That time I hit a lady with my car.

The family got together last night and we were drunk, slap happy, and crazy as always.  My brother and sister in law are moving, and the discussion turned to re-registering cars in their new home state of North Carolina.  Brooke mentioned that it is not a No-Fault state so they needed to be careful.  She then referred to the time a biker came out of nowhere on the street and Brooke hit her with her car. This reminded me of the time a lady walked into my car.

She did. I swear.

It's a funny story. Probably not to the lady, but SHE WAS FINE, GUYS.

I had left rehearsal at the Atlantic Theater and was driving home in the rain.  I called my mom and asked if she wanted me to pick up dinner.  She wanted Jon Smith subs.  I turned into the Publix shopping center on PGA and Military, and stopped at the stop sign. As I went to turn left, a lady stepped out from the median and walked into the side of my car. She fell down and started dramatically screaming about her back.

The comedy in this is that I was on my way home from puppet rehearsal, with a puppet sitting in the passenger seat. I had buckled her in so she wouldn't get tossed about, as the puppet had been built and designed for a character I do that is basically Bart Simpson with a head cold.  It was my first puppet, and I loved her.

WHERE DID SHE COME FROM?!?!?

Anyway, it was raining.  I called 911. The lady stayed on the ground, piteously screaming, "WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO ME?"  as I held an umbrella over her head, getting soaked myself.  I apologized and told her to just stay still.  The cops came.  I started sobbing.  The whole time, people stood on the sidewalk staring.  The cops had me move my car under cover. I told them what happened.  Two witnesses told them what happened. The lady's friend told them I came out of nowhere, speeding and hit her poor, poor friend. Ungh. People suck.

I was standing there and heard my name being called. My best friend's mother-in-law was there, hugging me as I sobbed and told her my mom was on the way to pick me up, as I didn't want to drive. She stayed with me until my mom pulled in, and took over the hugging.  The puppet still sat in the car.  I grabbed the puppet. Waited as my mom pulled the car into a parking space.  I was wet and emotionally exhausted.  The cops told me that the lady was going to be fine. Jon Smith subs had closed. We didn't get delicious subs that night.

It's not funny. But it is. WHO HITS SOMEONE WHILE THEY HAVE A PUPPET IN THE PASSENGER SEAT?!?!?

Another depressing blog. Don't read if you are sensitive or are my Mom.

The Ray Rice thing happened.

It wasn't on my radar until yesterday, when my male co-worker brought it up to my GM, whose office is next to mine.   The same male co-worker who said that Jameis Winston's alleged rape victim was asking for it. He said to my boss, "How could she marry him after that?"

I kept my mouth shut, as it's impossible to argue with him. When the Winston case came up in conversation between us, he told me to go fuck myself when I tried to defend the victim. I was defending the victim because I was one myself. Not of rape, but of physical and verbal abuse.

It was college.  I was introduced to a guy while performing in the play Baby With the Bathwater. I should have seen the warning signs as he was attracted to the Crazy Nanny character I was playing. We went out. We started dating. He drank.  I didn't.

One night, he had a few too many beers.  I said something that made him mad. He threw my open makeup bag at me, scattering brushes all over. He screamed at me that he was sleeping on the couch that night.  I went out after a while and tried to talk to him, He grabbed a glass of ice water from his coffee table and flung it in my face.  I sputtered. I cried.  I left. Soaking wet.

He called the next day. Apologized. Made it seem like it was an isolated incident. He just had a bit of a temper.

That temper flared a lot. We had a fight and I wouldn't answer his phone calls. I was in my apartment alone. He had a key. I had closed and locked the door to my room.  He tried to kick it down, screaming at me to let him in. I had headphones on and pretended I couldn't hear him, while texting my roommate to help me. I don't know why I didn't call the police.  I didn't want to be that woman.

He left and my roommate showed up with her boyfriend.  I sobbed hysterically into her shoulder as I told her what had happened. She comforted me and told me to never speak to him again,

The next day he came over and knocked. We told him to go away.  He left me flowers and a card apologizing.  His parents called and told me they would pay for everything if I just didn't do anything.

I went back.  I don't know why.

We moved in together. I thought it would be different.

It wasn't.  He pushed me during a fight. I fell over my bed and landed on my arm. I pushed him out of the room, locked the door and huddled with our dog.  He started beating on the door, telling me to let the dog out.  It was his dog, let him out. I called my sister. I packed a bag. I couldn't take it any more. I opened the door, tore his glasses off of his face, and slapped him as hard as I could. While he was distracted, I left. I went to my sisters empty apartment and cried.

I went back. This time because the apartment complex wouldn't let me out of the lease unless I had a police report. We had separate lives, separate rooms. We were ok for a while.  Then one day I decided to take a shower with my music on. He put a boombox in front of the bathroom door, and turned his music louder. I turned mine louder. The battle continued. Finally, I stormed out of the bathroom with my robe tightly tied around me. I unplugged the boombox, and tossed it to him telling him it was enough.  The boombox cut his arm.  He grabbed me.  The robe opened.  I hit him.  He called the police.  I called my friend to come get me. The next day I found a room in a friends apartment, and left with everything. My furniture went into storage. My life was in boxes.  But I was free.

I worked at the college bookstore and he came in one day. His hands were bandaged, and he was crying.  Begging me to come back.  Telling me his life was miserable and that he wanted to kill himself.  The dog I had to leave behind had mauled him. I told him to leave. I cried. The manager called me into her office and fired me. I had missed too many days dealing with the asshole, and had caused a scene. They were uncomfortable having me around.

I wish I had never gone back.  I wish I had been stronger. I wish that I hadn't played his game.  At the time I felt I deserved that kind of treatment, that I wasn't worthy of someone who could love me without hating me as well. I was broken.  I'm not anymore.  Fuck that guy.  Fuck Ray Rice. Fuck the NFL who looked the other way until they were FORCED to fucking do something. Fuck that noise.

Just...fuck it.

"Good night, bud. I love you."

I say this to my dog every night when I go to bed.

I roll over, put the book of the day on the nightstand, pull the cord to turn off the light, and mid pull I mumble this phrase to an animal that has absolutely no idea what I am saying.

I have a hard time saying this to people. But not to this weirdo mutt of mine.

Kevin is a weird dog.  He would sleep all day and night if he could.  He has a bladder of steel and a bowel of iron.  We used to go on long, rambling walks through the neighborhood.  He now pees in the front of the neighbors house.

I knew that adopting an older dog would be interesting.  I didn't know that it would be THIS interesting. I love this little (42 pound, so guess not so little) furball with all my heart. I spoil him.  I buy him more treats than I do myself. I worry. He limps and I assume he's broken his seal foot. The doctor is very patient with me.  This is my first puppy love that's all mine. And I don't know what I'll ever do without him.

I dropped Kevin off at the vet yesterday as he was acting weirdly. They had no appointments, but said to drop him and they would look at him as soon as they could.  I figured it would be a while, so I went to Lowes for a mold test kit, grabbed lunch and made an appointment to get my hair trimmed, as I'm starting to look like Carol Brady. Not cute.

Midway through my lunch, they called to tell me he was okay and that I could pick him up.  I didn't hesitate. I shoved a couple more bites in my piehole and ran for the car. I got to the vet in 15 minutes, blowing off the hair appointment (Carol Brady is cute to some.)  $9.76 for his anti-inflammatories. New Treats.  A car ride home with him snuggled against my leg. We got home, and I gave him a bone and his first dose.

We went for a walk at around 4:15.  He started eating grass like it was his job. I worried some more.  I tried to get him to stop, as he started eating the tall, rough decorative grasses that lined the walkway and that cannot be good for him.  I got him back in the house and gave him fresh water and food to see if that would help.  He plopped down on the floor and began snoring.

I know he's ok. I'm just not ok. I don't know why my usually spry older dog is suddenly not coming downstairs in the morning for his walk.  I don't know why he is suddenly walking within 5 feet of the house and doing his business when he usually wants to walk to West Palm and back.  I don't know anything and it's really, really annoying.  I want to make him better.  I just don't know how.

I DON'T WANNA WALK!

A rose by any other name.

I am a nickname fiend.

My dad is Papajon, Shtoppie, Shtoop, Popojijo, Popsicle and Pops.  Also, Dad and Daddy.

My mom is Marm. Marmee. TMo. Mama-say.

My brother is Dan. Leinad. Danny boy. Pablo Honey.  Daniel-san.

Brooke is Bug. Brookers.

Kevin is Kevy-Kev. Kevers. Turd Burglar. Turdle. Stinker-butt. Stinker-Dinker-Doo. Chevy-Chev.

I may have a problem.

My truth.

2010 was a rough year.

I parted ways with the improv troupe that had been my family for 3 years. Personal and professional issues caused things to not be fun anymore.  I was down on myself as a human being and as a performer. I was anorexic.  I had gone from 180 pounds to 125 in a short period of time by not eating. I hated everything, most of all myself.

One night, I took out a bottle of sleeping pills.  I piled them into the lid, and put them on my dresser. I was crying every night. I cried that night. I sat on the floor, hugging myself and crying.  What was the point of this pain?  I felt that I was annoying my friends with my constant sobbing and rehashing and reopening of old wounds.  I was annoying myself.

I took my phone and stared at the number for a suicide hotline.  I stared and stared.

I clicked the phone number on my iPhone. The number popped up with the call or discard option underneath.

I clicked call.

"All circuits are busy.  Please try your call again later."

Astonishment.

Shock.

Tears stopped.

A bubble started forming in my stomach.

And suddenly I was laughing.  Somewhat hysterically, but laughing. Uproariously laughing.  Rolling on the floor giggling as snot and tears dried on my puffy face.

I got up.

I put the pills away.

I called a therapist the next morning and set up an appointment.

I'm better now.  So much better now.

Some people never get better.  And they are missed.

I'm not ashamed that I'm on anti-depressants. I'm lucky that I can afford them and that they allow me to smile more every day.   They helped me ignore a very bitter, angry person that I was confronted with last night during an improv show, who doesn't even know me but carries a grudge against me for some idiocy that occurred in that awful year of 2010.  2010 Lauren would have run screaming into a corner of her mind.  This Lauren smiled and let it roll off of her.

Find help if you need it.  There's only one of you, and you're needed.

You are enough.

I want to say it again.

You are enough.

YOU are enough.

You ARE enough.

You are ENOUGH.

Any way you emphasize it, start living it.

I had the amazing opportunity to bask in the glow of Sir David Razowsky this weekend.  I'm not sure he's actually been knighted, but he should be. An amazing person and an amazing teacher, Mr. Razowsky touched me, and not in a dirty way.  His lessons in mindfulness and letting go of the past were everything I needed to change me from a miserable person to be around to someone less miserable to be around.

I think.  Give me a week. Maybe two.

I was scared the whole workshop.  Scared that he'd call me out as a fraud.  Scared to go up first. Scared to go last. We went through two days and 7 hours of workshop before I finally felt like I had the cajones to just be an improviser. And it was the best moment for me. I rarely breathe in improv scenes. I'm manic.  But I was able to slow down and listen to David tell me what I needed to do, what I needed to get rid of, who I didn't need to be.  And the bullshit went away. I feel like a gentler person. I feel like a more confident person. I am enough.  I AM ENOUGH. I need to look at everything that happens to me in joy instead of conflict.  On stage and off stage.

The show was awesome. Weird. And awesome. Casey was generous enough to share David with us at the end, and the scene I was in with him and 2 other actors was about nothing but a lamp and family dynamic. It was great.  I was on cloud nine, ten and eleven. I'm still there. My day job today has been tough but I've been handling it. An irate member started yelling at me, and I kindly asked him to leave the office and come back and start again.  I handled him with joy and caring and he left smiling. It's not an easy thing to do, but it's the right thing to do.

Thank you, David. Your lessons for life and improv have done much to improve my outlook in a mere day and a half.  I am a more confident improviser and a much improved human being.

I am enough.

Is that something in your pocket, Matthew, or are you happy to see me?

Is it me?

My doctor has made me believe that I am crazy.

And not because she put me on anti-depressants.

I went in a couple of months ago as I was having consistent leg pain.  Today was a follow up to the brain pill appointment, and I told her yet again that the leg pain was hindering my fitness and well being goals.  I had downloaded a yoga app and attempted a tree pose with disastrous results.  The muscle behind my knee and my thigh felt like a razor blade was running through them.  The veins on the leg in the pained area were dark, dark blue, and I had to stop so I wouldn't barf on Kevin's still damp barf spot.

This is what my doctor looks like. Just with dark hair and bigger eyeballs.

I told her all of this. Even poked the leg where it hurt and was tender to the touch.

Vitamin D deficiency, she says.

WTF?

I worry that she thinks I'm a hypochondriac.  That every time I leave the office with a new script and a scheduled blood test that she's snickering with the nurse, lamenting the waste of time that is my appointment. I lost 6 pounds in a month.  The nurse said, "Have you been trying to lose weight?"  I responded, "No." CAUSE I EAT A LOT OF PASTA, PEOPLE. It's poor people food.  I put butter on it. And feta cheese. EVERY OTHER NIGHT.

This is not a weight loss plan. (I have been drinking a ton of water and eating a lot of ice, so may finally be hydrated. Moot point.)  I've been eating ice like it's my job. Craving it.  Dreaming about it.  Thinking I could just run into work and grab a cup of the soft, pellet ice from the ice machine near the golf shop. At midnight. As I'm driving past work on the way home from rehearsal.  I tell her that.

"Pregnant women do that."

I'M NOT FREAKING PREGNANT.

"It may be an iron deficiency, though your blood test in June doesn't indicate you are iron deficient.  You need pre-natal vitamins."

WTF?

This is my 2nd doctor in 2 years, and I'm afraid to change again and learn that I am in fact insane. What's a girl with good insurance to do? I want my $15 co-pay to go towards making me feel better, not making me feel like I belong in Arkham. Le sigh.

I'm gonna go eat some pasta and lose another 3 pounds.  Wish me luck.