Adventure in the People You Know

Again, trigger warning. There will be discussion and details of rape in the following. Sincerely, mom, stop reading.

 

Two weeks before my twenty-third birthday it was my high school homecoming and a friend’s birthday (we’ll call this friend Caliban). It had been five years since we were out of school, so we figured this was the year to go. I had also convinced a friend (we’ll call him Polonius) to come up for both the birthday and the game.

We met at a pub to surprise Caliban, then gathered up our existence and beer and went to Polonius’ hotel room to consume said beer.

This went on for some time, we had all agreed we’d just stay at the hotel. Big bed. Pull out couch. So we drank. A lot. But I’d drank a lot before and never felt like that. Caliban went to sleep, leaving me and Polonius awake to catch up. Caliban took the whole big bed, so eventually Polonius and I went to bed on the pull out couch.

I was incredibly dizzy. When I laid down I hit my head on a bar on the couch. I passed out immediately. Without any idea of the passage of time I woke up. Abruptly.

Now, it’s important to note that at nearly 23 and raised in a Christian evangelical environment I was a virgin. More to the point, I did not receive “the talk.” And sex ed at my evangelical school was…lacking. Let’s just say I’m really good at painting my nails. (That’s what we were taught). So I have no gauge for what this is supposed to be like. I have no concept of how this is supposed to work.

I do know that I’d kissed a few boys. I do know that that’s all I wanted to do. I know that my plan was always to wait until marriage, and based on what I’d learned from married friends who still had guilt about sex, maybe wait until I died.

So when I was abruptly waked with my dress pulled up and a person I trusted on top of me, I believed I put myself in this position. I believed I had at some point or another agreed to this exchange. I also know that I hit my head again. That tears were on my face. That I didn’t know for sure how I got to this position.

I never went back to sleep. He did. Touchlessly. He laid on the other side of the bed without any contact.

The next morning I stumbled downstairs with him to breakfast. “You’re still drunk,” he told me. I couldn’t eat. My head was throbbing. I’d been hungover before. This wasn’t that.

Eventually, I made it home. I laid around my parents’ house completely sick. I was set to have dinner with a friend before the game. Finally, right before I was meant to meet her, I threw up in the kitchen sink and felt like I could stand up again.

We went to the game, and I could tell he’d told people. He’d asked me out over a dozen times since middle school, and I’d always said, “no.” He was a buddy. I never had a boyfriend in high school. It didn’t seem necessary.

The next day I drove to my friend Brett’s house and told her I’d had sex, but couldn’t stop crying. Couldn’t shake how badly I felt. She took me to Taco Bell. When I drive by that Taco Bell, I still feel so loved.

A few weeks later I went out with some friends from high school, the one I’d went to dinner with and another. I told them what had happened. “Finally got what he always wanted,” they laughed their virginal laughs. I guess he had. And I guess that was the lesson.

For years, that was the lesson. He got what he always wanted, and I put myself there. I did this.

Now it’s important to note those two women and I have talked about it since then. Years later we discussed it. They apologized. It made us closer.

It’s also important to note that since then I’ve been drugged a couple of times. I now know what happened. I know that if I’m asleep, I can’t consent. I know that if I’m drugged something was planned. I know that no matter what, I didn’t want that.

A few weeks later Polonius invited me and Caliban to come visit him and his girlfriend. That’s right, he had a girlfriend at the time. I said, “No, that doesn’t seem like a good idea.” He laughed and laughed.

That same week with my friend Natasha in the basement bathroom of Macy’s I took a pregnancy test, terrified and shaking. Not pregnant. I texted Polonius. “Not pregnant. Not that you were worried.”
“I didn’t know that was a thing,” he replied with his same evangelical sex ed.

I can’t say anything with any certainty here, but here are some things I’ve thought over the years after I stopped blaming myself.

  1. There’s a distinct possibility if this event had not happened, I’d be in a healthy relationship with someone.
  2. There’s also a very real possibility, if I’d remained single, I’d still be a virgin.
  3. I know that most of the people I went to high school with do not understand this situation. It is not my job to make them understand.
  4. After this event, it felt like (and rather obviously) that I had a scent on me that let other monsters know “this is an easy prey.”
  5. I know that a hard thing to have to do is invite your rapist to a reunion you have to plan.
  6. I am the strongest person I know, and I think it’s important for me to feel that way.

For my own sake, I have forgiven him. Some times we have to forgive people without ever receiving an apology. Forgiveness is not excusing.

Recently, he told me I was an inspiration. I spent 12 hours sobbing in bed.

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Adventure in Control

Abuse comes in a lot of different forms. **trigger warning** This post will mention, though not explicitly describe the concept of rape.

 

A few years ago I started regularly seeing someone. He went to a church that I used to attend. He came to a show I did with some friends. He started liking all of the things I posted on social media, I guess to get my attention?

We started seeing each other a couple of times a week. I’m a very punctual person. I believe that being habitually late tells people my time is more valuable than mine, and I hardly believe my time matters at all, so I try to be early. He, on the other hand, would be half an hour to two hours late without explanation every time I saw him.

One night I had purchased tickets for an event that he had interest in. It was the least I could after dinners and things. He also didn’t have a car at the time, so I had to drive out of town to pick him up. I drove around his town for two hours waiting for him to come home. Ten minutes before he arrived at home he said “I’m on my way back from *wherever the hell he’d gone.* I just need to shower and change.” He was insistent we drive up to the show that was now almost over to see if we could still get in. I said, “No. That’s not how theatre works. We missed the beginning; we missed it all.” We ended up driving all the way back to his town to watch a movie. We didn’t have to make that trip at all.

He had given me a pair of pants to mend for him, which was fine with me. But one day, the information about my assaults and the way I’d spun out after that was not okay with him. Over a text he broke up with me. He didn’t want to see me. He still won’t acknowledge I exist if we’re standing next to each other in line to see something.

The problem was that I still had those pants. For weeks. About once a week he would text me that he wanted to come pick them up. I would wait, for hours because I just wanted rid of them. Hours later he would say “oh I just went home because of y.” I’d have someone in my apartment, so he wouldn’t feel like he could stay. I’d sit outside in the rain. I’d wait.

This was his way of maintaining control over me. To still be able to dictate what my life was.

Eventually, I got fed up and drove to his town with several other unwanted pairs of pants and threw them all over his yard in the middle of the night. (I highly recommend pantsing someone’s yard. The thud pants make when they hit the ground is very satisfying.)

I’ve lately been trying to walk away from an emotionally abusive situation. He once checked on my cat so he was given a key. He still has that key and has put a lot of work into making sure he just can’t quite get it back to me, which leads to sleeplessness.

He said I could have two whole bars in town. Granted, they’re the only places I really go, but on a recent occasion where I went to one of those two bars, one of his friends said “you’re not welcome here.” I stared. “You know why.” I didn’t, but I’m pretty decent at social math. Nonetheless, it remained that was one of my spaces. He had the entire town at his disposal. Still as a courtesy I let him know I’d be there for a show. I’d stay at the show. I wouldn’t be seen. So naturally he had already had plans to be there and made sure I felt guilty for even thinking about going. He’d change his plans, he pouted. He didn’t. He didn’t change his plans, and I uncomfortably cried during a show I was trying to enjoy.

The key has been attempted to be retrieved on several occasions, but there’s always a reason it doesn’t make it to me. This is control. This is a power play.

Abuse has so much to do with control. Assault has so much to do with control. Rape is about control and power.

In dealing with my most recent rape, I made a joke about all of the weight I’ve been gaining and how often I’ve been raped. “How fat do I have to get to stop being raped?” This was called out as fat shaming. If it was, it was shaming me. It was also called out that I was saying fat people aren’t desirable. I’ve never been more disgusted that someone would think rape had one fragment to do with desire. It doesn’t. It has nothing to do with desire. That’s why it doesn’t matter how fat I get, how much or little I’m covered, how drunk or sober I am, how old or young I am. It has nothing to do with those things. Nothing. It is about control.

I haven’t been sleeping. He has my key and the power still to keep me from sleep. Control and abuse comes in a lot of forms. Right now it’s little cuts and bruises in my mind that don’t get to heal.

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Adventure in Staying Home

Recently, I stepped all of the way back and set my boundaries to their default settings. As an inside cat my boundaries are “Stay home. Talk to limited people. Trust few.”

I tried once in the last few weeks to go out. I went to my favorite bar. I was there not 10 minutes when someone asked me to leave, that I was not welcome there. No one argued. I didn’t. So I left.

With the exception of a Harry Potter Garden Party a friend and I threw I’ve been home every night for weeks.

The part of me that understands how socializing works thinks this all sounds very unhealthy, but I’ve decided it’s not worth the risk. Not right now. I need to reset. Going out with even the safest people could still mean someone awful approaches our table, even someone that they trust. The pulse of Fox Mulder beats inside me, and I hear “trust no one” inside my heart.

If people feel so inclined to engage, that’s great. I will always counter “let’s go to x” with “how do you feel about a walk?” or “with this weather doesn’t a porch hang sound nice?” If that isn’t what they’re interested in from me, that’s fine. Maybe in a few months I’ll come around.

For now I know my safe places and people. They are limited. They are my parents and their home. They are my home. They are friends far away and a limited few nearby.

In a week or so I’m going to a wedding with people I love. It still scares me. When situations like this come up, I do what I can to ensure there will be someone there with me who is as safe as they come who will be there to be with me.

Summer is hard for me for a lot of reasons, but a lot of it comes from feeling unwanted because I don’t get invited to all of the hangs or I hear all of the hangs outside my house and I feel weird for being depressed and in bed already. That this decision is something I am owning makes that easier right now. I still hurt, but the twinge of pain from “missing out” is worth the constant fear.

I’ve learned, particularly in the last two months, when it comes to fight or flight I do neither. In my head I fight and shut people down. In my heart I run as far away as I can. The reality is I freeze, like a fainting goat. My voice goes away. My body stops. When everything ends, I collapse.

So for now, I’m staying in. People won’t understand. That’s fine. I don’t need them t22195634_782310657549_6515116817879609921_n

 

Adventure in Muscle Memory

Muscle memory, if you don’t know, is when your body locks away an action you’ve done over and over. The way Alzheimer’s patients can play instruments because it still lives in their fingers. It’s helpful. That rhythm is often kind. You don’t think about tying your shoes anymore. Your body understands how to keep a bike moving. A waltz becomes simple. 

Muscle memory isn’t all bike rides and music though. 

Some times your body remember things your brain has locked away. It holds onto memories you didn’t know you had. 

While it was just five months ago that I was raped, my body remembers something else. 

This week my brain has been exhausted. My eyes have struggled to focus. On more than one occasion I’ve found tears on my face without knowing I was crying. My body ached from movements I wasn’t making. My belly hurt. A particular sadness set over me. Try as I might I can not shake it. 

The internet is useful. This particular sadness goes back six years. While I couldn’t pin down the date for you, it must have been around this time. Six years ago in Indianapolis I was assaulted. And while my brain knows it happened, my body remembers better. 

My memory is good. Not as good as it used to be, but often better than the average person’s. I appreciate that right now it is trying to protect me, while my body is trying to remind me.

It would be nice if body’s also remembered the same way, without real provocation, good things. The comfort and calm you feel in the presence of certain people. The comfort of specific actions. That every time you showered it came with the same bliss as that first dive of summer into the pool. That every shiver came with the beauty of those first snowflakes falling on your skin. That every hug with safe people offered the same warmth as hugs with the safest people. 

Maybe other bodies do. Mine doesn’t. 

My best sent me the above. Source unknown. 

Misadventure

Late October surrounded by people I trusted in a bar I feel safe I was drugged.

On April 7 in the middle of the day at a “friend’s” house I was assaulted.

On April 25 in the middle of the night in a stranger’s house I was raped.

On August 5 in the evening outside of a bar with friends just inside I was assaulted.

I could go back years. I won’t because I know my mom reads this, and I’ve already said enough to break her heart. Enough to break my own.

I say none of this because I want any sort of pity. I don’t need it. I’m stronger than pity. I’m braver than pity.

Right now though, my mind feels like an itchy scab. Life scratches at the itch because it’s unbearable, but all of that healing gets ripped off in the process. The would starts to bleed again. Never as much as the initial cut, but still beads of dark red build. Huge gashes in my mind, all of them at different stages of healing. All itchy.

I started seeing a therapist again. She’s new in my life as my therapist, but not new in my life. She explained to me that my trauma is living in my limbic system right now. That part of my brain thinks it all just happened, thinks it happened moments ago all of the time. This makes my brain live in a constant state of fear, ever-ready for the next attack.

She suggested I not go anywhere that doesn’t feel safe. Nonetheless, on August 5 I ended up in one of the places that doesn’t feel safe. While waiting outside it proved to be just that. The part of me that will always blame myself initially for something that isn’t my fault keeps telling me that it’s like when a dog senses you’re afraid of her. She knows. She bites. People are not dogs. Some of them are, however, monsters.

I’m trying to build safe spaces for my brain to heal. I’m trying to learn where I can go. If I have any hesitation, I can’t go. If there are people I don’t know, right now, I can’t go. It’s not always respected. It’s not always heard. I can’t care about that anymore. I know what’s right for me now, and that’s what I’m trying to do.

It is some times I heard and respected. On August 5 a friend found me immediately after, and while not always quick to read people, saw my pain and never left my side, let me cry on him. A friend let me cry on her the moment I saw her. Two friends arrived shortly after and ran interference. I’m lucky. Some people aren’t supported like I am. I know that. Still, every time it happens it feels completely isolating. It’s meant to.

On August 5 I never wanted it to be able to happen again. I did some things I’m not proud of. It’s hard to believe it won’t ever happen again when it won’t stop happening. That doesn’t mean I should give up. I want to. Right now, I’d like to give up. I’m still here.

You are not alone. Even if you are on your own, you are not alone. It is not your fault.

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Adventure in Breaking/Mending

Eight weeks ago something happened. Six weeks ago something worse happened. One week ago more brush was shoved on the fire.

It’s not a new topic for me, especially in the last couple of years, but try as I might, try as others might, I won’t stop talking about it.

Eight weeks ago, between eating lunch and picking up a comic to take to his next city, I stopped at the home of a person I know. Someone I had spoken with regularly. Someone I considered a friend. In the course of less than half an hour, everything changed.

I was able to take myself out of the situation before it became desperate. But “no” wasn’t a viable answer. “This isn’t why I came over,” was also unaccepted. “I don’t want to redo my makeup” was a good reason. “I’m on my period” granted me enough space to get up and leave, but not enough space to have control to stop things.

I picked up the comic and went about my weekend.

Six weeks ago, I was feeling good. I met up with someone and lost complete control of the situation. I’ll continue to spare you details. I got home in the middle of the night, uncontrollably sobbing. I knew the right things to do. I knew to call the police. I knew not to shower. I knew those are the things you’re supposed to do. Another thing you should do, if you’re able, is take care of yourself, whatever that looks like. So I did. I showered. I took my clothes off. In that order.

I did something I haven’t done before though. I reached out to people immediately. Everyone was asleep, but in the morning so many people were affirming. So many people kept my mind safe. My dear friend, who is far away, encouraged me to go to the Sexual Assault Treatment Center. My dear friend, who is down the street, hugged me while I sobbed on him.

I called the Sexual Assault Treatment Center, because I didn’t know how it worked. She said to come in immediately. I asked, “Can I wait an hour? I have a job interview in 15 minutes.” She called me a toughie.

Throughout an hour-long job interview, I held it together. I needed this job. She asked how I handle stressful situations. I refrained from saying, “I haven’t cried once or given pause that something is wrong in this interview, have I?”

My dear friend, who hurried back from out of town, met me at the Sexual Assault Treatment Center. I met with a forensic nurse, a police detective, and a woman from victims assistance. I had a full exam done. I only cried once. She was kind. She was patient. She took my time, not hers. Some times when we interact with people who need kindness and patience, we offer them patience on our own time. She did not do this. She gave me time to breathe. She waited until I said okay. I know it’s her job to act this kindly with victims. We could all stand to work this kindly with everyone.

My dear friend waited in the lobby for two hours. Her phone died. She read every pamphlet. She waited on my time. She was kind. She is kind.

Another friend far away shared my assailants picture. He told the story. He checked with me and then told anyone who would listen. Profiles were removed. People were talking, in the best ways. He shared the truth, not the easy parts.

The next day I had a gynecological exam to get checked for my tumorous cysts. The nurse was kind. She talked to me about her own trial. The RN was not kind. She was cold and shaming. I scheduled another appointment for an ultrasound, because the RN didn’t believe me. It was five weeks later.

I stayed open. I kept talking. I asked for help, for company. I was granted this more times than I can explain. Food was brought to my home. Kindness after kindness.

Two weeks later I had a second interview for the same job. I hadn’t slept in four days. I was certain I wouldn’t get it. It was a terrible interview. I was exhausted. I was beaten. I was destroyed.

The next day I received a call from my doctor’s office. It wasn’t just my fears. Other unwanted news came. Nothing uncommon, just unpleasant.

Three weeks went by, and it became a problem for some people. This made me stronger. My survival and my means of survival were problematic for some people. I vowed to become immortal out of spite.

At four weeks, I wanted nothing, but hugs. I also wanted to never be touched. I was watching as people I knew were having pretty serious allegations brought up against them. I was watching and being pulled in. People were contacting me, as if I’m an authority on consequences. The only consequences I understand are my own, the ones I face every day. I watched possible (albeit likely) assailants keep friends, which is a type of affirmation of those actions. While I was losing people for being dramatic, for causing problems.

Do you know why someone talking about rape seems dramatic? I do. Because trauma is dramatic. Because tragedy is drama. Because truth is dramatic.

This only made me louder.
“I wish I could talk my way out of being raped the way rapists talk their way out of trouble.”
“So we’re clear. A rapist hears the word ‘no’ and expects that to mean ‘yes.’ But when accused the rapist is like ‘I didn’t rape her.’ Apparently only his ‘no’ means ‘no.'”

I started to feel more isolated. It was silly. Weeks prior I was surrounded, literally and figuratively. Friends from all over were reaching out to me. Nonetheless, I began to fear I had worn out my welcome on asking for favors. I’m not quick to ask for help, but this time as a means of survival I knew I needed to. Coming up the stairs at home and collapsing to my knees sobbing, I knew I needed help. I had reached out to someone I was told was a therapist. They proved to be a crazy person that would only escalate my issues.

I felt alone. I was not alone. I felt alone. I felt empty. I felt lost. I felt alone.

Loud noises began to affect me. My parents’ dogs barking made me terrified and panicked. Thunder made me panicked. A dear friend brought me earplugs and other kindnesses.

At a show, I wore my “please-don’t-rape-me” jeans that I bought eight weeks ago. I told my friends not to touch me and to make sure no one else did. I did not keep it together. I left in the middle of the show. Broken. I had stayed because I couldn’t be alone, but the music was loud, the voices were loud.

Week five I was fine again. The dogs and I were fine. I could cuddle my dog again.

Creative 30 for 30 started again, and I could force myself to put some of the things in my head to good use. I started baking again. I didn’t start passively baking. I have no one to give baked things to. I started baking to heal. I started baking more than just that one cupcake Kristen Wiig made for herself in Bridesmaids. I started making full pies. I made pies for healing. I recorded recipes. I made the same pie twice. I improved on pie. I improved on pie to improve myself. I taught myself new skills to show myself I can do more. I watched Moana eight times.

I went to my ultrasound. The tech was kind. The tech took my time. She made six marks on the image of my single ovary. She paused. She asked if I wanted children. I turned my face as tears grew in my eyes. I’ve been in pain again for a couple of months. When I finally saw my doctor she explained I had several cysts in my ovary. They ranged in size from 0.5 cm to 1.3 cm. She explained that they would likely dissipate. She explained that in my case they needed to be monitored closely because of my history. She said it was Polycystic Ovary Syndrome. It explained so much about my last year. It explained so much. It still scared me so much. It still does. Of course, it does.

I also made it one whole year writing affirmations. It’s not been a full year since I moved them to this platform, but I’d brought myself a full year on the strength of my own mind. I’ve continued. I will continue.

At five weeks I also found out I got that new job. I found out I’d be working in an incredibly life-giving, safe, and affirming space. I could walk to work again. I could pay my bills again. I could be motivated to fight PCOS simply by doing my daily work.

Six weeks/eight weeks later I started my new job. I love my new job. I’ve been doing research on diet options to make PCOS more manageable. I’ve continued to reach out to people. I’ve broken my own heart this week. I’ve had my heart broken. I’ve cried on the phone with someone I haven’t heard from since I told them what happened because I felt abandoned. This crying went unnoticed.

In eight weeks my nightmares have come back. In eight weeks several people have taken themselves out of my life because I’ve been too much. In eight weeks I’ve cycled through peace and pain. In eight weeks I’ve screamed and cried. I’ve gone silent. I’ve pushed myself. I’ve been pushed. I’m not healed. I’m not cured. I am still moving. I am healing. I am mending. Pieces of me are coming back together. (please, ignore that Ashley Simpson reference. I can’t take it out now, but I don’t want it there either).

Some times for no provoked reason, I still fill with all manner of sadness and pain. It doesn’t take new provocation. There’s a lasting provocation lodged inside of me. A provocation I can only hope to learn to cope with. It will live beside me. I will be bigger than it. Some days, I’ll get to a place where I will feed it too much. It must be fed. If it’s starved it will get loud and angry. It must be fed and acknowledged. It is my constant companion. It is my monster. It is not me.

Thank you to everyone who has helped carry me over the last two months and over the last 30 years.

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Adventure in Seeking the Best

Last year at this time I made a grand proclamation. 2016 was going to be better than the catastrophe that was 2015. Whoops. I still kicked it in the teeth. It tried, but didn’t kill me. It tried, but didn’t break me. Rather than reviewing all of the garbage (deaths, surgery, and so much more), I’m going to try to seek out a few really good things that happened this year. It was more than an election. It was more than a mass of celebrity deaths. 2016 very nearly brought me to my breaking point.

So let’s try to make some sense of a year.

I was given a tribe. I worked and worked. I cried. I laughed. I forgot to eat. I battled my memory, but I found the most amazing people, and they took me in.

I pushed myself. I found new ways to be. I made myself be better. I made myself do better. I had to pull back from other things I care about, but it only made me miss those things too and want to work on them just as hard.

These images were a tiny dream fulfilled.

These two humans did so much more for my heart and my head than people will ever understand, and this image consistently fills me with joy.

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Honestly, these people. Every moment with them. On stage. In rehearsals. Burning fingertips making masks. Celebrating Harry Potter. Meeting late at Henry’s. This year would not have been as livable without each of them.

There was also a great deal of pie.

I was allowed to participate in An Evening With the Authors three times. In turn, I met some truly incredible people.

Did I mention all of the new Harry Potter? Cursed Child. Fantastic Beasts.

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And we got new X-Files. And new Star Wars.good-2016-22

Shakespeare readings continued in full force.

Danny Tamberelli called me “family.”

I scored some amazing best friend time. Some of it was sad. Some of it was painful. Most of it was hilarious. All of it was life-giving.

We got matching tattoos, and I eventually became mine. It was bound to happen.

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Some much needed time with my brother whenever we could get it.good-2016-28

I was loved in ways I’ll never be able to comprehend. Kindness came in so many ways, and I’m forever thankful.good-2016-33I was able to create a space for anything to happen, and I’m in love with it.

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We had so many amazing shows and so many opportunities.

I was able to do my very best to honor one of my reasons to love comedy. I think I did an alright job.

good-2016-3Even though she didn’t win, I was able to proudly and without hesitation vote for a candidate I believed in. I was able to vote for a main party candidate who also happened to be a woman.good-2016-43Gilda Catner and I became the same. It was already underway, but 2016 was the full transition.

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I wrote 115 affirmations, even when it was hard. I created 31 things for 31 straight days. I found or was sent over 100 new payphones. I communicated and received some pretty beautiful responses from two artists that changed my life, Julianne Swartz and Brian Michael Bendis. I met so many new people that I’m so proud to know. I had many successes, small though they were. I had some pretty big failures and defeats, but that’s not what this is about. Thank you to everyone who made 2016 livable. I couldn’t have done it without you.

 

Adventure in Gratitude Day 15

Today is a hard day to be grateful. Today was a hard day. I did something I never once thought I would do.

I walked off my job. No notice. Nothing lined up.

I cried. I called my mom. I cried. I picked up Erica. We got lunch, because she’s kind and patient. We boxed up movies. We sold some of them. I’ll sell more.

I applied for new jobs. I went to the bar to set up for the show. I waited through the delay. I left when someone who (likely, probably, by my way of thinking definitely) tried to drug me a few weeks ago showed up.

So what do I have to be thankful for? New chances. New anything. Open horizons.

Oh. And. The most supportive humans in the world. I didn’t tell a lot of people. The ones I did tell have been nothing, but supportive and kind and helpful and encouraging and proud.

I’m lucky. Life has been so hard lately, but I am so beautifully lucky.

Adventure in Gratitude Day 13

Comedy sisterhood.

My own scene is not riddled with other women. I’m supported. I’m lucky.

But just down the interstate or just over the state line are more women. More allies. More warriors. Fighting for stage time. Not because they’re women. They aren’t just female comics. They’re comics. Funny comics. Smart comics. Comics with more than just some good jokes. Comics with great ideas. With beautiful thoughts.

I’m proud to know them. I’m proud to bring them here when we can. Any chance I get to sit down with any of them is such a life-giving and empowering time.

I’m so thankful for each one of them.

Adventure in Gratitude Day 12

It’s been a hard weekend already. It just has.

But today, I went out into the woods to clear my head. What’s even better, my dear friend came with me. We wander the woods for miles. The sun was shining. The air was cool. The conversation was sincere.

We came back to town and wandered downtown. Showing off my city to my friend.

Some times a clear head does wonders.

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