I’ve heard it said that people/suicidal depression come into our lives for a reason
My friend Katie shared with me this cry (in the good way) worthy link of Kristin Chenoweth singing with an audience member at her recent concert.
Wow, that clip is amazing right?
Total chills.
I sat at my computer weeping. I am not a weeper but the amount of emotions stirred was just too much. For a minute I thought I was gonna drop enough wet tears on my laptop that I would have to shove it in a bag of rice to save it.
Last June, I got to see Kristin pull up a few teenage girls on stage when I saw her in concert, they sang with her, experiencing total joy and I smiled hardcore then, the ear to ear cheek hurting stuff, where you can still feel it the next day. (Like my arms and legs used to feel when I worked out, and now sadly only seems to happens the morning after I had to walk more than five spaces in the target parking lot. I am possibly why other countries look down on us, but anyway back to this video)
After seeing Kristen perform last June I came home and put the following status update on Facebook:
“Saw Idina Menzel in concert almost a year ago. Saw Kristin Chenoweth tonight. Such wonderful bookends to a challenging year I never would have imagined. I am here and I am grateful.”
So, yeah, I saw this video and I was reminded of being at her concert and feeling emotions that had been absent in my life for a long time.
While severe depression is full of emotion, it is only of one variety. I guess the best (weirdest?) way I can describe it is this:
Imagine only being allowed to eat plastic wrapped american cheese singles every day, no other food, and the more you see it, and touch it and eat it, you get sick of it, but you have no idea when you will get to eat something else so you start to get angry about it, and try to figure out a way to find something else to eat, and then you just resign yourself to it, and you start believing there is no other food you will ever eat and that is that. And then someone hands you a fresh, juicy, peach. For a minute you think it will taste the same way the American cheese does, and then you take a bite and the flavor hits you in a way it never has before. You don’t take one piece of fleshy sweet fuzzy delightfulness for granted, you savor it like Steve Guttenberg savors each new fan he got by dancing poorly on a reality show.
Severe depression was day after day of American cheese, and going to that concert, wow what a fucking juicy, ripe peach.
And reliving it this morning, watching this woman have a moment she can hold on to forever, I tasted it with that same gratefulness.
Beach Ball Hat
This summer my son, going into first grade, had one summer reading book, Stephanie’s Ponytail. The book was about a girl who wore a different hair style to school every day, she got mocked with a chant of “Ugly, ugly, very ugly.” and then the next day everybody would be wearing that hair style. It kind of reminded me of non-geek Ronald getting the cool kids to do The African Anteater Ritual dance in Can’t Buy Me Love.
Spoiler alert: (for Stephanie’s Ponytail, not Can’t Buy Me Love) She gets them all in the end by telling them she is going to shave her head for the next day. They all shave their heads and she does not.
The book was about individuality (though we talked more about the meanness of the chant.)
So for today they we’re assigned to wear a silly hairdo, if they felt comfortable doing so.
We talked about spikes, a faux hawk, tiny ponytails, but he wanted none of those.
All of the sudden he looked at me and said, with a huge amount of excitement and certainty, “I want to cut up that beach ball and wear it as a hat.”
I loved it. It is was the book, and my son personified. I don’t think I would have ever been able to make that choice in first grade and he had absolutely no qualms about it.
When I shared my blog publicly I did it cause I refused to teach my son to be embarrassed (He doesn’t know of my struggles because frankly it’s not necessary yet,) but I know one day he will and I wanted him to know I wasn’t ashamed.
But after today I feel like I won’t be teaching him lessons as much as he will be teaching me them.
So, I am grateful to my son for giving me a new improv (and life) goal: To have the fearlessness of a kid wearing a beach ball for a hat
Knock it the Fuck Off
“Knock it the fuck off”
I was told that this weekend and it was some of the best advice I have ever received
It was said at an improv workshop, led by the fantastically talented Dave Razowsky.
He told us that improvisers are actors and we were doing ourselves a disservice by not referring to ourselves as such. I told him I didn’t think I had the right to call myself an actor as I truly didn’t believe I possessed that talent.
His response was honest and meaningful.
It ranged from the aforementioned knock it [the stupid shit we tell ourselves] the fuck off to the beautiful “Let this be the last day we live small.”
Dave shared his wisdom and talent with a group of 12 or so of us improvisers actors. He shared in the most literal definition of the word. His passion, skill, warmth, we got to experience all of it. It was beautiful
While so many things he said affected me, the one I held on to the most was:
“Celebrate the uncertainty”
On stage, I can do that, In life, I find it much harder.
The part of me that struggles with suicide is afraid of the uncertainty of a life that may have multiple stretches of severe depression. I find myself holding back on fully enjoying life because of the “not knowing” that comes with this chronic illness, and that is just a stupid way to live.
So I should probably knock it the fuck off.
Thanks Dave.
