Well I’m back. And I've been lying this whole time.

​hi. 

It’s been a long time. Probably because I have spent a great deal of that time avoiding having feelings. All that depression, anxiety, ADHD, codependency, speculation about cyclothymia or even bipolar? Turns out it's just complex PTSD. C-PTSD is a nice term for "really fucked up childhood." The only shocker here is that it took me 34 years to figure it out.

Well... yes and no. One of the hallmarks of C-PTSD is the way it changes your brain into a wily fox that can dodge in and out of your consciousness, and loves to masquerade as, well... all those things I listed above that mental health care providers have suggested might be a problem. Turns out it can even cause autoimmune problems. (Perhaps I'll elaborate when there's an appropriate moment, but I was just diagnosed with Inflammatory Bowel Disease, wherein the immune system attacks your large intestine. Fun!)

Anyway, I've known C-PTSD is a thing for me since my dear sister found Surviving to Thriving a few years ago. Even though I read that and The Body Keeps the Score*, I never really fully grasped just how big a hold this thing has on me, and kind of figured that my journey with my therapist would just work things out. I guess I just expected that, now that I knew what the problem was, it would just go away. 

HAHAHAHAHAHA

A few months ago, Laura, my sister, brought her 12 year old daughter to visit me here. They noted how I was constantly on the move, trying to always do more more more, to squeeze more into their visit and to show my niece every cool thing there was to see here. In fact, since Laura's cancer diagnosis (more on that later too), she can't do as much as she used to, and even though she was doing a bit better than she had been, my drive to be DOING so much became a point of contention between us. A couple months later she told me that my need to be constantly on the move reads to her as inauthentic or desperate, like I can't just sit with myself. 

This is something I've been ruminating on for a couple of months now. It's been floating in the back of my mind while I watched countless episodes of Drag Race and did months of crossword puzzles, avoiding a confrontation with...well..with anything. Meanwhile, I signed up to make Laura's youngest daughter a Halloween costume well beyond the scope of my sewing capabilities, my old clunky SUV died in Pennsylvania, I've been dating again. I've been barely working and thus freaking out about finances constantly, in spite of which I planned a birthday party and made a costume for myself for that, plus I have spent an inordinate amount of time online shopping for....what? I have no idea. I've bought things, but I really could not tell you I needed any of them. I just wanted to spend the time on... something. Anything. Anything but having to confront what's wrong.

Enter Chris. Like I said, I've been dating again, prompted by knowing I had time off of work after finishing the World's Hardest Pilot. Who wants to sit around and deal with themselves when they're not working? Not me! So I got back on the apps and started making a few dates. Then there was Chris--a guy I knew. A really hot guy I knew way back when I was a PA. God knows when I met him or when the last time I'd seen him was, I just knew him. I think maybe I met him in 2010? 2011? Anyway, whenever that was, he immediately registered my crush and I used to get in trouble with the ADs for flirting and chatting with him. I think I used to run away from him a lot because I liked him so much and it scared me.

Anyway, present day! Let's focus on the present. I saw Chris on the app, and I clicked like, because I liked him. It was very pleasing when I saw that he had already clicked on me! Then he wrote me a message. I could kind of hardly believe that. Then he asked me to hang out. I was certain this was not a date, that it was just about catching up. It was a date. He likes me! Turns out Chris likes me, and I like him. Or he liked me... I kind of am not sure if he still does. More on that later. But anyway, liking Chris and trying to date him has backed me into a corner of wondering who the fuck I am and why the fuck he might ever want to be with me. I couldn't figure it out until he told me he believes in aliens. 

I was a little floored by that. He has exhibited much in the way of being susceptible to conspiracy theories, and I had been wary of this, unsure what my feelings were. But when he said he believed in aliens, it was too much confrontation for my unsure-of-its-feelings brain and I shut it down with a lie, paraphrased: "I've never really thought about that. It just isn't something I have wanted to think about." 

Right after I said it, I knew I had lied. I let it go, believing it was a white lie and didn't really matter. But it stuck with me. I could have just told him the truth: I needed more time to find my feelings about it. My sister used to watch things with aliens that scared me when I was little and so I have enjoyed believing that science shows us that sentient beings from outside Earth are not likely to exist. These are innocuous truths; why hadn't I just said them instead?

That same evening I lied some more, although perhaps more to myself. I asked him what he wanted us to be, something amorphous like that. I told myself I was asking the right question, but I was too scared to ask if he felt like we saw enough of each other or too much, if he wanted us to be exclusive or preferred to keep things open and casual. I botched it though. When I clarified I just said I wanted to know what he wants. It blew up in my face, he asked if I was seeing other people. I told him I was, which I had told him up front... and he was incredulous. He obviously had not expected that. I was a little drunk and kind of hoping it would make him laugh told him about a grip I'd gone on a couple coffee dates with. 

And then I wondered why his communication changed with me. Jesus fucking christ.

The lie stuck with me, and slowly it has become apparent to me that I have been lying constantly for the last 35 years. At 7, not knowing how to deal with my dad's suicide (not the worst part), I ate and got obese and my fatness gave me some social anxiety (not the worst part). When I engaged with the kids on my block, they teased me mercilessly (not the worst part). When I went to my mom for help, she continually told me to ignore them or avoid them and left it at that - and THAT is the worst part. That part taught me that I could not count on her for help. My sister didn't help either; in fact, she teased me about my weight too. That taught me I could not count on her for help. I was alone, and the only way to soothe myself was to hide in my books and write my stories (and eat, because food will fix it! And steal, because stuff will fix it!). And if I wanted to do that all the time, I had to get my mom and my sister and my teachers and everyone else out of my way. I had to control the narrative. I had to lie. Constantly. 

And I never learned to stop. I've dealt with negative consequences over and over and over, but never anything so bad as to make me stop. In fact, some of the lighter consequences just made me better at lying, or at least better at convincing myself of things that are not true. Thinking back now, I think I can see where others have seen it in me and decided to disengage with me or stop trusting me...friends, lovers, coworkers, bosses, even Laura. 

For 35 years of my life I have been faking that I'm perfect - and obviously nobody's perfect and obviously my constant inability to be authentic has led to some REALLY imperfect shit (being late because I am dishonest with myself about the amount of time I need to get things done, not following through on things because I convinced myself I'd have more time or energy, failing to ask for help when I was overwhelmed, taking jobs I was not particularly qualified for, getting drunk and saying things--true or false--that conflict with lies I've already told, etc., etc...) Anyway, I have been doing my best to control the narrative of my life so that I look as perfectly imperfect as possible, even down to having a separate blog from this blog back in the day because I was afraid that people who knew about this blog would see certain things that I felt I wanted to write about but was afraid to show them! 

I have lied to my therapist, I have lied to my family, I have lied to my friends and employers and definitely to my lovers, and basically anybody that I care about. In fact, the more I care about someone's opinion, the more I lie to them to try to make myself look better to them. No wonder I keep getting my heart broken! No wonder I have had friction and frustration from Aunt Jude, whose judgement I inexplicably fear above all others! No wonder I barely know what my feelings are or who I am and can't identify what value I bring to this world--I have been lying to myself over and over and over!

I am so, so ashamed of myself. I am ashamed that I have been dishonest with so many people. But I am also ashamed that this fucked up bullshit has robbed years away from a life I wish I could have lived honestly. 

That all ends now. No more lying. No more pretending to be anything other than what I am. I am shooting for radical honesty--Laura made me laugh when she said that if I do that, my tendency to lie will probably help me fall somewhere in the middle. But I really hope not. I really really want to be honest. With you, with myself, with anyone who will listen. I'm not perfect, and I'm exhausted of trying to pretend that I ever could be. I just want to be me. 

The little girl I used to be believed it when bullies told her she was disgusting and unlovable, and she kept lying because she desperately wanted to hide those qualities from other people. But now that I'm a big girl I know that the right thing to do was to tell that little girl that those bullies were wrong, and to show the bullies that they were wrong by being the best person she could be. If I'm going to be my best, I have to let others help me. I have to let people in on who I really am, flaws and all, instead of just trying to control the narrative. 

So. Radical Honesty is the new directive. Let's see where it gets us.

*Since we're being radically honest, I got through about a third of The Body Keeps the Score and was no longer able to pay attention because... Attention is hard for trauma brain that wants to hide from its trauma. Especially attention to subject matter that forces one to see the trauma brain for what it is. I listened to Surviving to Thriving on audiobook, which, since I'm constantly listening to podcasts, means I can tell you some of the highlights but certainly didn't deeply retain a lot of its contents. I just learned that the trauma brain doesn't learn from listening too well, something that I suspect may be covered in the book.

Film Industry Cojones

I stumbled across this post about The Watchmen on The Ethical Slut (one of my favorite bloggers, you should go read her stuff now). It's about how Fox is engaging in legal war with Warner Bros. over The Watchmen after having passed on it initially. The letter is written by one of the producers, and I wonder if said producer knew that his letter would be taken up as a viral Internet boycott.

As a freelancer, I'm always a little hesitant to put anything "out there" about work...I'm often terrified that work-related people will see and that it will negatively affect my ability to get jobs. I mean, there is something to be said for people wanting to work with you because of who you are (and I'm a pretty cool gal, if I do say so), but people are also insecure. They get especially funny when you say you have a blog; they get all curious to see what you're going to write about them, and sometimes they're really nervous. I don't like that; I'd much rather everyone just relax.

I've been reading some of Polybloggimous lately too, which is prolificallywritten by a Locations fella. Here's a great post he wrote about his experience on a low-budget horror flick. It was funny. It had me giggling knowingly. But he didn't write it until after he'd received a residual check, so you know it's been a while. But in general he doesn't seem to say anything about his shows until after they're over...he maintains the whole veil of "I'm working on a movie but I won't tell you what or where or anything."

Not that I'd go leaking info about my jobs all over my blog or anything (hey, I worked on Top Model and I didn't leak any information at all). I know there's a line. So how much sharing is oversharing? Am I allowed to say I saw a very famous twin getting out of a trailer on the set of some movie I worked on? (More importantly, does anyone really care?) Is it okay to say complimentary things but not uncomplimentary things? I can tell you that Catherine Zeta-Jones is really beautiful in person and that she's nothing but nice to people at work. I could tell you other things about other people, but that wouldn't be nice.

I think what I'm trying to say is that I just don't like the guessing game, trying to figure out where the line is. My inclination is just to say what I feel, but that isn't always nice and someone might not like it. But if I have to filter, why say anything at all? Why not just prattle on about incidental things that don't really matter?

I want substance though. I started this whole thing so I could have a place to spill my guts and feel what I feel. To my mind, nobody has to read my feelings or care what I feel, so I should just say whatever the hell comes to my mind or not write at all, right? Right?

I'm so not convinced.

Mugged. I got mugged.

These two little shits...kids. Maybe 17 or 18. Maybe younger. I was responding to a text and the one kid walked up and grabbed my iPhone out of my hands. At first I didn't believe it. I turned around and started screaming and chasing him. Screaming so loud, hoping that someone would be there, that someone would hear and stop him.

Then the other one came up from behind me and grabbed my purse. I knew it was wrong, but I fought him for it. He didn't expect me to fight either. He hit me over the head with the heel of his hand. He told me to let go, to give it up. I screamed louder and louder, "NO! No, I will give you the wallet just let me have the rest! This is all I have!" I just wanted my house keys so I could go home.

I was kicking him, pulling at my purse and aiming at his genitals. I missed and missed again and then suddenly I was on the ground, clutching for dear life at my bag. I bought that purse in France. It was cheap but I loved it. I didn't want to lose it. Then he said he had a gun. I didn't believe him and kicked at him some more, but then it registered in my brain that it was a bad idea to assume he did not have a gun. I let go. He ran off and I chased them, West on Sterling, South on Classon, then turned left to go East on St. John. Screaming my head off.

I lost sight of them. A nice man heard my cries for help and stopped me. He reminded me it was a bad idea to follow someone who kicked me to the ground, hit me over the head and threatened me. I saw them up the block. I was so livid that I started to go, but he stopped me again. I started crying. He called 911 but standing there, all defeated and rained on and without a phone or a house key I just wanted something familiar.

I went to the Sound Scientist's house. I knew he would be home and he was. He let me in, let me breathe, let me sit down, called the police. He gave me a beer and I drank half of it in two sips. I was filthy from the street. I was all scraped up on my hip and my knee and my elbow and my head hurt where the little shit had hit me.

The police came. They were great. They cruised me around to look for the kids but of course we didn't find them. They brought me to the precinct, where I learned that two boys fitting my description had just mugged someone else on Vanderbilt Avenue, not far from where it had happened to me. The detectives were awesome, and while they processed my report they let me have full access to a computer so I could change all my passwords, shut off my phone, shut down my credit and debit cards, access phone numbers in my emails (thank goodness I save everything). I called my mom. I called Aunt J. I called my roommate a million times (she didn't pick up until waaaay later after the other roommate received an email from me and called her). Everyone rallied for me.

Roommate wouldn't be home until far later, so I went back to the Sound Scientist's house. We drank beer. We rehashed. We ran out of beer, then Roommate called so we went home. I changed, dressed my wounds and freshened up, then we got more beer and a pack of cigarettes. We went back to his house and got drunk and watched Shaun of the Dead. Then he walked me home.

All I gotta say is that if it weren't for him I'd be going crazy right now. He didn't have to do much to take care of me, but just being there with me and not leaving me alone... Well it was enough. He's such a good friend, a good person.

I'm okay, for now. Tomorrow... we'll see.

I refuse to admit defeat!

I called the Hipster Socialite at 12:34 am. "Hey I'm almost there!" "Great! We're on the roof. The door is open so come on up!"

After we met HS and I had been talking for weeks and just never made it out together. From the appearance of things he's kind of a mess, but something told me he's worth the trouble. He reminded me of JH a little, but light years more sure of himself, and with the promise of something more. He's cute. He's nice. He's Salty's age. He calls me because he feels like it and we have fun talking to each other.

Sooo I met him at a party at 12:50 a.m., already tipsy from wine and dinner. He was cuter than I remembered and he introduced me to his friends. He's silly and friendly and a little shy. His friends were sweet and funny. They reminded me of my New Orleans friends but less married. They reminded me of my college friends all grown up.

He was sober. If his inhibitions had been looser I think he might have kissed me. If I had been less drunk I might have kissed him. I wanted to kiss him but I was intimidated by his friends. I didn't want to be that drunk girl who was kissing HS. And besides, there's always drama when you kiss someone for the first time at a party with their friends around...I have not-dated enough to know that quite well. The piñata broke. We sucked on lollipops and made eyes at each other while talking in groups.

Suddenly it became time to go. I didn't want to leave him though--there hadn't been enough time to talk to him. I felt like I could sit up talking to him all night long. He squeezed my hand as I followed him down the stairs with his two drunken friends. We (I) hailed a cab. The drunk girls hurried him and I said, "I'm going toward Prospect Park." He looked at me for a long minute apologetically and then hugged me. "I have to take care of them," he said. "Call me tomorrow?" he got in to the taxi and suddenly I was alone on the street.

I was alone, drunk, and confused. I thought we were having fun... I thought his friends seemed to like me. I thought he would at least put me in a cab!

I'd had a rough couple of days with money (went and got my petty cash wallet stolen) and my poor judgment told me it was a good idea to take the subway home. While strolling (weaving probably) home in the early morning light I noticed I was walking on 10th street. (Oh come on!)

I got a series of text messages from the Hipster Socialite; the theme was, "I'm sorry but I have to take care of my friends first and you said you were fine to get a cab." That last part is true; I did say I was fine. I did hail the cab for them. I did hear myself say "go go go!" as his friends climbed over each other and into the taxi. He'd asked me again, I'd reassured him I was fine before that long "I want to kiss you" look he gave me.

There's that I don't need help thing again. Why did I do that when what I wanted was some help (and sure, maybe a kiss or two)? Did I not trust him to help me? Do I feel like I have to take all responsibility on myself? Was I sympathizing with his bros before hos behavior? Was it the alcohol that made me say I was okay by myself even though I knew I wasn't?

A little too fabulous, but very very lucky.

I woke up this morning with no idea how I had gotten to the Producer's living room. I found my purse at the foot of the couch and touched my phone to see the time: 6:30 AM. My dress and bra were in a heap on the floor. I was really confused. A part of me wondered why I was on the couch and not in his bed, although I quickly answered that question; my mouth tasted awful and I vaguely remembered being sick. I dug deeper into my purse to find the toothbrush I always carry and padded to the bathroom wearing an oversized t-shirt and my panties.

I brushed my teeth, spat, then brushed again. I still felt disgusting so I got in the shower, wondering a little if it was okay to take a shower without invitation from my host. I figured he'd rather have me in his house if I were clean though, so in I went. Under the water I brushed my teeth again a couple of times. My hair still smells like his volumizing shampoo. I dried myself off with the same big, stripey towel that I used the first time I stayed there. The morning sun through the skylight, the smells, the hangover...it all brought me back there for a minute. It was nice.

I found some boxer shorts and dug my cropped dance top out of my bag then gingerly poked my head through the bedroom doorway. I saw a vaguely cylindrical pile of blanket with a mountain of pillows at one end. It was cute and kind of funny. I giggled, forgetting for a moment that I had no idea what the situation was like. Was he going to get angry at me? What did I do to wind up here? What awful things did I say last night? What did I do? I was dreadfully embarassed to be in this situation to begin with. I nervously crawled up next to him on the bed and laid on my tummy, resting my right cheek on my hands to face him. The pile of pillows stirred and his head emerged from the mountain, bleary eyed and looking as dazed as I felt. "Hey, are you okay?" he half-mumbled sleepily.

"How did I get here?" It was an earnest question. I hope it came out earnestly, but maybe it was permeated with the relief I felt when I saw that he was not angry, just concerned.

-----

See, I started out my day at dance class. The Producer and I had had plans to visit the Brooklyn Bridge, but he had (surprise!) cancelled, claiming illness. Whether or not that's true I don't know, because he didn't seem very sick at all when I saw him.

So instead I went to dance class. Then I skipped off to the wrap party for work. At the request of the director (who didn't actually come), we scheduled the party for 4:30 on a Sunday, and received almost unanimous complaints from the entire crew. It was talked up as if it were going to be a lame company picnic of sorts. The only thing everyone seemed to be interested in was the bowling, since we rented out Bowlmor Lanes in its entirety.

Only about forty people actually came, but those forty that did wound up being a lot of fun! The bartenders were really good too; they made me a slough of delicious cocktails with varying degrees of fruit salad on top. They made fantastic mojitos for my boss and the best rocks margarita I've ever tasted for my friend Strawberry from Locations. Payroll got her top shelf whiskey and beer was served one icy-bucket-of-bottles after another. Almost nobody bowled well. But the eighties music was rocking! And we took pictures in the tiny little photo booth! And bowled another terrible frame or twelve! My cute retro red dress with the white polka dots gleamed under the blacklights and I occasionally knocked a pin or two down, dancing giddily from lane to lane to chat up the crew. I paced myself well, drinking water between frou frou cocktails so as not to embarass myself in front of current and potential employers. I socialized with people from set and talked to two different fellows who work in camera about what I need to do if I want to try that (focus).

Then Strawberry said the magic words: After Party.

I danced down 10th street from University Place to West Street, chatting and singing, "How could I....forget you girl....'cause there is always something there to remind me!" I linked arms with our little production intern and my friend Trapeze. I giggled and skipped along with the crowd to Strawberry's house, where we all took to the roof to relax and check out the scenic Hoboken skyline. I was still a little buzzed from my last baybreeze, but was doing okay. I even successfully carried some furniture up the stairs. Then someone put a bottle of wine in my hand.

That's where it starts to get fuzzy. I was there for four hours, and I remember enough to know it was a pretty fun party in the dark on the rooftop. I remember Payroll and The Wardrobe Girl leaving...I almost left with them. I know I was playing a flirting game that got out of hand. I also know that I never black out from drinking. I never once have. I don't know what happened, but the next really concrete thing I remember is waking up. At the Producer's house. Of all the fucking people in New York.

I found some text messages in my phone. Five were to PDF. One to the Grecian. One to Cousin J. One to the Producer, who apparently was the only one to respond to my SOS. He apparently scooped me up off the street, deposited me on his couch, let me get sick in his bathroom, gave me pajamas, and then went to bed. At 12:30 on a Sunday night.

My best friend didn't respond. My cousin didn't respond. And then this guy--and I'm constantly in doubt that he even likes me at all--he answered despite it being 12:30 on a Sunday night. He took amazing care of me despite having a crazy rough workday ahead of him. He won't respond to my pestery text messages, but apparently he'll babysit me when I'm in drunken hysterics. He was amazingly gracious and cool about it in the morning too, and got me out the door for work with a little kiss.

Maybe there's hope for us to be friends yet?