"We're done being mean to me."

On February 28^th, 2018, I started Level 1 at iO. For weeks after, every time I left that place I felt so insecure and lonely. Everyone seemed to know everyone and every seemed to be so good at improv. I have been around the improv scene for a couple of years but still felt so far away from this theater. I cried a lot. In Lyfts, In the shower, In bed. 

After 3 Wednesdays of crying in my Lyft home from class, it felt so repetitive. Every week I would talk to myself like I was some chump who was trying to be a cool improviser. I was concerned that the cool people at the bar thought I was a lame poser. But in my Lyft, I finally said STOP to myself. I remember thinking/talking to myself like a child, saying, “We’re done with that now. We’re done being me to me. Those white dudes in plaid don’t give a shit about you, they don’t see you like you don’t see some people on the train. You just haven’t met. Why are you basing your whole self worth on a bunch a people who have no clue who you are and would probably like you just fine if they knew you personally. We’re DONE being mean to me.” 

I got out of the car, unlocked my door, went into my apartment and threw myself a little dance party. I danced in a way that made me feel fun. Not “what dance moves are cool to watch”. Ones that made my body feel like the temple that it is. I broke a sweat. I laughed with myself and at myself. I loved it. I went to sleep happy. A week later, I changed my phone lock screen from something I thought other people would see and think I’m cool to a picture of tulips that filled me with pure joy and excitement for spring/summer. This was another small step in self-love that felt very big. 

From then on, my goal has changed in improv. “Is this fun?” “Do I feel like I’m using my brain and body to help my teammates?” “Am I proud of myself after this?” If I answer no to any of those questions, I don’t cry in Lyfts anymore. I pat myself on the back and remind myself I’m lucky enough to get to try again. In the next to weeks, I have 3 shows, 1 class, and an improv festival. That makes me feel unbelievably lucky. Improv gets easier with time and practice but so does being kind to myself. Both of these crazy journeys are not linear. I relapse on my self-hate every once and a while but I’m learning how to bounce back quicker or know when I need to give myself time and attention. Both journeys inform each other. Loving myself helps me love and take care of the people on stage/in class. Being honest about my weaknesses doesn’t make me weak, it makes me strong enough to look fear of being unworthy in the face and say, “You are worthy but we’ve got work to do. You’re awesome now, imagine the woman/improviser you’ll be in a year or 10. I can’t wait.”

So in the coming weeks, after shows or class, I will sit at the bar and reflect with a PBR and perhaps a friend. I will ride thoughtfully in my Lyft, tear free, excited for my next chance to perform and improve.

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Unemployment Woes

4 days after a long heartfelt Facebook status was posted on my wall, stated I was leaving my Prohibition Tour job, I was called into the conference room of my desk job and was offered severance pay. Perfect timing.

I took the evening to cry on the phone with my mom and lament my theater degree. I wallowed. I ate an entire container of chocolate peanut butter.

I woke up the next day, walked into my office, took the money and walked out.

That was a week ago.

My first week of partial unemployment (the tour took me back with open arms, thank god) felt good. I got a craft project done I'd been wanting to do for months, I did my taxes, I got laid. I was doing well.

But yesterday my depression took over for the night after my sketch show. The feeling of worthlessness took hold of me. Suicide in the corner of my brain, I faded into a hopeless sleep.

I woke up today feeling better but not the best I had been before losing my job. I decided cleaning would be a productive thing to do. I started doing just that. While my Swiffer furiously scanned my room, I found 3 boxes under my bed I had forgotten.

One was my break up box full of stuff from my exes, which I keep telling myself I will burn one day but never do. One was my positive notes/pictures box that I made when I was going through my first break up to remind myself that he was not the only love I had. The last one was a box of letters that have been mailed to me from my various friends and pen pals I made when my positive notes box was getting full.

6 years of letters, photos, cards, and random knick knacks laid on my bed as I cried. I was surrounded by paper representations of the love of my friends, family and even exes that don't love me anymore. How lucky am I that the boxes were so full they were breaking at the seams? How lucky am I that I mean enough to people for them to put pen to paper, find a stamp, and place a piece of themselves in a mailbox for me? How lucky am I?

I will probably get fireproof boxes for 2 out of 3 of these boxes. I will keep these with me no matter what city, state or country I live in. I will refer to them in times of self-doubt, depression and even when I want my joy to multiple.

If you have written me any letter, note, or postcard in the last 6 years, it is still with me. Thank you for pulling me out of the depths of my depression even if it has been years since you wrote or sent it. Thank you so much. I don't have a Valentine this year but I have something even better. I have a sense of love and belonging thanks to you. I hope I've returned the favor.

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Full House at 2, Empty Bed at 3.

I'm single. I'm 23. I'm (barely) financially stable. I'm learning to love myself before I love men.

But last night, loneliness felt like it was piercing my chest. It got to me. The emptiness of my bed felt unbearable, though my heated blanket was trying its darndest to replicate the warmth of a man. I laid there wishing my pillow was made of ribs and chest hair. Thick, dark hair that I could run my fingers through. Or maybe no hair. Maybe just a chest, bare and warm. A chest for me to call my resting place. My solace. My home base. Or at least a place I can rent while I'm traveling through life. His chest could be like the pillow at a hostel that I know will be given to another person soon but I still do my best to sleep while I have it.

I think of all the times I took having someone else's body heat in my bed for granted. How could I be angry about being sweaty? How could I be frustrated that he was breathing on my neck? How could I turn away because I claim to sleep better that way? Last night I would have taken the sweat and breath of any man who would have me. Or at least that's what my chest was telling me I would do. In my day to day life, talking to a man with the intention of finding him soon after in my bed feels daunting.

After a weekend of parties and drinking, my lonely heart couldn't bare a full house at 2am and an empty bed at 3. In college, a party meant a warm bed. You could pretty much close your eyes, spin around and point to your next bedmate. Now, it's not that easy. I don't want to sleep with just anyone. I don't want to sleep with the cute comedy boys I had over on Friday. I can't. I've already taken too many in my bed. They've already kept me warm and I kicked them out into the cold. I can't do it again. I can't look into a man's eyes while I'm lying to him anymore. I can't look into a man's eyes and know I'm lying to myself anymore. I just can't.

But my chest still yearns. My brain flashes back to the sheets I had before. All the men whose faces I have seen horizontal. All of the eyes that flickered as they dreamed. All the faces I could just reach out and touch. All the lips I could lean over and kiss. I miss those men on nights like last night. Those men weren't my man but I miss them all the same.

So I wait. I don't believe in soulmates. I'm not waiting for that. I'm waiting for an undeniable connection. That takes time. So I lay down and try to breathe like I learned in yoga. I turn on my meditation/sleep app and I drift away with my chest still reaching towards the void. Reaching towards a man I do not know yet. Someone who I will be able to love. Someone who I will know horizontally again. Someone who is with someone else right now, or whose chest is as pierced by loneliness as my own. And HECK! Maybe someone who doesn't tell jokes for a goddamn living.

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Money Woe Is Me

I owe around $110,000 to the government for my education, $6,943 to Columbia College for the last semester of my education, $2,187 to my credit card company, and $1,895 to a hospital who gave me an IV and told me to go buy extra strength exedrin. For me to pay off my college debt before I'm 31, I will have to pay $1,208 a month for 8 years, not including interest. I currently make $41,000 a year from my two jobs. After taxes, I make $2,760 a month. I pay $600 in rent, $100 for my train pass, $50 for utilities and soon will be paying $101 for health insurance through my desk job. That leaves me $310 after all of my expenses. $310. For an entire month. OH and groceries are around $150 because to stay healthy and out of the doctor's office means spending more on fruits and veggies. So now we are down to $160. That means I can't save for improv classes, I can't contribute to company potlucks, I can't move to L.A and pursue my acting career, I can't visit Ohio for 8 years. 8 years just to be out of debt for 4 years of education. Being a college educated woman is one of my proudest accomplishments. Even if I didn't finish fully, I spent my time learning, growing, becoming more empathetic. The people I met, the books I read, and the shows I saw shaped me as a human being. I will never regret my education. 

I'm not lazy. I work every day of the week and do shows on Saturdays. I want to make a life for myself. I don't want anyone to hand it to me. But goddamnit, why are young people who seek a better life in financial chains for most of their young adult life. The years we should be focused on self fulfillment and growth are not ours anymore. My mother was having children by my age. She owned a house by my age. She had a 401K set up by my age. She is one of the only people over 45 who seems to be empathetic to the fact that, financially, my generation is fucked. I never want to own a home but I want to have a nice wedding and honeymoon, I want to travel and I want to adopt my children. But I can't do any of that until my debt is paid off. The average price to adopt a child is $34,000. How could I EVER afford that with student loan debt and the regular expenses of raising a child? WHY WOULD ANYBODY MARRY ME WITH $110,000 IN STUDENT LOAN DEBT?

If I file bankruptcy or die, my debt still has to be paid. Even if I kill myself, my debt would fall on the shoulders of my mother. HOW CRAZY IS THAT?!? Even in death, we cannot escape our student debt. If I were to get cancer, I would refuse treatment. I would beg my friends and family to first help me pay off my college debt so that in the event of my death, my mother wouldn't be left with a hole in her heart and a life ruining amount of debt. I think about this scenario so often. I couldn't bare receiving treatment that will cost thousands of dollars, only to lose my battle and leave my mother with more debt. THIS IS WHAT I MENTALLY PREPARE MYSELF FOR WHEN MY BRAIN DRIFTS OFF. 

Fuck any legislator that doesn't believe in free college. Fuck them. Fuck colleges who build new student centers instead of paying their teachers a livable wage, or charging their students a manageable amount of tuition. Fuck baby boomers who tell millennials they worked to pay off their student debt in a summer and we just aren't trying hard enough/are asking for everyone to take care of us. Fuck anyone who doesn't know the stress of filling out the FAFSA. FUCK the fact that I fantasize about winning the lottery more than 3 times a week. FUCK THIS TAX PLAN. FUCK.

I try my damndest to stay positive. I've worked for years to train my brain to see the lovely parts of other people and tough situations. But this is an ugly part of modern life that needs to be dealt with. We need an educated work force. We need empathetic people in our world. We need free or more manageable tuition. 

My generation is not lazy. We are not entitled. We are not asking too much. We want to live. We want to be financially independent. I, personally, want to be able to afford my future children. THAT'S FUCKING ALL. 

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A Quote I Love But I Can't Put Right On Facebook Because I'm Not In 7th Grade Anymore

And yes, I did find it on Pinterest. Bite me.

"This is why once you've traveled for the first time all you want to do is leave again. They call it the travel bug but really it's the effort to return to a place where you are surrounded by people who speak the same language as you. Not English or Spanish or Mandarin or Portuguese but that language where others know what it's like to leave. change. grow. experience. learn. then go home again and feel more lost in your hometown than you did in the most foreign place you visited. This is the hardest part about traveling and it's the very reason why we all run away again."

If you can't tell, I kinda, sorta, wanna go back to Europe.

THAT'S ALL FOR TODAY, FOLKS.


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A Love Letter To My Ever Growing Belly

My dearest belly,

With every shower, with every outfit change, with every tagged picture on Instagram, I see you growing. I watch you grow and wonder if you'll ever stop. I wonder if this is the female body I dreamed for when I was 101 pounds. When I wanted to grow up so fast and wanted my body to follow suit.

I wonder what it will be like the next time I allow a man to see you in your full glory. For a second I wonder what he'll think but then I remember it is a privilege for him to see you at all. One he shouldn't take for granted by having any sort of opinions. I remember if he does express negative opinions about you, I will be showing him the door. 

I think about you getting larger as my life goes on. I feel so many emotions through you. My anxiety feels like it's eating you. Lust feels like I've let critters lose in you. Mourning feels like I'm rid of you. You are the first sign that I am feeling these things. I thank you for being honest with me when I was unable to be honest to myself. I pray you continue to show me how I really feel. 

I think of how you are meant to house my children someday. I think of how much larger you could become while growing my carbon copy. I'm sorry if you wanted to do that, I will not be producing a carbon copy. You will be empty of children for all of your days, if I have any say in the matter. I'm sorry because I know you yearn to have them. 

But I will still use you to hold the children I raise. Children from another woman's belly. I will rest them on my hips, their legs will brush up against you and I hope you will still feel the excitement my heart will feel. The commitment to their wellbeing in my brain will hopefully give you a sense of purpose.

As I grow older, I hope to write more letters to you like this. Thanking you for being a part of me. Thanking you for nourishing me daily. Promising to never hate you, abuse you, or go on horrible diets to shrink you. I ask that in return you remain good to me. If you can help it. Digest my food, weather through my periods. I ask that you keep doing these two things. 

With that request, I bid you farewell. JK you're right here no matter what. You will certainly be here on this turkey day, where I will full you to your brim, and then some. Thank you. I love you. Keep growing the way you feel fit. 

Sincerely,

Sydney

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Modern Love Podcast

Tonight, I was walking into my apartment with a dear friend. We were talking about podcasts while we ascended and descended the many stairs to my apartment (you'd have to see it to understand). I mentioned that I'm currently listening to a podcast called Modern Love. Not originally a podcast, Modern Love is a reader submitted column in the New York Times. For 13 years people have been writing essays about their marriages, divorces, almost lovers, abortions, births and manic pixie dream girls. The podcast features actors reading these essays, followed by updates on the writer's life after the essay was published. It's food for my optimistic soul. I was telling all of this to Laura then right as we approached my front door, I said a sentence that I haven't stopped thinking about since. A sentence that would NEVER have come out of my mouth for the last 6 years. A sentence that warmed my chest as it escaped my painted lips. A sentence that is not new or revolutionary to the world, but only to me.

I said, "I don't have a love life right now so it's really good to..." blah blah blah. "I don't have a love life right now."

This sentence was said with the most respect for myself I have ever had. Most of my days, when I mention being single it would be more passive and more self deprecating. More like, "Since nobody is trying to get in this." I would hurt to say those words. Even mentioning I didn't have a suitor or men chasing after me shook my self worth. It seemed to be one of the plates I was always spinning. Crushing on men, going on dates with men, falling in love with men; these were always in my queue. My love life was my life. How I was doing with that, was how I was doing period. It was exhausting.

When I said the sentence above, I didn't lower my eyes or try to say it in a funny voice. I just said it. I just meant it. My love life does not have a stake in my emotions and how I spend my time right now. It just doesn't. Don't get me wrong, I think about men daily. I think about improvisers I would love to smooch but can't because, well, they're improvisers , co-workers whose sleeves show off their rowers arms, The Birthday Boys sketch group (every hour). I think about these men. But I don't long for these men. I don't change the way I speak to them. I don't change the way I act to please them. I don't change my volume while talking to my friends to get their attention. I just live within the moments I spend with them. It's no longer predatory. It's just real. Honest. Bravely being me without PRAYING someone falls in love with it.

I don't have a love life right now. I'm spending my life loving me with no guarantee a man will too and it still feels pretty damn good.

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