The Mexico Plan

In 2011, I was in a terrible, dark place.
Hollywood, to be specific.
I was on the raw end of a break up I didn’t even know was happening, and I was hurting.

Alone again for the holidays, I did what any sensible gal does when she’s bored on Christmas Eve, and called a Suicide Hotline. Not because I needed it. I just… needed to talk. To someone. Over the last few years, I’d developed a nasty habit of hurting myself and I had a sneaky feeling I might take it a step too far if left to my own devices. I just wanted to know someone out there cared.

The dumb thing is, I KNOW someone out there cared. Lots of someones, in fact. I’m lucky like that - I’ve never been at a loss for friends, and my family is incredibly supportive and kind. I knew I could easily get the love and assurance I needed from anyone I reached out to… But here’s the thing:
These supportive, kind, amazing friends and family who love me fiercely?
I love them fiercely, too. They’re the last people I wanted to burden with my problems. And not on Christmas Eve for God's sake. I needed an impartial stranger, who could hear me out, say what I needed to hear and tell me goodnight so I could continue making whimsical holiday magic for the masses at work the next morning.

I live in mortal terror of the Giving Tree Factor. You know the story about the tree who gives literally everything it can to make this kid happy, and the child just takes and takes and then one day *poof* the tree is used up. I’m always keenly aware of these invisible social bank accounts and scared shitless that one day I’ll need someone/something and it won’t be there.

"What's that? Another ride to the airport? Suuuuuure, no problem!"

There are people who have been Giving Trees to me. My brother. My mother. Tiff. Erika. Rissie. Greenwald. My boyfriend. Time and time again they’ve rushed to my rescue and I still feel the deep pang of a debt I owe and can never repay. It’s a unique kind of weighted shame, like a breezy-looking shawl that’s somehow heavier than it should be. Time and distance makes quid-pro-quo impossible, so all I can do is try to be the best friend I can be to whomever I can.

I could’ve called these people. But instead I dialed a stranger.
And that fucking stranger never picked up.

I called some easily-googleable Suicide Prevention Hotline and sat while it rang a few times. I felt those hot stinging embarrassed tears rim my eyes, and I was glad no one could see how weak I was. I look at the tiny tree in the corner of our apartment, and my tears obscure the lights, kaleidescoping them into a small rainbow. I think about how pretty it looks.

Then I realize no one’s picked up. I’m on the floor next to the couch (we still had furniture at this point) and listen to the Holding Pattern loop for a while. It’s not even Christmas music, just some crappy classical piece that’s been played to the point where it’s more static than Schubert.

I listen to the loop. I listen as drunken neighbors argue out in the courtyard, on a loop of their own. My tears dry and the tree looks boring again, and I remember that I hate that tree because Jenn gave it to us and I’m fairly certain Jenn is sleeping with my husband.

The loop continues and my phone beeps. I think someone might be about to pick up, but it’s just my battery letting me know it’s dying.

I think about how odd it is that my battery can reach out to someone and let them know it’s possibly about to die, but I’ve been on hold for 27 minutes.

I unplug the tree, cursing Jenn under my breath, and head to the bedroom to plug my phone into its charger near my nightstand. Then I lay down and just listen. I just listen to the sounds of Christmas Eve happening to everyone in the world except for me. It’s happening to my husband, wherever he is. It’s happening to Jenn. It’s happening to my shitty neighbors. It’s happening to whoever is supposed to be on fucking PHONE DUTY at the hotline.

I picture them having a big office party. Mistletoe, tinsel, eggnog. Whatever the hell figgy pudding is. They’re all there, stuffing their faces with figgy fucking pudding while the phone lines light up - well, like a Christmas tree.

"Keeping the Ho in Ho Ho Ho."

I’m unaware of how much time passes when I get into these states. This is usually the time I’d use to cut tiny chunks out of my skin with razors or scissors. It’s the time I’d use to destroy my finger nails so I’d be hesitant to write on bloody stumps, or cut into my toenails so walking the next day hurts. It’s a Lost Time, when I am lost. And when I felt lost, I’d hurt myself until enough blood was spilled that I felt I deserved to stop. It’s a loop of my own, just a massive negative spiral.

Some clatter outside (read: NOT Santa) jars me from my melancholia and I look at my phone. I’ve been on hold for 3 hours and 37 minutes. I hang up. I go to bed.
And I get up and go to work the next day. The toes of my socks are sticky from blood.

Over the next few months, I start to decide that I’m done hurting myself, and I’m done hurting period. There is no break from the sensation of pain. My entire body aches and I’m tired, and I can’t really let on to how bad I’m feeling. I don’t even want to tell my Therapist, because I don’t want to make him feel bad, like he failed to fix me or something. I sure as shit don’t tell my dad, or especially my brother or my mom. They can’t ever know - I am ashamed and it’s my responsibility to abate my hurting. No one else’s.

I tried to tell my husband. I desperately wanted him to fix me, and in some small way I am certain I allowed myself to get worse so he’d feel like he had to save me. Ha, turns out he had no such sense of obligation.* And so I came up with The Mexico Plan.

(You can’t steal this, by the way. It’s patented so don’t even try it.)

I wanted a fool-proof way to kill myself that wouldn’t burden anyone or make them feel sad.
I’d googled overdose recipes, and it turns out that it’s super easy to screw up and take too much or too little and wind up in a coma. Also, even if you do it “right,” you leave a nasty-looking corpse for someone to find. And that’s not nice. That’s not my style.

So I had to find a way to disappear without leaving a body, and I had to make sure people thought that I was happy and fine. I also knew unless I created a window of time, my family would come looking for me, so I figured out how to throw everyone off my trail.

I composed an introspective yet upbeat email to my mom, telling her that I was doing OK but needed to take some time for myself. I told her that I wanted to go camping up in Canada and do an off-the-grid thing I’d been reading about, and reconnect with nature for a while. She knows I’m a nature girl, and I think as worried as she’d be about me being out of reach, she would at least know how happy and excited I’d be about this upcoming adventure. I told her I just needed to recharge my batteries (see what I did there) and then return to Hollywood and work on my career and my marriage. I saved a draft to my desktop with only the dates left blank.

Then I started researching towns in Mexico. My plan was to tell EVERYONE about my Canada trip, then point my car South and cross the border. Once I was a significant distance South, I intended to file or use acid to obscure the VIN number on my car, and leave it in a bad part of town with the keys in it. I’d toss my ID and any passports in the trash.

I’d take a cab to the bus station, then take a bus South down the coast to this adorable seaside mesa overlooking the Pacific. I’d spend the rest of the afternoon loading my pockets with rocks, then leap from a cliff into the ocean and, with any luck, drown quickly.


"Like Casa Bonita, but Deathier!"

By the time my body washed ashore, it would be so messed up by the tides and the rocks that only DNA testing or dental records would identify me. Mexico is not known to be a paragon of Criminal Investigation Integrity, and a dead white girl is the last thing any town needs if they rely at all on tourism fallout.

Plus, remember: no one is looking for me dead. They think I’m alive. In Canada.

"Looks like this case...*removes sunglasses* is a real... CLIFF hanger. YEAOOWWWWWWW."

After I don’t come back when I’m supposed to, my family would start a search, but they’d be looking in the wrong spot and the only logical conclusion would be that something bad had happened to me, or maybe I was fine and just decided to stay lost. I knew they’d hold on hope for the latter, and any pain from my vanishing would slowly, over time, be forgotten.

See? No cleanup! No funeral! How considerate am I?

I sat on this plan for a couple of months, and when I was alone I’d work out the details. Which town? Which bus route? How much gas would I need?

At one point, my husband used my laptop for something and for whatever reason needed to delete his search history. Deleting his search history pulled up my search history, and even though he isn’t the most observant of people, “how many ambien to die no coma” was enough to rattle him. He and I had a long chat with our marriage counselor / my Therapist, and I told them it was just ideation, that I wasn’t actually going to to it.

‘Cause I wasn’t, right? I like to think so.

I took a trip home to visit my family shortly after that, and during that visit, my husband and I agreed to separate so I could “work on myself.” It was my idea, but he all too quickly agreed and immediately moved in with his girlfriend that I didn’t know about.
(Ready for a shock? It wasn’t Jenn! Merry Christmas to all!)
Later that week, on Valentine’s Day, he’d file for divorce.
3 weeks later, he’d tell me he’d been thinking and had decided to file for divorce.
I’d beg him not to change his mind. When he refused, I’d reach for a bottle of pills and try to lock myself in a bathroom. He’d jam the door open and wrench the pills out of my hand.

And in these two ways, I guess he saved my life. One in stopping me short of the cheap way out that night, and two, ripping open a wound that would’ve never healed if I kept counting on him for bandages. I bled and bled (metaphorically and not-so-metaphorically) and cried and crashed and burned for a thousand days. Then, by my own choice, I got better.

I’d like to say my recovery was an entirely healthy process, but there were tons of terrible, delectable mistakes that I needed to make. I had a lot to learn, and as my thoughts unhazed, I began to think about The Mexico Plan. I thought about how within 2 weeks of him discovering my dirty little secret, he was all too willing to let me go.

Maybe he thought I’d go through with it and it wouldn’t have happened on his watch.

*I should take a moment here and clarify that I'm not mad at my ex anymore. I was pretty pissed off for a long time, sure, but there are other blogs you can read for those stories. This isn't a story about what he did or didn't do, but he was part of this story and so he bears mentioning. Don't worry about him. He and I are square.

I don’t blame him for bailing. Having a suicidal wife is scary shit and he is a coward. I should’ve known, but at the time I couldn’t have. It was fine for a stranger to leave me hanging on Christmas Eve. But my husband leaving me (maybe to actually hang) gave me the rage. This rage provided the gasoline for the fire from which my Phoenix emerged.

In the time of my healing, my wonderful, kind, amazing friends and family showered me with love, and food, and safety. My body healed, my mind healed, and it took quite a while, but eventually my spirit came back swinging. So now when you see me smile, it’s the real deal.

When I’m grumpy, or butt-hurt over something, sure I’ll be grumpy and butt-hurt. I’m not ecstatic 100% of the time, and I have my off-days. But it’s been over 3 years since I’ve needed (or taken) antidepressants, and my feels, good or bad, are genuine and manageable. I haven't harmed myself (or wanted to) for 4 years.

"You wouldn't BELIEVE the money I'm saving on razors!"

It took a LOT of effort. It took a LOT of help. It took 10 days at a Buddhism Retreat, 2 days of a Landmark Seminar, and a night in a tree house. It took pasta, and motorcycles and ups and downs, but the point is, IT HAPPENED. AND I AM HERE. And I am happier than I ever dreamed possible. Bad things still happen, sure, but everything from here on out is baby town frolics compared to what I’ve been through.

I’ll leave you with this:
One day, about 6 months after I returned to Los Angeles, my friend Todd and I decided to have a picnic on a Malibu beach. We packed a healthy lunch, and laid the blanket down on the sugar sand. Eventually my eyes adjusted to the dazzling brightness of the sun dancing across the water, and I stared into the cerulean blue and felt the most intense gratitude that I was alive to enjoy it. That I hadn’t poisoned the pacific with my problems.
As we snacked on avocado and strawberries, I realized how immaculate everything is and I exclaimed “it’s the best day ever!” And I meant it.
Then, for the first time in my life, I’d see wild dolphins playing in the waves.
“It’s the best day EVER!” I’d shout, clapping my hands excitedly like a child.
A V-formation of pelicans swooped right above us overhead.
“It’s the BEST! DAY! EVERRRR!” I’d squeal as the rush of wings ruffled the beach breeze.
Later, shaking the sand out of the picnic blanket, my bikini top popped open, exposing my breasts to my roommate, who, without skipping a beat, shouted:
“IT JUST GOT BETTER!!!”
And that’s kind of how life has been since I decided to stick around.

"Like this, but more birds and dolphins and boobs."

Later, that very same evening, I’d go on my very first date with the love of my life.
(BETTERRRRRR!!!)

Boom. Easy, right?
OK, not really, but you have to stick around long enough to see.

I know for the rest of my life, whenever something really awesome happens, (like pelicans or busted bikinis) I will be doubly grateful because I’m aware of how I almost missed it.
So maybe you don’t want to call your friends when you’re going through shit. I get it.
And maybe you don’t want to sit on hold waiting for a stranger who may or may not pick up.
I get that, too.
But don’t you dare give up.

Besides, have you been on a bus in Mexico? They totally suck.

The John Avery Effect, Pt. 1

After literally nineteen years of searching, through the modern miracle of cyberstalking, I finally tracked down the first man I ever loved. And let me preface this by stating that this was a HARD teenage crush, back in the flanel-wrapped glory days of 1996. I was 16. He had a guitar. Clearly we were made for each other. His name was (and still is) John Avery, and I met him, oddly enough, at church.

Neither one of us is particularly religious, but his parents are, and my best friend Holly is. So it was pretty miraculous in the first place that I found myself at the Oviedo Baptist Church that evening, but even more divine: this angelic boy bent over an acoustic guitar...
John was playing something derivative of the time - Pearl Jam, I think. Holly introduced us, and when his smokey green eyes shyly lifted to meet my skeptical blue, I experienced a feeling I'd never felt before... and I was instantly smitten. We shook hands and mumbled "hellos," but he held my hand a little longer in his guitar-string-calloused grip. His hands were rough, but gentle as they held mine like someone would hold a bird. He held my hand like he was holding something valuable, and a delicious shudder ran the length of my spine, landing in my brain and lodging there.

Smitten, Smitten Kitten. Oh yes I was indeed. As it turns out, so was he! I'd been curious about other boys at my school in my past, but never beyond rampant gossipy speculation with my female friends about "who likes who," etc. With John, though, there seemed to be a palpable realness to an intangible connection.
We spent most of the service delighting in catching the other one sneaking glances, and each time I'd bust him, he'd turn crimson and hang his head until his mop of sandy blonde covered his eyes and all I could see was a sheepish grin. Oh, he was cute.

And after church, after his band performed, (spladoosh,) Holly and I were leaving when I heard the soft shuffle of corderouy pants hustling up behind us. I spun around to find myself a breath away from John, who pressed a sweaty-palmed piece of paper into my hands.
Two words from him: "Call me?"
A verbal waterfall from me: "Oh yeah, sure, OK. I'll do that. I will call you. On the phone. With this."

I don't remember the ride home. Or really, much of anything after that, except how patient Holly must've been as I surely obsessed about when to call and what to say when I did. Working up the nerve. Whatever I said on the phone must've gone well because John invited me over to his parent's house. They lived so close to me, but just on the border of the next county over, which is why we never shared a school.

When I arrived, I parked on the street in front of his house because his driveway was full of boxes. He came out and introduced me to his parents, who politely shook my hand and called me "dear."
John's parents didn't allow him to "date," so we just went for a walk around his neighborhood. We had SO MUCH IN COMMON: we were both white middle-class American teenagers. We BOTH LIKED MUSIC. We BOTH ATE FOOD. Clearly, this was my soul mate - and then my soul mate dropped a bomb on me.
"So I'm moving to Michigan," he says. "Like, tomorrow."

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Hm. Well, that explains the driveway full of boxes. Dammit.

Not to be deterred, I suggested we pen-pal it. After all, I told him. I was going to be a hot-shot writer someday, so I'd enjoy keeping in touch with letters. Kind of chronicle our love affair until we found a way to be together.
Shockingly, he agreed - after all, he was going to be a hot-shot guitarist someday. Surely, they'd have a van or travel trailer of some kind. I could get a laptop and write from there while the band toured the country.
A laptop? I already had a laptop. So basically we were halfway there.

He moved, just like he said, to Farmington, MI. When that first letter arrived in my mailbox I was over-the-moon excited. He DID write. He DID love me. And even though it was riddled with all the misspellings and grammar errors one could imagine from the product of Florida public education, I delighted in every syllable of his oddly block-printed handwriting. I was thrilled to hear about his new surroundings, and visualized everything in lurid detail. The woods near his home. The snow piled up on the red brick walls of his new school.
John hated Michigan. He was just starting his Senior year of High School, and had a hard time making new friends or finding other musicians to play with. I tried to keep my letters cheerful and full of sunshine, but no amount of positivity of affection from me seemed to make a difference.

I obsess in Lisa Frank proportions.

As his letters got shorter and more impersonal, I could sense him slipping away.
I asked my father, who was an airline pilot, if he would help me visit John to cheer him up. After some parental discussions between his folks and mine, in an unprecedented act of adventurousness, my dad agreed! We'd go to Michigan for the weekend! True love conquers all!
John had mailed me a plastic purple bead necklace, and told me he had a matching one. This was the first gift I'd ever recieved from a boy, and certainly the first jewelry I'd ever been given. I wore them every day until the string smelled like my marching-band-practice sweat.
Then I hung them from the rear-view mirror in my car, and every turn I took, every speedbump, they'd rattle and I'd feel that shiver resonate in kind, right up my spine. I was in love.

I'm pretty sure if I'd kept a journal at the time, it would've been riddled with heart-shaped doodles of "Mrs. Jack Avery" and her husband-to-be. I mean, surely the stars had aligned to introduce us before it was too late. Surely the Universe had conspired to nurture our young love with the letters and calls. MY DAD WAS ENCOURAGING THIS RELATIONSHIP SO IT HAD TO BE THE ONLY CORRECT PATH.
Never mind the fact that really, I was the only one writing at this point; that wasn't the point. The point was:

I would go to Michigan and get my first kiss.

After a short flight and a short drive, (but still plenty of time to allow my stomach to completely tie itself into knots,) my father and I arrived in Farmington. We followed my hand-written directions carefully through the snowy countryside to John's neighborhood, which looked nothing like I'd imagined. There were none of the flourishes I'd pictured, no "Michigan Farm House" charm. Just standard track houses on a normal street.
The "forest" near John's house, where he'd go for melodramatic angst-ridden teenage walks of solitude, was kind of just a square or two of semi-undeveloped land. But it was fine - it didn't matter - we were together!

I rushed up to his door, not sure what to expect, but when he and his mom opened it together, there was no swell of music. No cartoon birds appeared, and a very awkward hug ensued between us as our parents met in person for the first (spoiler alert: and last) time.
Didn't matter. I was here. He was here. We were in love. And I was gonna get that kiss god dammit. I was 16. It was OWED me.
After some polite small talk, Dad left for an hour or so to go scout out a hotel for the evening.

That gave me and John some time to warm up. Sort of. I'd been standing around in his mother's living room, not sure what to do with my hands. I hadn't even removed my coat. I was so nervous. Had I done something wrong? Was something wrong? Hadn't he asked me to come?
John suggested a walk, much like the one we'd taken the only other time we'd been alone together. A walk in the woods. A walk in the snowy woods. Trying to still my racing heart, I rebuttoned the coat I'd yet to take off. It was 40 degrees outside. I think I was sweating anyway.
We went for that walk, and I kept expecting that at any moment he'd give me... something. A kiss, an honest moment. Where was all that chemistry we'd both felt at the church? He really didn't even make eye contact.

After we reached some arbitrary half-way point known only to him, we turned around and headed back towards his house.
I think he tried to hold my hand, but we both had mittens on so who the fuck knows.

I could've unbuttoned that jacket for him. I was so hot from my own nervous energy, my blood, my brain, that spot in my brain which had been ignited when he first touched my hand, was on fire. I wanted so desperately to show him that I'd kept his beads, and removed them from their shrine on my car to travel North with me, as proof of my love. I could've shown him, I guess. But something told me he didn't care.

Back at his house, he took me for a quick tour of the town. There really was no town, so he basically just drove me to his school and back. All that nervous chatter faded on the drive back to his house. The bricks weren't even red, they were brown. Why had I imagined them as red? An iconic setting from his letters, in which I envisioned my love ardently penning letters was just a brownish wall about 4 feet high. With a handfull of tired grey snow clustered around the bottom. The naked, thin woods, the non-town, the grey, grey, grey everywhere and the deafening silence from John kind of piled up. We all went out to dinner that night. Our parents took pictures of us. We are standing 3 feet apart in the pictures.
The next morning, my dad and I went back to Florida.

Bleh. Just, bleh.

I sent a thank-you card. I sent a letter. I included copies of the picture my dad took of us. John's hands are folded so far behind his back he looks armless. Just a guy with empty short sleeves, staring stoically into the lens like some soldier in a daguerreo-type.
A little while passes, I've heard nothing. I write him again and ask if he has a girlfriend and hold my breath for a week until my response arrives.
"I am, in fact, seeing someone," he writes. "Lady Depression is her name. I am courting Despair."

I had, at the time, zero comprehension of what that meant. My own Dark Lady would set up camp with me in the years to come, but at 16, I couldn't possibly fathom what that meant. I just liked that he wrote like a cheesy balladeer. I liked that he wrote. I mean, what even WAS depression? Pff. Things would work out.

...Things didn't work out.
After two months went by with no more letters, I retired those beads off my mirror permanently and stuffed them away into some dark corner of a jewelry chest. It wasn't until nineteen years later that I'd see his face again, via the great public crystal scrying bowl known as Face Book.

Stay tuned for Part 2, in which we learn what ever happened to John Avery...

In Case of Suffering Break Glass

Tonight, we drove along the sunset-halo'd mountains headed home, and the twinkling lights below beckoned us into the twilight of the valley where we live. I held my hand out the passenger window, collecting the cool dusk in my palms, spreading my fingers, letting the night free, then trailing lazy digital contrails in the waning light. My hand. My bracelets, knuckles, long fingers, long strong healthy nails and sparkly glossy polish on manicured fingertips.

I flashed back on the time I'd pass the commute home by watching crimson blood trickle down my arms as I "fixed" my hands. Made sure every stroke I'd type hurt, putting tiny cuts in fingers and pulling, tearing my nails and cuticles to expose the raw white tissue beneath.

I remember swearing tearfully to my ex that I was broken, that I'd never write again. I'd never love again. I'd NEVER love myself.
I remember the hot sticky wetness of the blood as it beaded and ran. If the trails reached to my elbows I'd consider it "enough" and stash my toolkit until another time and place I allowed myself to spiral my thoughts that low. And by then, lightheaded and high from the scent of copper, my adrenaline had spiked and drained my energy enough that I no longer felt, no longer thought, and for the moment, no longer hurt. It felt like the only thing I could control. Maybe at that point, it was. But that was then.

Looking at my hands now in the sweet dying of the light, an L.A. sunset which has consistently kissed me goodnight for almost a year now, I can see how wrong I was. How everything has changed. I came to peace with my shortcomings, learned from them, forgave myself, and eventually learned to love the strong healthy person I became. Then I found love with someone else, and began to experience what a healthy, happy relationship feels like. Ah, Whisper-In-My-Ear 2010, THIS is what you meant...

It took a WHILE. It took time, a lot of work, 10 days of Buddhism, a night in a treehouse, lots of therapy, some fire, crying on many a shoulder, a little more fire, nachos, 7,000 miles and a long-distance nuptual bitch-slap, but EVERYTHING GOT BETTER. There and back again, but literally and figuratively in a different vehicle.

It took rebuilding, reframing, relearning, relabeling and relaxing. But it happened. And it totally got better.
So if you're reading this, and you're In It, allow me to be that whisper by your shoulder:
Trust me. I have been In It too. I have felt these feels, hurt this hurt. Hurt just as dark and deep as it gets- and gotten out.
I know you feel alone, like you have to hide whatever horrible thing you do to keep your hurt your own. I kept my razors in the center console and covered the rest up with a smile for as long as I could, until I broke. Stuck, stuck, stuck- in traffic and otherwise.

And somehow, same road, same hands- but there's no glass. There's night air. There's no suffocating heat. There's Santa Anna winds.
I dismissed any friend who ever promised me It Would Get Better, because I hid the extent of my hurt. They had no idea- they'd never hurt like I hurt. Like I hurt myself. So that should get me a little street cred. Listen up:

Whatever you're doing, decide to finish it. Wrap it up. Bandage that shit and start being gentle to yourself, because whether or not you're ready to accept it, you are so loved. And you may hate your skin or your job or the way your husband doesn't love you and not see a way out without blood. But if you give yourself a chance, you'll be on that same road later (it's always the same road) and dangling your fancy hands out the window while you let someone who loves you right drive for a while. And you will be so glad you hung in there- you're worth it. Get up. Fight. Every day. Whether or not you feel like it, you deserve the love you'll feel one day.

LA Stories: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Los Angeles

My mom nodded and cried when I told her I was moving back to Los Angeles. My father pursed his lips together in that disapproving manner, and my brother literally facepalmed. Hadn't LA completely kicked my ass 18 months ago? Hadn't I JUST settled down, gotten my bearings and begun to heal? The dust from my divorce had barely settled and the scar tissue was still fresh. I had a Florida job, I had built a Florida life... but I'm a California Girl with a California heart.




And the heart, having broken and regrown anew, needed to go back to California.

The comparisons were painful- my brother likened my situation to a desperate gambling addict at a slot machine, pumping quarter after quarter into a one-armed bandit. "Maybe THIS time... OK maybe THIS time..." Others compared it to a battered spouse going back to her abuser. "But they swore they were gonna change..."






The first time I went to LA, I was a starry-eyed dreamer full of hopes and expectations. This was wrong of me. Just like a 15-year old assumes they know how to drive because they've ridden in a car, it doesn't amount to jack shit when they're actually behind the wheel. This was the case with Los Angeles. I came in all excited with my learner's permit, got seriously distracted by my passenger, lost focus and inevitably crashed and burned.






Let me be clear: I do NOT blame my passenger. Let me be clearer: it is not Jay's fault that I got as bad as I got, sinking deeper and deeper into depression and self-abuse. It is not the city's fault, either. There are many factors in catastrophic disaster, and just as I cannot fully assign responsibility to my passenger or the road itself, as "the Driver" and captain of my destiny, I must assume responsibility for my collision with said destiny.






We'd left Florida under bad circumstances, in the wake of job layoffs, my parents' divorce, my best friend moving away and the birth of my brother's second child. I felt a severing of ties and knew that the relationships I'd cherished at home would be forever altered- and so I begged, and begged- I'd waited 8 years, after all, for HIS jobs to work out, for HIS stars to align... he was reluctant, but I eventually wore him down, and convinced him it was the right thing to do.




Husband by my side, (so I thought) he went kicking and screaming, but "we" went to LA.




(note: I was the one who waited. I chose to depend on his timeline. And I begged him until we finally left. Realizing my hand in sculpting the impending disaster has been good for me- he never even wanted to go.)






When we arrived, the inevitable fissures ruptured, and as our relationship crumbled, I crumbled too, blaming the environment the whole time. "LA Ate My husband," was the potential book title. The more he pulled away, the more resentful I became, and it surely showed in my demeanor and physical appearance.




Behind closed doors, my stress was consuming me. I'd complain to him that my gums were bleeding, my hair was falling out. He'd take a slant-ways glance at the clumps of hair in my hands and shrug it off, telling me it was normal. Then he'd go back to his video games. Yes, this was a dick move- but it was NOT the city's fault. And it was my fault for not recognizing his apathy for what it was. It's my fault for trusting him to be right.






No WONDER I wasn't getting jobs. No WONDER none of the opportunities I'd been expecting had opened up to me- I was sick, I was hurting. I didn't want to be around me, my own husband didn't want to be around me, so why would anyone else? At some point I must've decided to win my husband's attention by needing him, which drove him further away, but I was stuck with the cosmic kick-me sign I'd taped on my own back. And where Jay didn't notice, the city surely did.






As the months wore on, and he left, I was pumping nothing but bile and acid through my own veins. The self-sabotage and body abuse I'd indulged in became the only ritual I could count on- the only thing which seemed in my control. I was desperate, scared, hungry and angry- and the city could smell it on me. The more I made myself bleed, the more the sharks attacked.




You get what you give, so naturally, a string of horrible situations snowballed after Jay bailed. Out of subsequently hotter frying pans and into increasingly raging fires, I think I was probably trying to kill myself the same way someone commits Suicide By Cop. I was taunting Los Angeles, subconsciously begging it to end my pain before I had to take matters into my own hands. Los Angeles responded in force, by starving me out and frankly, just sucking Everything which could possibly go wrong went wrong- because I needed it to.






I was terrified of my surroundings, and everywhere I looked I found scary ranting homeless people, random strangers bleeding on sidewalks, murder scenes (hello neighbors!), and poop on the sidewalks. And off the sidewalks. Pretty much everywhere I looked I saw shit. Why? Because I was looking for shit.






When I was giving off all that bad energy, I attracted bad things. When I came with my hands outstretched and empty, expecting things to be placed in them, I was left wanting. When I was scared, I was scary, and scary things became my constant companions.






I crumbled and burst into flames and exploded and burned and shattered and ended. My brother came, scooped up my remains and brought them back home.






Then, I got better. I got lots better. It took about a year and a half. It meant lots of home cooking, sunshine, and exposure to unconditional love from my family, who held me while I cried. It took some wonderful friends who restored my trust in men by sleeping by my side until I learned to sleep alone again. It took a LOT of levity- mostly at work, with my comedy roles, and making others laugh until my own genuine laughter was resparked. In concentrating on others, even just for a little while at work or spending time with my pals, I finally got out of my own head. I was resting, I was eating. And I was healing.






I took an amazing get-your-shit-together seminar by Landmark Education, which helped a lot. I spent some time at a Buddhist Retreat. That helped a lot too. I spent a couple nights in a treehouse, and attended a ful moon sweatlodge ceremony in the forest. That helped a LOT. I dated some really beautiful boys and learned about what I like and what I don't like when it comes to relationships. Ohhhmigod that helped too.






I remember sitting on MY couch in MY home, laughing at a really awesome and completely inappropriate joke on a comedy show when I felt a familiar glow strike up in my heart, like a pilot light had suddenly been ignited. "Hello Ember. I know you."




I didn't know how, I didn't know when, but I knew I needed to go back to LA and fight for my new dream as my new self. I was finally brave enough to want something again.






California hadn't changed. Not one bit. But I certainly had. In dissolving to ash and Phoenixing my way out of the crematorium I'd constructed for myself, I'd become rebuilt of sterner stuff. And I was ready.






Like the chain event of bad stuff which had kicked my ass before, a completely unexpected chain event of good stuff happened as soon as I was ready and Babe Ruth'd my intentions. I suddenly had the means to go west.






And so I went back swinging- I was changed. I'd been behind the wheel, I know how to drive and I know how to crash. The absolute worst had already happened, and I was no longer afraid. When someone is fearless (for whatever reason) the Universe responds to that, too. I was full of fresh stories, fresh ideas- I came with my hands full to GIVE to the city, to contribute. I was the opposite of the negative me, and I have had the opposite of the experience I went through.






A HUGE part of What Helped was accepting responsibility for what was happening and how I was responding to it. I'd become highly reactive, pinging off at the slightest "boo." Making decisions based on pressure and fear lead to some horrible decisions. Blaming my ex for EVERYTHING (especially the horrors that happened to me AFTER he left) was a waste of energy. I realized my shared part in the demise of our relationship. I realized how much better off I was without someone who would treat me like that and abandon me in the condition in which I was left. I realized how toxic I'd been and stopped blaming Los Angeles for giving me exactly what I was begging for. I stopped hurting myself, and made a point of learning how to protect myself against ever making those mistakes again, or depending on anyone else for my happiness.






If I'm going to allow an absolute idiot to determine my mood, that idiot will be ME.






I became calmer. I became strong. I was over my grief- I'd mourned the miscarriage of my marriage and my dream, and all that remained of my disaster was anger. Harnessing my anger as a fuel was invaluable- and figuring out how to let it go was... well... priceless. But that's another story.






LA's my friend now. The city has opened up like a hand to hold, receiving me with the same embrace I felt when I collapsed, broken, into my mother's arms. But like my mother nurtures the broken, LA favors the bold. It is a city designed for the fearless, and living within her parameters means I'm now eligible to play the game.






Amazing stars aligned themselves to provide for me- everything I needed, from a roof to roommates to furniture to jobs to a new car- EVERYTHING has lined up to bring me where I am now- which is happy, on my own steam.






Naturally, this is the exact moment I met my soul mate, in the right place right time, like a welcome home gift.


...but that's another story too- one I can't wait to share with you.







I don't need to be famous- I don't need to be rich. I DO need to write, and I need to be in California.




The advice I'd offer to the starry-eyed dreamers of the world who want to chase their LA dreams is this: come out, by all means. Crash, burn, and LEARN. Take responsibility for what happens, and definitely don't take any bad luck personally.
You can change your stars, as soon as you accept that you ARE the stars.

LA Stories: California Dreamin'

When I moved out here the first time, I had these recurring nightmares about a dead baby. It was always the same- I'd see it floating face-down in the Los Angeles River, all blue with mottled flesh, and I'd slide down the long smooth concrete wall into the pit, where I could wade through the nasty water and reach it, try and flip it over and give CPR. Once I was trapped, however, just as I turned it over, the baby reanimated as a zombie monster baby- it was dead and it was angry. It was so strong, and it had teeth- it tried to pull me into the water with it, trying to hold me under and I'd fight to break free. I'd drop it in the water and try to push it away from me, then I'd take off running. I just ran, and this baby got faster and faster and I knew it would drown me and eat me alive if it caught me, and I, too, would be just another body in the river.

I recall waking from these nightmares shaking, and staggering over to a mirror in the harsh flourescent light of our tiny Hollywood bathroom. I could see my veins through my increasingly translucent skin. My sunken eyes stared back at me. I looked like a zombie. I would brush my teeth and spit out mouth-fulls of blood into the sink. I'd run a brush through my hair and sob as it fell out in clumps.

I was becoming a zombie, one restless nightmare at a time.

I brought a fistful of fallen hair to my ex, to try and show him something was wrong, that my body wasn't "taking" to the city.
He blew me off. "Everybody loses hair."
I tried to put the hair in his hands- to show him how MUCH there was- it wasn't a normal amount, I was sure. I showed him my bleeding gum line, and he told me to brush more gently. Later, he told me he wasn't so sure he wanted to be a dad anymore, and I realized exactly what my nightmares were about: the dead baby represented the miscarriage of my dream. And there I was, trying to force him to take responsibility for me when I was half-dead already.

I completely understand why he didn't want to hold my hair-he wanted no part in my half-life. He had clubs to go to, after all.

We'd been picking out baby names together at one point- and LA was the next big step to take in the adventure that would be our lives together- but I let my stress consume me, and he discovered he preferred a life without responsibility. I was sick and depressed and exhausted all the time in the city he wanted to party in, and as my relationship crumbled my subconscious knew before I did: LA was killing us, and it was killing me. If I kept trying to resuscitate that dying baby, I'd drown in the process.

I don't know if I ever would've been strong enough to make that choice- even though it became clear that he did not love me, I believe, even at the time, I never would've left. Fortunately, he made the choice for both of us, and my dreams, nightmares and all, were ripped away from me and quickly resettled with another woman.

I struggled for a long while, but it wasn't until I'd moved back home and truly realized that I was recovering not only from a divorce, but from a psychic miscarriage. All my hopes and plans and wishes and projections walked out the door with him. I would never live in the city of Angels with the man I married. We would never be parents together.

I might not ever be a mom, now.

So much time wasted... just how much did he cost me?

I wound up at a Native American full moon ceremony under a tent, throwing water from an earthen jug into the pile of hot coals in a pit in the center. Everyone in the tent "let go" of something individually, then as a group, and as we threw the water onto the coals, the HISS of the steam became the sizzle of the pain vanishing. I "let go" of my dream. My old dream. I said goodbye to Hollywood- I said goodbye to my baby. I let the dream die. In accepting that that life had ended, I suddenly felt free to start a new one- just like that: no more zombie.

The group burst forth from the tent, tearing off clothes and streaking onto the night, plunging into a nearby crystal clear lake and splashing and howling like naked new wolves. It was amazing. I felt an emptiness, but rather than a sick cavity it was a space for new growth. And slowly, surely... About 8 months later, I stopped being so fearless. I started to fear again, and with the fear came the realization that I was concerned about losing something. Which made me realize I WANTED something.
Which meant my heart was working again! Yay!

"Hello, Ember," I greeted this sensation. "I know you."

I didn't know how, I didn't know when, but I knew I needed to get my ass BACK to LA- not for revenge, not as an "I told you so," but because I am in crystal clear communication with my fully-functioning heart and I know EXACTLY what I want. I will say with a New Wolf Howl: I want to write for a syndicated comedy show.

Lo and behold, the moment I Babe-Ruth'd it and pointed out exactly where that ball was headed, things began to happen. Series of events and circumstances and my own hand in the puzzle all came together and here I am, and last week, I had the most amazing dream:
I was in my childhood backyard, and I was climbing on the climbing-structures my parents had built to get a good angle with my bow and arrow- there were alligators everywhere, and I had to take them out because in my dream, I knew I was pregnant.
And with a baby on the way, you gotta clear out all the alligators, right?
I could not ask for a clearer message: I am in a safe place now, using the foundations of my upbringing to gain a good vantage point in what I know is a battle for the future. I am safe, I am a crackshot with a bow and arrow, and I know exactly what to do. And the best part of all: I can feel the new precious life inside of me- a little glowing, protected Ember no alligator can ever reach.
Because this time, Mama's protecting her California Dream herself.

Origin Story

This is the story of What Happened. It is not pretty, and it's very personal, but it is my hope that in getting this OUT and having an easy reference point or record of some kind, I can begin to let go. This is also the LAST TIME I wanna talk about it. I'm not avoiding it or repressing What Happened, but dredging up negativity isn't fun for anyone. So I'm putting this out, I'm releasing it into the ether, and this way if anyone wants to know there's an easy reference point. This is letting go of anger, This is What Happened. It's no longer what is happening.

So yeah, this is raw, it's ugly, it specifically mentions the time Jay sucked a dude's dick, and it's petty and childish and awful. I realize that. But tell you what: hold on to a) a secret like that for 12 years and b) have that person SERIOUSLY FUCKING WRONG YOU and you may allow yourself a little venting. I'm sure there's an alternative version of this story somewhere on the West Coast with it's own set of opinions and truths. You're welcome to cross-reference, but this is the last I'm saying about anything.

At some point, I will wish him well. Now is not that point.

I'm willing to be petty and small and air some dirty laundry if it means I can let go of it. In fairness, Jay is welcome to tell his side of the story, and all the awful things I did to him. All the times I yelled at him, or treated him unkindly. Oh, wait there aren't any? Oh, awesome, OK then. Moving on: I went into the the Seminar with a healthy amount of skepticism- after all, the first three pages of Google results identify it as a cult.

My friend Alex and I joked on the way down about all the BDGs (Broken, Damaged Girls) who would be there, crying about their breakups and divorces into a microphone in front of a roomful of strangers. We giggled as I envisioned myself making unsympathetic Danny DeVito "Penguin" noises after each sob story: "Whaaaank, whaaank whaaaank!"

After we got there, though, we could see a large variety of people- not just BDGs, but... just... everyone. And when the first few people spoke, confused boyfriends, adulterous newlyweds, bewildered single parents... it was touching, but later as it grew more intense the real stories started coming out. One girl in her early 20's took the mic and described how she'd watched as her father murdered her brother and mom. How she'd gone to foster school dirty and afraid, and was beaten frequently.

I looked over at Alex and held up two Penguin Hands and we both vehemently shook our heads no, eyes wide with horror at this girl's tragic origin story.

I say origin story in the same sense that every superhero has one- some defining rough moment or moments which forever seals their fate into who they must become. But as Iearned, Who We Become has NOTHING to do with anyone but us. I was convinced I'd gone to the Seminar to get over my Ex. I hated him, I wanted him to suffer as I'd been suffering- I blamed him for everything I'd been through the past year and a half and I wanted to get over my anger and MOVE PAST it. I realized that everything was 100% Jay's fault and I was fine like that. I mean, obviously! Look at me! "I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine," I'd insist, sobbing.

The Landmark Seminar taught us to differentiate between What Happened, like, what ACTUALLY PHYSICALLY HAPPENED versus the story we tell ourselves about what happened. What Happened was that Jay left me when he searched our computer's browser history and realized I'd been researching ways to overdose on perscription antidepressants and sleep medicine without causing a coma. I'd told myself that that meant I didn't deserve to live.
What Happened was that Jay said he didn't love me anymore. I'd told myself that that meant I was unloveable.
What Happened was Jay left me, sobbing and begging him not to go, literally clutching at his ankles and hysterical on the floor wrapped in a pile of electrical cables.
(The only thing he left behind as he vacated our Hollywood apartment.)

I'd been the one living like I never got off the floor. I remember staying on that floor for 4 hours. I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I couldn't even see- I was experiencing hysterical blindness, and was terrified when I reached for my phone to call him and couldn't see the numbers- I accidentally called my mom, and scared the shit out of her gasping out some kind of desperate choking sound. I had cried myself out to the point of immobility. I don't recall how or where I spent that night.

I don't remember a lot about the next few days, actually. I look back and just remember darkness. I stayed in our apartment through the end of the month, because Jay and I were going to get back together- things were fine. He'd promised. We were just separated, and even though I'd suggested the separation so we could both work on ourselves (he'd been completely uninterested in our marriage for months and spending all his spare time out with other girls, at my exclusion) and I was curious what it might feel like to be wanted again. By someone, anyone, else.

Jay told me he wanted me to work on certain things- I needed to prove that I could completely support myself (as he no longer wanted the responsibility) and I needed to get healthy. No more crying all night and sleeping all day. No more tranquilizers and memory loss from the handfulls of pills I'd have to take before I could get any sleep. He wanted me to live on my own and get into a routine. Very reasonable.
For me, I didn't ask him to work on anything- After all he was flawless in my eyes.

I simply wanted him to miss me and love me the way I thought he used to. I had fallen into a terrible depression since we'd moved, and the 4 months I spent while he was in New York had taken a terrible toll on our relationship. Jay promised me before he left that he would continue to manage our bills and paperwork electronically, as he had done throughout our marriage. I was happy to let him do so- he'd let me down over the past year by avoiding paying bills because he wanted to file for bankruptcy and I didn't. He also told me he would handle getting some sort of compensation from the moving company which robbed us and vandalized our stuff when we moved to LA. A year had passed and he hadn't made any progress- I felt like he wasn't keeping his word to me about getting it done, and that he was failing to stand up for us. So I was happy to let him handle the bills because dammit he needed to do SOMETHING, right?

(I wasn't very big on the concept of "taking care of myself," Like, at all.)

I was convinced he was cheating on me in New York. When he returned, he seemed like a different person- all he wanted to do was party and drink. He picked up some Ecstasy pills from an employer and brought them home in his pocket. MY husband? drugs? This wasn't him! I demanded he return the pills, and he told me he would but then, at that point, he had checked out and was telling me whatever he thought would make me cry the least. He began turning lights off to rooms that I was still in.

He stopped talking to me- and the more he pulled away the tighter I clung- the more fearful and desperate I became, terrified that he'd leave me. I'd sit up all night with him watching while he played XBox games- we were playing together (or so I thought) until I came home from work ready for the final battle in Oblivion when he shrugged me off and casually announced that he'd beaten the game that morning. "Why didn't you wait for me?" "I didn't think you cared." He had forgotten I was even in the room at that point.

I never hurt myself before I met Jay, but I started to fairly on in our relationship. It began when I took him back after he cheated the first time. I HAD to forgive him, he said, or he couldn't handle feeling guilty and he'd leave. Since I couldn't be mad at him, I began to be mad at my body instead. Little wounds I could suffer, little outlets for pain I couldn't express to him, because it couldn't be his fault I was unhappy. In Hollywood, towards the end, I'd bring my "tools" with me to work, and sit in traffic on the way home til the blood ran to my elbows. Because it simply wasn't his fault I was so lonely. He'd bought me those self-help books a while back, hadn't he? See? He cared.

I tried drinking just to keep up with him so we could do something-anything together, but we were going through a bankruptcy and he'd blow $90 at a time on tequila shots. When I was too exhausted to play and had to get up at 5:30AM for my CSI Internship, he'd go out clubbing without me, spending more money we didn't have. Then he started spending time with other girls- some I knew to be homewrecking whores, and others I merely suspected. I was so desperate to just BE with him one night after I'd taken Ambien and Xanax to sleep, when he texted to say he was at the club across the street (with HER) I got out of bed, got dressed and stumbled across Hollywood Boulevard to join them on their date. I ordered a drink. He was not amused.

She spent most of the night laughing at me as I repeated myself, slurring.
Total third wheel.
They let me wander home alone that night I guess.
I woke up alone.

At some point I'd cut myself again.

After that, he stopped telling me where he was or who he was out with. I was only his wife- I didn't really have a right to know. He was going to marriage counseling with me, and we spent pretty much every session arguing over HER. I didn't like that he was out with her and not me while I was at work. He thought he had every right to do so and was sick of my depression. Witnessing the destruction of my Fairy Tale, I became despondant and began wondering how I should kill myself to get his attention, but still allow my mom to have an open-coffin funeral.
(Many overdoses and hangings create disfigurement. Totally tacky.)

My alarm went off at 5:30am. I'd hit snooze and assume some sort or prayer position, knees curled beneath me as I buried my face in my pillow. I'd then make my way to my closet, where I would sit and shake like a frightened animal, dreading the next 16 hours. He never once even reached out to touch me. I don't think we had breakfast together even once. Not that I was eating.

Our therapist suggested to me that we separate, and I pitched the idea to Jay who was ecstatic with the plan. Two months, that's it- then we'll get back together- I promised Jay to fix what was wrong with me and he promised to... well, there wasn't anything wrong with him, right, so... he promised to stay in touch. Somehow, though I had a baaaad feeling about it and told him I'd changed my mind. "Too late," he said, and packed up everything that belonged to him, and separated our phone bills and netflix accounts.

Netflix, Jay? Really???

I became terrified as I watch him pack- he took everything. He knew I had nowhere to live and no way to pay rent, so he took absolutely all of our belongings with him except for our bed, a pile of cables and the cats. He even took the refrigerator with him, and the ice cooler too so he could keep his tequilla cold while on route to HER house, where he would be living for two months. But just two months, really. Honest. My god I was stupid. To clarify: he left me with literally nothing but a bed and some wires, but that wasn't malicious- he knew I would be unable to pay rent with my unpaid internship "salary," so he took our stuff and put it in a storage unit to keep it safe for both of us. He also paid for the storage and gave me a key, which was nice.

But then, see, I thought he was telling the truth about the two months.

At some point I must've gotten up off the floor because I made it to work at my temp job at Newline Cinema and got offered a 4-month deal- steady employment! I enrolled in a free tae-kwon-do class and got myself in a healthy routine. I lived, supporting myself, with an amazing friend who allowed me to cry myself to sleep when I needed and to cry on her shoulder when I needed. My LA friends rallied around me and lovingly stomped out my flames, pieced me back together, took the pill bottle out of my hand and held me as I went to sleep on some nights. Over that period of time I did absolutely everything Jay had asked me to do.

He left me on February 12th- I had no way of knowing he'd filed for divorce on February 14th.

Happy Valentine's Day.

However, he didn't have the balls to tell me I'd been baited and switched until much much later. He came over and talked with me twice. He even killed a spider for me in my bathroom. He stopped by before I left the Hollywood apartment and found me curled up in a corner. (I had no furniture, remember?) He'd only been by to retrieve an HDMI cable he'd left by accident, but when he asked me how I was and I burst into tears because I was so hungry, he softened a little. I'd lost so much weight, I was all ribs and red-rimmed eyes.
"Here," he said, and pulled something out of his wallet.
He then stood over me and joked how he was "making it rain," by sprinkling down some Sharkey's Buy-One-Get-One coupons.

I blinked up at him. "What are these?"
"Bogo," he smiled benevolently.

I thanked him and told him I loved him and I was looking forward to spending time with him again soon. He got his cable and left, knowing we were already divorcing. When the door closed behind him I stared at the coupon and cried, knowing I had no way of buying one in order to get one. Later, I missed him and spent a rare break at work writing, and sent him a list of 100 reasons I loved him. He got the email and showed up my door that night with a lie, telling me he'd "decided to file" when he'd really already done it 2 days after he left me on the kitchen floor.

(HERE IS THE ANGRY PART:)
I emailed his mistress, Heather Ann Grall. (Cute initials, hunh? HAG? I know, adorable, right?) I knew who she was. I'd googled her, and sent her a facebook message along the lines of "Hey, could you please take my husband's dick out of your mouth long enough for him to get through this separation? We're trying to work on things." She immediately blocked me, and Jay called to tell me to "stop threatening his girlfriend." Wowwww. First time he shows evidence of balls and it's defending this dog-faced whore?
I kept asking him "is she prettier than me," and he'd never answer. Once I saw her, and realized to my surprise that the answer was an easy "NO," I wondered why he didn't just say so, But the fact is, she has money and he wants X and DJ equipment.
Also, she is dumb enough to still worship him and convince his fragile ego that he's any kind of a man.
At some point they'll most likely have average-to-below-average children together, and I can't wait till they ask for the classic story of how Mommy and Daddy met:
"Well, Daddy abandoned a really great girl when he found a suicide note, and your mom was a homewrecking whore in the right place at the right time!"

It is my hope that if they ever breed, their children will be born without the faculties for such a line of questioning, because the moment they realize what a fucking bitch-titted tequilla-bloated cowardly waste their father is, and what a weak, frightened homewrecking slut their mom is, they'll most likely be unhappy. Perhaps the money he'll never send me for spousal support can be put towards their therapy, or better yet, sterilization. Don't most bitches get sterilized?

But I digress... One day during our "separation" (when I had no idea he'd already filed) when I had a small meltdown from the stress at my internship, I drove by Jay's office on my way home. I'd called and left a message- I just needed a hug from my husband- it seemed like the only thing in the world that would make me feel better. I even called his mom just to have a sense of him. She told me to "grow up and move on, that he didn't love me anymore."

(She always was a cunt.)

But that sent me into a spiral of anxiety, because I didn't know he'd already filed for divorce and not told me. Having no idea I'd been Inceptioned, I walked into his office and asked his receptionist if Jay Barwick was available. She looked at me like a crazy person when I explained that I was his wife. "Oh," she says.
"I didn't know he was married."
She walks down the hall and emerges with Jay, who storms over to me, grabs me by the upper arm and marches me to the elevator.
"What are you doing here?" he hissed. This is not my husband...
"I- I left you a message- I just wanted a hug- your mom scared me so bad, I-"
"You are NOT ALLOWED to visit me at work!" (News to me.) He forces me out of the elevator and into a bright sunlit outdoor lobby.
It's crowded and I'm crying.
"You need to leave."
"Will you just hug me, please? Like a normal person?" I'm sobbing and tears are starting to come out my nose.
"No- you're embarassing me." He stands with his arms folded.
Like a fool, I tried to hug him and he pushed me away so hard I lost my balance in my work heels. I stumble back and people stare.
I start to cry harder.
"Go or I'll call security," he says.

I... I somehow make it back to my car and sob in a dark parking garage for an hour. What kind of horrible monster must I be if he won't even touch me... This man was my best friend- I've been by his side for 16 years! Over half my life! He promised to love me forever... I must be so worthless... I'm sure I made some melodramatic FB update at that point because when I arrive home, Arica and Aaron are on my doorstep, waiting for me. They held me until I could walk again.

I lost 25 pounds over that period. I got dangerously skinny, and feral about food. Any progress I'd made "for Jay" quickly became undermined when he finally told me he'd filed for divorce without even giving me a chance. I gave up on myself and began living just as a form of survival. My friends were the only thing that kept me going- I was determined to stay in LA until I could finish out my Writer's Internship, and I did. I lasted 8 months out there on my own, and came back to Florida when the show went on hiatus, to work, recover, and EAT.

So I found myself at the Seminar, wondering what was wrong with me, why he didn't love me, how could he do that to me, etc etc WHAAAANK WHAANK WHAAANK. And then came that awful assignment: we had to call "that person" in our lives, (obviously Jay) and appologize. Wait- I'm sorry- what? Appologize? But I don't WANT to appologize- I WANT Jay to get face AIDS and die. I spoke this aloud before the crowd- the Seminar Leader said make the call- she could not help me if I didn't. I struggled with it all day, and finally found what I needed to appologize for. I called and there was no answer. Shocking. I texted, and a few hours later, he called me back.

The conversation went something like this: Me: "I'm here at a Get-Your-Shit-Together Seminar" and we have to make these phone calls, so please bear with me- do you have a minute?" Him: "Um, yeah, I guess." Me: "OK, here goes- I want to appologize to you for blaming you for everything. For everything I've done to myself, tried to do to myself, and been doing to myself throughout our divorce. All you did was say things to me- I'm the one who believed them, acting as if I was unloveable simply because you said you don't love me anymore. All you did was leave after you found my draft suicide note- I'm the one who took that as proof that I wasn't worth a rescue effort. You left me to die, but you didn't kill me- I'm the one who chose to die. I am sorry I blamed you for this, and I feel bad for you because you are a coward and seeing me in that stage of depression obviously scared you. I'm sorry I put you through that. I'm sorry I overburdened you with our paperwork- I should have taken equal share with that. I'm sorry you felt so much pressure. I understand now why you left, and as part of this recovery process, I have to create a possibility for a new relationship with you." Him: "Okayyyy..." Me: "So I'd like to create the possibility that we could somehow be friends again- I... I love you and I want to somehow be OK with you."

(Holy shit THAT came from nowhere!)

Him: (looooong pause) "What am I supposed to say to that?"
Me: "You don't HAVE to say anything- you just had to listen. And you did. So thank you."
Him: "Well I'm out with Heather now, so I have to go. I don't wanna be rude to her." Me: (shattering into a million jagged, poisoned flaming fragments) "Of course not. Go. I love you." Him:
(clik.)
........................

At 10PM at the conclusion of the day's discussions, students swarm the Seminar Leader for questions, suggestions, personal coaching, etc. It appears to me the same scene as when Lepers would crowd Jesus, begging to be healed, touched, something ANYTHING. I became a Leper that night, after somehow managing to walk back into the hall and take my seat, an ashen ghost of a shell. Finally I got my audience with the Leader. "I made the call- I poured my heart out to him and he left me for her. AGAIN."

She looked down at me, all big Texas hair and pristine perfection. "Jaime," she says. "You have got to stop torturing yourself or you will die- do you understand?" My mouth hung open. "You can die from this," she reiterates. "Just let it go. That's all you have to do." She turns to another wounded victim, all Florence Nightengale. I stare, completely hollow and feel the vacant chill of another hollow hand on my arm. A gentle empty squeeze.

"It's OK," another Lady Leper says to me, reassuringly. "My husband cheated on me 6 times and I took him back every time."

.............................................

"But I'm not LIKE her! It's not LIKE that! I'm not some BDG here because I have no self esteem!" Alex arches an eyebrow at me- we are back in our hotel room trying to do our individual homework.

It's 1 in the morning after two 16-hour days of listening to people pour their hearts out, and somehow Alex is still giving me his full attention."

"How is it not like that?" he asks. "Because I don't have PROOF that Jay cheated on me- and if he did I'd never take him back, I just FELT like he was, ya know, because-"

"Wait wait wait," Alex says, closing his notebook. "That's not true- you told me when we first met that Jay had cheated on you with a dude."

"Well, yes, he did blow a guy when we were first together, but-"

"No, so he cheated on you then- and didn't you tell me he cheated on you with an ex-girlfriend while you were in Ireland?"

"Well, yeah- he told me he went down on her in a school playground. He told me he had to take her tampon out first- why would he even TELL me that Alex?"

"Because he's a douche. Listen- how long were you guys together?"

"14 years. It'll be 15 in June."

Alex holds up his hands. "OK, so 14 years. I'm going to run out of fingers, but he cheated on you twice. At least. Let's think of 14 other shitty things he did to you."

"Um. Okayyy. He spent $900 on a Spiderman costume after I begged him not to spend the money, and never even assembled the pieces. He did the same thing with a $900 Scooby Doo costume- never once booked it, and yet he gave me shit anytime I'd spend money getting my hair cut and colored. Told me it was a waste."

Alex puts down a finger. "Good- what else." "He also never told me I looked good after a haircut- he'd make a face and tell me he hated how it looked when it was blown out straight- OH! And he told me I wasn't sexy... that I was 'cute' but not sexy- and I was 19 and I have believed him ever since and it's fucked up my sexiness!"

Alex puts down another finger. "Keep it coming."

"He left me when I needed him the most- he didn't care that our cat was dying and said we should 'make a decision' when we needed to fucking save him! He pressured me into oral sex before I was ready as a teenager- I didn't want to but he made me feel so bad- he didn't help plan our wedding- he never stood up for me- he forgot my birthday- he doesn't know how to spell my middle name- STILL! He asked people to call him Jay when his name is Jaime and I hated that! He..."

As the list went on and on AND ON AND ON. Alex ran out of fingers, then I ran out of fingers, so I started writing down this fantastic list of things I'd flat out FORGOTTEN. It turns out I had overlooked, ignored, glossed over or pretended around TONS of little betrayals and wrong-doings. I was so desperate for my Fairy Tale I'd been blind.

No WONDER I was so depressed- I thought this amazing man had walked out on me, and instead a selfish coward finally freed me up to live on my own. Jay had convinced me that HE was the attractive, talented one in the relationship, (just ask him!) and as long as I was still bedazzled by the Jay Barwick show, I was fine- but the moment I stopped showering him with adulations, he became disinterested. He needed constant fangirlship, and once I stopped worshipping him, his very conditional affection withered away.

He stopped paying my health insurance. He stopped caring what I thought. If I wasn't going to adore him, I wasn't worth his efforts. Ho-ly fuck. Wow. I was so busy pouring my love and attention into him, and he was happy to reflect it back at me so I FELT love- but I was only feeling what I was putting out. The reason we had so much fun together is because I'm fun! The reason we got along so well is because I'm easy to get along with! Jay was the "real actor" in the family, and never once asked me to improv with him- but even I know the first rule of improv is Yes And. I Yes Anded the shit out of that relationship- oh, and the second rule of improv?
Make Your Partner Look Good. And man, I made him look spectacular- he's amazing! He's wonderful! He'll tell you so himself! I wasn't losing a great husband, I was losing a self-absorbed cheating douchebag. Jay didn't "mutate" and become this horrible person because we moved to LA- when he'd gone to New York, he was free for the first time in his life to make his own decisions, and be who he truly was- not a son, not a friend, not a husband, but a club-douche shot-pounding ass hat.

And that is how he returned to me in LA- in his true form. There I was thinking I'd lost my husband but no, that was who he really was- who he WANTED to be. It makes total sense now... And the girl he's with, his new fangirl, she'll find out soon enough. Preferably after they have fat ugly kids (who take after their mom) and resent their dad for being a cocksucking dick. What is it I heard? You can ride a thousand horses and never be a cowboy, but you suck one cock... Jay never loved me- Jay loved Jay and I loved Jay enough for the both of us for a long long time- but when I really needed help his true colors showed and he bailed.

And Thank God he did- because I survived it. I survived him. I survived starving in LA and I survived enough to get my ass to that Seminar and have the realization that for the first time, I would be OK. Jay leaving frees me up to be ME, and eventually, to be me with someone who gives a shit about someone other than themselves! To find someone who loves ME, not just the way I love them- to find actual love, with others, with another partner, but first and foremost in MYSELF!

...I found myself panting and out of breath, having just exploded all these epiphanies onto Alex and his homework. Grinning, he rose from the table and took me by the hand. "Where are we going?" "Come with me." Alex takes me down the hall into the tiny yellow tiled bathroom of the curry-scented Poulouse Inn in Dania Beach, Florida and flicks on the lights, positioning me in front of the mirror.

"Look at yourself," he says. "Look at how beautiful you are right now- you have color in your cheeks, your eyes are sparkling..."

"Holy fuck they ARE sparkling!"

To say the least- they were radiating. Alex hugs me from behind- I instinctively turn to hug him but he holds his arms fast around my middle. "No- just keep looking. I want you to see how you look." I have no idea how long we stayed in that bathroom, me dazzled for the first time by the sheer love I could reflect AT MYSELF, him marvelling at my discovery.

.......................................

The next day at the Seminar, the change was noticable- in fact, a few of us had had a Breakthrough. The girl from before, with the horror story about her childhood? She walked in and was hardly recognizable- she'd morphed into this siren of confidence and beauty. That day in the Seminar we talked about Metamorphosis- and I was quick to grab the mic. People could see it before I even stood to speak- I was glowing. "My whole life I've been trying so hard to be a greener caterpillar, a fuzzier caterpillar, a more spinedy caterpillar, and I was never happy. I was constantly trying to be these things to please others- but now I realize- I don't have to be any of those things because I'm a fucking BUTTERFLY. Butterflies don't worry about that stuff. I'm gonna be OK."

The other Siren and I nodded to each other. She knew what I knew. I took my seat as 145 of my new closest friends just watched me be born. And somewhere in that moment, I began to Let Go.

When Jay first served me with Divorce Papers in February of 2011, he hired some K-mart attorney who spelled both of our names wrong and requested for me to pay for all of Jay's attorney fees. The papers also stipulated that any of my belongings should be returned to Jay, and that I could pay him spousal support if he asked. I'm giving my ex the benefit of the doubt and assuming this was simply an oversight and he had not taken the time to look at the papers. What did he want- my 1999 Celica? Half of each cat? No, this was the man who left me working 2 unpaid internships, so, virtually jobless and homeless. This was the man who refused to harbor our cats for me for a night, and had no issue with me sleeping in my car.

Because the divorce was entirely his choice, he told me he'd be responsible for the costs of the legal fees, since I could not afford a lawyer. I ignored the first round of papers, and eventually he got it straightened out and to his credit, kept his word about paying the expenses. I assured him I would in no way contribute to the destruction of our marriage, and refused to spend so much as a stamp on his cowardice. He very generously stole stamps from his employer and sent them to me. At one point, even his own divorce attorney realized what a douche Jay is and fired him.

He blames me for this somehow, but the truth is someone has to be a complete tool before a lawyer will quit taking their money. Or she grew a conscience. Either way, by then the final papers were drawn up and he filed them, not requesting any money from me and paying my California appearance fee on my behalf, since I was forced to move home. The final papers arrived today.

He hadn't even looked at them before he mailed them- there are three papers in there from a divorce that isn't even ours, but I assume when you're stuffing envelopes drunk or high, these things happen. My favorite clause in the paperwork is the one "holding him harmless and unimdemnifiable for the extreme hardships lack of support will cause the Respondant." That's me. There's also a clause in there acknowledging that he realizes how depressed I was, and that if I commit suicide my family cannot sue him.

Again, such a classic romantic.

Before I signed, I singled those paragraphs out and gave him a choice: He could either spend the extra lawyer-money and have the paragraph altered, or he could write me a hand-written letter stating that he was fully responsible for his choices and sorry for the harm he has already caused me and for the harm his choices cause me in the future.

No fucking way would I consider him "harmless," legally or otherwise.

I got the letter, worded verbatim to my request. Ah, well. I keep forgetting Creativity was only a quality I'd projected on him- not one he actually had. But the point is, I got the letter, and I felt like a lion that day.

So I signed my married name for the last time, Jaime Kathryn Barwick, to the papers.
He signed his new douchey DJ name to the papers.
A judge signed his name as well.
And just like that: 16 years undone.

I have MY name back- I am Jaime Jessup again. I kept my promises, I kept my marriage vows, and I was a fucking awesome wife. I WAS. I'm still a promise-keeper. And I'm still fucking awesome. But now I'm MINE.

We cling so desperately to what we're comfortable with. I was absolutely willing to overlook some pretty awful stuff so I could have my Fairy Tale. But the funny thing about Fairy Tales is this: they typically come in large volumes- huge collections of Fairy Tales, one right after the other. And if you're brave enough to turn the page, there's a whole new story waiting for you. You just have to keep reading to find out what happens next. I stopped taking antidepressants and antianxiety medicine shortly after that Seminar, in the spring of 2012. It's been a year. When you have total clarity about the world you're operating within, there's really not that much to be anxious about.

I'm still battling insomnia. That's a tough one. I have a hard time most nights, but it's better to be off sleep meds and firing on all cylinders. I thought I'd lost the love of my life, but instead I just lost the love of THAT life. If he really wants to be who he turned out to be, we could never have truly made each other happy. I blame myself for not being fun all the time. I was needy and codependant, and I didn't have confidence in myself. I should've taken the reins more, done more, been proactive instead of waiting for someone to save me. I wish I'd done his laundry more. I wish I'd done my own paperwork. I wish I'd taken responsibility for my own happiness, instead of blaming him for failing at the impossible task of being my Everything. I'm sorry I let Depression swallow my light. When I stopped shining, he left.

BUT: I've learned more in the last three years than in 33 years combined. I've had more laughs, more truths, more discoveries and more actual personal victories than I ever could've had living for someone else. I'm writing more, I'm healthier than I've been in years- ironically, in spite of this and BECAUSE of this, I am the exact independant, self-reliant, confident woman he always wanted. And he's no one I'd even want to be friends with. In the last 2 years I've been taken on a trip around the Mediterranean, fed dinner at the top of Four Seasons, danced on stilts for Millionaires, been spoiled rotten with some very beautiful men, (and a couple beautiful ladies,) finished writing my novel and had more fun as a fucking Phoenix than I ever could've imagined.

He did kill me. Rather, I did wind up losing that life. And I couldn't be more grateful. The world, his world, that world, ended, and something better began. From now on, my life is what I make it. I have my Origin Story, and I'm only just begining to discover my powers.

Watch me shine now.

L.A. Stories- Look, Don't Touch (and other facts of LAife)

Today, on the road, someone drove over a branch of kumquats and sent them exploding across the 1-70 in a burst of projectile fruit. It was colorful and citrusy- the kind of fruit-splosion a vitamin-C-deficient Michael Bay would arrange.
However, this is not the most amazing debris I've seen on an L.A. commute:
Last week, I was on the 101 when I noticed that the road was... shimmering. Not just a sheen, or even a Charlie Sheen- there were distinct dazzling points of vibrant red and silver light, appearing with more and more frequency.
Since only the night before, I'd been writing commercials for an eye disease clinic, I panicked and ran through my list of cataract and glaucoma symptoms. I did the cartoon-patented double-fisted eye rub. I blinked really hard- no change. In fact, the sparkles had increased in number- I was driving through a maelstrom of radiance.
Time stopped for a moment- "this is what it's like to live in a glitter snow-globe..."
Gradually, over the next 1/2 mile, the sparkles dissipated, leaving stunned drivers to wonder and marvel at the miracle on the 101. I still don't know what it was- although I think it must've had something to do with Universal Studios Hollywood- I've worked enough parades to recognize Mylar confetti when I see it, but the sheer amount was breathtaking.
The reason this is important (other than the fact that it's awesome,) is that it's pretty much the only free thing I've received since moving to Los Angeles. Anything else that's sparkly or fun about this city has cost me- dearly.
Parking my car on the street cost me a keyying.
Jay's job in NY cost me my hair.
Horror Nights cost me my jeans.
Grinchmas cost me the skin on my face.
My health insurance was taken away.
Hell, we'd been stolen from before we unpacked what was left of our mangled furniture.

Most of the LA experience reminds me of the time my parents took me to England, and we went to see the famous Crown Jewels. There they were, an arm's length away, behind Lucite cases, laser security and tasseled, velvet-clad guards: crowns, scepters, little important-looking sphere-thingees- amazing treasures to behold. These glimmering royal accessories were so physically close to me, and yet a universe away. Look, Don't Touch- these are tools of a trade I'll never be part of. This is for a life I'll never have access to. I can look, but I can never be part of what these shining trophies represent.

And that's exactly how LA is.

Drive down Sunset Boulevard, and gaze into the windows at the Cavalli store. Take a peek down Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills at the shoppers in their Prada heels with their billion-dollar bags. Look into the ivy-shrouded windows at the mansions in the hills, and you'll feel it: a profound sense of disconnection. Here is a life you'll never be part of. Look, Don't Touch.

The most singular example that stands out in my mind is the vista from Mulholland Drive. Peering down at the twinkling lights of the city below should serve as some source of inspiration- but instead, it is a condensed view of everything I can't be part of. Downtown LA might as well be covered in a giant Lucite case with laser alarms- it's a life you have to be born into, and at times it seems like I've got a better chance at becoming English Royalty than Hollywood Royalty.

This ache is felt most intensely when the glitter-life is swirling around me, but it sneaks up at other times, too. I miss not worrying about money so much- dinner and a movie used to be no problem. Now, the price is just too high. I find myself getting angry over nickle-and-dime stuff that never would've bothered me before. I get feral about food, especially...

I once paid a friend in groceries to take me to the airport- he took all my perishable food from my fridge before dropping me off at LAX. I adore this friend, and yet, as he loaded MY milk and MY chicken into his trunk, some caveman part of me longed to lunge at him- I wanted to pounce on him like a wildcat and take my food back. It's MINE! MY FOOD!

There was a point over the holidays when I walked past two guys grilling a steak in the courtyard of my apartment building. I strode past, tall and uncaring, unlocked my door, walked inside, turned around, locked my door, then broke down and wept like a baby in my hallway.
I wanted a steak too.

It wasn't fair- They get steak and shoes and mansions and jobs in the industry. Why is there a Lucite barrier between me and everything my heart has ever beat for?
Welcome to LA.
Look, Don't Touch.

That is why free roadside sparkles are so special- everyone can enjoy them.