Long time no see

I’m going to keep this short and sweet.

It has been three months and thirteen days since you’ve last heard from me but, and I don’t mean to use clichéd hyperbole but, it feels like a lifetime. The whole story is a bit much for me to go through at the moment but I’m making it my mission to start posting here again.  In fact, I’m vowing to be creative and productive in general.

The thing is I’m going through a bit of a depressive stage and being creative/productive is a very painful process.  Like pulling out stitches.

As I write this I’m painfully aware of how poor and dull my writing is which clouds my mind and makes my writing poor and dull.

But as I’ve said before, and I am forcing myself to believe, if I just keep pushing on it will get better.

See you soon.



This weekend sucked.

It was Artscape weekend here in Baltimore and I knew I wouldn’t be able to handle too much walking around and partying due to my back but I was bent on attending one thing: TLC performing at the MICA main stage.




I was in elementary school when CrazySexyCool came out and I’m not even sure who owned the cassette but my best friend of the time and I played it with the obsessiveness and dedication only two 7-year-old girls could maintain.  As a matter of fact, one of the more cutthroat fights of our lengthy friendship came when she insisted that the lyrics in the chorus of Waterfalls was “Go, Go Jason Waterfalls” even when I took the lyrics jacket out of the case and showed it to her.

I’ve known about the performance for months and was so sure I could get a good seat.  I made the mistake in 2016 when Wyclef Jean performed that I didn’t get there in time to get a good seat and had to sit behind a row of people at the top of the hill.  Monica was with me that that time and although we couldn’t see anything, we could hear the music and we enjoyed each others company.

This time I went earlier but still faced a wall of backs.  Scratch that, I faced a wall of butts because I didn’t think to bring a folding chair and sat on the beach towel I brought along with an insulted backpack filled with healthy snacks.

First of all, I picked probably the worst spot to sit.  I was in the middle of traffic; people were crawling all over me from both sides, including one inebriated gentleman that used my head to balance himself as he stepped over my sad little piece of land.  I was both incredibly thirsty and had to pee badly but didn’t want to lose my spot (regardless of its craptitude) nor would I be able to stand in in the lengthy lines the concession stands or the porta-potty would guarantee.

Finally, my legs fell asleep.  And I just plain don’t like that.


There were several scenarios I addressed before I gave up, returned to my apartment, chugged a quart of cold, delicious orange juice and made one with my couch.

I was pretty disappointed but resolved that I would at least see the last two days of Artscape.


Well, turns out that thirst and increased need to urinate wasn’t an isolated incident and I have what may be (and I say with every punning bone in my body) a “bloody” UTI (hahahaha)

I’m in hell.



I just wonder when my life is going to begin. I know that’s a bit random, aside from being a cliché, but there’s a reason for that.

It’s the Emo Prom at the Ottobar I couldn’t go to because I got a tension headache after spending hours on my makeup

It’s Light City I barely got a glimpse of.

It’s my and my brother’s traditional St Patrick’s Day.

It’s the puppy pad I had a drop attack on with pee on it.

It’s the good job I had to leave.

It’s the shame I feel every time I have to ask my dad for money.

It’s the ceaseless parade of doctors’ appointments, PRP groups, blood drawn….

RIP Rob Hiaasen

I honestly don’t know much about Rob Hiaasen.  He was tall and kind.

I’ve come to know much more about him since the Annapolis shooting.  I’ve learned that he was a beloved teacher at University of Maryland and an assistant editor at The Capital Gazette in Annapolis.  That he had been happily married for 33 years.  That the day he died, the day of the shooting, was his wife’s birthday.  In fact, a birthday present had arrived for her that morning and she told Rob that she would wait to open it until he got home from work.

Rob Hiaasen was a family acquaintance.  We weren’t close enough that we would be calling or meeting with his family.  My family was invited to his informal service, which he specified in the event of his death he would prefer to have rather than a funeral.  A “celebration of life” instead of a mourning of death.  It will be held at a local nature center.


I’m not going to be able to make it to the service and I feel kind of guilty about it.

Which is stupid because I don’t feel guilty because I think I would be upsetting anyone by not going- again I really am just an acquaintance.

I feel guilty because it’s hot and I’m not sure if there will be many places to sit so I don’t think I’ll be able to physically handle it.  I feel fat and lazy.

I think we’ll be sending flowers to the Hiaasen house, though.  So that’s good.

A poem

I am a gelatinous mass

Roughly the shape and size of a

Bean bag chair- a big, soft, pink one.


I had a drop attack yesterday morning.  That’s about three months and a week since the last one.  It was a weird one; my knees sort of buckled, then I tripped.  Usually I just crumple.

My memory is a bit spotty about it.  Trouper was, of course, immediately by my side looking out for me.  That’s what stands out most.  I don’t remember getting up.

I’m pretty disappointed.  I was supposed to go with my father to Brew at the Zoo. I’ve wanted to go to one of those for a while and I hate breaking plans.  I ended up going back to bed and staying there longer than I should’ve.


I saw my psychiatrist on Friday.  The last time I saw him he said that I if I got to a stable point (where technically I was when I saw him) he would consider moving me to a different medication.  The medication in question is generally known to cause weight loss, which I desperately need.

He says that he doesn’t recall saying that and that he would prefer I talk to my neurologist before he changes my medication.  I don’t see my neurologist until the beginning of July.

So, more disappointment.


According to all the scales I’ve weighed myself on, I’ve gained 5 – 15 lbs since I’ve been put on the Depakote.  It’s the heaviest I’ve ever been and it is the worst thing in the history of anything ever.

Not because of aesthetics.  I can’t imagine anyone could even tell at this point.

No, I just feel like shit all the time.  Just sluggish and lightheaded.  Put that on top of the back pain and I can’t get anything done.

It’s possible the lightheadedness is caused by the Depakote, mind.  Another reason I want to drop it.

I’m trying my best to push through.  My dad and I just got back from a trip to Rehoboth beach where it rained for four days straight.  In a majestic swarm of counter-productivity we ended up going out to eat every night.  I got home and decided to immediately jump into a new diet/exercise regimen.  Namely calorie counting and swimming.

I don’t ever want to feel the way I felt at the end of that trip again.  It’s a pretty effective motivator.  Let’s see how long it lasts…


I’ve left good news for the end!  The Johns Hopkins bariatric center finally called me back: they approved me for a consultation!  I see them in less than three weeks.

I’ll fill you in more about that later.

The right write

It’s been three months to the day that I’ve had my last drop attack. (And there was much rejoicing.) As I mentioned before, I had been having them roughly every month.  So the Depakote could very well be working.  It hasn’t done anything for the myoclonic jerks but I can address that later; it’s more frustrating than alarming.

Also, I can legally drive again.  Not that I’m going to drive anyway (that’s in OCD’s court) but it feels good that I could, for some reason.


In more exciting news, I’ve had a second correspondence with Señor Lin-Manuel Miranda!  I decided that I would like to frame the first letter he responded with, then had the inspired idea that it would be nice to have the letter and the picture on the front of the post card by side in the frame.  So, I wrote him back giving him puppy-dog eyes (literally- I sent him a picture of my dog) and asked him if he could send me another… which he did!  Crazy, right?

It was, as the one before, short and sweet.  There’s a slight problem with this one, however.

It’s the first of three sentences:

“It’s always a treat to hear from you.”

Good goddamn.  Is that an invitation to keep writing to him??


I don’t want to get ahead of myself.  It would be pretty sweet to be pen pals with Lin-Manuel Miranda, but I do understand how he has people that want something from him coming at him from all sides and I don’t want to be among the worst of them.

I don’t want to infer that he has been anything but formal in his letters, by the way.  It’s “your support means so much” kind of stuff.

I’m conflicted.  I think I may write him again, but I’ll try to reserve writing for the right moments.

I’ll be waiting for you

I have a few recurring dreams.  Most of them take place at my alma mater.  I’m taking classes again.  I’m in a play, it’s opening night and I don’t know my lines or my blocking.  It’s concert night for my acapella group and I don’t the lyrics, the choreography, or what to wear.  Some of them just take place on campus but don’t have anything to do with school.  I’m reunited with my childhood best friend and get to meet her two little girls.

I’m not surprised by any of these dreams.  Especially the performance ones; they are common for former theater kids, according to my mom.  And they all have to do with regret in some way.

Then there’s this one dream that makes me curious.  It’s not a situation or a place though- it’s a person, someone I don’t think I’ve ever actually met, and he comes to me wherever I am.


I’ve come to know him as Ben, although I don’t know that he ever introduced himself as such.  I can think of several reasons he is tentatively “Ben”, but we’ll cut through a lengthy backstory and I’ll just say that I’m a fan of the name.  (I like the name Benji more, so I don’t know completely what that’s about.)

Ben tends to enter a dream in progress.  There’s a carousel on the senior quad and his nutria pulls up to my oversized sardine (it’s a dream so the animals we’re riding are delightfully absurd).  He asks me a couple questions, we do some chit-chat.  Then he asks me if I’m ready for him.  And I tell him,  “no.”

Then he leaves me with these words, more or less, “I’ll be waiting for you.”


Now, I know it’s a dream, therefore a product of my mind.  Yet, I have a hard time being black or white on this one, playing either the realist or the romantic.

Should I let myself believe that Ben is indicative of a real person waiting out there for me in waking life?  Should I let myself believe in true love and serendipity and magic and romance?

Or is this all brain chemicals and loneliness and desperation?


In my customary noncommittal way, I think it’s somewhere in between.  I’m going to meet someone at some point and in its way, I could say that they are Ben without saying they were prophesized by a dream, a “dream come true” if you will.

But, no, no one is going to approach me at any point and say “Hi, I’m Ben. You know me from your dreams that I have been visiting like some defunct, eunuch incubus and I’ve been waiting for you, like a big ol’ creep.”

Basically I’m a work in progress and at some point am going to cross paths with a person that is self-same ready for me and, in a way, my Ben.