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.

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: VeilFire

The best part of feeling a little heartbroken is that it's proof-positive that up until very recently, your heart wasn't 100% broken.
And if it wasn't TOTALLY broken before, and it was brave enough to reach out, then it's probably not irrevocably broken now.

So, like the Death Star, it will again be Fully Operational.

As artists, we tend to wear our hearts on our sleeves. This is a terrible idea, but Jesus I really think it's the only way I wanna be. Even though I'm strongerbetterfasterharder, I chose to maintain that character trait. I wear my heart on my sleeve. It keeps my other organs from getting sh*t all over it. Yesterday I was reminded that yeah, in terms of my ex, I got a little gut punch, but I also dodged a bullet. I love that quote from HIMYM: "I made the greatest Train Dodge since 'Stand By Me." ...Well, not that first kid, but the other kids."

And that's how it feels at this point. Of course it initially hurt to hear that my ex was engaged, but it was no surprise. He had to propose to her to justify what he did to me. ("See, it was worth it, right?!?") Someday I'll wish them well, but yesterday wasn't that day. I've been on an amazing adventure the last 2 years, but sure I'm still allowed to feel the feels I feel. That's because I'm not a f*cking monster. I'm allowed to miss the good parts. Then I remind myself that he definitely sucked a dude's dick. Keeps it really simple that way.

After a really good chat with a really good friend, watching the sun set through a thin sliver in the Universal Studios Employee Parking Garage, I cried out all my sad and felt much, much better. Getting past the raw emotion that honestly, I hope I always feel, because it is a spiritual rocket fuel, and listening to a rational voice asking me if I wanted him back after everything he did to me made it very easy: No. Aw FUCK NO. We made speculations about the success of an marriage between a homewrecker and a liar. And then I felt better.

I had a trio of besties meet me at my apartment, and, true to form, they came bearing vodka and incendiary devices. Aaron, Arica and Chelsea arrived and scooped me up. I'd been planning on driving my Celica to California myself, and as such had loaded it with everything I needed to Get Rid Of but couldn't simply throw away. Some of these items I'd already given to Chelsea for various art projects- I'd been on a big "let's do constructive things" kick, but this last item in particular was a Big Ticket Item and needed proper care and handling. And fire.

It was my wedding veil- which I'd found in a box at my mom's right before I moved.

It's been in the trunk of my car, waiting for something special. Fortunately, we had something very special in store. Aaron drives and spirits us away to Chelsea's Thotful Spot, in a recreational area hidden within the city of Los Angeles. We park at a distance and, already giddy from the night air, bound across the streets to an open gate. The heat of the day had dissipated, and the sleek coolness of the night breeze, smoothed even more by a brief skim over a green lake, greeted our flushed faces. I breathed. And it felt so good.

"Pair up," Chelsea said, and two by two we held hands and made our way down a somewhat steep hill covered in row after row of bright white rocks. Like layers of shark's teeth, they gleamed up in the moonlight. I smiled seeing Arica and Aaron work their way down, Aaron in his famous boots and Arica in a borrowed pair of my shoes. The shoes are a gift from my mother, who would have an instant coronary if she had seen what we were up to.

Chelsea holds my hand. "Sorry guys," she says, "I got dibs on the stilt walker." I laugh and we pick a path down, sure-footed as cats all nimbly pimbly and high off a moonlit adventure. We reach the bottom of the slope and a dusty dirt path awaits. I don the veil, which also luminesces in the magic night, and feeling the breeze blow the tulle behind me like a forgotten useless ghost, we walk down the aisle, staying hand in hand.

Eventually we arrive at the Tunnel- kindling is gathered and Chelsea lifts the veil from its position over my face and kisses me. This is the second time in my life this has happened. I was grinning like a fool on both occasions, but this time there were no tears. The filmy gauze is spread over the kindling, and I pour some extra flammable 3-in-1 glue over it as an insurance policy.

Sparklers are administered- the very same sparklers I'd entrusted to my friends the day I left California, promising to come back. They'd been kept, because my friends believed in me. Aaron takes my phone to document the event, and Arica, Chelsea and I each use our sparklers for a different sort of Independence Day.

The veil goes up beautifully, the flames glinting on the Swarovski crystals hand-placed by someone who also loves me.

I thought of the woman who made the veil as it burned. I thought of my wedding. I thought of my ex.
And I felt... love.
Giggling beneath the streets of Los Angeles with sparklers in my hands, I felt so much love.
The veil had to go. I had to let go of that last little piece to get past the emotional hurtle of the day, and I let it go in spectacular fashion.

The little pyre blazed, mirrored by the tiny fireworks on our hands, until not single scrap of tulle was left- even the bag I'd brought it in- everything burned, burned, burned until the hurt from the day was gone, replaced by the warm glow of love. Only the embers remained.

Hello Ember. I know you.

You are the same ones burning in my heart.

But the ones inside me aren't a brushfire threat, and eventually the embers became ashes. After a quick vodka shot, for the safety of the City of LA, and also because it was the right thing to do, we peed on the ashes. All four of us. So hard to do that while laughing so hard. It seems to match the same sentiment my ex ultimately had for our wedding, so perhaps that'll be my toast to them after all. Mazel.

By now I'm intoxicated by night and moon and breeze and fire and oh yes maybe a little vodka- we have a DD, but we also have the park to ourselves, so we plop down by an emerald green lake as the wild geese call out to one another. I can hear their sounds reverberate through our tunnel, reminding me that eventually every living thing, veil, goose, good intention or lie, eventually becomes ash.

All we have is the exact Now.

Someday I will be ash too- and I'm so fucking grateful for every moment I spent surrounded by the love I felt this night. We chat, we share, I am again blown away by the artistic talents of my friends as the most amazing pieces are shyly passed around on iPhones. A nosy turtle periodically pokes his head above water to listen in until our inevitable laughter frightens him off. No one looked at a watch, but suddenly we all collectively knew it was time to go.

Denny's to-go, a shared bottle of wine back at my place, and some sweet goodnights at my front door. It was a really good night, friends. If I am ash tomorrow, I will be thinking not about pain, or regret, but about how grateful I am to have been allowed this opportunity. And if someone pees me out, I hope they're having fun. It's only fair- and it feels AMAZING to have your giblets that warm.