punching doubt in the face part 1

Most of the time, I am a cautious person. I was not always this way, not in the least. There were times I attempted really stupid stunts on a trapeze in gymnastics class, ran around outside without shoes on (this is Texas; if you do this, you're taking your life into your own hands), and performed shows and sang songs for my family and whoever would happen to come by. I wrote stories, Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman themed no less, and burst into "there must be more than this provincial life!" countless times. Mostly at Target.

As I grew older, I realized that maybe some of the things I did were weird or stupid to some people. So, I started to hide the things I loved to do in order to not be made fun of my brother and to also seem "cool", whatever the hell that means. This all happened in middle school, mostly, where Sundays were filled with Gundam Wing fanfiction writing marathons, followed by repeatedly beating Ganon in Ocarina of Time because I finally knew how without the game guide. When high school hit, I knew I was weird. I became okay with it to an extent, as I had found a few other weirdos to hang out with me.

Was I popular? Nope, not at all. Was I witty, charming, and gorgeous? Not around those people. The kids in my senior class were forced together by parents who thought they were doing a great thing. See, I was homeschooled. I went to this thing called a co-op, which is basically classes once a week taught by parents or teachers making extra dough. We had prom, yearbook, Youth & Government (which was my jam), and AP art classes (my main jam).

I knew a lot of people because my mom did, but that did not mean I was friends with them. People that I knew in the homeschooling community will tell me stories of so-and-so having a kid or going into the military or whatever, and I feel bad because I only know their name. How many people could say that they knew mine?

EXT. AFTERNOON, LAKESIDE DOCK AT A BIBLE CAMP

CHRISTINE, being awkward and having social anxiety, sitting on top of a dock, staring into the sunset. Group photos of the 2006 senior class were just taken, and all her friends dissipated into smaller groups or fled to their cabins to finish Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. CHRISTINE is feeling lonely, even though surrounded by people. 

She thinks she is alone and starts to cry, pitying herself. 

So pathetic! 

Crying because she doesn't want to swim around "normal" sized people, because she would rather be playing video games, because she knows nobody will ask her to homecoming or prom, and one of her closest friends is dating the guy she likes.

JORDAN appears. CHRISTINE does not notice him, but should because every girl had a crush on him even though he was a jock. Eh, it was high school.

JORDAN

Hey, are you ok?

CHRISTINE

(turns from looking at literally nothing interesting) Uh, yeah. (sniffles) I'll be all right. 

JORDAN

Cool. (leaves dock, and doesn't speak to her again until graduation rehearsal, 9 months later)

CHRISTINE turns back to face the sunset, contemplating how she's going to survive life if she can't freakin' talk to anyone in her class.

END SCENE

Eight years later, I seem him at Chipotle. I look pretty much the same, though a bit plumper, and WAY more fashion conscious. I am also not carrying manga with me at all times, so that's cool. He turned around to look at me, searching with the whole I-think-I-know-her look, as I dodge glances, pretending to not even notice. I bet you $100 he does not remember my name. Why?

I was so shy and so cautious, perhaps due to depression. I have no idea. It could just be that fact that I was an awkward teenager who didn't want to go to swing dancing, dammit, but thought Nickel Mania might be fun instead. I spent 10 months trying to get to know these people, and only two of them I speak to on a regular basis and can call dear friends.

What happened to the charismatic child I once was? She got lost somewhere in the pubescent discord of adolescence.

She's back now.

Still a bit timid, I'm not afraid to tell people I am an actress or writer anymore. My husband keeps affirming that I am indeed a writer, that it is what I have always been. A storyteller, if you will. I love that title.

The person I denied being in fear of having friends or appearing a certain way is still there. What good did denying her do me? I was not enjoying life, creating friends, or making memories. I was hiding in my own head, which is not a bad thing. It just consumes me sometimes. 

The thing that killed that person I was is doubt.

The doubt that I had in high school, the doubt that anyone would like me, ask me to see a movie, that my art or writing was any good, that I had a chance at going to art school--this did nothing but hold me back. I feel as if I had pursued what I loved my life would be different, maybe not. Who knows, and what right do I have to plague myself with that question?

Doubt is a prison and an enemy. It captures the heart of someone, someone who was once brave, and steals it away to be locked in a dark tower. It changes your personality, your goals, your feelings about yourself and those around you. 

My husband sent me something on Facebook this morning that shed light on my struggle with doubt:

WOAH. No truer words have been spoken to me. Looking at my life, I realize that I have believed more in my doubts than my dreams. I never would let myself have a chance to fail because who wants to know what that's like? I've heard failure is pretty icky.

This is now saved to my desktop, and I am going to make a text painting with it. Yeah, I said I would be painting again. It feels good, man.

So here is to those doubts that took me on this path; from here on out, this is my show. This isn't what my brain says I can't do. It's now about what I want with my life because I have the ability to change it. Maybe I won't be singing in Target (highly probable, actually) or on Broadway, but I'm going to do what I want without labels or fuss or DOUBT. That ugly word is not going to haunt me anymore.

Three months, six years later

Apparently, it's been exactly three months since I've updated this blog. I have things that are in my drafts, that I hope to be able coherently finish one day soon. As for everything else, here is the run down of my life these past three months:
--workschool let out
--worked at Alamo Drafthouse for a month, but it was a lot to do with my summer course
--taught a summer camp to middle schoolers (oy!)
--took my first online summer course (and aced it, thankyouverymuch)
--drove the bus for some other summer camps
--husband and I put together an amazing dresser with this plan from Refinery29
--am still in the process of helping my parents do whatever the hell it is they're trying to do
--found/rescued/fostering (God help me) six kittens
--am finally going to be an extra in two different films this week!

The rest of the summer? I'm hoping it will bring me a lot of healing. It's not that I'm broken or damaged, it's just that I'm a little bit scratched up at the moment with some familial issues. Surely others have experienced what I am going through right now, but it feels like I am on an island, waiting on edge for that next big wave, hurricane, or volcano to come and pull me away from my sanity. Well, whatever is left of that really.

Summer is a complicated issue for my father to comprehend apparently. As soon as I was out of my workschool, I could set my watch by the time he calls each day. It ranges between 11:45 and 1:30, depending on my having called him earlier in the day or not. Sometimes I make the mistake of calling him at 11, just simply telling him something that is going on or that I would think he thought was interesting or that I love him. Just reminders.


It's usually then he will start his daily check-in, "Are you feeding Mommy today?" I very rarely let him ask me "What are you up to today?" It's very strenuous.

Reader, you may think I am selfish, not wanting to lunch with my mother daily. It's not that I don't enjoy it, not one bit. I like being able to be with her, love her, and make her laugh. Making her laugh is usually the best part of my day.

It's the fact that I live thirty minutes away, am trying to get things done this summer that I can't normally do (i.e. write my screenplays, audition for things, generally not be depressed), and make sure I take care of my self. The biggest factor is my brother.

My brother, friend, was temporarily living with us back in 2008, after a bad breakup with some crazy girl that he mooched off of, like he has done with all the girls. My brother, at one time full of passion and zeal for making art, has turned into a child-like man, hiding in his room, acting defensive, claiming he is oppressed and is being bullied by my father, who is his step-dad. They both bully each other, quite frankly, and I have had enough.

Mom is ill. I don't know if I've posted the story of how she came to be like she is, but the brief is she had a series of seizures/strokes, and a gigantic seizure three years ago that has left her with her faculties damaged. I am doing all I can in my power to make her proud; finishing college, working full time, being a good wife, being a good artist. Everyone else treats her as though she is barely human, adorable in her inability to function, and a pity party.

Brother claims he is watching her everyday, that is why he can't get a job. It's not due to his arrest a few years ago, surely, or his alcoholism or narcissism. Oh, no, it's not that at all. He's a martyr, saint, divine.

This is what gets me, my dearest friend, the fact that he is living in their home, rent free, alcohol drunk and precious mementos sold to strangers who come to our house, giving my brother cigarettes. The one who judges me for my being fat my whole life, yet has lost the battle to slovenliness. Who am I kidding? He has never fought a day in his life.

He has never appreciated her struggle and determination. I'm beginning to think nobody has in a long time.

I am not trying to make myself appear as a saint or martyr because I am not. I don't go visit her everyday, or bathe her, or take her out walking. I do it when I am mentally able to do it, because as soon as I leave, I must mourn my mother's loss yet again. The conversations I have with my father often lead to me chatting with her on the phone, and sometimes this is enough. Sometimes it makes her angry.

So, I'm sorry, but I won't be cleaning out the rest of my stuff for another week, and I won't be helping you clean out Brother's room, or the attic. Not yet. I'm tired of you relying on solely me to do all this, even when you yourself are sick. But that is an entry for another time, another state of mind. My heart is not yet prepared for more conversations on that.