"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.

Thank you for listening. Come back for more.

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.

Thanks for listening. Come back for more.