craptastic.

It’s the inner battle as old as time: the fine line between being nice and standing your ground. Letting your feelings be known without being a bitch. Friday night I saw the chick who’d unknowingly hurt my feelings, invaded my territory. I met her husband, who’d driven from Boston to New York to surprise her. And the kicker of it is: I really like her. She glowed next to her husband. I don’t think she’s malicious or that she has any sneaky designs and I felt guilty. In my head, I revisited the email I’d sent her: Was I friendly enough? I had taken great pains to not sound accusatory. I’d tried to speak from the “I” . .I was hurt, I don’t have the same comfort levels as you, I was freaked out, I think you’re awesome so I hope you can understand . . .

My parents raised me to be polite. My dad raised me to be quiet. My acting teachers told me my jaw tension and lack of eye contact would prove problematic, the origins of both painfully obvious. For sadder scenes, I’d massage my jaw until I wept. For everything else, I’d stare into my partner’s pupils till my contact lenses clouded, then wrinkled awkwardly onto my eyes, rendering me legally blind in one if not both.

The older I get, the less patience I have, as though swallowing my words for so long left me incapable of not spitting out thoughts the moment they take shape in my gut.

This past month has been extremely difficult, maintaining a steady level of happiness near-impossible. Yet I’ve drank less and worked out more than I have in a couple of years and I’m still on the happy pills so I don’t know what’s going on. Ideally, I’d like to not be on the happy pills anymore. I don’t know that they’re doing their job. I think they’re still keeping the crazy from coming out, for the most part and for that they’re indispensable. But why can’t I have the wherewithal within me to keep the crazy at bay? Do I? Maybe I should start going to monthly therapy sessions again.

I think I’d be happy with something even less than happiness, as long as it wasn’t this. I’ve fought with a general sense of unease for so long: my apartment, my crickety joints, my finances, my relationship with my dad, my continuous anger towards Fat Daly and Julie . . that sense of how dare you that permeates my existence, my job versus whatever career for which I’m truly destined, you know, the one that uses the skills God gave me.

For years I’ve felt about to hatch but when will that day come?

I keep this postcard near my monitor at home. It’s white typeface on black. It reads:

BE YOURSELF.
THERE IS SOMETHING THAT YOU
CAN DO BETTER THAN ANY OTHER.
LISTEN TO THE INWARD VOICE
AND BRAVELY OBEY THAT.

I keep another one near my monitor at work, the same idea:

NEVER LET THE ODDS
KEEP YOU FROM DOING
WHAT YOU KNOW IN YOUR HEART
YOU’RE MEANT TO DO.

These cards stare at me. And somewhere inside I feel my heart breaking. Each thing I do seems to bring me closer to something of some substance, I believe. Quitting temping was probably a good idea, temporarily got my dad off my back (Christ, why should that even be a consideration for an adult?) and gave Gabe and I the space we should’ve had when we broke up four years ago. At my current job I use my brain mostly for organizational purposes and a dash of creativity. In reality, I dream of having playwright Christopher Durang as my mentor. We meet for coffee once a week. He’s older, kind and unpretentious. He looks at my scripts, gives me feedback. Over time I find out his life story, how he became a writer who gets paid for his work. I’ve received some sort of grant and don’t have to work in an office where I sludge away for little money, thanks or recognition.

I don’t know how people do it. Become adults. Although I don’t wish to repeat childhood, I think it was probably better, in some ways, than this. College. I’d do college again. Yes. But knowing what I know now.