Blog #10: Whoops!

*ahem* So, my last few blog posts have been a bit bleak. I have thought about taking them down, several times, but they are real, even if they don’t paint me in the most mentally stable light. And the truth is, I’m not mentally stable. I’m genuinely struggling right now. I am worried about money and I am struggling with suicidal ideology pretty much daily.

However, I feel okay today. Also, I recognize that people love me and want me to be alive. That voice in my head that tells me that I’m worthless and that nobody will ever really love me — I don’t think it’s trying to be a liar. I just think it’s desperate. It’s really hard to walk around in this world and keep having to realize that no matter how old or wise you get, no matter how financially stable you are, no matter how many people love you or how many people you love, none of the good stuff is promised or permanent.

We can lose everything in one fell swoop or we could lose it piecemeal over years, or it can be just one hit after another until your face goes numb and your inner narrator is just wailing incoherently. Existence is scary and painful and multidimensional.

I think about it like people who pin butterflies to a board. Yes, the the colors are pretty and the delicate detail of the wings are impressive, but the most beautiful thing about a butterfly is that it’s alive. You can’t pin that down without killing it. And that’s life — this butterfly that we’re always trying to get to stay still long enough to figure it out, but if we try too hard, we end up snuffing out it’s true beauty.

Unclench. It’ll be fine. And it won’t. And people will get fed up with you, and you with them, and then you’ll remember why you like each other and focus on that, and life is off and fluttering again.

I don’t regret the past several blog posts I’ve made, even if thinking about them makes me wince. I really have this terror of letting people get to know me, and I I’ve shared WAY too much about the worst parts of me on here, but only showing the best parts of myself is like pinning myself to a board.

However, I think I can probably provide a more balanced blogmosphere if I also pop in when I’m feeling great and life is going good. If that happens, I’ll let you know — haha! Right now, I’m okay. I don’t feel like a mistake. I don’t know how long that’ll last, but even a few minutes is a relief.

Blog #9: For Posterity

Trigger Warning: Everything

I’m pretty sure I’m going to kill myself. Definitely not today and probably not tomorrow. But at the end of the day, no matter how much self-soothing, self-healing, self-whatever I do, I always come back to the same thought: Everyone hates me and if they don’t they will.

I can’t even really express how painfully real that thought is. I want to just dismiss it as paranoid, but as I’m in the midst of that particular mental tornado right now, I can’t. And when I say that, I don’t really mean “everyone”. I am mature enough to no longer care what strangers think, and I’m actively glad if someone I don’t like doesn’t like me.

It’s the people I love, the ones that I thought loved me. When they change their minds, it hurts. And, it doesn’t seem to matter how much I try to avoid letting that happen, it always, always does. The mindfuck seems to be that I am instantly likable but fundamentally unlovable. How do you fix that? I used to think I just had to find the right people, people that I had a genuine connection with. But that doesn’t work either.

My mental illness is like a narcissistic boyfriend, constantly whispering in my ear that the people who I think love me are just being nice or that they secretly want something from me. Or worse — that they only like me because they don’t really know me. Or, and this is even worser — that they only like me because of the person they project onto me; who they think I am. So, I have to figure out who that is, and be it, and never ever share a thought or an opinion that I don’t already know they would approve of.

That’s fun, right? There’s no way to win that argument, either. It’s an un-provable statement. It really comes down to what I want to or can believe. I have a hard time believing a nice lie about myself if I can believe a nasty one.

I saw a homeless man today, and I could smell him from five feet away. As someone who has lived with suicidal ideology for approximately thirty-four years, I can say that it takes a brave person to live at the mercy of humanity. I would literally rather die than need help and risk a “no”. But there are people out there with hope and faith enough to believe that a) humans are basically good and will help if they can and b) vulnerable people have innate value regardless of their circumstances. I am not those people, but goddamn do I respect them.

Blog #8: Goodbye Kind World?

Trigger Warning: suicidal ideology.

This is going to sound arrogant as hell, but I’m going to say it anyway. There is something special about me. I’m not sure what it is, some sort of charisma or likability. Maybe it’s because I look like the human equivalent of a Care Bear — whatever it is. I am the kind of person that people want to believe in. People want to think that I’m a good person, they want to credit me with a higher level of decency than most people.

It took me a long time to figure this out, I think partly because I was raised by a mentally ill mother with addiction issues, partly because of the horrors that I experienced in foster care, and partly due to other unpleasant experiences I had as a child.

You know how, like, you’re in the middle of a nightmare and you realize that you’re dreaming? And you stop, and think, okay, if I’m dreaming, I can figure out a way to make this less scary? That’s what a lot of my childhood felt like. Like, strangers trying to molest me, my little brother being kidnapped and then dying, going into foster care and enduring not only shock and grief and loss but horrific abuse — and me, in the middle of that, figuring out how to steal a measure of control over my own life.

I wish that, once my life leveled out a bit, that I’d been able to relax. My life would have been so much better if I could have enjoyed any of it. I wish that I could have learned to trust people sooner and trained myself to know that love is scary but worth it. I wish that I could brush off intentional cruelty and forgive myself for unintentional cruelty. I wish that I hadn’t wasted so much time with my mom resenting or fearing her. I wish that I could have understood her when she was alive the way that I do now that she’s dead.

I quit my job in September, and damned if I can force myself to get another one. I finally signed up with a temp agency but I’ve only been sent out on one job in the past month-and-a-half. I should be upset about that, but instead, I’m stressed over what’ll happen when I get another gig.

I am not who I used to be. I’m not angry anymore. I think that my major motivation throughout most of my life was defiance, a determination to prove that the few people who treated me like shit were wrong. That I have value, that they didn’t break me. I’ve squandered so much of my life focusing on those shitheads instead of the people who genuinely liked me.

Until I got to Flappers, and then there were so many people who had so many nice things to say about me that they drowned out all of the cruel phantoms floating around in my head. I think that if the business of comedy was as pure as the art form, I might have been cured. Instead, I was promoted. And I became the thing that was wrong with the world.

That’s why I left, or so I told myself. The truth is that I confused virtue with naivety. Also, it had taken me almost forty years to find a community of people who liked me, and I was afraid that if I couldn’t be the cheerleader who gained their affection in the first place — if I had to be the hard-assed disciplinarian, the one who said no — that they would change their minds. I couldn’t risk that, so I walked away with the illusion of my integrity intact.

I was so proud of myself. So arrogant and judgmental and so much better than the person They had asked me to become. What an asshole. This is what I do — poke my head out of my shell, find out life is complicated, and then pull my head back in and congratulate myself for refusing to be corrupted. But my soul isn’t pure; it’s atrophied due to lack of use.

So, what now? I have about three months of rent left on one of my credit cards, and if I haven’t figured out how to support myself by then, I’m out. I’ve done a good job of distancing myself from the people who would care the most. I’m sure they’ll blame themselves; it’s what I would do. But, honestly, unless something changes within the next three months, I can’t see a future for myself.

That sounds grim, but I’m not actually unhappy. I have been writing a lot, and the writing is going well. I’m the closest to creating a readable draft of a novel that I ever have been. If I live long enough, I think I’ll actually finish it and maybe even figure out a way to get it published.

I’m also trying to figure out how to do craft fairs and farmers’ markets or how to sell the stuff that I make online. I haven’t given up, I’m not just waiting for the sand to drain from the hourglass. I’m in a race against time, like all good protagonists. I just don’t know what the end of my story is going to be, or when.

Three months goes by quickly but a lot can happen in that amount of time. I have hope that I can turn things around, and I have hope that I can start being the best version of myself again without feeling like a fraud. Or maybe, accepting that I can still be loved even if I’m just an okay version of myself…maybe?

If worse comes to worst, I’ll leave. It’s not anyone’s fault, except mine, really. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to thrive in this world. And I’m so tired of merely surviving. I guess we’ll see in three months, which of us is stronger, me or the world. Stay tuned, gentle reader. And stay strong.

Blog #7

Spoiler/Trigger Warning: Suicidal Ideology and other dark stuff.

I did a thing. I am almost maxed out on my credit card and I don’t currently have a job, and my bank pre-approved me for a new credit card because I used to have a job, so I applied for the new credit card. Then, I was feeling really depressed yesterday, like, you know, suicidal and stuff, and I decided to take a cruise. So, I bought a ticket for a 4-day cruise and I lied to my brother and told him I won the trip.

He believed me because I don’t usually lie. I kind of don’t even know who I am right now. All I know is that I’ve spent my whole life trying to figure out how to be a person who was good enough to deserve to feel happy and safe. But I was wrong. This world doesn’t reward virtue.

So, I haven’t decided to be a bad person, but I’ve decided to do some bad things. I took out a credit card I have no way of paying back on top of already having a credit card I can’t pay back, and I lied to my closest living family member.

I’m not even sure if I feel bad or if I know that I’m supposed to. I think, at this point, I’m just so desperate to feel like I have any control over my own life and choices, and this was the only thing I could think of.

I know that I need therapy. Bad. I think that when I get back, I’m going to try to find a good therapist. My last experience with therapy was about six months ago and it wasn’t great, so I was a bit gun-shy about trying again, but I know that I can’t figure out how to be okay on my own. I’ve tried.

Plus, I need some sort of diagnosis and medication. The Paxil is helping with the suicidal ideation but it hasn’t cured it, and it may not even be the right medication for me. It was just the only thing my GP was willing to give me upon meeting me for the first time so that I could request drugs.

I’ve been working on my stories, and that feels really good. I feel like I’m making breakthroughs every time I actively sit down to work on them. But sometimes it feels like a race to the finish line. Am I going to kill myself before I get a chance to finish one of my projects?

And if I finish a project to my own satisfaction, will that cure the overwhelming urge to take myself out of existence? I somehow I know it won’t but the lie that there is a thing, a relationship, or a goal that I can achieve is sometimes the only belief that I can hold onto to get me through this bout of depression, just so that I can fight another one. I’m borrowing against future happiness — like a Ponzi scheme based on hope instead of money.

This morning, I found out that a comedian that I used to know died. He was someone that I wouldn’t book because he was someone who never really seemed to get it. He thought that comedy was about getting up on stage and getting people to laugh. He never understood that laughter is sometimes a reaction to discomfort, and didn’t have any other tricks in his bag.

The way that he died isn’t public but he was fairly young and he was a comedian, plus there was always an edge of desperation and fury about him, so I am assuming that he killed himself. Of course, it was my fault. I didn’t do enough to try to get to know him. I let myself be influenced by people around me who liked to laugh at him instead of with him. I never saw through his bluster to his true potential and that is why he is dead now.

It would by hypocritical and dishonest to say that I’ll miss him. In fact, I recently thought about him and was relieved that leaving comedy meant I’d probably never see him again. But there’s still a cigarette butt the size of a fist burning a hole in my solar plexus when I think he might have felt so alone and hopeless that suicide was his only viable choice.

And he left behind a widow and a couple of kids, and I understand the perpetual razor-blades-under-your-skin of loss. “They” say that suicide is selfish, and I don’t believe that. I think that the kind of people who say that are people who have never felt suicidal. I also believe that it’s selfish to ask someone in that much anguish to stick around.

I mean, I’ll ask anyway, because if I have to be here, I need you here, too. I think that it’s a certain type of idealism that leads to a depth of disillusionment with the world, which then makes the world feel like such an unfriendly place to live. I wonder if all of the idealists who are offing themselves right now stuck around, if we could band together and make this a better world. Because, right now, the cynics are outnumbering us, and they are winning.

And I’ll admit that it’s selfish to ask you to stay. I’ll also admit that I hope that this comedian died of an aneurysm so that I can absolve myself of the guilt of his death. I understand that I am not responsible for everyone’s pain. But I also know how simple conversations with people have either nudged me forward on the tight rope of hope or almost knocked me off completely.

We affect each other. We are responsible to do the best we can for each other. I didn’t do my best for this guy. I know that. That was part of the relief at the idea of never seeing him again. I hate thinking that I might be one of the people who helped knock him off of his tight rope. Even if I only made a feather’s breath of difference in his life, my regret is that it wasn’t to nudge him forward.

I’m trying to figure out how to end this on an uplifting note, but all I can really say is, be kind. Be kind to other people, be kind to yourself. I’m going to wander off and try to forgive myself for being human. Do the same.

Blog #6: Support and Vulnerability

I had forgotten, maybe deliberately, how supportive the comedy community can be. I shared my first post about comedy on Facebook some time after midnight on Sunday and after receiving my first like and comment a few minutes later, I was blasted with immediate self-doubt — who did I think I was, what did I think I had to say that Alex Hooper (seriously, check out his writing about comedy — it’s beautiful) or someone else couldn’t say better, who even wanted to hear from me over a year after I abandoned them?

And then there was the guilt. The very club that I’m criticizing took a tattered soul and filled it up with hope and love and words. It reminds me of a scene in the original Roseanne in which Roseanne laments to Dan that they were so excited when Darlene learned to speak. It feels like a betrayal to criticize the people without whom I might not even be alive.

And, yes, a lot of that had to do with introducing me to the comedy community, but the owners themselves invested a lot in me. Neither of them is perfect human beings, but I love them and I know that the debt I owe them can’t ever be repaid. Which means that, of course, I am a monster.

I immediately hid the post from my timeline, thinking that would prevent people from seeing it and then I went back to trying to sleep. I didn’t delete it, because I didn’t want to thank my one commentor by deleting him entirely.

I woke up the next morning to a couple of comments and a bunch of likes. Apparently, even if you hide something from your Timeline, people can still see it in their feeds. Over the past few days, I’ve gotten over 70 likes and a dozen comments. And even though I can’t figure out how to restore the original post to my Timeline, three people have shared it, so now it shows on my Timeline three times in a row.

I even got comments directly posted to the blog, which marks this as the first time I’ve ever received a non-spam comment on any blog I’ve ever started since my LiveJournal days.

A lot of people said that they found my post helpful, and I guess I thought I was just validating things that they already knew, but then I got a direct message from one of my comedy friends and she thanked me for explaining the reason why she was stuck in limbo. She’d wondered why she hadn’t been able to feature or otherwise move up, and my blog post explained that to her. It encouraged her to know that she wasn’t inherently lacking in talent. So, if for no other reason, I’m glad I shared the post.

My post isn’t intended to hurt owners or bookers. I was a booker. I, more than anyone, understand that they’re just people, and with some notable exceptions, they’re mostly decent people. At least, at the club I was working at, the owners worked at minimum as hard as any of their employees, and they were barely breaking even. It never seemed to me that owners and bookers are purposely choosing the most exploitative way to run a business. It’s a desperate way to keep the lights on, and that means that all the talk about comedians “not caring” about getting paid is an attempt at justifying choices that made while backed into a corner.

It’s easy to judge, without the weight of a mountain of debt on my shoulders, how other people should run their businesses. I even, when I first found out that comedians didn’t get paid, wondered why anyone would decide to open a comedy club if they couldn’t pay their performers. And I still think that if I were ever to open a club, I wouldn’t do it unless I was sure I could pay the comedians. That said, if the owners of the club hadn’t opened exactly the club that they did, exactly the way they did, I might not be here.

When I found the club, I was three years into mourning my dead mother, and I was strangling the last shred of my will to live. I’d made a deal with God that I would stay alive as long as my older brother was alive (younger brother was already dead). I wasn’t a person; I was a sister to a dead brother, a daughter to a dead mother. I had no identity outside of that.

When I walked into the club, it was the first time in three years that I did something because I was actively interested in what I might find. Every choice I had made from the moment my mom died until that moment, had been out of obligation or defiance. I didn’t stay long, that first day. My soul was like a foot that had fallen asleep; it tingled with the pain of waking up. But the next morning, for the first time, maybe in my life, I actively wanted to be somewhere. I didn’t know why exactly, I just knew that I did.

I wouldn’t be the person I am today without the club and all of the people in it. I think that people think of me as a naturally nice, supportive person, but any good aspect of my personality was nurtured and fostered by the environment I was in and the people I was around.

The club I worked at isn’t perfect. It’s not run by perfect people who make perfect decisions all of the time. The business of comedy is also plagued by a relatively low percentage of shady opportunists and predators who sometimes seem like a very large percentage. By the time I left, I was so overwhelmed by all of the yucky aspects of the business that I’d stopped seeing and feeling the good. I had to step away in order to gain some perspective.

Now, I can be grossed out by the bad but inspired by the good. I’m still nervous about dipping my toe back in, but the warmth of the welcome I’ve received helps a lot. I hope that I can maintain a level of perspective and help people maintain theirs. It’s a tough business, but most of us didn’t get into comedy for the business. We got into it for the art and we endure the business aspects. I think that the worst aspect of the business have traditionally been ignored, as a sacrifice to continue pursuing the art. But I also have hope that it’s within the realm of possibility to change those aspects so that they become a reward of pursuing comedy, rather than a punishment.

Blog #5

A few minutes ago, I considered going off of my medication again — more responsibly this time — because I’ve been home for almost a week and haven’t written anything. I haven’t felt creative, I’ve been sleeping a lot, and I haven’t cleaned my house. I’ve tried to organize something every day since I got home, but I just don’t have the energy for it that I anticipated. I’m avoiding calls and texts from friends.

And I know I’m going to have to get a job soon, so I’m mad at myself for not making the most of this opportunity to get my shit together.

I wanted to go off the meds because even though I was pretty sure I was going to die, I felt alive. But the, I remembered that there are times I feel really alive even on the medication but the average number of suicidal thoughts have gone down a significant amount, even when I’m crawling through a dark hole.

So I’m going to choose to believe that I have value as a human being regardless of my productivity level and I’m going to choose to believe that the depression will lift and I’ll get my creativity and will to live back.

Blog #4: Wellness Check

Just wanted to check in because my last blog post was a little intense. I was able to get my prescriptions filled yesterday and the heart palpitations and crying have stopped.

I was watching the holiday episode of the Great British Baking Show and the hosts were asking everyone what their resolutions were, and, because the world revolves around me, of course I started thinking about mine.

Generally speaking, New Years resolutions are something I avoid because I already feel bad enough about my lack of achievements. But last year, I kept it really simple. I wanted to not only write more but to enjoy writing.

I figured out that the biggest obstacle to me writing isn’t the tools or skills, but the fact that writing induces so much anxiety. I want so badly to do it Right.

So, that’s what I’ve been working on lately. I think most writers want to write professionally because it’s fun and they don’t want to do anything else. I wanted to write because of how important stories were to me and because of how important I wanted my stories to be to other people.

What I’ve been focusing on lately is letting my stories be imperfect and loving them anyway. Instead of cringing at old writing or putting pressure on every story I try to write to save me from a job I hate, I’ve just been working on letting myself write Wrong.

I think I knew that that was the answer for a while, but I thought that writing Wrong would be too painful, and the truth is that it’s just straight up liberating.

If my dialogue or plots are weak, or if I forget a word or spellcheck doesn’t catch something, it’s all okay.

I’m working on a story right now called, “The Princess with Three Eyes” that started with “Once upon a time….” and that I intend to have end with “…and they all lived happily ever after”, even though I haven’t yet determined whether or not they actually will.

And every time I think about working on the story and tense up, I stop and reevaluate the pressure I’m putting on the story. The thing that gets me excited about writing again, is usually breaking a rule or going in a different direction than I’d been planning.

The reason I’m writing all of this down is because I have a theory that we ask the wrong people for their keys to success. Already successful people have the keys to living with success, which is its own beast. People who are in the midst of the struggle, trying to find their footing in the ether of their dreams, and the ones who stumble upon those keys.

The thing is, trying to figure out how to make writing fun is the part that most people start at. I skipped the fun part, so I have to do it now. Someone else’s path may be a little straightforward. Maybe they’ll start out having fun and then learn grammar, spelling, and story structure later.

There isn’t one path to success, just as there is no one definition of success. We all have our own paths and definitions. For me, success in five years would look like three completed novels with characters that I love and stories that I want to keep exploring, regardless of how flawed the writing is or whether or not I can get anyone else interested in reading what I have to write.

If I have to be a cashier or find some other job to support what I really want to be doing, that’s okay. As long as, when I sit down to write, my chest lifts, and the butterflies tickle my intestines and my characters feel like people I’m continuing a conversation with, I think I can be happy.

My goals and definition of success may be different by then, but this is where I am now.

Blog #3: Excessive Dreaming & Failed Revolutions

It’s been a while since I’ve checked in, and a lot has happened. I quit my job on September 18th after several months of fighting and losing battles with anxiety and depression. I started taking Paxil and blood pressure medication, and despite all of the fear and shame that I expressed in my last blog post, I really hoped that this would fix me.

Unfortunately, although the medication helped with the anxiety and depression, it didn’t cure me. I continued to experience extreme agoraphobia and I continued to miss work. My last week of work before I quit, I missed Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. Each morning, I woke up and commanded myself to get up and go to work, and my body refused to obey my commands.

I had thought I understood people when they said they’d experienced depression so bad that they couldn’t get out of bed. In particular, after my mom died, finding motivation to do anything was a severe challenge. In those days, I think that what kept me moving was a combination of morbid curiosity and a refusal to show any vulnerability.

If I had missed work or school or if I had seemed sad, then I would have had to explain why. And, at the time, with “joy” being a grayed-out concept of something I never thought I’d feel again, the only approximation I felt was a perverse satisfaction in being able to trick people into thinking that I was okay.

I understood despair to a depth that I hope that nobody else will ever feel, but I still had a motivating factor to maintain an illusion of functionality. One thing that doing stand-up, and being around comedians for almost five years, cured me of, was the inclination to lead a false life.

This turned out to be my downfall. Now, I have zero motivation to seem functional. This means that holding onto a job is a bit of a challenge. Because the thing is, even if I hadn’t quit, I can’t earn any income from a job that I can’t force myself to go to.

But whereas comedy totally fucked me in terms of displaying an illusion of functionality, it blessed me with genuine relationships with incredible people. I have a friend who got married about halfway through October. October is usually a rough month for me because it’s my birthday and then my dead brother’s birthday, and then the anniversary of my mother’s death.

This year, one of my best friends called me on my birthday. She didn’t remember that it was my birthday, she just wanted to talk to me. I don’t even have words for what a gift that is, particularly coming from a millennial who only vaguely remembers actual telephones. I hate my birthday, and I didn’t want to talk to anyone, even someone I love that much, but two hours later, even though the conversation wasn’t light and fun the whole time — that said, there was at least as much laughter as tears — I hung up with that floaty feeling that only comes from a true connection with someone I love as much as she loves me.

Also this year, someone that I respect a lot got married to what I can only describe as a soul match. This person is not only as incredible as my friend, but he loves her as much as she deserves to be loved, and she loves him equally. There are very few relationships that I can point to as aspirational, and this is one of them. So, on my dead brother’s birthday, I got to celebrate this relationship, the joy that they bring to each other, and how joyfully their families embraced the union.

And after the wedding, I came to stay with another good friend. I didn’t have work to rush back to, so even though I wasn’t feeling like the best company, I agreed to stay for a few days. That has stretched into a month, so I’m still here. But my friend that I’m staying with had been living in her apartment for eight months and had never unpacked. So I helped, and this was the first year since my mother died that I remembered the anniversary the day before and the day after but was completely distracted on the day of. And, on top of that, I got to be useful. If you’ve lived in the same capitalistic cult that I grew up in, you’ll understand how important that is for an unemployed person.

None of this is to say that I didn’t miss my mom or my brother. The pieces of me that left with them didn’t magically regenerate just because I was distracted. It was just nice to celebrate genuine connections rather than focusing on the connections that have been severed, which is generally my habit on those days.

And since I’ve been gone, I’ve received a steady stream of texts from people I love who want to hang out or check in or to tell me that I look pretty today.

However, it’s been a rough month. I don’t have health insurance right now, so I’ve run out of my Paxil and I’m almost out of the blood pressure medication. I ended up staying a week longer than expected, so I thought I’d be back in time to call my doctor for a refill and when that didn’t happen, I just shrugged and decided that I don’t need it.

And I’m almost out of the blood pressure medication. I’d basically decided to just stop taking both medications. I don’t need doctors and it’s not like the medication was really helping much anyway. It’s not worth messing with.

What I didn’t realize was that the side effects for quitting Paxil can be pretty intense. On top of that, knowing that I was running out of the blood pressure medication, I’ve been tapering off of that. So, for the past couple of days, I’ve been crying like a leaky faucet and experiencing heart palpitations.

I’m kind of worried that I’m going to die or cause myself irreversible damage. Fortunately, the friend I’m staying with noticed that I’m not doing great and gently suggested some lifestyle changes — one of which is getting back on my medication. So, I’m going to call my doctor tomorrow to see if she can put in a refill for me. I hope her office is open because it is a holiday and the palpitations are freaking me out a bit.

I can’t speak for anyone else, but for me, depression can hit like a sledgehammer or it can whisper self-destructive shit at me with my own voice. I’m a little ashamed that I allowed myself to fall into a cycle of self-loathing enough that the idea of reaching out to my doctor because I don’t have insurance right now seemed impossible.

I think I’m sharing this for a couple of reasons. For one thing, it’s easy to talk about depression in the past tense. When I’m feeling okay, and remembering back to how shitty I did feel, I can get a bit cocky. For some reason, when a bout of depression has run its course through my psyche, I always feel euphoric, like I’ll never feel that way again. And I can get a bit cocky with advice to other people who struggle with depression. The advice I give myself when I’m feeling okay is much different than when I’m slogging through my emotional sewer, knee deep in trauma.

Peter Marr once said that when it comes to depression, you win every battle except for the last one. I always thought that was super profound because it put depression into a different context than I was accustomed to thinking about it. I was accustomed to hearing depression described as something people “suffered from” rather than “fought”. Depression is a war. Our battle scars can have physical manifestations or they can be invisible to the naked eye, but they are real either way.

I’ve dealt with suicidal ideology since I was eight years old. I spent most of my life reacting to shame with a wish for oblivion. Over the past few years, life has started to feel like a series of blessings instead of just one curse after another. After my mom died, I resented the very air I breathed for keeping me alive. For the first time in my life, I actually want to live. I think I used to welcome a bout of depression because I hoped that, this time, it would succeed in taking me out. Now, I’m afraid it will.

I’ll say this, too, after quitting my job in comedy, I felt like a failure. There are so many things about the art form that I love, and so many things about the business that I hate. I wanted to stay in the industry so that I could change it. I wanted to revolutionize the way that comedians are treated. I wanted to see comedians paid and valued. Quitting felt like a betrayal to those comedians, to the changes that I would have fought for if I’d stayed. But in order to fight for those changes, I would have had to be a part of the problem for far longer than I was comfortable with. Toward the end, every week I had a new facial tic that I had to try to suppress when I was around other people. I’d be booking shows in one window with a crisis hotline open in a window next to it. Every time I sent a booking agreement with $0.00 marked as pay, I wanted to die.

I felt like a failure when I quit my job as a customer support representative, too. I worked for a subscription-based company. There were so many instances of people being charged after cancelling their subscription, or having thought they’d cancelled, and it just disgusted me to work for a company that thought that it was okay to exploit the fact that people are too busy to scour their bank statements every month. Before I left, we got a new supervisor, one who I thought might be able to make some changes to the billing policies, if only to protect the company from lawsuits. But I left before any of those changes could take place because I couldn’t take one more conversation with one more customer about a company that had zero interest in protecting its customers from being charged for a service they didn’t want. By the time I quit, I had a tic in my lower left eyelid and my upper right eyelid. One day, after phones had been turned off, I was answering emails, and both tics were going at the same time. It reminded me of trying to focus on a Christmas tree with twinkling lights — except less festive.

It wasn’t until, I think, yesterday, that I realized how often I fought for things to be different. When I was promoted to Booker of the smaller room at the comedy club, one of the owners came to me and said that she wanted to hear my vision for the room. I tried to hold it back, but the first thing out of my mouth was, “I want to pay the comedians.” I think I surprised both of us with that statement, so much so that she immediately agreed, and then later decided that it was impossible.

Even before I was promoted, I wrote up a Jerry-Maquire-esque manifesto on how to pay comedians. My supervisor at the time talked me out of sharing it with the owners, but said that we would work on the proposal together. And then he quit. And over the two years that I was a Booker, I fought for paying the comedians any chance I got. I even plotted with one of my coworkers who is a coding genius, who said he could probably create software to track sales and pay comedians based on how many people could get to come and see them.

The most infuriating argument I heard regarding paying comedian is, “comedians don’t care about getting paid, they just care about stage time”. My counterargument is that you can care about more than one thing. Also, accepting the fact that your work is not valued by a club is not the same thing as “not caring”. Comedians “paying their dues” is also a ridiculous argument, particularly when you’re dealing with headliners with twenty-plus years experience who get paid in food.

When I quit comedy, I decided to also quit caring. I had determined that the stress and pain that came from working in comedy came from putting too much of my heart into it. So, I thought that working as a customer support representative at a random corporation would be the antidote to little faith-in-humanity issue. The world being the way it is can’t hurt if you don’t care.

But it didn’t take long to realize that even over the phone, people are just as unique and precious as they are in person. Even in a three-minute conversation, I could develop an affection for the person I was speaking to. It was actually easier to, without the distraction of physical appearance, hone in on what that person brought to the world that no one else does.

I can’t say that I loved my customers as much as I love my comedians. It’s a completely different relationship that is designed to be temporary. But I will say that there are people that I met over the phone who walk around with me in this world. Some of our interactions were edifying, some were heartbreaking, some were frustrating, and some were all three, but they were all real.

And when I realized that a lot of my customers were being charged for months, and often years, for a service they weren’t using, it bothered me. It particularly bothered me to be the person to tell them that I couldn’t refund that money. There were many reasons why a customer might be charged, some of which were customer error, some of which were the company’s error, some were accounts that were created with stolen credit card numbers (rare, but it happened) so they weren’t anybody’s fault (except for the criminal). However, for a tech company, creating solutions to the billing issues were fully doable. It felt like the company was intentionally taking advantage of customer error, and those of us one the phones were the whipping boys for the company’s shitty billing practices.

About a month before I left, we got a new department head. He seemed genuinely interested in improving the customer service experience. He asked every single person who worked in our department what we changes we would like to see implemented, and he did this more than once, in large and small groups, with management present, and without them. I think that he genuinely wanted to improve the department and the company overall. I also think that he was wasting his time and I would be surprised if he lasted longer than a year, but I hope that I’m wrong and that he stays and fixes everything and that the company isn’t as bad as I think it is.

For my part, when he asked, I answered. I pointed out that the lack of site monitoring led to customers being billed unfairly. I did this verbally and in writing. He seemed receptive to the feedback that he got but it didn’t take long to realize that any changes he would have been able to make would have been so gradual, if they happened at all, that it didn’t matter. I was already done.

I composed my “calling out sick” notes from bed and even after calling out, I would immediately start twitching as I dreaded going back the next day. On the Wednesday before I quit, dragging my ass out of bed to get a doctor’s note was almost impossible, even though my doctor’s office is two blocks from where I live.

I went to work the next day and gave my doctor’s note to my boss. She brought me into her office and asked if I really wanted to be there. I burst into tears. I said that I couldn’t afford to not be there and I didn’t understand why my body wouldn’t obey my instructions. She asked if I could try and I said yes. She spent at least ten minutes with me as I cried and she was very kind. (I feel guilty talking shit about the company because the individuals that I worked with there, even the managers, were awesome human beings. It was the upper-upper management that made the garbage decisions.)

Anyway, I went to my desk to clock in and couldn’t even make myself click on the link that would take me to where I needed to clock in. I started crying again, and messaged my brother (the one that is still alive). I said I thought I had to quit and he asked what happened. I said nothing, I just couldn’t do it. He said okay. This is important because my brother is my roommate which means that my income, or lack thereof, has a direct effect as to whether or not he has a home to live in.

The first few days after I quit were incredible. I’d tense up and start twitching, dreading the next day, and then realize that i didn’t have to go back. Then I’d smile and breathe deeply. I decided to take care of all of the household stuff that I had neglected over the past eleven months because I was completely drained at the end of each day and spent my weekends in bed with my phone off.

After a week-and-a-half, the panic set in. And the sense of worthlessness. And then I started to take more naps and fill out fewer job applications. And I started to wonder if my eye tics were permanent. I almost didn’t go to the wedding. I didn’t want to face anyone I knew and have to explain that I was such a dysfunctional adult that I couldn’t hold down a job. But the friend I’m staying with now intuited my hesitation and bought my bus ticket. An older version of myself decided that it would be better to seem like I was okay for a few days than to explain why I didn’t want to go.

I understand that this blog post is kind of all over the place but the heart palpitations are freaking me out a bit so I’m trying to get out all of my wisdom and apologies now. Anyway, you’ll remember from the beginning of this blog post that the wedding was beautiful in every sense of the word and re-connecting with the friend I’m staying with and mutual comedian friends who came to the wedding was pretty great. I was a fucking mess, but in the end, I was glad I went. There is a shortage of perfect couples in this world and it would have been a shame to miss the union of this one.

So, staying with my friend. For the first week, I did a lot of moving around, getting her place together. It was nice to have a sense of purpose. After about a week, I had a bit of a crisis. I still had plenty of medication, so that wasn’t the issue. It was just ye olde depressionne wielding cruelty in a reasonable tone. But hanging out with my friend beat back the voice and I made it through another week.

I started to feel like I was overstaying my welcome around the same time that my friend was starting to chafe under the pressure of entertaining a guest/roommate/house elf. So, we decide that I would go home on November 8th. She bought me a plane ticket (I don’t know if I’ve mentioned that I’m out of work and that she’s a really good friend) and I started panicking about returning home and getting my shit together. But, I knew that if I left on the 8th, I’d only be without my Paxil for a couple of days, so I was okay with that.

Then we realized that my plane ticket was for the 14th, not the 8th. So, I ran out of Paxil on the 5th, and started trying to get my blood pressure medication to stretch by missing doses and cutting back. (I know, good decision). I don’t think I had realized how bad the Paxil withdrawal would be but messing with the blood pressure medication definitely didn’t help.

If it hasn’t been clear, Paxil doesn’t cure depression and anxiety, it just kind of mutes it. Experiencing moments of suicidal ideology or thoughts of self-harm or just straight-up self-loathing still happen, at least for me. So, having all of my feelings turned up to full volume along with the physical withdrawal symptoms has presented a bit of a challenge over the past week.

Fortunately, as I stated earlier, my friend noticed, and just being noticed kind of pulled me out of the self-hate spiral that I’d been spinning in. I want to say a few things about what I’ve learned over the past few months, but I’ll start with the total mess I was when I left comedy.

My secret motto is “you don’t get to know me”. It’s a mantra when I’m obsessing over an awkward conversation I had with someone, or if I think I might have hurt someone’s feelings or any situation that makes me feel stupid or mean or too much. “You don’t get to know me” means a couple of things. First, it means that I’m not going to go out of my way to explain myself if I think you are offended but shouldn’t be but I still feel guilty at the idea that you might be hurt.

Second, it means that who I present isn’t the entire picture. You know as much of me as I let you. This is stupid and untrue, of course, because every single person you will ever meet will have a different version of you in their head. Some of those versions are fairly accurate, and some are way off. But we don’t get to control that picture.

Still, it’s this weird little self-defense thing I do when I’m feeling vulnerable and decide to pull back and not let you know how I’m really feeling about something. I think it comes from when I was in foster care and I pretended to really like my foster sister even though she was a fucking monster. She was so much bigger and knew so much more and it was her house. She had every advantage over me. She could decide that I didn’t get to sleep with a pillow or if I got to keep my Christmas or birthday presents (spoiler alert: I didn’t).

I couldn’t fight her, so what I could do was not let her know how much she hurt me. I could agree with her that I was a fat, ugly, stupid, worthless intruder, and that she was an angel straight from Heaven. It’s hard to fight someone who won’t fight back. Not that she didn’t try. And, honestly, if I could do it all over again, I would have punch her in the face and stolen her shoes my first night there. Hindsight….

But that’s a holdover. To feel threatened, and to emotionally pull back. To hide my real emotions behind a mask, or better yet, find that place in my mind that numbs me from the pain of rejection. I gave so much of myself at the comedy club, more than I have anywhere else in my life. However, it was a constant struggle. I would pivot from feeling like I’d found a home, an entire community of people who got me, who liked me, who loved me. People who I loved and respected and adored, so much that it scared me.

One of the reasons it was so hard to be the person to “hire” comedians to work for free was because I valued them so much. It made me physically sick to recognize how dispensable they were and that I was now a part of that system that exploited and devalued them.

I suppose that if I had had any kind of boundaries or emotional maturity, I would have been able to handle it better. I might have been able to stomach working within the system long enough to make gradual changes. But I found comedy three years after my mom died, and I had, at that point, decided to never love anyone ever again. Tennyson was an asshole who didn’t know what he was talking about.

I vividly remember walking into the club for the first time, telling myself, “We don’t need to know anyone’s names. We don’t need to know their hopes and dreams. We’re here because we want to observe comedy in its natural habitat. We want to be a fly on the wall, not a participant.” (Another of my habits is to give myself pep talks as though I am a team, not an individual.)

So, when I left, I made the same old vow. Cut myself off, stop caring. I was never going to love anyone ever again and I was going to stop loving the people that I had foolishly allowed myself to love. I got a job as a cashier and there may have been two days in that month-and-a-half that I did not run into a comedian. I remember one comedian who didn’t look up the entire time I rang him up. This was a not-funny comedian who had been super nice to me when I was a Booker. I couldn’t figure out if this was his revenge for not booking him more, or if he really didn’t see me.

Part of the identity crisis that I had when I left was that I had become accustomed to being important. Being important, after being essentially invisible except to a few select people for my entire life, was terrifying. I was constantly aware that I didn’t deserve to be treated as special, and as soon as people figured out that I wasn’t shit, I would become as reviled as I currently was adored. To be honest, as much as I hated the business part of comedy, part of the reason I left was because I could not stand the inevitable rejection that loomed larger and larger every day.

The funny thing is that, at the time, I just wanted to step away from being a Booker. Being in a position of authority makes you a person that people try to be their best self around. It’s not about being fake or ambitious, it’s just an awareness that makes it difficult to relax around. I completely understand that. I have severe issues with authority and being in a position of authority freaked me out as much as anything else. It’s so much easier to cause irreparable damage when you’re speaking from a position of authority than when you’re on the same level (imagined or not) as someone else. There are several conversations that I had as a Booker that haunt me, and probably a lot more that I don’t even realize caused damage.

But there were people who saw me as important, not because I was a Booker, but because I was Crystal. At the time, I couldn’t separate those two different types of importance because my job title had become my identity. I couldn’t see myself as a person anymore, so as far as I was concerned, nobody else could either — at least not the comedians who had once been my friends.

Of course, a year-plus later, I’m able to make that distinction again and I recognize that that wasn’t as much of an issue for my friends as it felt like at the time. I dropped by the club the day after I quit my job. It was weird timing but Brandon Stewart was headlining and he was someone I remembered from the very first open mic I watched at the club. It was super cool to watch a baby comedian grow up to be a headliner, especially a comedian who is just a decent human being and was always kind. I knew him when I was just a weirdo watching open mics, and then shows, and then interning, and then working in the office, and finally, booking.

What really amazed me was how strongly the affection that I repressed for a year re-inflated the second I walked in. I just love those motherfuckers so fucking much. I hurt a few people, leaving as abruptly as I did, and then cutting myself off completely, but that’s the thing about family — at the end of the day, the still love you, no matter what an asshole you are. I could see the hurt and I couldn’t fix it but goddamn if it didn’t feel so good to see them and hug them anyway. It’s a weird thing to realize simultaneously what an asshole I’ve been and how valued I am.

I worked as a customer service representative for eleven months, and over that time, particularly after I started having the panic attacks and missing work, I tried talking about the stress and frustrations to the few friends I still allowed myself.

One friend, the one who called me on my birthday, heard me out. She is very careful of my feelings, and she hesitated for a moment, before saying, “I wonder how different your life would be if you didn’t care so much.”

At the time, that was all I wanted. I wanted to care less. It was all I’d ever really wanted for myself. It was what I had tried for with my foster sister, and all through school, and after my mom died. Now, I look back on that conversation, and it still makes me smile, but I don’t see caring as a weakness anymore.

I don’t know anyone who cares as much as I do. If I could choose a different personality, I probably would choose one a little more chill. But, at age forty-two, and recognizing myself as a dysfunctional adult who can’t even hold down a job, I can kind of see my personality as a blessing instead of a curse.

It’s not a choice. I have tried not to care and failed and failed and failed. The combination of losing my little brother and foster care made me see my natural over-sensitivity as wrong, as something that needed to be fixed. Growing up, I kept an emotional wall between my mom and my older brother. I thought I was protecting myself, but my biggest regret when my mom died was every bit of affection that I had ever withheld in order to protect myself.

Even with that being my biggest regret, I still decided that not loving anyone ever again was the best course of action. Working in comedy busted down that wall I had built around myself and made me love so many more people than I ever thought possible with an intensity that I never thought possible. It helped me take that emotional wall down between me and my older brother, and, despite some of the self-esteem issues I’ve described here, it has exposed parts of myself that I really like and don’t want to lose.

It’s funny that’s spent the last year-plus trying to distance myself from the emotional intensity that comedy brought out in me only to find that it continued breaking me down even after I left. It’s also funny how many times in my life that I decided that removing myself emotionally was the answer to all of my problems — AND how I never recognized how much more miserable that made me.

I’m not going to make any vows about how much more emotionally available I’m going to be from now on. I think what I’m realizing is that I have no choice. I am a big ol’ weirdo who has the ability to recognize that spark that makes you you and not anyone else. And I love the shit out of your spark. I still don’t know how I’m going to get or hold down a job because this world is not build to foster the kind of person I am, but wish me luck on figuring it out.

Blog #2: Giving Up

(Trigger Warning/Spoiler Alert: suicidal ideology and depression.)

I started having panic attacks that have led to me missing work over the past month-and-a-half. I’ve never had this problem before — at least, not since I was agoraphobic. Even after my mom died, I used my PTO and went back to work on Day 7. After that, I didn’t miss a day of school or work. I never wanted to quit school, work, life more than then, but I still forced myself to continue on with all of those things.

I’ve always prided myself on my ability to seem okay when I was not. I couldn’t even count the number of times when I’d be contemplating suicide at work, and at that exact same moment, a customer I’d never seen before would remark, “you’re always so happy, every time I come in here”.

At the time, I felt a certain grim satisfaction at being able to trick the world into thinking that I had my shit together. I have never been great with showing vulnerability and I would have been damned before letting anyone see that my soul was actually a gaping pit of despair.

I know that the entertainment business is exploitative but I wonder if I left because of that or because I was terrified of being seen, of being important. When I left, I reveled in my renewed lack of relevance.

I started my new job almost 7 months ago, and for the first 5 months, I was great. It was the first time in my life that I wasn’t plagued with suicidal thoughts. I smiled for no reason, a lot. I felt like I was in control of my life, for the first time, ever. I was happy.

And then about a month-and-a-half ago, I had a panic attack at work. I left work early and came home just in time to pass out and fail to sleep off a migraine. I started doing therapy, and I started looking for a psychiatrist.

I had done everything right. I had found a stable job with stable hours, where I had one person’s job, a decent wage, and health benefits. But it wasn’t enough. All of the sudden, I was on the sidewalk, with God’s boot on my neck. Again.

I hadn’t missed that feeling, but I did wonder where it had gone and why it had come back. Since then, I’ve used up all of my sick and vacation days and now it’s actively costing me money to be mentally ill.

At my first therapy session, about a month ago, my therapist heard my issues, got some of my background, and said, “I’m going to fix you. Give me six months, and you’ll be all better.” She kept promising that she had The Answers for me, and during my third session, she gave me a bunch of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy tips.

I didn’t know that that’s what they were called, but I had already been doing all of those things, for years, and they just weren’t working anymore. When I let her know that, she threw up her hands and said, “Well then, you need medication!”

I broke my therapist after three visits. I’ve spent the last week feeling alternately proud and ashamed of that fact. But yesterday, I was getting ready for work when I started having a panic attack. I was like, “whatever, I’ll just muscle it out” but then I started to get a migraine and called out sick.

I went to two different Urgent Cares. At the second, they made an appointment with my GP — and it’s a testament to how long it’s been since I’ve been to a doctor that that didn’t occur to me until it was suggested. So, today, I went to my GP and asked for some help, and she prescribed me Paxil.

She also prescribed a new job and a psychiatrist, but those aren’t as easy to come by. So I took my first anti-depressant, ever, today. I cried before I did. It felt very much like a defeat, to admit that my brain chemicals had beaten me.

I think the worst part, though, is that this is my last hope, and I don’t know if it will work. I’ve been suicidal off and on, mostly on, for 32 years, and I have tried everything I can think of to try to empower myself and to counterbalance my darkest thoughts.

If medication doesn’t work, I have no more back-up plans. And if it does, I get to kick myself for not trying it sooner — although, maybe with a higher dose of serotonin firing through my synapses, I won’t be as hard on myself as I am now.

Blog #1: A Word About the World

When I was six, I had this neighbor. He showed me a dirty magazine and wanted me to kiss him. I was repulsed and horrified. I said that I heard my mother calling and made my escape. As I went to track down my mother, I knew that she would be furious, and I paused, worried that if I told her, she might murder the guy.

Then I had a worse thought. What if I told her, and she told me that I was wrong? That I was rude to have refused to kiss the guy? I pictured her sternly ordering me to go back and kiss him.

Was this the world I lived in? Until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to me that an adult would think that it was okay to kiss a child — like that. So what if my initial instinct was wrong? What if this was just the beginning of being asked to do something I didn’t want to do with someone I didn’t want to do it with?

The thing is, if I had told my mother, she probably would have murdered the guy. My first instinct was correct. But that was when I started living in duo worlds — a world in which justice is swift and merciless, and a world in which it never comes.

As I grew up and learned about slavery and rape and genocide, the world in which justice is real became smaller and less realistic. The other world became my whole world.

After I graduated from high school, I was agoraphobic for 10 years. I just couldn’t face going out into that twisted and corrupt world. I knew that I didn’t have a place in it — or maybe I was afraid that I did. One day, I woke up, and I was twenty-seven, and I realized that there weren’t two worlds.

We all live in a world in which people hurt and kill other people, for no reason. We all live in a world where children are put in cages, and that the majority of the population, myself included, just let that happen. We’re not happy about it, but we don’t know what to do about it, either.

How do you explain to someone who thinks that it’s okay to hurt children, that it’s not? If someone doesn’t inherently know that, is there even a conversation we can have with them?

We also live in a world in which people actively fight to save those children. We are surrounded by people who rescue children from fires and car wrecks and human trafficking. We live in a world in which young people become politicians just so that they can call out the corruption of the system that we operate within.

Every time I feel so weak that I’m not even sure I’ll even have the strength to draw in my next breath, in that same breath, someone else is using their words or their hands to help someone else.

It doesn’t seem like one world should be able to hold the depths of depravity and the heights of generosity that it does, but it does.

When I was young, I thought I’d be one of the Good Ones, I’d make the world a better place. In my heart, I was a revolutionary. Now, I’m a member of the Banal, a person who throws up her hands in the face of evil.

It looks like I’m a productive member of society, going out and working and cracking wise with my coworkers and friends. In reality, I’m hanging off of the edge of a cliff by my fingernails.

What can I do? is a question that can either have a million answers, or none. Right now, I’m ashamed to admit, I have none.