"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." ~Anaïs Nin. Part 3 of 5.

There. Perhaps you now have some idea of how that week started off.

All right, all right, it's not the next day. I am writing this far later than I expected to be. I'm sorry about that, honestly, but it's been a busy week! Three tests, and now I'm sick (more on that later). So, it's nearly 2 in the morning almost a week after I last wrote (again) and now I am going to try and capture the week that was Tim Miller's workshop. Because honestly, that week is going to be counted among those that changed my life in 3 very important ways.

For the sake of the others in the workshop, I'm going to try to limit the experience to just talking about myself, which is a little hard in some places, because there's some points where it's others stories that had the effect on me. So, here's the deal: I obviously won't be using names. Then, in addition, if someone feels uncomfortable with what I wrote, let me know and I'll do my best to fix it.

That said, let's do this.

So, if you read the past few blogs I posted, you would realize a common thread here. If you didn't, I'll sum it up for you: feeling out of place. If you looked a little harder you could tell that I was faking the optimism. Well, I AM trying.

It's not been easy. I've spent my entire time here at A&M struggling to find acceptance, let alone friendship, trying hard every night not to feel miserable, trying to make my way. There have been bright spots. On the whole, though, it's been...challenging. If you really feel the need to know more, go check out my post from September 23. The post is titled "Loser", so that should give you some idea of my state of mind writing it.

Anyway. Coming back from my old high school, where I had graduated from an elected position, was known to pretty much everyone in my little world of theatre and IB, and where life was pretty much perfect, something I had struggled to achieve for four years...it sucked, honestly. I came back Sunday feeling miserable and wanting more than anything to go back to high school. Well, not high school, but my senior year, which ended on such an incredible high note that I could live in those last few months forever, exams and all. I went from feeling loved and needed and necessary every time I walked in the door to feeling like a faceless nobody, one of 50,000. Oh, and I was hacking up mucus. Life's just fun sometimes, isn't it?

Needless to say, I woke up Monday in a very...angry mood. Class was boring. The loudmouth in my poli sci class who never makes any sense was on a roll. One of my organizations was asking the impossible of me. Oh, and the first day of the workshop I wanted to tear my hair out.

Yeah, you read that right. The week that changed my life didn't start out so well.

What was the problem? Well, there were several. First off there's the self-consciousness of being in a group where most people know each other and I am the exception that proves the rule. New groups, as I've said before, stress me out like you would not imagine. So we're starting off feeling awkward. It's also already been a bad day, so I'm in a pissy mood to begin with.

Then, we get to the actual workshop that day. We start off by faking orgasms as we walk across imaginary broken glass. You can't make this shit up. I was, shall we say, supremely uncomfortable. Now, I would not consider myself a prude. I can watch other people say and do this and laugh. Doing it myself? Not on your life. Besides the embarrassment of people I don't know seeing me make an o-face, there's also the panicked voice in my head going, "I DON'T KNOW HOW TO DO THIS!" Take from that what you will, I am not elaborating more. So there is no way in hell this is going to ever happen. Not even in front of only close friends. Not even in my own bedroom at home with a locked door to the outside world and a chair shoved up under the doorknob. And I have to do this in a room full of strangers? Are you KIDDING me???

No, he was not joking, as much as I wished he was. So we did this insane thing. I think my face was cherry red the entire time. I very much wished I was somewhere far, far away. That feeling continued for the rest of the workshop as I, in my opinion, embarrassed myself over...and over...and over again every time I was forced to perform. I wanted to walk out of the room for 2 hours, but my extreme fear of evoking the wrath of the person in charge in such a setting kept me there gritting my teeth.

It also didn't help that at this point I really, really didn't like Tim Miller. Why, you ask? Well, he'd earned my displeasure from the start with the orgasm-thing. I got the feeling he didn't like me pretty early on. (Don't ask me why, I have no idea. I have this paranoid thing where I always feel like instructors don't like me. I think that's why I'm such a teachers pet. I hate it when anyone doesn't like me, so I suck up until I get their approval.) Oh, and he reminded me of a creeper teacher from my old school who looked and talked very similarly. The guy (teacher, not Miller) would always hug me when I wasn't expecting it, and hug me for too long, and would sometimes even kiss me on the cheek. It freaked me out because I barely knew him. Not a promising start.

I very, very nearly quit. I really wanted to. For some reason, though, that next night, I was back...ready for more torture. Why? I honestly have no idea. Maybe providence, although that really didn't work out until the next night. I wish I could say that Tuesday turned everything around, but it didn't. It wasn't worse, though, so I figured, it's something to put on a resume. I can suffer through the week.

Other than the workshop, nothing important happened on Tuesday. We did scene work in my acting class, and prepared questions for Tim Miller in script. After the workshop I ran to a Cinema meeting, left early to go to Tim Miller's performance of Glory Box. (Which, I did have to hand it to him, was absolutely fantastic. I got teary just reading the piece, seeing it performed sent me to boohoo city.) Maybe that's when I realized I had to come back. Even if I wasn't getting as much as I had hoped out of it, working with this guy was the opportunity of a lifetime. So, Wednesday, I sucked it up and went.

Wednesday. Oh, man, what an emotional day. I actually managed to blog that day. I didn't really get to say much, but it was a pretty big day.

See, that day we were set an exercise to...write. Write exactly what we were feeling, what we were thinking about in that moment. All I could think about was how much I hated performance. So, rather than fight it, I actually wrote about hating to perform. I was kind of nervous about this. I really expected Miller to be extremely offended. He wasn't, which was a relief. What was important, and somewhat surprising, was the story that came out.

I haven't always hated getting up onstage. I used to really love it! I remember in 7th grade, I got to start the show, all on my own...a spotlight on me. That was one of the most exciting moments of my life. So why was it suddenly so hard for me?

I wish I had that paper still. I haven't been able to find it. It really explored all of the reasons I thought I might have suddenly started to hate getting onstage, to feel so embarrassed about it. Somewhere in there I realized that it wasn't some childhood trauma or some battle against shyness. This was recent. This went back to something that happened back in December 2009.

Here we go, a story within a story. Some of you reading this know the story, or part of it. Some of you don't. Here it is, for the first time on public display, the full story behind what happened with Tightrope.

I wrote Tightrope spring of my junior year. I had been talking to a friend about it, and he encouraged me to get it out on paper. I have been a writer for a really long time, usually songs and poems about love and boys that I wanted to know but never really did find out about. Somewhere in the summer before my junior that changed, and I started writing real work--instead of just writing whatever came to mind, I started actually trying to write. It got really good, too. I had some poetry and prose published in our school's literary magazine. I wrote a screenplay--that was interesting. Somewhere in there I got the idea for Tightrope, and with some urging, started to write it. I was amazed at how difficult and how easy it was at the same time. I spent hours trimming, writing, rewriting, editing, fixing mistakes, plotting back stories, making it as perfect as possible. I wanted to use writing for the first time because I had something to say. So, the play was about schizophrenia and the dangers it can present to a family without treatment. My friends had urged me to give the show to my directors, just to see what would happen. My wildest dreams were granted: immediately both teachers said that we could perform it. Even more, I could direct.

I got the go-ahead last May. Immediately I started drafting costume ideas, set designs, lighting designs, poster designs, anything and everything having to do with production; but it wasn’t all about the production, not for me. It was about the message. Two of my uncles have schizophrenia. I have seen firsthand the effects it can have on a person, especially if they go without treatment. Despite the thousands of Americans each year diagnosed as schizophrenic, few people really have an honest understanding of what the disease can do to a family. Thus, I also began researching ways that this production could make a difference.

Theatre is really what I know best. Service projects are well and good, but I am not a social person. I don’t communicate well when I’m actually speaking, although I can do so better than when I began IB. Physical labor I can do, but I run into issues with health problems and parental permission. So, while I recognize the value of service projects, I never feel like I’m making much of a difference in the world at large. From my point of view, this was a chance to do that, and do it in the way I knew how. The simplest way to do this was to raise money for NAMI (National Alliance for the Mentally Ill) by taking donations and donating any profits to the group. While I thought this was important, I was also hoping we could make a difference that we could see. My sister-in-law works at a mental hospital which has, sadly, a child’s department. Talking to her made me realize that we could do something here that would really be appreciated; Kelli told me that the children’s unit is extremely depressing because the kids get very few visitors, especially around Christmas time. She wanted to know if we would do a Christmas party for the kids. I sent word out among the people who would be involved, and they agreed. We would fund-raise to put together a party, and donate whatever was left to NAMI.

I should have known after the first read-through that this wasn’t going to go well. The show had some content that was slightly controversial: the show ends with the suicide of the protagonist, tragically, but realistically. We read the play aloud in class, and the entire class was excited and ready to do it. The next day, though, my teachers pulled me aside. They wanted me to change the ending. They said I was promoting suicide.

This was extremely frustrating. My research gave me ungodly numbers like 1 out 10 cases of schizophrenia ending this way (diagnosed and on medication, which only accounts for about one quarter of schizophrenia cases), and I myself had known several cases with such an end. I told my teachers so, and they reluctantly agreed to let me go forward, so long as they could monitor our progress. I had a bad feeling.

The day of our first cast rehearsal I gathered up my plans, all the designs, and my pitch for a fundraiser. I was nervous, but excited; I wanted this to work. Halfway through the day, though, my teacher pulled me out of class. She brought me into the office and told me that one of the girls in our class had gone home Sunday night to find that her mother had killed her father. Obviously, she said, we could not do my play.

Truth be told, I couldn’t see the logic in her reasoning. To this day, knowing how my directors felt about the show, I believe they used this tragedy as an excuse to cancel it. Later on in the year, this director would tell me I could direct something else for my senior project--so long as it didn't have any suicides or murders or "bad things like that" in it. Yeah, she said that. In the end, though, it didn’t matter. The play was going to be shut down, and if I protested at all, I was the one who would look bad; I would seem insensitive and selfish. So really, what choice did I have?

There were a lot of things I was upset about when this happened. For one, the girl who actually experienced the tragedy here wanted to keep going. She told me she was disappointed when it was canceled. For another, we had just done a production of Macbeth. We actually stuck a guys head on a stick. That was okay, but suicide--something that is terribly common in our country--was inappropriate? Even setting aside our past production, theatre is supposed to push boundaries. Art leads the way for mainstream culture to accept and/or act on what art portrays. Why was she so afraid of something controversial happening under her watch?

I think, though, that what was traumatizing for me was the way she handled the situation. She told me the things I had talked about in the play didn't happen in real life, and that what I was saying shouldn't be said. Another girl in the class had already told me that my play "didn't reflect God's light". When suddenly someone was telling me that life was imitating art, I started to feel that what had happened to my classmate was somehow my fault. I felt guilty for writing something so sad, guilty for showing it to my class mates. I still feel that way sometimes. I wanted to write that I feel completely different about that, that I realized it wasn't about me, but that would be a lie.

Here's the truth. On one hand, I have a lot of resentment towards this director. I can't help it. I feel like she used a tragedy as an excuse to cancel the show instead of just telling me that she wasn't comfortable with it. I put so much WORK into it--months of planning, and talking to local businesses and spreading the word among people so that I could get everything done how I pictured it, I have notebooks FULL of ideas and sketches and all of these hopes for what we could do, and it came to nothing. The one chance I felt like I could really do something important...well. Then on the other hand, I feel like it was the right thing, but I think maybe I just feel like that because I felt guilty, like it was my fault somehow. I don't if that even makes sense. I have such torn emotions over this work. I literally get knots in my stomach thinking about it. When all of this was going on, I couldn't even talk about it without getting either teary or furious. I nearly quit theatre altogether because of it. Thank God I didn't, because I know now that this is where I NEED to be, but it was a scary time for me. I was so...disheartened. I lost my faith in theatre, which had always been my refuge before. I didn't keep doing it because I wanted to, either. I kept going because I felt like I had no choice. Given a choice, I probably would have quit. Things got better as the semester passed--I patched up my splintered relationship with one of my directors, and my theatre friends were amazingly supportive--but it wasn't ever quite the same. I really hate that. The year ended up being amazing, but it wasn't because of the one thing in this world that I am truly obsessed with. Performance became...painful. I forced myself through it, in some twisted way thinking that I deserved it. It was miserable, and I started really hating it, without really understanding why.

That Wednesday I really realized that all of my fears and anxieties about performing came from a fear of being judged again. I didn't want to feel like I had done something horrible merely by telling a story. I wanted to hide at the same time that I wanted my voice heard. It built up, and up, and up until that night it just exploded from my pen to the paper, telling not the story, but my emotions from it: feeling judged and found wanting, unable to speak, unable to live my life again. I poured my thoughts into that pen until I reached that conclusion: I wanted to speak. I wanted my voice heard again. I didn't want performance to feel like penitence for the things I have done wrong in my life.

I staged it the way I felt. We were divided into groups, to direct the other members of our group to participate the way we wanted them to. I had my members circle me with hyena laughter, closing in as I read. I was crying by the end. If you saw my post from that Wednesday, I talked about how different I felt after. I felt like this huge weight was gone from my shoulders. That still holds true. Something broke, some kind of barrier between me and the person I have been fighting to be got ripped apart by my tears and my fear and my frustration.

You know how back at fish camp I "let go of fear"? And how I realized that it was going to keep resurfacing, but hopefully it would eventually dissolve completely?

I think it may be gone. It's been several weeks since the workshop ended now, and I haven't been scared once. And trust me, there have been plenty of times that I probably should have been afraid, at least given by my past experience. You cannot imagine how grateful I am.

The last thing we did on Wednesday was set our title. We came to a unanimous decision pretty quickly: "Broken is Better: 23 Aggies Can't Be Wrong". I thought it was clever, but it was only later that I realized how true it really was.

So, that next day, that Thursday came around. Tim Miller had told us he would like us to have our performance pieces chosen and set for that night; he told us to tell whatever story we felt needed to be told. I thought about doing something else--I realized that the feeling I had had the night before might never happen again. Then I realized that I was also looking for a way to bail out of doing something so personal to me. It wasn't easy, but I forced myself to rework it to fit my changed self and still tell that story, because obviously I needed to speak about it. I really didn't like what I did that night--it felt really flat to me--but apparently the other people in the group liked it, so I decided to keep some elements of that and try and recapture some of the feelings from that Wednesday. That rehearsal was really amazing. We set our order, performed for each other, really worked it. I realized I think that night just how talented our little group was. Even the weakest of the pieces was incredibly strong. I think that just showed me how EVERYONE has a story to tell. When people are just honest, it's so incredibly moving. It makes you feel less alone in the world. Nobody has the same scars, but we all have them. Broken really is better.

So, Thursday was rehearsal, and it was fantastic. After the rehearsal a few of us went and got coffee at Bernie's. I found out another girl in the workshop has Celiac's too! So, small world. We commiserated and had a really fun time. Then, Friday was our performance. We got there early, ran through the order of our pieces. Then, we performed our show.

Good lord, what a range, thinking about it. Everything from struggles with sexuality to violence to racism to home life...so many variations on what people go through. It was amazing to know how strong these people I barely knew really were. I was in a block of people who talked about speaking. We had all worked together that Wednesday, and we just went as a group, almost exactly how we had that night. I was really proud of that, actually, we were just this little section that magically had a common thread and the same people in it. I felt different that night than I had either on Thursday or Wednesday. Wednesday was really emotional, but almost incoherent, Thursday was distant and almost untruthful, because I talked about not having a voice when all my anxiety about performing was gone, and then Friday...Friday was in between. I wasn't anxious--I was really finding my voice all over again--and I focused more on my feelings than the actual story, that feeling of having your vocal cords ripped out. I think it went really well, honestly.

I don't want to say too much about the performance, because so much of it isn't my place to tell, but I'll say a few things about what struck me. First off, we began with our "shoe stories"--entering with each of us saying "These are the shoes of..." (I didn't talk about this much, but there was an exercise we had done earlier in the week where we said our shoe stories and then told each others, literally walking in each others' shoes.)These were all somewhat defiant, I think. A little more angry or hurt. I know mine was. Mine was, "These are the shoes of a girl who doesn't know how to speak." Everyone's tied in with their pieces somehow. Then we transitioned to the actual pieces. I really was touched by everyone's, but a few really stuck out to me: a piece on racism that snuck up on you, made you laugh from the very beginning and then suddenly shifted gears so rapidly you almost choked on it, a piece on sexuality and religion that made you cry, a piece about burning and colors that had ridiculously powerful imagery, a heartfelt confession, a declaration of self, a not-so-fairy-tale ending. Unicorns. Red. These were all ones I really got to watch, remember, I had a harder time judging the ones I was a part of, although what I could see and hear was fantastic. I can't judge my own, although I felt good about it. I can, however, post what I wrote (which does differ from what I spoke, but whatever, it's all good.)

Warning: some adult language. You have been alerted. No suing.

I hate this. I really, really hate this. I don’t know why I hate this. I didn’t use to. There’s all this footage of me as a little kid, up on stage singing my heart out or dancing or just generally being unafraid. So why is it that two days ago in my poli sci class I raised my hand to answer the prof’s question for the first time this year? When he called on me I froze, and the words stuck in my throat like barbs. I was terrified. This is a recent thing. In high school I was notorious for speaking up in class; political debate, religious discussions, I had no problem with making my opinion known. What happened? When did I get so damn scared?

Maybe it’s that I haven’t been on stage in a while. I’ve been behind it. Sophomore year of high school my teacher told me that she would never be able to cast me because I was too tall. That didn’t bother me, actually--I kind of understood. But since acting had been my voice for a while, I had to find something else. So I started writing, and don’t get me wrong, I’d written before, but this was different. This was real. This was fucking good, if I’m going to be honest. I was spilling my heart and soul onto the page like I’d never done before. Poetry mostly, but there was this play. This goddamned, beloved play.


It was going to happen. It was supposed to happen. We were going to do it, I was going to see my characters brought to life onstage. But my teacher didn’t read it before she said yes. So at the last minute, she cancelled it. She told me what I was saying was wrong, and she shut it down. Because she was afraid of controversy. Because she was scared, she took away my voice, and I haven’t had it since.


But I want it back. I want to speak up, I want to make my stories known. I don’t want to be scared anymore. Scared of your laughter, scared of your anger, scared to speak. I don’t want this to feel like penitence.

It doesn't really seem like much, reading it again. It's amazing how such a tiny piece of writing could so drastically change my world.

So. That was my part. I was somewhere in the middle. So our final word was collective--another "Shoe story". This one was a little different for me..."These are the shoes of a woman who is rediscovering her voice in the last place she would ever have thought to find it."

Do you want to know what that means?

I'm sure you can guess. It means that maybe, just maybe, this is the best thing that ever happened to me. Maybe all this hope that I've been clinging to was there for a reason.

I have been trying so hard to be happy. Trying to think about the good things every day, and ignore the things I hate. Like how much I hate being a minority in political opinion, and how much I miss knowing my place in the world and having everything planned perfectly, how annoyed I get sometimes by the things people say in this town. And yes, I still have some residual bitterness over being ultimately rejected from 8 of the 9 schools I applied to. I look at pictures from my visit to Columbia, and I find myself wondering what I would have had to do to get in. I still wonder about transferring sometimes.

Honestly, though? I think this is where I need to be. This is a recent development. I realized after fish camp that I COULD be happy here, at least for the year, if I worked at it, so I really did try. I'm surprised to find that A&M is actually the right place for me. Even if I don't agree with the politics, I love the community here. I LOVE the theatre department. I'm making friends. I'm not just happy...I'm thriving. I'm growing as a person. I'm challenged in ways I didn't expect to be. I'm learning how to speak out again, and not just when everyone around me agrees with me, but also when they don't--without just being antagonistic. I really am starting to believe that being here--and staying here--is a good thing.

My parents came to the show, and they understood what that meant when I said it. They were so happy, too! I know my parents have been terrified for me. Hell, they kept reminding me that if I hated it I could transfer, or that if I really wanted to I could withdraw and go to a junior college for a year and apply somewhere else after a year...they just want me to be happy where I am, and they really thought A&M would not be a good fit for me. They were...surprised, to say the least. Actually, pretty much everyone has been. I was. My parents were, of course, thrilled to know that I really wasn't putting on a good face anymore, that I really felt like this was the right place for me. Oh, and they thought the show was fantastic. Always nice. :)

After, we all stayed around and talked to the audience. I met quite a few people (who I have re-met over the following weeks) and introduced my parents to others. I found out a little more about how the people around me see me, which was really surprising. Example: this one guy in the group? The first words out of his mouth when I introduced him were, "Your daughter is the sweetest person." He was so complimentary, and it took me by surprise--I thought he actively disliked me! Everyone my parents talked to had nice things to say--I was really touched to know so many people liked me. I didn't realize that at all. I definitely had a few people I considered friends, but I didn't expect the kind things people said. It choked me up, if you want to know the truth. I feel so closed off so much of the time, like I need to put up these walls between myself and the rest of the world, and then to find out that lowering them was a good thing, even if I was dragged kicking and screaming into doing so--it makes me a lot more willing to just be myself. Less guarded. Less jaded.

I realized that doing this workshop really changed my life, and I really wanted to thank Tim Miller because of that. My parents, knowing the same thing, wanted to meet him too. He had a large crowd around him, so I waited for a long time. I finally got the chance to tell him, just...thank you. He signed my copy of "Body Blows" and hugged me. I told him what the week had meant to me, and backed off. Later we were going back out, and I saw him coming up behind us...I feel like such a dork but I told my parents to slow down so we could run into him--it was important to me for some reason that they meet him. My dad teased me, but my mom realized why it was so important and did her amazing friendly woman thing. (Irony: he ended up being parked one space away from my parents' car, and my dad was able to give him driving directions, so it was a good thing.) My parents introduced themselves, and said their own thanks. We got to where we had parked, said goodbye...I thanked this amazing person one last time, and drove home with my parents, where I talked about the week for the entire drive home (and the next two days...). I got an email from Miller saying that my introducing him to my parents and telling him thank you for everything he had done had touched him...so I felt a little less like a stalker. :P (Well, the guy DID manage to become one of my personal heroes over the course of a week, it's not THAT crazy.) But, thus the week ended.

It is now...two, three weeks since that performance, and I feel so completely different. I think now comes the point where I talk about what this week meant to me.

So. The three ways in which Tim Miller changed my life:

1. I have found my voice again. I have no problem with speaking up in class, despite being one of a very tiny number of liberals in pretty much any of my classes. If I have something to say, I say it. Just telling my story was a huge part of that, and being encouraged to tell it--given an opportunity to tell it in a safe and non-judgmental setting--but there's also just Miller's own story. He was one of the NEA 4--this is a decent article on it. Wikipedia's failing me at the moment, it's article is just a stub.

http://www.franklinfurnace.org/research/essays/nea4/ayers.html

Basically he was one of 4 performance artists who received NEA grants that were revoked on grounds of "indecency". If you read the story, it's pretty freaking ridiculous.

Point being, actually meeting someone who has had to deal with this kind of censorship is really inspiring. Obviously my situation is MUCH more minor, but the fact that he came back from this and continues to perform and speak out--it's really inspiring. His encouragement meant a lot to everyone in the workshop. Plus, the workshop itself made me realize that if I want to truly make a difference in the world, I can't be afraid to speak.

2. I have friends. Like, real friends. Doing that workshop was incredibly challenging, but by doing it I became so much closer to the people around me. Most of the people I have done things with lately are either people from the workshop or people that people from the workshop introduced me to. I was absolutely forced to be myself in the workshop, which is something I usually am more cautious about. I couldn't be, and it was terrifying. The people from that workshop know me more intimately than most of the other people in my life, even with my attempts to keep that from happening, but because I know them as well, it was a completely safe situation. Outside of the workshop we have a common ground to build off of: we all bared our souls. I really love those people. I trust them. I know that they've had hurts equal to or worse than mine, and we're all better for it. It's such a different dynamic. There's no awkwardness anymore.

Even beyond the workshop, I now have the confidence to be myself around everyone else I meet. Later I'll talk more about how one Friday night I walked up to a group of people in my dorm and inserted myself into the situation. I would never have done that before the workshop. Plus, I'm reaching out to the people I know. I am doing things, making plans with people...it's so unlike me, waiting around to be invited. I'm making things happen, and I'm finding that I really love it.

3. I have faith in this theatre department, and by extension, this school. This is the shortest change, but, I think, the most important one. I have been so freaking TERRIFIED over what this department would be like. I was so scared it would be a repeat of high school or that it would be a joke or that I would hate the people in it. A&M is a notoriously conservative campus. I was so scared that that would carry over to the theatre department, and that I would hate it so much I was miserable and wanting to transfer. The fact that this department hosted an artist like Tim Miller and a workshop with him my first month of school here is unbelievable. It gives me so much hope, especially because this wouldn't have happened at any other school that I applied to. If I had gone anywhere but A&M, I might have been miserable, friendless, and voiceless for months to years. Because I went here I am two months into school and already finding my place. I'm so excited for the next four years--if one week altered my life so completely, what else could happen?

So, there you have it. The week that changed my life. It wasn't easy. It was, in fact, gut-wrenching and horridly painful at times. I made it through, though, and I'm so glad that I did. My whole life since that week has turned around. More on that later--it's 5:30 in the morning, and I NEED SLEEP, even with my crazily caffeinated state, so that will be finished either later today or tomorrow, or even some other time this week. Here, though, you have the gist of the transformation that occurred. I'm happy now. I know who I have to thank for it.

Signing off, this is Kat...truly believing that everything happens for a reason.

" You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you." ~Ray Bradbury. Part 2 of 5.

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Let's start from the beginning, that's a logical place to start, right?

I'm going to divide this up into weeks, although I'll start with that last Thursday and go through to the Monday after my second return home. Then I'll just have that week on its own and this week in one of its own, and a wrap up section. Ok? Ok.

Thursday, September 23 is the day I left off. That next day I had a test in my Shakespeare class (which went really well, which I guessed at the time, but later found out I had actually made 100!) and my Aggie Cinema interview. Which was...weird. Really weird. Like, sitting with a bunch of the managers literally in a circle around me. Can you say...INTIMIDATING? Because I can.

But, all's well, my dad picked me up on Saturday and we headed home to the farm...that was a lovely weekend at home. I didn't really get to spend much fun time with my parents, since all of us were sick, but we watched some movies, I petted my cat Tamu who I have had, no joke, since my birthday in 1994. He was born on my birthday, and he is 16 years old. I love him love him love him, and I have missed him so much in being off at the school he is named for. My mom and I played Scrabble, I got homesick, we had a garage sale, I slept a lot. It was an interesting weekend.

My parents brought me back on Monday morning. I actually missed my first class because we were driving. I unloaded, and got unpacked, and everything seemed ok. We watched Jon Stewart clips in my Poli Sci class. My Shakespeare grades came out. I spent a lot of time that week skyping my high school friends. I was so excited to go home and see my old haunts, to go back and see everyone, that the week passed in an absolute blur. I know one day that I was down one of my best friends sent me a video of himself singing "Sweet Transvestite" from Rocky Horror to cheer me up, which tells you something about my friends, and about me. I just wanted to be done. All I could think about was going home.

I did do a few things. I went to a town hall style meeting for APO (Alpha Psi Omega, the theatre fraternity, which I wince even saying but am joining in spite of it...). I also took the plunge and went to do a skills check at the Rec, where I was reintroduced to the lovely sport of rock climbing. Which went very well! Until I got my hand caught in the brake and it took all the skin off the web of my right hand. Scab's still there. It wasn't as bad as some wounds I've taken (drill bit in the finger, helloooo?) but it was ugly, and I hated looking like an idiot. I'm going back, though...I just need a climbing partner. So one of these days. I'm not bailing, I swear.

Honestly, though, most of what I remember from that week was...being excited about going home. So when it finally did come, Saturday morning when my dad picked me up on his way out of town, I was pumped. I was incredibly chatty on the way home, I know that. I stole a lot of my dad's music. I sang and danced and was generally excited. And we got there fairly early. Early enough that before I went to see the show, my best friend came and picked me up.

Now, my best friend in this world is a guy whose name will go unmentioned, but who must be described because it's just something you can't make up. My best friend dubbed himself my GBF our sophomore year of high school--short for "Gay Boyfriend". He critiques my clothes, my hair, my etiquette, my speech patterns, my taste in music, movies, and books, my taste in men (DEFINITELY my taste in men), and even the backgrounds on my computer. He is who I look to for advice and support for any reason, and in return I give him undying friendship and support, even when he (unintentionally) goes a bit too far with his critiquing. I am one of very few people who can endure his sharp tongue for very long, especially when it's turned on me, but his constant wit and criticisms are one of the most enjoyable things about him. I love him to death. I had not seen him since my parents moved out of the apartment we rented to get me through my senior year. Something like 4 months. We talk on Skype occasional. He's been the recipient of a few teary phone calls. He is, consistently, my lifeline.

He came to pick me up from my grandparents house. We had coffee. He took me to his dorm and showed me where he now lives, showing me his extremely stylish and tasteful accessories. He mocked me gently for my current background (which then read something like, "Boys are stupid. Throw things at them.") and complimented my boots, which is a damned big deal to me, since I think it's the first time he's had a POSITIVE comment about my wardrobe in our entire friendship. We talked. A lot. We weren't really out of touch--we'd talked on skype and on the phone, as I'd said--but it wasn't really the same. We facebook stalked a few people. He laughed at the guys I currently am crushing on (yes there are several, no I'm not revealing who they are...some things SHOULD still be private). We went back to Starbucks and met a friend of mine from theatre, who was going to the show with me.

This guy I have a...complicated...relationship with. He's a really good guy, I think, most times, but every so often he comes out with something that makes me not want to be in a room alone with him. I know he likes me, he always has, and I've never reciprocated (partly because of the not-wanting-to-be-in-a-room-alone-with-him thing). He is also one of few people that I trust implicitly with my secrets and my pains, and however much I may not want to be in a room alone with him, I often find myself (found myself, since this is another lifetime) comforted by him in a private setting when life got hard my senior year. I feel a very strange mix of comfort and unease around him, but I never want to lose touch with him. I think.

So, we all had coffee, which was nice. My bestie wrote love on my hand in Arabic, a language and script I am eternally fascinated with and really want to learn. And we went to see the dinner theatre at my old school, which was PHENOMENAL. And it didn't hurt that I walked in and my friends would put down what they were doing to run and hug me, and that one of my old directors pulled me backstage (much to the chagrin of some overzealous freshman who tried to throw me out, not realizing the hierarchy here) and then everyone ran over to hug me from the cast and crew. There's a picture of me on facebook somewhere being swamped by 3 members of the cast, throwing my laden hands into the air, one of the truest smiles on my face that I've had this year. No fear. Just happiness, just love. Love on my hands, and surrounded by it. There's times when I really miss high school.

The show was great. The girl with the lead is someone who I think of as a mix of best friend and sister. I feel the need to protect her, but we get along a lot better than most sisters. She's amazing and I miss her almost as much as I miss my bestie, which is a big deal, considering I've really only known her for a year--since the start of my senior year and her junior year. Sometimes I wish I'd graduated with her class, because I think we could have been best friends, and if we ever are in the same place again, I think we might still be.

Actually, thinking of that, there's several underclassmen from my high school days I adore. Mostly people from my senior year that I didn't get near enough time with, although one girl I've known since the 7th grade. I miss them a lot.

So, the show was adorable. And then me and a few of the other returnees went to the local frozen yogurt place and ate our hearts out. Mmmm. Pure Bliss, and my high school crowd, who I love and adore under every circumstance and even more when I haven't seen them in months? It was fantastic.

It was a great night. And I had plans the next day to be picked up by my Rocky Horror buddy to go to the Halloween store with him and my Kesha buddy, who, predictably, sings way too much Kesha. I love both of those guys very much, and I was looking forward to it. After I was going to go and see a community theatre production of School House Rock, a school I'd gone to for a few years before I got involved at my school.

None of that worked out. I woke up Sunday with a splitting headache and phlegm all up in my lungs. I could barely breathe, and I was hacking horribly. So my last day at home was spent sleeping and feeling like death. My dad got me home late Sunday, and I went up to my room and crashed.

I have written it out successfully, and it is 2:05 in the AM. My stomach is begging to be fed, and my eyes would like to have their contacts removed, and my head would like some sleep. So, that's where I'll leave you in my storytelling tonight...me sick, lonely, depressed, disappointed, missing high school like I hadn't yet this year, and wanting very much to be hugged. This is the point at which I entered Tim Miller's workshop, which will be the most important week in my life, I think, to date.

Until tomorrow, darlings.

"There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein." ~Walter Wellesley "Red" Smith. Part 1 of 5.

So I've been trying really hard to write this out and make myself feel better about my current life without actually writing about my current life, but it's not working. So here I am, at half past midnight, blogging. This can't be healthy.

The last time I really wrote was Thursday, September 23. That was almost...well, as of today, it was legitimately 3 weeks ago. 3 WEEKS since I last updated this.

God. So much has happened. How do I even explain everything that's happened?

Ok. Slow down. I am currently in one of those moods where you feel absolutely alone in the world and nothing can make it better, or at least you think so. Usually when feeling like this I go and watch Edward Scissorhands, which isn't an option at the moment because my copy is packed up somewhere and netflix unfortunately does not have Edward Scissorhands on instant queue. Edward Scissorhands is my go-to movie when I'm feeling sad about something. I've written poetry, prose, essays, all kinds of stuff about this movie. It's been my favorite movie since 2nd grade, and I've watched it, oh, at least a hundred times. I can't really explain why I love it so much. Part of it is that he ends up alone. And it's not a BAD thing. He's where he needs to be, and it just happens to be alone. That gives me hope. And then, obviously, he's so different. And it's WONDERFUL. It's like this signal to all the messed up kids in the world that just because you look frightening or you act strangely, you may get messed with by most of the world, but there will be a few who see you for what you are, and they make all the difference.

Anyway. Let's keep going, and skip the introspection. So usually, I would watch this movie, and right now I can't. So what do I do? I write right now, it's going to come out an emotional ball of wreck that I post on the internet, and God forbid this blog suddenly go viral overnight because of my screwball emotions. Ok, so. Take a deep breath. Clear your head. Hey, ImprovEverywhere posted a new video, let's check that out!

Here, you can follow along.



Ok, that was fun. Oh look, there's MysteryGuitarMan! He posted a new vid! Awesome.



Mmm, Brazilian cutie playing guitar and making cool videos of it...never a bad thing.

Ok, ok, I'll quit procrastinating. Feeling slightly better, let us delve into the depths of the human soul (or, more specifically, my own less-than-human soul) and figure out what the hell has been going on the past few weeks to bring me to that post break-up, waking up late, sleeping all the time, crying on skype to your parents, eating whipped cream straight out of the can feeling. I say feeling because the only one of these I've actually done has been the crying on skype to my poor long-suffering parents.

Here we go.

Good lord, do I need to update.

But, that's not going to happen tonight, because it's 4 minutes until 2 A.M., so I should sleep at some point. I just want to get on here and talk for a few minutes.

I just finished the new episode of Glee earlier, the one where Kurt's dad has a heart attack. Heartbreaking episode.

Today was a pretty emotional day. I'll get into this in more detail when I actually manage to write an update, but I'm working with Tim Miller this week through a workshop he's running. There's 23 of us working, and it's really been an amazing experience. There's still 2 more days left, too!

Anyway, point being. This hasn't really been all that easy for me. You know how I made that big long spiel about how I was going to try and let go of my fear and yada yada yada back at fish camp and blah blah blah it's been better, and yeah. That's great. And it's true. I actually talk to people! Hoorah! Miracles do happen. I'm still utterly terrified of stepping onto the damn stage, though. I realized that when I did my first performance in class. I couldn't quit shaking. So today, in one of the exercises we've been doing, I started talking about how afraid I am of performing. When we actually did the performance...damn, that was the strongest work I've done in years! And I KNOW that! I started crying towards the end of it. I don't want to go into too much detail on these workshops--these aren't my stories to tell--but I can tell my own, at least. This week has not been easy for me. I've done more acting exercises this week than I've done in years. Usually I am so glad to be off the stage when I'm done. Well, I say usually, although that's only really popped up the last couple of years. Honestly, that's only popped up since I started making really good friends. I don't understand why it's gotten progressively harder for me to stand up onstage in the spotlight as the years went by. It's not just the stage, either, it's the classroom--I don't raise my hand to be called on, I don't want to answer questions. It's so much harder lately than it ever has been in my life. So, in some ways this week has been so terrifying. I kept wanting to drop out, actually, but somehow I've stuck it out this far...and I can't quit now, because we have our title and the show is set and...well, I can't back out now.

So. Broken is Better: 23 Aggies Can't Be Wrong. This Friday at 8 o'clock. I'm taking a leap and actually telling people I knew. Who knows if anyone will actually come, but I'm challenging myself and spreading the word.

All my life I've wanted to make a difference in the world. Lately (these past 3 days) I've started to realize that I can't do that if I'm afraid to speak.

These late night ramblings probably aren't the smartest thing in the world, but I needed to get this out. Oh, and if you've never heard the song, try and listen. Hope you enjoy.

Signing off, this is Kat...still afraid, but trying harder now.

Bad Day

So, usually when life's sucky, I blog. Not tonight.

Tonight, I am posting specifically to say:

**** my life.

I am fighting illness. I had expectations put on me that I couldn't possibly meet. My head hurts from clenching my teeth for the past two hours. All in all, I had a horrible day.

What's the point of this, then?

To say that. Some days are shitty. This is one of them.

I'll elaborate tomorrow. And hopefully, cheer up.

Night.