Two anecdotes, a short story, and a poem

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."

---

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