One year ago today…

One year ago today, I took the MetroNorth to the Bronx with my parents, a black polyester robe folded and stuffed into my leather shoulder bag. I processed across thick rubber mats in my espadrilles with my peers around me, our flat caps absorbing the straight, bright rays of early summer sun. We grinned at each other, robes unzipped and slipping down our shoulders, backs stuck to the folding chairs with perspiration.

One year ago today, I processed with the faculty to a seat on the stage with my name taped on it. I stood in front of my graduating class at the podium and spoke of the promise of our lives. “Genesis says that all men and women are entrusted with the task of crafting their lives– they are to create of it a work of art, a masterpiece. We are all artists in that way.”

Today, I had my first official day of rehearsal. I suffered through the soggy, raining morning to a small theatre on the UWS, where I quickly met the SM and the costume designer, and said friendly hellos to the cast. We started at 10am with contract-signing with the artistic director of the theatre. I watched quietly as the rest of the cast got their Equity forms and riders, and I had a simple white paper contract in three copies. Soon that will be me, I thought. Patience.

Last night, I dreamed I was crying. Sobbing thick, heavy tears, wheezing for air. It had to do with graduation, but I don’t know if it was mine or the one that just happened for my friends this last Saturday. It didn’t really matter… I was mourning a loss.

I am doing well. Sometimes I have to stop and actively look back to where I was one year ago, restless and scared and out of control and ten pounds heavier than now. I can remember how much I hated my job at the sports bar, the weekend I dog-sat and broke down into the worst depression I’d had in months, my inability to come into rehearsal feeling “together,” my exhaustion. And I can see that I am doing well now.

But today I got my period, and tonight I binged worse than I have in months. My cat is irritated with me because I can’t get it together, and I’m irritated with me because I want to wake up and I want everything to be fixed and better.

Life doesn’t work like that.

It was three years ago that my life swerved into the groove I’m in now. I’ve struggled my whole life with faulty brain chemistry, but that was the most recent iteration of it. It doesn’t feel fair that I’m still fighting every single day. I struggle to accept the daily struggle, to feel hopeful for tomorrow when pounds of food I had hoped to savor are sitting, hot and bloated, in my belly.

One year ago today, I said goodbye to twenty-two years of structured education, to grades and dorms and class times. I spoke to my class about creation and exploration, but inside I was terrified of what my life might be. Unfettered, ungrounded, alone– how could I survive?

But today I held my own in a 7hr rehearsal with strangers who were older than me. I curled my hair in the morning but wasn’t freaked out when it frizzed all up by the time I got to the theatre. I let the director focus his critique on me for most of the day, let the words flow in and over and out and not hurt me just because they were about me. I had my costume fitting and didn’t feel shy and self-conscious, and I felt as though I belonged in a professional rehearsal room as a lead in a world premiere.

It’s a day by day thing, and nothing ever moves as quickly as I wish it would, but when I stop and line them up side by side…

I have come so very far in one short year.

Massacre (Sing to Your Children)

Tonight I saw Jose Rivera’s new play at the Rattlestick, Massacre (Sing to Your Children). I didn’t love the play, but I absolutely respect it, and it was extra awesome because Jose Rivera was actually in the show tonight– one of the actors was out, he was around, so he decided to do it. It was pretty amazing to see someone onstage in his own play whose work I’ve read over and over in Theatre History courses.

The play begins with 7 people running into what looks like a horror movie torture chamber, covered in blood in crazy masks, carrying machetes and knives. Over the course of the first act, we learn that they have just slaughtered “Joe,” a man who seems to have taken tyrannical, bloody rule over their New Hampshire town. At the very last moment of the act, we hear three knocks on the door– Is Joe alive?!

Act II begins with the 7 actors in the same shocked position as the first ended, but now with a small man in a white suit with a red poppy on his lapel– Joe. He doesn’t really exist… yet they all can hear him… Whatever, that’s not the point.

The point is that in this second act, Joe goes one by one to each person, grilling them and exposing their deepest secrets (real or false, it doesn’t even really matter)– one man possibly raped a woman years ago in Chicago, a woman and her mother both slept with Joe, etc.

It got me thinking, though. If that happened to me, what secrets would Joe reveal about me? I tend to feel I’m pretty open on the blog– maybe not in real life but better than some. Yet at the same time, I had a pretty strong reaction of fear just thinking about what a revelation of my deep, dark secrets would mean. But what would they even be?

I still binge all the time and my binges have included boxes of donuts, entire loaves of bread and tubs of hummus? That I masturbate, and have since I was very young? That I haven’t had sex in over a year? That I’m spoiled and privileged and expect a lot from my parents, including financial support? That I wish my sister loved me, but I’m insanely jealous of her and her boyfriend especially?

Honestly, none of these things would ruin my relationships with people, I don’t think. None of these would honestly even shock my friends, probably. So why does the idea of exposed “secrets” cause this knee jerk reaction?

I’m sure it all ties back to shame, that lovely little thing my therapist and I are all about. I feel shame about pretty much everything I do, and it’s not till I completely stop, slow down, and track the reality of a situation that I can convince myself there’s nothing to be ashamed of.

Joe couldn’t actually destroy my life with my secrets.
But it does feel like he could.




How old are you?

22, but I turn 23 in exactly one week. Hooray?

What is your gender?


Do you consider it possible to recover completely from an eating disorder?

Hmm. I do think it’s possible to recover in terms of symptoms– ie. not starve, not binge, not purge, normalize eating patterns. However, my experience of my ED, at least so far, is that it has changed me. I believe my ED is a symptom of my depression, and now that I’ve used this symptom to control my emotions, it will always be a tool available to me, just like self-harming, just like all these other protective measures I use to regulate myself. I don’t think I, or anyone really, can go back to exactly the way they were pre-ED.

Do you consider media (magazines, television, etc) to encourage and contribute to the spread of eating disorders?

This is a complicated question. The media does not cause EDs,no. Have I found it hard to manage gaining weight and maintaining self-confidence and integrity during recovery in a world (and a profession) where size is key? YES. It’s as though an extra layer is put on the process of recovery. I needed to weigh more than I ever had in order to get my body back into functioning mode, but it was nearly impossible to separate my pride of being where I needed to be to be healthy from the self-hatred for being above a “perfect” weight. In other words, it just worsens things, I think.

What do you think is the primary cause of an ED? If you believe that different disorders manifest differently, please specify.

To be honest, I can only speak for myself, but I think it’s the case for many of us. I believe that my ED was a manifestation of other psychological disorders in my history– bipolar disorder, depression, anxiety, OCD. It was a new method for me to self-regulate. Personally, it had NOTHING to do with how I looked or the desire to be “perfect” or “remain a child” or those other things people tell you cause EDs. I think each person is different, but like other forms of self-harm, it’s a way to keep scary emotions at bay.

Would you classify yourself as currently suffering from an eating disorder?

I tend to say I’m in recovery, or I’m recovering. That word is meaningless by itself, but to me, it means that I have all the tools in place to move forward– but it means nothing about my “success” in “beating” an ED. I still fuck up, constantly, but I feel my brain and my intentions are in the place where I am slowly, but surely, moving towards health.

Have you ever been in therapy? If so,when?

I saw a therapist as a kid, from around 8 years old to 13ish. I took a long hiatus, when I was doing “well” and my mother crowed on about how I was “fixed.” Obviously, that’s not the way it works, so I started seeing a therapist again in fall of 2009 (funnily enough, I entered into therapy, without meaning to, right in the middle of developing the restriction portion of my eating disorder. In June I called her and told her I wanted to meet, July/August was the first stages of my ED, and then I met her for the first time in Sep. Classic.)

For how long have you suffered from an eating disorder?

Summer of 2009 is when it started, so going on 3 years now. Jesus.

How would you describe your experience with therapy, if applicable?

I couldn’t really tell you what it did when I was a kid, but now I have such a strong relationship with my therapist I think it does a lot. She’s the one person on the planet who I can tell literally anything to with no repercussions. She’s also given me an entirely new language of talking about and processing my feelings. I think our work together has literally changed ways that I think. It’s a great gift.

Do you consider yourself a happy person?

Yes. However, I’m also one of the saddest people I know. Basically, I’m chemically imbalanced in every sense of the word. But I do go through my life with great wonder and joy. (my laugh/cry is legendary)

Do you share the nature of your disorder with anyone in your personal life? If so, describe this relationship.

I sent an email to about 8 of my closest friends during the deepest part of my ED, letting them know that I was struggling and working to recover. I have never talked directly to my parents about it. In the last year, I have talked about my ED (usually just the restriction part– I still find binging to be waaaaay too shameful to discuss with even my therapist) directly with two or so friends. I do not share gory details with anyone except on the internet.

Do you actively hide your disorder from anyone in your personal life? If so, please elaborate.

Not really. I don’t talk about it, never let on if I’ve binged. Sometimes I’ll say “I’m having a rough day,” if the ED has disrupted me in an extreme way. It’s not necessarily that I hide, more that I don’t volunteer information.

Are you a competitive person?

I kind of think I am. I’m not into sports or anything, but I do like to keep one step ahead of the pack. I think it’s tied to my perfectionism and my deep desire to keep everything under control.

Do you believe that you will ever overcome your ED?

Yes? I mean, it’s already been over two years I’ve been actively recovering and I still trip up all the freaking time. I hope someday I have more good days then bad, but to be honest, the recovery process has been even longer and more fraught then I ever thought it would be. If I every do “overcome” my ED, I imagine it’ll be 10+ years from now.

jesus, that’s depressing.


First of all, did you know Make It or Break It was back, Scarlett?! Live TV… who knew what wonders it could hold.

Anyway. Second to last day at home before heading back to the city. And today I felt depressed and sick all. day. What the hell. It’s been a nice visit– calm, generally pleasant, very little pressure to “do,” enough stuff to keep me entertained but not overwhelmed. Then all of a sudden, I’m on a binging bender and basically make myself ill. I mean, really? Do I TRY to make myself feel like shit?

Once I’m back in NYC, I’m always grateful. I have a wonderful life there. But it’s always hard to leave home. Part of that is totally fucked up, because I had the most miserable moments of my life in this house, in the room I’m currently sleeping in. I left here when I was 16 because I knew it wasn’t a healthy place for me to be, emotionally. So why do I keep coming back, and why does it hurt to leave? Part of it is certainly the rarity of my visits– at most three times a year I come back. Let’s see… I was home last Christmas, and last summer, and before summer? God, it must have been Christmas. So really, just two times. And it’s really, really far. Four hours-ish NYC to Denver, usually a two hr layover, and then two and a half ish hours Denver to Idaho. That’s a long day. And travel just isn’t fun like it was when I was a kid.

I’ll bet I’m self-sabotaging myself emotionally because I don’t like leaving. Not that that explains anything– I can’t figure out why I don’t like leaving and it’s a sick riddle why I’m so goddamn good at making myself feel bad.

My nutritionist used to rationalize the binging in a really smart way. My therapist does a similar thing with my rampant neuroses. Binging helps me stuff my feelings in/numb myself, and gives me an excuse to withdraw. My self-criticism was an attempt to keep myself “good” as a kid, when “bad” was the only kind of kid I ever felt like I was. My social anxieties protected me from getting hurt.

All of this is well and good, and certainly true, but it’s unconscious. It’s uncontrollable. And that fucking terrifies me. I doubt I’m alone here. That’s another thing my nutritionist mentioned about the binging. It’s like this inner chaos that rebels against the parts of me that are desperate to keep everything under control. I have a history of extreme feelings (manic-depression is a diagnosable example of this), and try as I might to keep everything clicked in line and perfect and simple, there are parts of me that refuse to be harnessed. I’ve never been good at balance.

I have one more day here, and then on Wednesday, I fly back to the city. Once I get there, landed and home in my bed in my little studio, I know I’ll feel better. Once I see my friends, I know this little internal discomfort will fade. I’ll slide back into my routine and forget that this trip even really happened. I won’t miss it or feel sad about it… it will just fade away in the wake of my “real life.”

But right now, I feel off. And I have one day to “fix” it, which of course is the most emotionally triggering concept on the planet.

Even I’m impressed by my abilities to subconsciously make my own life miserable.

“What is to be expected of them is not treachery, or physcial cowardice, but stupidity, unconscious sabotage, an infallible instinct for doing the wrong thing.” 
― George Orwell


I’m Idahome, and it’s nice. Weather’s fairly crummy, and my dad’s at work all day, but it’s been lovely to lounge on the couch with a book, watch a movie on an actual TV screen, and move from room to room just because I feel like it. I brought Franny, too, which is a nice distraction. Gives my family something to focus on besides each other and our “issues.”

And, yes, it’s official day two (three including travel day), but I’ve been amazingly good in terms of food. Not even an urge to binge yet, which is miraculous. And yet. Because I simply cannot be a normal human with any kind of balance, suddenly I’m freaking out.

Healthy Brain:
Last night, after brushing my teeth and heading for bed, I felt a little hungry and figured I’d have a half a cookie from downstairs. In trying to be quiet, I just took a whole small baggie of milanos (like a ziploc snack bag). And I proceeded to eat all the cookies in the bag. And you know what? Fuck it. It’s okay. I didn’t binge all day and I should just get back on the horse tomorrow and everything is fine. It’s been SO MUCH WORSE.

Crazy Brain:
Holy shit. Oh my god. I just ruined my entire day of eating well. Fuck. Get your mom’s password to her gym tomorrow. Don’t eat breakfast. They’re going to notice the cookies are gone and you’ll look like even more of a fat ass. You have ruined your entire vacation. When I woke up in the morning, I googled various exercise places in the city (even though I already have a gym and it’s fine). Gotta lose that extra paunch before Jersey. You can’t control your food at home– mom makes it and you have NEVER restricted mom’s food.

Normal Brain:
It’s vacation. Don’t go to the gym. You want to, but I have a feeling it might just make you feel worse. It’s playing into crazy brain. Make crazy brain go to the gym and leave you alone. Have a normal, healthy breakfast. Put on your comfy Gap shirt and brush your hair. Take Franny outside. Don’t think about “paunch.”

In other words… the second I stop binging, my brain turns into a restrictive monster. I LOVE EATING DISORDERS!

So I didn’t go to the gym. And I’m still freaking the fuck out about my body and how I don’t control what my mom puts in the food and how there’s dessert and wine, but I’m trying to sedate the crazy brain by saying: it’s a week. You rule the roost 2 out of 3 meals and you are not spending a cent on anything and you’re getting a massage today and you’re not going to get uncast because you weigh the same amount you weighed when you auditioned.

Let’s see how this goes.


“Real love amounts to withholding the truth, even when you’re offered the perfect opportunity to hurt someone’s feelings” 
― David Sedaris

For Better or For Worse

So far, so good.

I went to the gym this morning, my favorite class. It’s taught by this big black man named Paul, who is hilarious and warm. The usual folks at this class could be translated into a sitcom– there’s Erica, the buff white girl who dates black men, whose favorite song is “Golddigger.” There’s Hoodie Ray, buff and big, who wears hoodies and pounds some serious dumbells, silent as the day he was born. There’s Yulie from the Bronx, and Little One from Queens. There are the Jens, Jen 1 and 2, a white couple, mid-twenties, who often come to class together. There’s Cathy the Asian woman from down the block, and Big Nick, tall and gay. And I’m my own character too now, cute and silly, high voiced and enthusiastic. We play “Name that Tune” with old school beats, we answer themed questions like “What was your worst date” and then do 25 thrusters. It makes it worth it.

But I felt pretty shitty today. I saw myself in the mirror and I didn’t like what I saw. I saw a blob of white flesh, a non-descript face, puffy and pink. I saw thick thighs, emphasized by the clinging of my yoga pants. I saw an ass that blended into these thighs, plushy and fat. I saw thick, undefined arms, blurring into the white wall. I hated myself. It was unpleasant. And made me just want to be better, instantly, be perfect, with the snap of my fingers, never eat again.

Of course, that’s not the answer, and for better or for worse (for BETTER, B, it’s for BETTER), I can’t starve myself life I used to. I can’t feel hunger and not feed myself. I know that’s a really positive step. I do. But at the same time, I wish that I could do what I used to do without thinking, cutting my meals down into snack portions, a tiny portion of cereal for breakfast, plain yogurt with a third of an apple, a small bowl of salad with a splash of balsamic for lunch, a quarter serving of couscous with sauteed veggies and one tenth of a block of tofu for dinner. Tea. Water. Probably around 800 calories or less per day. It felt normal, but it wasn’t normal.

I can’t eat like that anymore. Over the last two years, my nutritionist rewove the fabric of my brain about food– noticing what’s too little, despite any ED logic to the contrary (“but I ate too much last night!” “but I just wasn’t hungry!”). And I know that eating too little just leads to eating too much. These things I KNOW.

But just because those are the facts doesn’t mean that I spend significant portions of my lifewishingbeyond belief that it were otherwise.

Wishing that I didn’t binge.
Wishing that I could “diet.”
Wishing I could stick to a firm food plan.
Wishing I could control the feeling of hunger and the feeling of fullness.
Wishing I could slice off the excess on my body and make myself lean, clean, just the core of me.

But I can’t. I can’t do it. I have to just go day by day. I have to let myself hate myself and then move on, because life doesn’t change in a day. I have to take each meal as a new challenge– a challenge I sometimes fail. I have to honor my hunger because I cannot control it. I have to find a way to love myself so that I have the strength to walk outside at all. I have to find a way to love myself because my whole life is comprised of meetings where I work to convince other people that they need me (for their play, their movie, their friend, their colleague).

It’s fucking hard, though. And I often feel like no progress has been made– that I’ve been mired in the depths of this disgusting, shameful disorder for years and years with no escape. I feel entrenched, suffocated, covered in fat and carbs and food I’ve shoved into my mouth. And I feel so angry that this happened to me, especially at this time in my career, in my life, where I NEED to be at my best, emotionally and physically.

But here I am. And I have come far.

I have talked to my friends about my feelings.
I have honored my hunger.
I have admitted when I’m at my worst, and honored it.
I have also sucked it up and ventured out when I’m at my worst.
I have never purged, no matter how many times it seems like the right idea, the solution to all of this.
I have forgiven myself, every single day.

“It isn’t easy, it doesn’t count if it’s easy, it’s the hardest thing. Forgiveness. Which is maybe where love and justice finally meet.” –Tony Kushner, Angels in America


Harper: In your experience of the world. How do people change?

Mormon Mother: Well it has something to do with God so it’s not very nice.
God splits the skin with a jagged thumbnail from throat to belly and then plunges a huge filthy hand in, he grabs hold of your bloody tubes and they slip to evade his grasp but he squeezes hard, he insists, he pulls and pulls till all your innards are yanked out and the pain! We can’t even talk about that. And then he stuffs them back, dirty, tangled and torn. It’s up to you to do the stitching.

Harper: And then up you get. And walk around.

Mormon Mother: Just mangled guts pretending.

Harper: That’s how people change. ”

–Tony Kushner, Angels in America

They say the neon lights are bright…

I’ve had a great week (not with eating, but you know, we all have our things).

No, I mean with auditions. It all started with Portia in Shakespeare class on Monday. I was calm, perfectly memorized, earnest, simple, and full of feeling while remaining still and subtle. My Shakespeare teacher, who I have always wanted to think I was great but who I never thought did, complimented me in class and solo, on our break. He had no acting critiques whatsoever except that the piece required a bit more shaping (which I readily admit). It felt awesome.

On Wednesday, I went to New Jersey again for my callback. It was chillier than I’d imagined, and I was shivering a bit in my shorts (worn because it’s a feature in the play– the character is scolded by her mother for wearing short shorts). This time there, though, I knew where I was headed, knew what to expect, and slid through the door with confidence about 45 minutes early. I could hear someone auditioning through the curtain– auditioning with my sides, for the same role. Soon after, another girl strolled in, pigtails in her hair. Same role, obviously. Fairly quickly, the lobby filled with more girls, all in Converse and little makeup, all short and fresh-faced. I don’t generally get nervous until callbacks, and then, only really if it’s a bunch of people all reading for the same role. I felt a bit like a giant at 5’5″, many of these girls much shorter, younger-looking, and yes, let’s just say it, thinner.

My name was called, right on time, for which I was grateful. I greeted the director again, shook hands with the playwright, and did the first side– a scene in which the character explodes at her mother. The director gave me an adjustment, and I did it again. I felt okay.

Then, we moved on to the monologue– the character on the phone with her secret boyfriend. I felt good about this in my rehearsals at home– I imbued the whole thing with positivity and love, lightness and playfulness, which, surprisingly, is not the easy direction to go. I forgot at some points that I was even auditioning, at some point forgetting I was even acting (which happens, but NEVER at auditions!), and I felt myself really truly get flush in the face when I imagined him asking if I’d told my parents yet. It felt magical. I heard some laughs, not too many, but when I finished, I felt like I really truly nailed it.

Next they had me do the initial sides, from the first audition. I started, and only a few lines in, the director stopped me to give a piece of direction. I pulled the chair away and plopped onto the floor to continue (the character is drawing in chalk). And then I FLEW. I never/rarely feel like I do badly in auditions– when it’s cold readings I often do really well even if I’m unprepared. But… this time it felt like I was actually doing the play. I had no outside brain that was watching my audition, tapping it towards funny or away from anger, micromanaging every moment. I was just acting a scene in a play. It was fantastic. I finished, saw the playwright grin, and they didn’t make any more adjustments. I never have the thought process of “nailed it”– at least not like this. I still doubt I’ll get cast (too tall, not right look, too something, etc), I acted the SHIT out of that audition.

(Wednesday was actually the only day I didn’t binge. Partly because I couldn’t… I had breakfast before getting on the train, bought a subway sandwich on the way from the train to the theatre, eating the Baked Lays on the way, then had a light dinner with my friend R (plus 1.5 drinks) before seeing J’s production of Crucible. And no binge snacking at night! whoooo hooo!)

Tonight, R and I trekked up to White Plains to audition for a production of Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson, a show I LOVED on Broadway (the only reason we’re auditioning for this regional, 5-6 show, no pay, non union show at all). It’s the nerdiest, most anachronistic show on Broadway, maybe ever. And as you may know… that’s what I did. Smart, funny, crazy, young, fresh, playful theatre.

Lyrics include:

“John Adams tried to be an American idol /
Jefferson tried to be a ROCK STAR /
Madison tried to make the Presidency vital /
And James Monroe was a douchebag. /
There’s no place in democracy for your brand of artistocracy /
Take that shit back to Virginia (or Massachusetts, bi-atch!)”

Check out this clip:

Anyway, the whole scene felt a lot like high school, and Rachel and I were making serious eyes at each other in the holding area. But fuck it, it’s BBAJ. We waited around a loooooong time, then R went in and sang (she’s a beast) and did her monologue. Fairly quickly, it was my turn.

I’m a star at those first moments. Friendly but to the point. I gave the accompanist my sheet music, gave him a tempo, and he was already on my side because the title of my song is “All of my Friends (are whores).” I am NOT a singer– this is important to recall. Part of the reason I picked this song is because I know it like the back of my hand, with accompaniment. Now the accompanist was not very good… so let’s get that out of the way. But it’s such a talky/yelly/funny/who gives a shit kind of song, it was fine. And they let me sing all 32 bars without stopping, saying, “Yeah, no way I was going to stop that.” Then I went into my monologue, my classic, my sure thing–The Little Dog Laughedby Douglas Carter Beane. I didn’t have my chair, which I usually use, but in an audition like this I could give a fuck and just aced it, on hyperspeed because I wanted to go HOME, and they responded, “that’s hilarious.” And then made a point to tell me when callbacks were and that they’d be calling so I could “jump up and down.” And I was like, “okay, great!” and R and I busted out and back to the Metro-North. I have a feeling I’ma get a callback.

Now… eating. Didn’t binge on Wednesday. Monday was great until I binged, despite putting major safeguards in place (safe foods, unsafe foods in the freezer, single portion of dinner). Tuesday I was a badass and went to the gym for a class at 9:30am, then promptly had what I like to call a “mini binge”– eating too much of something binge-y but not necessarily grounding me from life), and despite really getting back on track initially, just derailed myself. And today, I was totally on track until I just decided not to be rigorous and allowed myself to NOT stop. Danger, danger, Will Robinson.

And no period yet to blame this bullshit on. Emotionally, I’m a bit more on track, though I have not showered in a few days… sorry all. But generally okay, you know? Perhaps this is just a leftover from the major depressive week I had last week. Maybe it’s going to take another week to pull out. God, I hope not. I’m tired of feeling sick and bloated and numb. Binging these days feels like self harm, and after I binge, I feel so full up of shit that I can’t function– I lie down, or I shove more food in. And if I have to walk around outside, I act as though I can disappear, as though I don’t exist. I pray for invisibility and the strength to make it through. I feel these emotions in my body– in my swollen stomach, in my flabby arms, in my legs in stretched out jeans that won’t cling anywhere I don’t want to look at, in the ache in my chest, in my parched mouth. It’s misery– it’s causing myself to feel miserable. That’s why I hate it so much.

But I’m hopeful. I’m prayerful. My friend R just got me an audition tomorrow for a short film she’s doing, and who know/who cares but it’s something. Plus I plan to go to the gym, see my chiropractor, go to work, and if Leslie doesn’t text me back, maybe get myself a bikini wax. I don’t know. Go crazy. (I’ve never had one, but I’m over the “situation” down there and my at home “remedies” are just not up to par).

Kisses, hugs, and jazz hands,


“The theatre is certainly a place for learning about the brevity of human glory: oh all those wonderful glittering absolutely vanished pantomime! Now I shall abjure magic and become a hermit : put myself in a situation where I can honestly say that I have nothing else to do but to learn to be good.”
Iris Murdoch