films and the drama that can take a great idea into a box-office flop. (I highly recommend this podcast!) While discussing several of the Star Wars films, hosts Lizzie and Chris examine George Lucas, and their main conclusion on him is that he is a brilliant and extremely creative movie master…but he’s also an introverted workaholic who was given free reign on many of his projects when he really should have collaborated or – at least – had someone to tell him no. (Thank you, Marcia Lucas (née Griffin) for all you did!) He worked so hard to bring Star Wars into existence, often at the expense of his personal relationships and health. I live every day, endeavoring to not be a George Lucas. Get out of the house, Deanna, and go make some friends.

Want to support me in my writing adventures?
Please consider becoming a patron on Patreon or give to my GoFundMe page.

0 Comments

11/29/2024

My Trip to the House of Commons and The Assisted Dying Bill

0 Comments

Read Now

First off, let me start by saying that I am decidedly NOT a journalist. The following is simply my personal observations and opinions as I continue to learn more about life in the UK and how it all works.

(AND...For the record, the official title of the bill is the Terminally Ill Adults (End of Life) Bill.)

A month or so ago it was brought to my attention that the UK government is considering a bill that would make assisted dying legal. This struck me as incredibly odd simply because I never thought I’d live to see the day when something would be considered. If Caitlin Doughty (and the wider Order of the Good Death community) has taught me anything, it’s that we as a society are terrified of death and – more importantly – talking about death. I know that the UK is not as inherently Christian as the United States, but even still…this seemed like a huge leap to undertake and I incorrectly assumed that the bill would be dead on arrival (pun intended).

In the consequent weeks since first hearing about it, I have learned that several other countries already have laws on asssited dying/assisted suicide/euthenasia (more on the issue of word choice later) including Switzerland, the Netherlands, Belgium, Luxembourg, Spain and Austria. Not to mention Oregon in the fricken United States! (If it were to be anywhere, it would be Oregon.)

I then found out that the second reading of the bill was to take place on November 29th and that one could attend the debate. Given that I was going to be in the general direction of London, anyway, for a lovely Friends-Giving party, I figured I should go and check it out.

On the morning of Friday, November 29th I awoke to find I had missed my alarm. I’d wanted to get up early so I could be in line as soon as possible, assuming that the debate would be well-attended. That and the fact that I had put in a rather poor night’s sleep, I considered not going. But the thrill of adventure plus the fear of missing out got me up and out the door.

And I’m so glad that I went! First and foremost, The Palace of Westminster is incredibly beautiful and (as the name suggests) a palace. After going through security, you enter into this massive receiving hall that’s lined with stained glass windows and gorgeous paintings. Immediately, you feel small and overtaken by the majesty and history.

Furthermore, it was insanely interesting to A) be a part of a piece of history and B) to just be there in the room where it happens (Hamilton reference intended). Getting to actually hear the back and forth discussion and see first hand how the government in this system works, especially compared to back home, was fascinating. Because I was running late, I didn’t stop for breakfast so I really only stuck around for three of the five hours, but I grabbed lunch in the building and was onsite when the results of the vote was announced.

That being said, here are some of my key takeaways, questions, and observations from the experience. Again: not a journalist. I failed to get everyone’s name and failed to be totally objective. Please don’t look at this and say, “I got my information from Deanna!” I am not a reputable news source, just a young lady with a blog. (I have some links below to actual news outlets so go check them out and support journalists!)

The bill (in short)

A bill similar to this was raised back in 2015 but was ultimately rejected. Since then, countries such as Canada and Austria have enacted similar bills into law.
It would allow adults (18 or older) who have been diagnosed with a terminal illness AND have a prognosis of less than six months to live to seek the legal aid of a doctor or medical practitioner (more on that later) who could give them access to life-ending drugs.
Said drugs would need to be administered by the patient themselves, not by a doctor, medical practitioner, or anyone else. The patient must be the one to ultimately “do the deed”.
Wording is incredibly important, similar to bills and laws having to do with abortion. Those in favor will use terms such as “assisted dying” rather than “assisted suicide.” The opposition is quick to use the latter term as well as “kill”, etc.
Members of Parliament (especially those in favor) are also keen not to call it euthanasia, but this has less to do with the connotation of that word and more to do with the simple fact that euthanasia occurs when a doctor administers the drug. Because this specific bill does not allow for a doctor to administer the drug, this cannot be considered euthanasia.
Some countries do allow for euthanasia, and it should be noted that, generally speaking, every country’s (or state’s) laws are somewhat different.
This is NOT a party issue as several MPs crossed party lines with their views.
“Chronic illness” is different from “terminal illness”. The former means that there is likely no cure and the patient will die with it but they are not necessarily dying from it (i.e. diabetes, HIV/AIDS, multiple sclerosis, etc.) and the latter means that the patient is actively dying from the ailment (advanced cancer, end-stage renal disease, heart failure, etc.)

Observations/Learning about parliament/Misc.

Everyone is so polite (but is it politeness or just cordiality?) The MPs are always thanking each other for interventions and “giving way”.

Do MPs already know which direction they’re going to vote? Is this debate really for those who are on the fence (if there are any?) or for the constituents who voted for them. Could we have just skipped the whole debate and gone right into voting? How much of this is just pomp?
Danny Kruger headed up the opposition and had a great quote, “I’m not giving way, I’m afraid.” So. Very. British.
MPs will rise after someone is done speaking and this is to signal that they have something to add to the discussion. However, they should have already signed up to speak and the Speaker will call on them when it’s their turn. So…is the whole rising bit just more pomp?
The two main parties are Labour which tends to be more liberal leaning and the Unionist Party which tends to be more conservative.
Today’s bill was spearheaded by Kim Leadbeater who is a member of the Labour Party and has a fantastic Yorkshire dialect (just like Jodie Whittaker!)
The Labour Party has a HUGE majority in the House of Commons.
The party that holds the majority (in this case, the Labour Party) is called the “government” and everyone else is called the “opposition”.
The government is seated to the right of the Speaker and the opposition is seated to the left (generally).
When looking down at the two sides, you can see that almost all the people from the opposition were dressed in navy blue or black while those from the government were dressed in brighter colors. Is this because one side is in favor of the bill and thus wearing happy colors while the other is against the bill and thus more somber OR is this a reflection of the Labour party’s more diverse makeup and liberal leaning versus the Unionists more conservative leanings? (Is the choice of wardrobe similar to how RBG would wear a certain collar to signify if she dissented?)
The Speaker kept switching out and different people took their place. At one point, someone was referred to the Deputy Speaker so I’m assuming that was this person’s title but then someone else came in.
Maybe three dozen microphones hang down from the ceiling over the MPs and when you are called to speak, the one that’s closest to you gets turned on. But it’s just the one mic so if you turn away from it, we can’t hear you. A few times, The Speaker (or whoever was sitting in for The Speaker) had to remind MPs to face forward so that their mic would catch them.
People seated in the gallery are not allowed to show any support or opposition for what is being said. You can nod or shake your head but anything verbal will get you excused from the proceedings, as happened with the woman sitting in front of me who started applauding after someone from the opposition gave a rousing speech.

Let’s talk palliative care (taking care of someone who has a terminal illness or is dying)

This was a HUGE talking point for both sides, second only to talks on coercion.

The opposition argued that we don’t need this bill if we put more resources into palliative care, and the government argued that even with great palliative care, people can still suffer.
Regardless of how people feel about this particular bill, several people pointed out that because of the bill’s existence and its subsequent debates, there have been so many fantastic discussions on palliative care, an issue that’s needed attention for some time.

The following are pros and cons of issue of assisted death/assisted suicide (and, specifically looking at the issue now), not on the bill itself.

Cons (as stated by the opposition)

The line between terminal illness and disability is blurred and that can be dangerous. Those who are differently abled will be affected by this more than anyone else.
There are moral issues on who can “play God” and who gets to decide who lives and who dies.
The NHS is already overwhelmed and asking doctors to do more is not doable. We should be focused on fixing the NHS rather than expecting more from them.
“Suicide” is contagious.
There is the HUGE issue of coercion (not just from outside forces but self-coercion and feelings that you are a burden and should just die).
People who are in abusive relationships (whether romantically or even with their physician) will be manipulated into thinking that this is what they want.
Even with these drugs, a “dignified” and painless death are not guaranteed. People have been known to vomit or have a negative reaction to the drug, causing even more pain.
Medicine and diagnosis are not an exact science. Doctors do the best they can with what they have, but we can never be 100% sure that someone will not recover or have a fulfilling life even with a terminal illness.

Pros (as stated by the government)

This bill will allow for patients to choose how they die and (hopefully) die with dignity rather than suffering in pain.
Terminally ill patients and those who are suffering end their own lives all the time – whether parliament likes it or not. This bill would allow them to do it in a safe and dignified manner.
Making it legal would also safeguard family members and friends who wish to help (protecting them from scrutiny or prosecution.)
There is no way we can stop all coercion and everything must be taken on a case-by-case basis.
The government argues that palliative care and assisted dying go hand-in-hand. They are not in opposition to one another. Assisted dying comes under the umbrella term of palliative care and can be an option for those suffering. Assisted dying would not be the first choice presented to someone but, rather, a last resort if necessary and wanted.
We as a society do not want to talk about death. This bill makes us talk about it and become more comfortable with discussions on how one wants to die.

Questions/parts of the bill

Is the bill ready?
Define “medical practitioner”. The bill allows for a medical practitioner to aid a patient, and the government stated that term is a synonym for “doctor”, but the opposition argued that the wording was too vague. “A dentist is a medical practitioner! Can a dentist provide a patient with the drugs?”
Is there significance to the six month prognosis? (See the final point in the Cons section.)
What safeguards are there for people who are nonverbal?
How does the bill compare to laws on this issue? (Oregon, Switzerland, etc.)
Several MPs stated that they were not against assisted dying/suicide but that they just didn’t like this bill.
In regards to that, one gentleman remarked that this is an important issue and even if it doesn’t get passed today, parliament cannot wait another 10 years to discuss it again.

Quotes

“Death is not romantic.” – Kilt Malthouse (in favor)
“This is not easy. Let’s acknowledge that.” - Tonia Antoniazzi, a lovely Welsh lady (in favor)
“If this is a right that we should be proud to pass, then why are we denying it to children?” (didn’t catch name, opposition)
“This bill is about despair, and I’m voting for hope.” (didn’t catch name, opposition)
“This is not life or death. This is death or death.” – Peter Prinsley (in favor)
“The Second Reading is a point of principle, not a point of conclusion.” – Sir David Davis

Personal views/opinions

While going through security, they opened my bag, pulled out my Exit Stage Riley sweatshirt, and held it up. As the gentleman read the words across the front and back, I smiled with an air of false coyness and said, “Oh, THAT? That’s just from a play that I wrote!” He looked me dead in the eyes and replied, “I just need to make sure you’re not bringing in anything in favor or against the bill.” I immediately stopped smiling. DUH, Deanna. He's not interested in your play.

Several people had very personal and gut-wrenching stories (on both sides of the issue). Honestly, it eventually became pointless to bring these up. It just further drives home the point that the issue is very personal and needs to be taken case by case.
One MP claimed that taking too much morphine won’t kill you…which is not true. His argument is that we don’t need this bill because we can just give patients morphine and that will solve the problem.
After a while, it just felt like everyone (especially in opposition) were just saying the same thing over and over again, raising the same issues that had already been raised: coercion, overwhelming the NHS, those who are differently abled, gut-wrenching stories about someone who was given six months to live and then went on to live a long life, etc.
There was a lot of discussion/questions on the point of a Second Reading. Many of those in favor were quick to say that if there are things you don’t like about the bill but support the idea behind it, then you can vote in favor of it now and allow us to work out the kinks. The final decision comes at the next reading. The opposition kept saying (of course) that the bill was simply too awful to even proceed further. There seemed to be some disconnect over whether the MPs were debating the bill itself or the issue of assisted dying as a whole.
In regards to this, Layla Moran had a great quote, “If there is no version of the bill that you could vote for, then be honest about that.” How much of the opposition’s dislike of the bill is legitimate and how much of it is simply political (“We can’t let the other guy win!” “I just don’t want to deal with this issue.”)
I am not a historian or a medical practitioner (whatever that means :P ). BUT I did just watch The National Theatre at Home’s streamed production of Nye (starring the beloved Michael Sheen) and I couldn’t help but notice how the opposition kept throwing out the excuses of, “This is just too much too soon!” and “This will change the doctor and patient relationship! This will change the doctor and state relationship!” Gee, that sounds awfully familiar…very similar to what parliament said about the NHS and how a change like that would destroy us all. Obviously, the two issues are very different, but it bugs me to no end when the main argument any opposition can land on is just that, “This is too different! I can’t deal with the change!”
For the record, I’m not entirely sure how I feel about assisted suicide/assisted dying. I suppose I’m looking at it the same way I look at abortion: I certainly don’t like abortion, but I can understand that there are times and places where it is necessary. But where exactly are those times and places and how do we safeguard people on the fringes of society from being steamrolled and coerced? Ultimately, I’m glad that the bill is moving on to the next stage because the members of parliament will have to dive more into the bill itself rather than the issue. If the Unionists are going to continue to be against this bill, then they need to come back with hard facts and evidence that it is not a sufficient piece of legislation…OR they need to be do as Layla Moran said and just flipping admit that they don’t want anything like this passed. Stop wasting our time with endless sad stories because that’s just an emotional response that freezes debate without genuinely talking about what’s really at stake here. Like I said, I’m not entirely on one side or the other (though it does appear that I’m siding with the government), but, as someone who is on the fence, I feel underwhelmed by the arguments brought forward by the opposition. Do more. Come back fighting. Win me.

Links to actual articles, etc.

UK Parliament: Terminally Ill Adults (End of Life) Bill

BBC: Assisted dying bill: What is in proposed law?

The Guardian: MPs back landmark bill to legalise assisted dying in England and Wales

Want to support me? (You're too kind!)
* Become a Patron on Patreon
* Make a donation via Venmo ( @Deanna-Strasse )
* Donate to my GoFundMe page

0 Comments

11/25/2024

UK Update 11/25

0 Comments

Read Now

Wow. Okay. So much to touch on. Let’s begin!

We are getting to the end of the semester here so that means a lot of writing projects are due. Because of this, I may be less and less available so if I take a long time to get back to you (longer than usual), it’s just because I’m friggin writing!
I’ve got a short film screenplay in the works for Screenwriting, a short story (about cannibalism!) for Creative Writing Workshop, and a short play about hiraeth (which has no direct English translation from Welsh but essentially means a deep, longing, or sadness especially in regards to the impossibility of life. It’s my new favorite word.)
Back in September/October, I was listening to the amazing podcast Noble Blood by Dana Schwartz, and she told this gripping story about a woman named Lady Arbella Stuart. As Ms. Schwartz spun the tale, I kept thinking to myself, “This is a play! Someone should write a play about this woman!” I told myself that it couldn’t be me because my style of writing is so contemporary and informal. I wouldn’t even know how to begin writing something that was supposed to take place in the “ye olde times” (late 16th Century and early 17th Century). Simultaneously, I found myself feeling rather bored in my Dramatic Structure class – given that this particular class is definitely geared more towards people who have never written a play before. Because it’s a required class, I couldn’t drop it. I just had to find a new way to challenge myself. So…why not write that Arbella Stuart play, Deanna?
Very long story short, I am working on said play and it is set to be my Dissertation piece.
As part of my research (and because I’d never been) I visited the Tower of London during my last trip to London (because – spoiler alert! – Arbella eventually dies there).
The way that the Tower is often portrayed is a place of torture and death…which, it was at times. But it’s so much more interesting and nuanced than that. And visiting it today is less like visiting a museum and more like getting to run around a castle for a whole day. Here are some cool facts I learned (for the first time or just learned more about…)
- There’s a legend that says if the ravens ever leave the grounds, then the crown will fall and Britian with it. Because of this, the Tower houses at least six ravens on the grounds. There is actually a position called Ravenmaster. But they don’t let just anyone be the Ravenmaster.
- To get that gig, you’ve first got to be a member of Yeoman Warders (AKA the Beefeaters) who are the guards of the Tower. I listened to a delightful chap who called himself Beefeater Barney (follow him on Instagram). He explained that one has to have served at least twenty years in the British military and reach a certain rank before they can even apply to be a Yeoman. It is an extremely elite group of individuals (there have been more people in space than have been a Tower guard)!
- While walking around the grounds, I saw a father (or father figure, at least) reading to a small child on a bench. The book was on the history of The Tower, and the scene delighted me to no end.
- Of course I saw the crown jewels. You are not allowed to take pictures. Honestly, the whole thing just felt like a lot of pomp. When you reach the main room, there’s this little conveyer belt that you can ride. It takes you past six or so glass boxes that house various crowns, scepters, etc. The conveyor belt itself made me laugh because…I don’t know! It seemed so gratuitous. Maybe the crowds are usually bigger than they were when I went, but it all just screamed, “Move along, peasants! You’re only allowed fifteen seconds to gaze upon these diamonds that we stole!”
- I found the historical pieces of clothing far more interesting than the jewels or crowns. (How tall was Charles I? Going by his armor, he looks tiny! I know that the armor isn’t meant to actually represent his height because it would have been worn over his clothes, but compared to other sets of full armor, his looked quite petite.)
- Also, there was this massive and gorgeous stole that was worn by Queen Elizabeth II on her coronation. It had this beautiful embroidery on it and immediately I noticed a thistle within the pattern. “Alright!” I said to myself, “The thistle represents Scotland and that rose represents England and that clover is for Ireland. But where is Wales? Why isn’t Wales represented here? Where’s the daffodil? Where’s the dragon? Where’s the hunk of lamb?!” (I don’t know for sure, but I think it’s because Wales is just generally considered to be part of England and not its own thing…which is bullshit. But I digress.)
- The Tower once held a zoo and there are a variety of animal statues situated around the grounds. The polar bear, though, is chained around the foot and that made me very sad. (Yes, I felt sad for the polar bear statue. Aren’t they dealing with enough in this day and age?!)
- I purchased a book in one of the gift shops…solely because it contained about six pages on Arbella. (The book as a whole seemed interesting, and actual facts on this woman are few and far between so I’ll take what I can get.) Outside of this book, there really wasn’t any mention of Arbella in any of the displays; the Tower focuses more on Anne Bolyne, Lady Jane Gray, Mary Queen of Scots, etc.
- HOWEVER…after spending the day at the Tower (if you go, give yourself plenty of time! I was there for about six hours and I still didn’t see everything) I wrote an email to the education department at the Historic Royal Palace site, asking a few questions about Arbella and what her time in the Tower would have been like. Perhaps I’m just a pessimist when it comes to human interaction, but I assumed the email would go ignored. To my great surprise, they got back to me within a day with answers to all my questions and a list of other resources I could look into.
The main reason I was in London was for a theatre gig. Very long story short (because even now I don’t have the energy to talk about it – wow, Deanna! Dramatic much?) a local theatre has these monthly showcases of new works. It can be a company that wants to show off what they’re working on or a writer who wants to get something up on its feet and hopefully get some feedback. I sent in a few pages of a new play I’m working on (not the Arbella piece) and it was chosen. (Excellent!) However, I was extremely disappointed by the performance of my piece. Essentially, the director added action that was not included in the script and said action was extremely distracting to the actual important dialogue. No one, myself included, was able to pay attention to the words I had written because they were too focused on this character (who was not in the scene) running around the stage playing the drums, making shadow puppets, slamming doors, etc. This is very basic theatre stuff: don’t pull focus from the main action. I ended up emailing both the director and the artistic director to express my dissatisfaction and to offer a suggestion: if your goal is aid playwrights in the development of their work, you need to focus on the actual work. I walked away from the reading knowing basically nothing about what my show looks like when it’s (more or less) up on its feet. I don’t know what works, what didn’t, what audiences enjoyed, etc. A staged reading is essentially a focus group, but audience members didn’t get an accurate representation of my work.
Ultimately, this all fell on deaf ears because they replied to the email with, “This is part of the development process: you hand your script off to someone else and they get to interpret it,” and (my personal favorite) “You say you didn’t get anything out of the reading, but you did! You saw how you DIDN’T want your show to be directed.”
(Deep breath) You are correct, artistic director. I saw how I don’t want my show to be directed: by your company…ever again. (I didn’t say that, but I thought it.)
THERE IS NO CHESTNUT PRALINE IN THE UNITED KINGDOM! The Starbucks here doesn’t carry it! First Ranch dressing and now this?!? (Sips my Gingerbread latte and pouts.)
In the realm of good news, I sat down for an interview with someone from The University of Essex’s Communications Department. First off, I had to learn that the “Communications Department” is not a course of study as it is back in the States but rather the University’s team of journalists and social media correspondents. I met with a gentleman named George who wanted to talk about my work as a writer and why I came to the UK. We had a delightful time (and both ordered Americanos at the Greenhouse Cafe on campus). I was particularly struck by something George offered when I asked what it’s like to study English history, simply because it’s so massive – especially compared to the US’s history. George said that their history is much more intertwined with their everyday life. One of his first schools was in the country and that very building once housed King Charles I for a time so it was easy to connect with history on a very personal level and see it every day. I genuinely enjoyed my chat with George and can’t wait to share his story with you when it gets released.
Also…Melody is going to be in a production at The Globe Theatre this coming March so y’all should come out and see her.
Also…Melody and I are spending Christmas in Edinburgh.
Also…I bought this Highland Cooooo plant holder at Tesco. Her name is Honey. (If you know, you know…) I also have a cordyline named Miranda.

Want to support me? (You're too kind!)
Become a Patron on Patreon
Make a donation via Venmo ( @Deanna-Strasse )
Donate to my GoFundMe page

0 Comments

10/26/2024

Two anecdotes, a short story, and a poem

0 Comments

Read Now

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...

My Thirteen-Year-Old Self
A poem

(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

Crunch
A short story

Dora had an appetite - no, not an appetite, a hankering…an all-consuming hankering. It snuck up on her and dug its claws into her back, reaching through and clutching her stomach. She had to be satisfied. There could be no failure or alternatives. She needed it: peanut butter. Creamy peanut butter.

Smooth and thick.

Filling and salty.

Creamy peanut butter straight off the spoon. And several scoops of it.

Where once she had been a dedicated cog in this corporate machine, now she was rising from her desk and running - sprinting - out into the hall, straight into the elevator, across the street, and into the loving embrace of the bodega.

A few coworkers called out to her, clearly confused by this abrupt shift in her demeanor, but Dora wouldn’t be stopped.

She was a wild, feral creature.

She wound her way through the narrow aisles of beer, magazines, dried fruit, hot dogs, and everything else until she found it…or at least found the lack of it.

No.

No creamy.

Only crunchy.

There once had been creamy, but its spot sat empty now…a hollowed out cave where dreams went to die.

There was a battle waging inside her then: the hankering trying to come up with new solutions and her better judgment trying to find normalcy again.

There are other bodegas. Maybe there’s some in the back; ask an employee here!. Did you check the office kitchen?

Was she really expected to keep walking down Water Street, searching every grocery store within a five mile radius? The poor young man behind the counter up front already looked swamped; it would be rude for Dora to add to his distress. And, of course, there wasn’t any peanut butter back at the office. Perhaps someone had sunflower butter but that would not do.

Before she knew it, Dora was crying. The hormones mixed with the parasite growing inside her only made the tears flow faster, the ego berate her more harshly, and the hankering dig its nails in deeper.

In the midst of this internal battle, Dora was the only casualty.

The Joy Club
A poem

The magician’s muse, a firecracker
Call her what you will
Let’s talk about The Void and then
Tell me about Gary, Indiana
It’s a secret only we know
It’s where cats are buried and
Where we complain about people named Michael
(There are too many Michaels)
On the corner of Dixon and 76th
It’s a town we left behind
It’s the universe that’s all ours
It's the joy we feel in the silence
The silence of doing nothing
It's two joys holding hands
While people eye us and relatives ask,
"Is there something I should know?"
"Yes,"
I reply,
"You should know her.
Get to know her.
You'll be glad you did."

Want to support me and my writing endeavors?
Become a Patron on Patreon
Make a donation via Venmo ( @Deanna-Strasse )
Donate to my GoFundMe page

0 Comments

10/10/2024

UK Update 10/10

0 Comments

Read Now

This is not a drill! I met Pebbles!

Alright! I’m going to talk about the fun stuff before I talk about the heavy stuff.
I started classes this week! I was incredibly nervous, mostly because I imagined my professors would be something like JK Simmons’s character from Whiplash or Joel McHale’s character from The Bear, but they’re more like Mr. Feeny from Boy Meets World or that one episode of Doctor Who where 10 pretends to be a teacher. “Right, physics! Physics, eh? Physics, physics, physics, physics, physics, physics. Hope you're getting this all down.”
It’s quite beautiful to see how much I’ve grown as a person because I can clearly remember how I was back in high school (and some college classes, too): the shy girl in the corner who didn’t know anyone and didn’t want to be called on. I was incredibly self-conscious in basically every setting that wasn’t Drama Club, but now I’m sitting towards the front, making jokes (whether anyone laughs at them is another story), eager to learn people’s names, and even have to remind myself to let others talk so I don’t dominate the discussion. One would hope that they grow more confident since high school, but truthfully some people don’t. I haven’t been in a classroom setting in a very long time and there was a lingering fear that I’d just retreat inside myself, but I’m happy to report that hasn’t been the case.
There was a fun little moment in my Creative Writing Workshop class where the professor brought up Iowa and tentatively said that it was located in the southwestern part of the United States. She locked eyes with me (being the only American in the class) and raised her eyebrows, as if looking for verification. I corrected her and said it was in the midwest, and everyone chuckled. I enjoy the image of Des Moines in the middle of the Nevada desert.
I’m especially excited about my Screenwriting class because I have so little experience in that field. My professor worked in post production on The Phantom Menace and we enjoyed listening to him talk about the juxtaposition of being really excited about the prospect of a film only to finally watch it and realize that it’s garbage.
I had a great phone conversation with Melody the other day where we compared class stories, and I was struck by how busy she is. The acting students over at East 15 are basically working a full-time job (8ish hours, five days a week). Compare that to me with one class on Monday, a full day of classes on Tuesday, and then dissertation prep on Wednesday. And that’s it! I reached out to my adviser, just to verify that I was, in fact, taking enough classes. He told me that I’m actually taking too many classes this semester and should have saved one of them for the spring. But as of right now, I’m feeling fine and keeping everything as it is.
Along with classes, I’ve been busy trying to find a job and have sent out a number of applications. Somewhere along the line, I stumbled onto the BBC website and found a section called BBC Upload where artists can share a sample of something they’ve created with the hope of it getting shared on the local channels. Not knowing what to send in, I chose just to plug the upcoming production of The Cafe Mocha Murders and uploaded a sample of the script, plus information about The Network Theatre. On Monday, I got an email from the head of BBC Upload, Rob, wondering if I’d be interested in chatting with him about the show and my creative process. “Uh, heck yeah! Sign me up!”
So yesterday around 2:30 I had a virtual interview with Rob and I had such a fun time! Rob is a huge supporter of the arts and an even bigger advocate for people to get involved in whatever capacity they can. The interview should drop within the next two weeks or so. I’ll keep you all posted when it does.
Speaking of Melody and Doctor Who, we’re going to see David Tennant in Macbeth tomorrow! (insert freak out here) Fourth row. I hope there’s fake blood. I hope we’re in the splash zone. I hope he knows how much we love him. Please adopt me. I know you and Georgia already have so many kids, but you could definitely use another one. And it’s me. Braid my hair, make me a grilled cheese sandwich, and tell me I can grow up to be whatever I want to be. Catherine Tate will be my godmother. Michael Sheen will be my godfather.
Alright…onto the not-so-fun stuff.
I got my first real experience with the NHS yesterday. I knew that I would have to find a doctor while over here (because, uh, I need one for my prescriptions and the school requires me to get one). Finding one and registering as a new patient was easy enough: fill out some paperwork, drop it off at the front desk, wait for the text message saying whether or not I’d been accepted (I was), and wham-bam you’re in, baby!
(For the record, the term surgery has two definitions over here. It can mean a procedure in which a doctor cuts open a patient OR it can be a generic term for a place to consult a doctor. Needless to say, I was a little confused when the closest office to me was called a surgery. I don’t THINK that kind of procedure will help with my anxiety…)
As soon as I got the text that I was a bonafide patient, I called the office in order to schedule an appointment. The conversation went a little something like:

Office Manager: What is the reason for your appointment?
Me: You know, I’m a new patient. I want to meet my doctor and establish care. Talk about my prescriptions.
(A long pause)
Office Manger: Is something wrong? Is there a symptom you want to have looked at?
Me: No. I just think I should see a doctor…you know, to establish care.
The office manager didn’t really understand that and just recommended that I
come in during their walk-in hours to meet with a doctor and refill my prescriptions.

I took the bus to the office yesterday and waited in a short line outside…excuse me, a queue outside. At the receptionist desk, I exclaimed that I wanted to meet with a doctor to refill my prescriptions and they directed me to a waiting room upstairs
I had a sneaking suspicion that I would be waiting a while since my issue wasn’t an emergency at all, and I was right. I got into the room around 8:15 and probably wasn’t taken back until 9:30, after watching a slew of people who definitely arrived after me get seen first. Please don’t think, however, that I was upset about this. Coming from a country where a meeting like this would easily cost $200, I was happy to wait for a free consultation.
Once my name was called, I met with a very nice doctor who looked over my prescriptions. My depression medication was easy enough to fill out as Zoloft (Sertraline) is prescribed both in the States and here. And then she got to the Vyvanse.
About a year ago, I was diagnosed with ADHD and, after trying several different medications, found something that helps me stay focused and energized: Vyvanse (lisdexamfetamine). My prescribing doctor at the time informed me that getting any kind of stimulant can be incredibly tricky these days as there’s been an explosion of ADHD (and the like) diagnosis. And she wasn’t kidding. Being on Vyvanse is great, but the withdrawal symptoms are nasty, and because there’s almost always some kind of shortage, I almost always had to go a few days without my medication as the pharmacy scrambled to get more in. Unlike other drugs, Vyvanse (and presumably any kind of stimulant) doesn’t build up in your system: it has to be taken every day to feel the full effect. This means that even going one day without it leads to me feeling incredibly agitated, irritable, and depressed.
While living with Melody, there were times I just had to be honest with her and say, “Hey, I’m out of Vyvanse for the next couple of days. I’m not going to be myself and I may be really moody.” (And Melody, like the champ she is, was always there for me.) (I did this often with my co-workers at Starbucks, too, so shout-out to Sam, Samaria, and Charlotte for always understanding my mental health struggles.)
With this background information now, picture the scene: I’m sitting in the office of this UK doctor and she’s looking up my Vyvanse. She turns to me and says, “Oh. Right. Alright. We can’t prescribe this here. You’ll need a specialist.” I had kind of assumed this but hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Upon asking the doctor if she could refer me to a specialist, she said she could BUT the wait times for a specialist of this nature are “monstrous”.
“What do you mean by monstrous?” I ask. “One to two years,” she replies.
My heart SANK. I could potentially have to wait one to two YEARS to see a specialist who will hopefully diagnose me with something I already have and then hopefully prescribe a medication that I already know works and then have to wait for however long for said medication to come in? I started to panic and said, “I…I need this medication to function.”
“I appreciate that,” she kept saying, “And I am sorry, but there have just been so many new diagnoses of this that the NHS simply can’t keep up.”
My mind wandered back to a few months ago when I was filling in a different Starbucks and I overheard a partner saying to someone, “God, I need to get back on Vyvanse. I lost so much weight when I was on that.” My face burned with anger. This is not about losing weight or trendy TikToks. This is about my daily function.
I think the doctor could sense my panic and frustration so she gave me a few options. First off, I had to get a formal letter from my doctor back in the States saying that I had been diagnosed with ADHD and that I had found a medication that worked. I needed to do this as soon as possible. Maybe they could file my case differently and get me to see a specialist sooner because I already have a history of this. Even still, my doctor couldn’t guarantee that that would work. Next, she highly recommended that I, for the time being at least, look into a private doctor. I would have to pay to see them, but I’d hopefully get my medication sooner.
Still feeling rather raw, I thanked the doctor profusely and left to catch my bus home. I realized that then I hadn’t taken my Vyvanse yet for the day and decided that I wasn’t going to: I didn’t have class yesterday and it seems I was going to have to use it sparingly.
Once home, I did a quick Google search, trying to find a private doctor who specializes in mental health and ADHD. That led me to a couple of UK ADHD resources sites, one of which is an organization that only does ADHD diagnosis and medications. I did a live chat with them and when I offered up that I already had the diagnosis and just needed someone to prescribe the medication, they informed me that they would have to formally diagnose me themselves. And I could sign up for my first appointment for the low, low price of only £530!
I am hoping and praying that there is an easier way…that someone will take the previous diagnosis and call it good enough. At the end of the day, however, I have to do what needs to be done in order to get my medication Some might argue that I lived without the Vyvanse before, I can certainly live without it now, and, yes, I probably can but A) I don’t want to and B) I’m terrified of what a drawn out withdrawal period will look like, especially now that I’m in grad school and need to focus.
I did take my Vyvanse today and do currently have enough for another week at least. I have gotten my formal letter from my US doctor and sent it over to my UK GP. Today will be mostly researching private specialists and collecting information so I can schedule an appointment sooner rather than later.
If there is a take-away from this, I’ll say it’s that ADHD is a very real issue and, while I would never dismiss someone’s journey or struggles, I just ask that when you’re faced with the question of whether or not you actually have it, please be honest. There is a shortage of resources out there and some of us genuinely need it. If you’re only taking Adderall, Vyvanse, or any other stimulants because it “helps you lose weight” (something that I personally haven’t experienced), do us all a favor and go fuck yourself.

Want to support me and my writing endeavors?
Become a Patron on Patreon
Make a donation via Venmo ( @Deanna-Strasse )
Donate to my GoFundMe page

0 Comments

9/30/2024

UK updates 30/9

0 Comments

Read Now

More rambles!
I know that I just did an update a few days ago, but a lot has happened...including me crying in the back of an Uber.

Yesterday was not a good day. Things have been getting progressively more difficult ever since last week Tuesday, and there’s a very good reason why. I have not been sleeping well. It’s one of those things where in hindsight you think to yourself, “Well, yeah. Obviously.” But in the moment, your head is spinning, trying to sort out your emotions and this new overwhelming feeling of emptiness.
I don’t like to use the word stupid so I’ll say unthinkingly…Unthinkingly, I assumed that, even though I am not longer getting up at Starbucks opener hours, I would still continue to be an early-to-bed-early-to-rise kind of person. I love the early morning hours when no one else is awake; even in the craziness of work, one of my favorite parts of the day were those wee hours when only a few customers were in the store, everything was chill, one could really talk to someone, and the sun hadn’t quite risen.
Last Tuesday night, I was all set. I had spent the day traipsing across London, I had only gotten about five hours of sleep the night before…I should have slept like a log. But I didn’t. I tossed and turned all night and felt strangely awake. Sleep only really came for me around 3am, which is not like me at all.
Only it IS like me. I fell asleep at 3am (UK time) which was 9pm (US time). That’s normal for me. This is where stupid, er, I mean unthinking…this should have been obvious but it took me another two days to realize just why I was struggling to sleep at night. I didn’t like sleeping in until noon. I wanted to be a morning person, darn it! Was it the stress? The excitement? My body getting used to a new bed? Possibly but mostly it was my circadian rhythm.
To add to this, while I would love to live each day here like I’m on holiday, I do need to save money. I’d like nothing more than to hop on a train into London or up to Edinburgh and live out all my tourist dreams, but I can’t. Responsibility crept up on me and I decided that I should probably be using my funds to buy things like a bathroom rub (boring!) versus a Doctor Who walking tour (fun!).
This all culminated yesterday 29/9 when I ended up on the outskirts of Colchester after misreading the bus schedule. More on that later.
As far as public transportation goes, I have a lot to learn. For basically all of my life, I have gotten around via car. Buses and trains were reserved for vacations and served more as entertainment than actual means of getting from one point to another. I LOVE that public transportation is so accessible in the UK, but there’s definitely things I don’t understand and am still figuring out.
Thankfully, my friend Joanne Cunningham recommended this app (City Mapper) that has helped me immensely in figuring out which train or bus to take.
(Again, so much of this will seem self-explanatory but, as someone who has rarely ever taken a bus or a train, it’s a whole new language and I’m doing my best to give myself some grace.) For instance, the app says that I need to take Bus S1, but there are two different S1 routes: one going to Wivenhoe and one going to Highwoods. Which one do you want to get on, Deanna? Well, that depends on what your final destination is!
There are usually two “get-on” locations for each stop, as well: one on either side of the street. S1 Wivenhoe will stop at one (heading towards the university) and S1 Highwoods will stop at the other (heading towards the outskirts). Which one do you want, Deanna? How do you know which one you want? (As lovely as the City Mapper app is, it doesn’t tell me which “get-on” location to wait at so, more than once, I’ve had to make a mad dash across the street when the bus I’m looking for suddenly appeared at the opposite location!)
The answers have presented themselves now (there’s usually a sign outside the shelter, or even inside) that lets one know which bus is coming to this location and how long the wait can be. Also, it helps to just ask people. I should know by now that just asking a genuine human being will usually get me an answer faster than any app will. (But I am still fighting off the anxiety of looking like a dumb tourist. Again, I need to remind myself, I am (essentially) a tourist. I am still figuring it out. Give yourself a break, Deanna.)
Also: what’s up with the “stop” buttons on buses? People will hit these things and the driver will continue on for another half a mile before actually stopping! But the people don’t seem upset by this. Is this to ask the driver to stop at the next bus stop, regardless of if it's on their route or not? I just assumed that “stop” buttons meant, “Stop the bus NOW! I want to get off!” but that doesn’t seem to be the case.
Anyway, yesterday I got on the wrong S9 and rode it all the way to the eastern outskirts of town. Realizing my mistake, I simply rode the bus back into Colchester City Center and jumped on an S1, but THAT was the wrong S1 and it took me to the northern outskirts of town! By this point, I was so tired, I was practically in tears, but I told myself that I’d just do what I did before and ride the bus back into the city center. If nothing else, I could walk from the city center to my apartment (a 20-ish minute walk). The bus sat at a stop and I waited for a few minutes for it to take off again. Suddenly, the driver flicked the lights and announced that this was the last stop on this route.
“Oh,” I asked sheepishly, “You’re not going back into the city?”
Nope. I was stranded.
I got off the bus and (of course) it started to rain.
Holding back tears and tired beyond belief, I called an Uber…only the street I was standing on (apparently) wasn’t a street that my Uber driver could reach so the app suggested a nearby street for us to meet up on. I agreed to it and then spent the next five minutes trying feverishly to find this mysterious road where my driver would be waiting. I ran across the street, dodged through traffic, and through an underpass, all the while messaging my driver with, “I’m trying to get to the meet up point! Please don’t leave! I’m on my way!”
I eventually found him.
I cried the whole drive back to my apartment, and thankfully my driver didn’t say anything. I tipped him extra for leaving me in my misery.
Once home, I took a Benadryl (this is no job for Melatonin!) and passed out. I don’t even think I washed my makeup off my face.
This morning I had a 9:20 appointment to finalize my registration with the school, and this was good for me. It was something early (ish) in the morning that was going to force me up and about. With the help of the Benadryl, I got 9+ hours of sleep and awoke somewhat refreshed before making myself some coffee. I am truly hoping that this is the start of a more regular sleep cycle.
Speaking of which, I am officially registered as an international student at University of Essex (see my cool lanyard). Ever since accepting the university’s offer back in February, I have wanted some U of E merch, but they don’t really have a university website. After registering, I took myself to the official store and got myself some swag. (Er, I don’t think I’m the kind of person who says swag. It felt weird even just typing it.) The woman working the store was extremely nice and she told me that she’s taking a trip to the US in October (going to Memphis and New Orleans). I also asked about Pebbles the cat, half-wondering if he is real or just a myth but she assured me that he is real and she sees him nearly every day. Pebbles and I are going to be best friends! Just you wait and see! (For those who don’t know, the Colchester campus has a “campus cat” named Pebbles. He’s a stray who lives in the nearby woods (apparently) and wanders onto campus to beg for food and will even attend a lecture or two.)
I don’t want to make it seem as though this past week has been completely awful. I did get to see my lovely “wife” Melody last week Friday. We went out to dinner at a lovely pub (where a drunk man tried to start a conversation with me and I ignored him). But the coolest part of the day was visiting an indoor zoo that’s located directly across from the hotel where Melody was staying. Melody got to hold a skunk! (See all the pictures. The “zoo” is more of an animal sanctuary where somewhat exotic animals (everything from alligators to rabbits) who were once pets can live out the remainder of their life in safety. My favorite part was the bird section where I got to meet three blue and gold macaws (yay Jojo! IYKYK.)
Last Friday also had its fair share of public transportation woes. As I was coming home from Loughton, it was announced that someone had fallen on the tracks near Colchester and thus there were major delays. My train to Hythe was cancelled at the last minute TWICE and I ended up just taking a different train to a different station and just Uber-ed the rest of the way home. The biggest issue was that my phone was dying, and I was freezing.
Melody has since moved into her housing and apparently has foxes living nearby.
My classes don’t technically start until next week so I’m still just lingering at the moment which (as I learned last week) isn’t always great for my mental well-being. I need to be doing something; as tiresome as work can be, it gave me a purpose and got me out of the house. For this reason, I “gifted” myself the opportunity to go into London tonight and see a play at The National Theatre. After so many years of watching only from their streaming service, I’m excited to be in the real venue.
Aside from that excursion, I will use my time to set up a UK bank account and apply for a part-time job. Ideally, I’d like to work at a theatre so I can make some connections. For everyone who asked if I’d just pick up where I left off and start working at Starbucks again, I have to tell you that Starbucks is not nearly as big of a deal over here as it is in the US. Yes, there’s one on campus but Caffè Nero and Costa Coffee are definitely more prevalent than the Siren.
Also, the vegetarian and vegan options over here are amazing. I can get vegan (not just vegetarian but VEGAN) options at Burger King. Do you know how amazing that is? I had a Vegan Royale the other day and it was super cheap and super tasty. 11/10
Also, I love Tesco. That’s all. I just really like it.

Want to support me and my writing endeavors?
Become a Patron on Patreon
Make a donation via Venmo ( @Deanna-Strasse )
Donate to my GoFundMe page

0 Comments

9/28/2024

UK update 28/9

0 Comments

Read Now

I'd like to do regular updates on what I've experienced, lessons I've learned, and just general rambles. This will be less of a well-thought out blog post and more of a list of random-ness. Unfiltered Deanna. Proceed at your own risk. :P

Woof. Traveling. I have never given birth, but I have a sneaking suspicion that traveling by plane is a lot like giving birth – in the sense that people who have given birth often say that as soon as they’re holding their baby, they tend to forget the pain they just experienced. Sitting in a tiny seat for 7+ hours, praying that your Melatonin kicks in soon, and trying desperately to find a relatively comfortable position in which to fall asleep is not for the faint of heart.
But, Deanna, didn’t you pay extra to be in the business class rather than economy? Why were the seats so tiny? Let me tell you a story!
There was some issue that came about, ending in Melody and I getting moved to the economy section. Even now, I’m not entirely sure WHAT happened. Melody and I were sitting next to each other but not in the same row; there was an aisle between us. Apparently, the woman next to Melody (we’ll call her Betty) was complaining to her companion (a man in the window seat, we’ll call him Thomas) about something and then declared, “It’s not fair! I’m going to complain!” She then rose and stormed off to the front of the plane. Meanwhile, Melody leaned over and asked Thomas if Betty was upset over something she had done, and he assured her that that wasn’t the case.

Suddenly, a flight attendant showed up and told Melody that she’d have to move seats but wouldn’t say why. They just kept insisting that she’d be in the emergency exit row, and thus would have more leg room. Me, being me, was blissfully unaware of what was going on for the most part because I’d already stuck my headphones in my ears and was listening to ASMR (soft spoken, not chewing sounds). It’s only when I heard Melody ask the attendant, “Can my friend come with me?” that I paid attention.
Long story short (for reasons we don’t know) Melody was moved to economy and Betty got to have the seat next to her open. Melody said I didn’t have to come with her, but I wasn’t going to not sit next to her on the plane so I followed. We sat in the front row of the economy section, in the middle aisle. Yes, there was extra leg room, but the seats themselves were definitely smaller. We also had an empty seat between us, which was nice. Every time we tried to ask someone why we had been moved, no one had an answer. I was more than a little cranky by now and probably wasn’t a good sport about the whole thing, but it was extremely frustrating not to (at least) know WHY Melody was forced to move. All the flight attendants just kept insisting that our new seats were an upgrade, given the extra leg room. I’m sure that the issue involved Betty (who seemed extremely delightful *sarcasm* and the flight attendants were just trying to make the best out of a bad situation. But overly tired Deanna just crossed her arms and was huffy about it. In the end, we survived. And we got our glass of wine (and they ended up giving us each an extra breakfast bag).

Sunday 22/9 (← I have to get used to writing the date like that) was a tired, messy travel day. I had no idea what to expect from the customs process so I gave us (in hindsight) WAY too much time. I remember when I entered Dublin back in 2019, I had to wait in line for what seemed like a long time and had to present a variety of items (my passport, proof that I had booked an outgoing flight, etc.) so I simply assumed that coming into London on a Visa would require even more time and energy. (Also, while the UK immigration website had told me that because I was a student, I didn’t need to pay customs, I was skeptical of that that sure that somewhere along the line, someone would magically pop out of nowhere, screaming at us for doing it all wrong. In the end, the customs process involved me scanning my passport and having a quick picture of myself taken. That was it. Move along. Welcome to the UK.
One of the big things I’d worried about when arriving was how I was going to transport all of my luggage from London to my housing in Colchester. Taking various trains and buses is no big deal, but carting three 50 pound suitcases (plus my carry-on and backpack) across all that public transportation was daunting to say the least. In the end, Melody and I decided to book a private van to pick us up from the airport and take us into Colchester. And it was great. I recommend Britway Airport Transfers…if you’re ever in need of a transfer. So many places only operate within the London zones, but Birtway was up for the challenge. There was a bit of a snafu trying to actually find our driver because I had told him to meet us at Terminal 1, only to discover that Terminal 1 was actually shut down. Luckily, Melody showed me this amazing thing called WhatsApp and she was able to contact our driver (yeah Suresh!). We met him in the car park and he effortlessly loaded our bags while Melody and I collapsed inside the van, exhausted. I barely remember the ride from Heathrow to Colchester because I slept most of the way.
During so much of this journey, I find myself quoting the Richard Burbage character from Shakespeare in Love. “I don’t know! It’s a mystery!” There’s so much I don’t know and I can’t know until I get there. It’s been a great exercise at thinking on my feet, asking strangers for directions, and being okay looking like a moronic tourist.
When the van eventually made it to my apartment building, I was somehow even more tired. I was under the impression that Suresh would just pull up in front of the building, dump our luggage on the sidewalk (excuse me, pavement) and drive off into the sunset, but he very patiently waited for me to run inside and check in. I’m sure I looked a fright as I burst into the reception desk, with my raccoon eyes and overall defeated demeanor, and unceremoniously announced, “I’m here to check in! Where do I check in? Do I check in here?” A very nice gentleman (named Matt) helped check me in and offered to bring a “trolley” (a grocery cart stolen from the local Tesco) down to where my bags were and help me move in.
Melody’s housing wasn’t available just yet so we had agreed that she could just stay at my place, but truthfully, I was so tired and needed some time to myself (as did Melody) so we booked a hotel for her. As Matt loaded up my bags, Melody and I gave each other one last hug and then we sleepily stumbled off in our respective directions.
I knew that I should probably got to sleep right away, but a new wave of adrenaline whispered, “Set up your room! Now! Unpack! Do it!” And I followed orders. This was great except for the fact that I got so worked up in getting my things sorted that I completely forgot that the main reception area closes at 6pm. This was kind of a big deal because all of my mail comes through there and I can only collect it by checking in with one of the receptionists there. I had Amazon-ed several packages to my Colchester address ahead of time and one of these packages included my bedding. Thankfully, the building had provided me with a mattress protected at the very least, but my first real night in England consisted of me MacGyver-ing a pillow out of two sweatshirts and a blanket out of one of my dresses.
Yes, I did just turn “Amazon” and “MacGyver” into verbs.
Monday 23/9 was my first full day in England, and it was mainly made up of grocery shopping, finally picking up my bedding, and getting lost. Now getting lost is not necessarily a bad thing. One of my all time favorite things to do while in a new town is wandering. When you have no particular place to be, it’s a fantastic way to waste some time and get to really know a city. My initial intention was to find a pillow (as mine still hadn’t come in), but I ended up wandering all the way into the city center and traipsing across the Colchester Castle grounds. I never actually found a pillow and spent another night curled up on my Dramatist Guild sweatshirt (thanks, Amanda; it does make a good place to rest your head when you’re in a pinch).
Tuesday 24/9 was, of course, the London day. As a tourist I have used the Underground and traveled by train, but that was two years ago and my anxiety of looking like a dumb tourist was hard to combat. I simply tried to remind myself, “Well, you are a tourist. You’re figuring it out. Give yourself a break.” I still spent the better part of the train rides sure that some kingsguard would randomly pop out from behind me screaming, “YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG! YOU DIDN’T PAY FOR THIS TICKET PROPERLY! OFF TO JAIL!”
Luckily, no one yelled at me and I didn’t end up in jail.
In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a nerd for some things: Harry Potter, Star Wars, Doctor Who, BBC Sherlock (Sherlock Holmes in general, but especially Benadryl Cabbagepatch’s portrayal), etc. There are so many fantastic pieces of film, television, theatre, and prose that take place in London so the city is kind of a landmine of geekery. I want to visit as many locations as possible, but I know it’s going to take time…luckily, unlike two years ago when I was only in London for one day, I have more time. Tuesday was more-or-less my Good Omens day, visiting St James’s Park. At the risk of sounding dramatic (who am I kidding, I love to be dramatic) visiting that park (and THE bench) was an extremely powerful experience, one that definitely elicited tears.
Moving to the UK has been in the back of my head as a pipedream for decades. As a lover of fairy tales, I think it was only natural for little Deanna to look at pictures of castles, misty moors, copplestone streets, etc. and dream of visiting some magical places. Add in the aforementioned love of London-based pop culture and the UK’s excellent theatre scene. I have wanted this for a long time, but it was always so impossible. I don’t make enough money. I could never figure out the Visa process. I would probably end up living in a box on the streets, offering to write limericks for spare change. The anxious thoughts and the excuses went on and on. So, yeah, to walk through the gates at St. James’s Park and actually see the places that before had merely existed on the television screen…that was a huge deal. I stood in the walkway and cried. I had done it. I had actually made it. Perhaps I didn’t have this reaction when I landed or actually walked out of the airport because I was so tired and (ya know) most airports look alike But this (the park, the bench) was irrefutably LONDON.
I ran my fingers over the section of the bench where someone had written, “This place feels…loved” and, yes, I felt a rush of love: love from the Good Omens fandom, love from the world, love from God, love from myself.
I think back to when I first started working at Starbucks. My employment there has always been a little funny to me because for years I said, “If there’s one job I could never do, it’s a barista.” I said the pace was too chaotic, the jargon too strange, and the people (demanding their coffee) too rude. I took the job originally out of desperation because I needed some job; I honestly assumed I’d be fired within the first month, but if I was getting paid for the training, then at least I was making some kind of income. As many of you know, I ended up staying at Starbucks for over nine years.
The point of this all is that I mourn the lost opportunities. I mourn every time I ever just automatically thought, “Oh, I could never do that!” I look back on my life at all the times I cut myself off at the knees and just assumed that I wasn’t smart enough or pretty enough or brave enough or talented enough to do fill in the blank.
I want to do as RENT taught me and live with no regrets so hopefully this be a lesson learned: don’t doubt yourself. Hopefully you (yes, YOU, gentle reader) can learn from my story as well. What’s the thing you want to do? Go and do it! It may take time and patience and a GoFundMe account, but you can do it. It sounds so cheesy and trite, but it cannot be overstated: stop doubting yourself. This coming from the girl who said she’d never be a barista and never live in the UK.

Want to support me and my writing endeavors?
Become a Patron on Patreon
Make a donation via Venmo ( @Deanna-Strasse )
Donate to my GoFundMe page

0 Comments

9/27/2024

Five hundred theatres said no (and then one said yes)

0 Comments

Read Now

What does an artist DO anyway?

Obviously, they create art.

In my case, as a playwright, I write plays.

But any artist will tell you that creating the art (writing the plays) is only half the battle. The next step is getting someone interested in looking at your art (producing your play).

Everyone has an opinion on how to do that, and while there are some general guidelines and resources, there are no hard and fast rules to “getting noticed”. The last decade has been a baptism by fire of me writing and then doing whatever had to be done to get the attention of prospective theatres. (Within reason, of course, I love my art, but I’m quite fond of my soul and would rather not part with it.)

About a year ago, I thought I had come up with a genius plan, and dove headfirst into setting it in motion.

I was going to host a virtual pitch meeting for three of my plays and invite EVERY theatre company that I could think of to join. And when I say every theatre company, I mean it.

I am not exaggerating when I say that I sent out at five hundred emails, all with the same message: I’m a playwright, I’m going this reading of short scenes from three of my plays (The Cafe Mocha Murders, Leannán Sidhe, and Dancing With Hamlet), here’s a synopsis of them, here’s the Zoom link, join me on October 14th, okay bye!

It became sort of a part time job for me to scour the internet looking for theatres that looked like they could potentially produce something of mine. I looked up theatres in every US state and territory and even reached out to some UK and Australian companies. The thought process was, “It’s a virtual reading so, theoretically, anyone can attend!”

Even before the reading, I was running into some snags. 90 percent of people did not respond to my invitations…but just because they didn’t didn’t respond didn’t mean that they wouldn’t attend, right? Those who did get back to me almost always declined the invite or outright told me, “This is not how we do business. Please contact your agent and have them send your submissions through the proper channels.” (For the record, I don’t have an agent.)

I cannot overstate how hard I worked at sending these emails and the hours that went into researching theatres.

The day of the reading came! My actors had their scripts, I had my Zoom subscription renewed, I opened the virtual door to let all the virtual people in and…three people attended. Three people showed up to the reading, and they were all friends, no one who represents a theatre company. (While I love my friends and cherish their support, they were not the target audience; the idea was to get theatre companies to attend…companies that could potentially produce my shows.)

I was pretty devastated and felt incredibly stupid. Obviously, this had not been the right route to take and I probably just came off as another loud-mouth playwright hocking my script onto someone.

The talk-back session was more brainstorming WHY people didn’t attend rather than discussing the scripts or potential productions. (Our biggest theories were that people are just sick of virtual events given the pandemic, that theatres would rather read a script than have to attend something, and that many companies don’t respond well to cold emails. “Don’t call us. We’ll call you” kind of mentality.)

I licked my wounds, tried to take my friends’ suggestions to heart, and chalked it all up to experience. I had tried and I had failed, but at least I had tried.

Several months passed with me trying to put some distance between myself that disconcerting night. In January, though, I received an email from someone at the Network Theatre in London. They had received my email about the reading back in October and while they had been unable to attend, they thoroughly enjoyed the sample I’d sent along of The Cafe Mocha Murders. (They very politely said, “I hope the reading was well-attended!” Hah!)

Furthermore, they wanted to purchase the full script. I sold them a copy and before you knew it, they were asking about purchasing the rights to it.

So it’s happening: this December, The Cafe Mocha Murders by yours truly at a genuine theatre in LONDON! I have not seen a production of the show since its world premiere back in 2022 in California, and I am over the moon that I’ll get to see it this time around (did I mention it’s in LONDON!?)

I was dumbfounded: something good actually came out of this embarrassing night that had left me feeling like an idiot. I don’t think I’ll be in any kind of rush to do another virtual staged reading, but I take this as a great reminder that you never know what will happen in life or what kind of connections you’ll make, even in the face of failure. It sounds incredibly cheesy to write this, but the truth of the matter is that this theatre probably would know who I am or any of my works had it not been for this dismal miscalculation.

You have to try and fail in order to figure things out. No one is given the rulebook on how to make art or how to get your art out there. Five-hundred (plus) theatres said no, but then one said yes.

And here we are.

Furthermore, it is my ultimate dream to see one of my shows produced at The National Theatre in London and The Network Theatre is located just down the road from them. I’ve learned a lot about cold emails, but I think I may have to try just one more time and see if I can’t get someone from The National Theatre to come on over and see what my work is all about.

Who knows? Could be awful. Could be great.

Want to help support me and my writing endeavors?
Become a patron on Patreon!

0 Comments

<<Previous

UK Update 3/18

The One-Woman War

January UK Update (Yes, I know it's February 1st)

Want to support me in my writing adventures?
Please consider becoming a patron on Patreon or give to my GoFundMe page.

My Trip to the House of Commons and The Assisted Dying Bill

Links to actual articles, etc.

UK Parliament: Terminally Ill Adults (End of Life) Bill

BBC: Assisted dying bill: What is in proposed law?

The Guardian: MPs back landmark bill to legalise assisted dying in England and Wales

Want to support me? (You're too kind!)
* Become a Patron on Patreon
* Make a donation via Venmo ( @Deanna-Strasse )
* Donate to my GoFundMe page

UK Update 11/25

Want to support me? (You're too kind!)
Become a Patron on Patreon
Make a donation via Venmo ( @Deanna-Strasse )
Donate to my GoFundMe page

Two anecdotes, a short story, and a poem

My Thirteen-Year-Old Self
A poem

Crunch
A short story

The Joy Club
A poem

Want to support me and my writing endeavors?
Become a Patron on Patreon
Make a donation via Venmo ( @Deanna-Strasse )
Donate to my GoFundMe page

UK Update 10/10

Want to support me and my writing endeavors?
Become a Patron on Patreon
Make a donation via Venmo ( @Deanna-Strasse )
Donate to my GoFundMe page

UK updates 30/9

Want to support me and my writing endeavors?
Become a Patron on Patreon
Make a donation via Venmo ( @Deanna-Strasse )
Donate to my GoFundMe page

UK update 28/9

Want to support me and my writing endeavors?
Become a Patron on Patreon
Make a donation via Venmo ( @Deanna-Strasse )
Donate to my GoFundMe page

Five hundred theatres said no (and then one said yes)

Want to help support me and my writing endeavors?
Become a patron on Patreon!

Categories

Want to support me in my writing adventures? Please consider becoming a patron on Patreon or give to my GoFundMe page.

Links to actual articles, etc.

​Want to support me? (You're too kind!)* Become a Patron on Patreon ​* Make a donation via Venmo ( @Deanna-Strasse )* Donate to my GoFundMe page

Want to support me? (You're too kind!)Become a Patron on Patreon ​Make a donation via Venmo ( @Deanna-Strasse )Donate to my GoFundMe page

My Thirteen-Year-Old SelfA poem

CrunchA short story

The Joy ClubA poem​

Want to support me and my writing endeavors? Become a Patron on Patreon ​Make a donation via Venmo ( @Deanna-Strasse )Donate to my GoFundMe page ​

​Want to support me and my writing endeavors? Become a Patron on Patreon ​Make a donation via Venmo ( @Deanna-Strasse )Donate to my GoFundMe page

Want to support me and my writing endeavors? Become a Patron on Patreon ​Make a donation via Venmo ( @Deanna-Strasse )Donate to my GoFundMe page

Want to support me and my writing endeavors? Become a Patron on Patreon ​Make a donation via Venmo ( @Deanna-Strasse )Donate to my GoFundMe page

Want to help support me and my writing endeavors? Become a patron on Patreon!

Categories

Want to support me in my writing adventures?
Please consider becoming a patron on Patreon or give to my GoFundMe page.

Want to support me? (You're too kind!)
* Become a Patron on Patreon
* Make a donation via Venmo ( @Deanna-Strasse )
* Donate to my GoFundMe page

Want to support me? (You're too kind!)
Become a Patron on Patreon
Make a donation via Venmo ( @Deanna-Strasse )
Donate to my GoFundMe page

My Thirteen-Year-Old Self
A poem

Crunch
A short story

The Joy Club
A poem

Want to support me and my writing endeavors?
Become a Patron on Patreon
Make a donation via Venmo ( @Deanna-Strasse )
Donate to my GoFundMe page

Want to support me and my writing endeavors?
Become a Patron on Patreon
Make a donation via Venmo ( @Deanna-Strasse )
Donate to my GoFundMe page

Want to support me and my writing endeavors?
Become a Patron on Patreon
Make a donation via Venmo ( @Deanna-Strasse )
Donate to my GoFundMe page

Want to support me and my writing endeavors?
Become a Patron on Patreon
Make a donation via Venmo ( @Deanna-Strasse )
Donate to my GoFundMe page

Want to help support me and my writing endeavors?
Become a patron on Patreon!