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I have spent the past three weekends covering the Hollywood Fringe Festival for See It or Skip LA. Which involves seeing large amounts of shows, writing reviews and getting together with my other correspondents to record podcasts about what we’ve seen.  After our last recording session it occurred to me that all of the shows that I have raved about, have one thing in common: they all used comedy to make a serious story more accessible.

“Night Witches” – a play about the female Russian bomber regiment in WWII who terrorized the Germans night after night despite encountering heavy losses. Was it inspiring? Definitely! Was it depressing because a majority of the main characters died? Yep! Did I leave the theater depressed? No, because amidst the dire situations of the women were interwoven comedic scenes of the Nazi soldiers. These scenes could have easily been written just as serious as the Russian scenes – which did have some elements of comedy but were for the most part dramatic – but that would have resulted in a very different play. It would have been heavy on top of heavy, leaving the audience feeling, you guessed it, heavy. Instead, this show juxtaposes dark with light and as a result is selling out as people clamber to see an historical play.

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On the other hand, I saw a different historically based play that left me feeling ambivalent at best and negative at worst. It was 90 minutes of downtrodden woe-is-me-nothing-is-going-right, with no break or release of the tension. Even at the end when the character gets what he had been striving for the whole time, the victory is tinged with heartache. The one victory in the entire piece was spoiled. The piece was acted well, and quite frankly staged better than “Night Witches,” however without that light to balance the dark I had to recommend that audiences skip it for something else.

For the dark to be accessible, palatable, effective it needs to be balanced with light. Then it struck me, out of all of the critiques of my novel there was one outlying comment early on that I looked at briefly before shoving it aside and disregarding it since no one else seemed to have the problem.  What was that comment?

“Be cognizant of providing breaks for your reader. Your first 50 pages are intense and nonstop. It can be overwhelming.”

In other words, at the beginning of my novel about the Civil War, an already super-upbeat topic, I inundate my reader with DARK, DARK, DARK! Hmmmm. I have spent the past three weeks espousing the virtues of how comedy strengthens drama, yet when somebody gave me a similar note, I completely ignored it.

slow clap

Well. Done. Me. Despite the fact that I have rewritten the beginning of my novel more times than I can count since I received that comment, I will be going back to examine it one more time. Here’s to the light, strengthening the dark.

It was recently brought to my attention that someone whom I had considered to be my hero when I was growing up, was actually one of, if not the main contributor to the dysfunction of my childhood. Years ago I came to accept that this person fell far short of the label hero. However, in my mind they were most definitely ‘Team Kat.’ This person had my back, they were on my side and every other cliché you can think up. This person’s role in my life had been down-graded, but was most definitely still looked upon with esteem.

Then the PTSD hit, and with it came large amounts of therapy. If I’d been able to afford it, I would have seen my therapist twice a week, but as it was, it was a financial strain to see her once a week. So that had to suffice. This is not the first therapist I have seen. That list is quite long, and from experience I can say that there is nothing better than a good therapist. There is also very little, short of the abuse that sent you to the therapist in the first place, that is worse than a bad therapist. Now when I say good and bad, I mean in relation to how you work with that particular therapist. You can go to an award-winning therapist (does that even exist?), but if you don’t understand each other or you don’t jive with the way that they work, then they are bad for you. Of course, there are also therapists who are just plain bad at their job. I had one that half way through a session I started giving him advice. Yeah, I stopped seeing that guy.

It's you

At any rate, through this therapy, I began to discover that I had told myself copious amounts of lies while growing up. Lies to soften the edges of the truth, or to outright hide the truth and allow my young mind to survive intact. Those lies eventually shattered, bombarding me with the truths that I had been hiding for twenty years. Hence the PTSD. As I have sifted through the wreckage, sorting the fabricated from the real, I have discovered that the truth is where heroes go to die. All people have a dark side. They all make mistakes and they all do things unworthy of hero-status. The question becomes, how much of that are you willing to overlook? At what point do you learn too much for your hero to remain a good guy?

In my case, it turns out that the hero status was granted simply because a hero was needed. Therefore, all actions that would preclude that title were ignored and covered up. It was what I needed at the time, so I overlooked the foibles of the person in front of me and imagined the person I needed. When I no longer needed the hero, enough of the façade melted away to reveal a normal person. Almost a Superman, Clark Kent scenario. As a child I had only seen Superman, in my twenties I only saw Clark Kent. So what do I do now that the harsh light of truth has revealed this person to be Lex Luther* all along? Do I allow the truth to act as kryptonite and destroy my hero for good, or do I ignore the truth, allowing the childhood fantasy to persist? Even if only to preserve the memory of having one person on my side. A gentle lie to hide the harsh truth. I can’t decide.

 

*Okay, that’s unfair. I doubt there were any deliberate plots or machinations going on, but for the sake of my metaphor I’m gonna run with it.

A friend and I got into a conversation the other day that has lingered with me. We were discussing how both of us have trouble relaxing and simply enjoying life when things are going well. Those moments when you realize that there are no crises, no fires to be put out, and all of your plates are spinning happily along. Neither of us are able to truly enjoy those moments because we are waiting for the other shoe to drop. We are waiting for a catastrophe to descend. Which is a pretty bleak outlook on life. And it’s not that either of us are pessimists, or suffer from anxiety. Far from it.

What we do have in common is that both of us had troubled childhoods where we were required to deal with situations way above our maturity level. And deal with these situations on a regular basis. Carefree is not an adjective used to describe either of our pasts. So it’s not that we are pessimists, it’s that our experience tells us that the other shoe WILL drop. Moments of peace and simplicity were often masks for something bubbling up under the surface that would blow at any moment. Therefore, neither of us trust ‘good times.’ In our experience, good times generally end badly. It’s not anxiety, it’s what life has taught us.

Charlie Brown

So the question becomes, how do you reteach yourself that good can be just that – good? Nothing more, nothing hiding underneath. In essence, how do you teach yourself to enjoy being happy? I feel silly even typing that. Who doesn’t enjoy being happy? I’ve come to realize that the answer to that question is, me. Being happy makes me uneasy. I’m sure many other people as well, after all, no human experience exists in a vacuum. So how does one go about the re-teaching process? I’m not really sure, but I came up with some ideas.

  1. Stop actively watching for the shoe to drop. One will drop eventually, but I don’t need to expend energy anticipating and planning for it. I have plenty of tools at my disposable for dealing with it, when it happens. No prep needed.
  2. Find things and do them simply because they are good for me and make me happy. They need hold no other benefit.
  3. Repeat, “I am allowed to be happy and I deserve good things,” on a regular basis.

In fact, I might just write that last one on my mirror at home.

Good things

By Gemma Correll

Every so often I am reminded of how far I have come. How much more positive and mentally healthy I am. I had one of those stark reminders this weekend. My Saturday went to pot before I had even finished my first cup of coffee. Yet, by the end of the day, everything had managed to come around in my favor. Whoo! Even so, if I had had this day 7 or 8 years ago, the exact same sequence of events, it would have been a drastically different day.

Two Days

I don’t know about you, but I prefer present day Kat’s view on things.

Optimistic

While at a dinner party this past weekend, a friend and I got talking about the basic principle that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. In essence you can get more by being nice instead of an asshole. Then this turned to our observations that here in LA that when you treat some people with respect – namely those in the customer service industry – they are taken aback because the gesture is so completely unfamiliar to them. Both of us found this mind-boggling. I mean we’ve both seen it enough that we weren’t blown away by its existence, but just by the sheer fact that there are so many people out there who operate on a daily basis with such vitriol. Neither of us could understand that. I still don’t. Life is so much better when you surround yourself and work with kind people.

Kindness

Then as if the universe were sending me a test, I woke up the next morning and checked my email to find a rather disquieting message. Before heading out to the dinner party the day before I had sent several messages to publicists to try to get a better idea of what a publicity campaign for a book launch would not only look like, but cost. At first I was thrilled to see that I already had a response from the publicist that had looked the most promising to me. However, when I opened the email, I found this first paragraph:

“You’ve told me absolutely nothing about your novel other than its historical fiction due out in October. So I visited your website and there’s nothing there either. There’s really nothing to chat about at this point. It’s like sending a resume with no information about your job history and wanting to talk to an employer about hiring you. Maybe I missed something on your website but I looked around and could not find a link about your book. If your book is due out in October, now is the time to be contacting reviewers and bloggers. So not only should you be hiring a publicist now, your blog/website should have a lot of information about your book.”

Right off the bat, I had several concerns.

  1. I have no idea how she meant it, but it came across to me as confrontational, which I did not appreciate.
  2. The resume bit – last I checked I was looking to HIRE someone to fulfill a service for ME. I wasn’t aware that I needed to sharpen up my interview skills and prove myself worthy.
  3. If I’m looking to hire a publicist, then one might assume that I don’t know enough about publicity to run my own campaign. Therefore, how would I know that I already need info about the book on my website and that I need to be connecting with reviewers right now?
  4. “So not only should you be hiring a publicist now,” – that’s what I’m trying to do lady. Maybe give me some props for knowing that much?

Needless to say, I did not respond right away. To be completely honest, the email made me upset and I needed to cool down. Then an odd thing happened. I started to explain away and excuse her behavior. Maybe I should have included more information about my book in my initial email? Maybe finding a good publicist is competitive and I do need to compete for their business? Maybe I should have done more research on publicity before reaching out? Maybe I’m the one that screwed up in the exchange and her reaction was totally justified, after all according to her website she’s really good? Wait, what? I was actually thinking this shit! This person first made me upset, and then I made myself feel like I deserved it.

WT Actual F

How the hell did that happen? Wasn’t I just talking about how I didn’t understand behavior like this? Wasn’t I just talking about how I didn’t have room in my life for people that treated me this way? Aha! That’s when I had an epiphany. There are other publicists in the world, I don’t have to work with this woman if I don’t want to. I especially don’t have to pay her money to work with her. I don’t care how good she is, I don’t want to work with someone, or have them representing me, if they feel treating people in that way is acceptable. Not just acceptable, but a legitimate way to conduct business. No thank you. I can still learn from her – build out a page on my website for my book is now firmly on my to-do list – but I do not have to work with her.

It took me about a day and a half to figure this out, and shortly thereafter I received another email from her that was much less confrontational and asked question about my book and actually told me a little bit about what she does. In other words, this should have been the first email she had sent, and had I not had the epiphany, I probably would have written her back and had we wound up working together, the entire experience probably would have been like those first two emails, over and over again. Instead, I responded back to her that I had decided to go a different way with my publicity needs, and I thanked her for her time. Done and done and holy crap did I feel better afterwards.jerk whisperer

Not two hours later, I received an email from one of the other publicists I had contacted. Mind you, with the exact same minimal information as I had provided to this first lady. This new publicist’s email was warm and inviting, thanking me for my interest in their firm. She provided an attachment that detailed different book publicity packages that they offer and said that she looked forward to speaking with me and possibly reading my material in the future. Huh? The exact same information with two polar-opposite responses. Yep, I definitely made the right choice. Thank you universe for that affirmation. Needless to say, I’m talking with this second firm.

Surround yourself with honey, people. Life is too short for vinegar. Not to mention, vinegar has sulfites and I’m allergic to that shit.

I have officially entered the self-sabotage phase of my creative process. It happens every time, and no matter how much I try to avoid it, or bypass it, I never succeed. Every project I work on, I will inevitably try my damnedest to derail all of my efforts. Even when I am aware that I am doing it, it’s really hard for me to stop.

Tinkerbell

I’ve been working nonstop for the past couple of months on new project, and it has been smooth sailing, not a road block in sight. Until last week when it occurred to me that this project is just a couple of steps away from transitioning from hypothetical to real-life. Cue self-sabotage in 5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .

Since I had that realization I haven’t even looked at my project, much less worked on it. Worse yet, I’ve been ignoring everything else too. Therefore everything is piling up around me, so when I do think about working the voice in my head so helpfully pops up to remind me that I still need to do my dishes, and vacuum, and the laundry, and balance my checkbook, and didn’t I want to plan a huge completely unrelated event that will take large amounts of time and effort? Then, instead of doing any of that, I wind up getting stressed out, plopping down on my couch and marathoning something on Netflix. I have seen more TV shows this way. It’s ridiculous!

So now I am in the spot of trying to break free from this procrastination-frozen-on-the-couch state and get back to getting things done. I’ve started by writing a blog post. Cross that off my to-do list and mark one up for actually getting something done today. Whoo! Now for something else simple . . . reorganize my to-do list . . . okay, that’s not actually on my list, but it’ll make me happy, so that next. After that, I’m gonna get ambitious and work on my website. Here we go!

wrong tree

I have never been a religious person. I would say that I have some spirituality in my life, but none of it is directed toward an organized religion. In contrast, I have spent the vast majority of my life vehemently anti-religious. Specifically towards Christianity. This is largely because my mother was a devout Christian, and despite this faith and devotion to her god, she was stricken with an absolutely god-awful disease. Despite her years of devotion and, I can only imagine, a multitude of prayers, she still withered away into nothing and died a slow and absolutely miserable death, after years of living in misery. Growing up with this constant reminder of the crappier side of life, made it next to impossible for my young mind to accept concepts like an “all knowing, all loving father.” I saw none of the purported love, and therefore couldn’t find the faith that others around me seemed to find so easily. Instead of faith, I found anger. Whether she was angry or not I don’t know, but I was mad at my mother’s god both for her and for me. Any god that would allow suffering like that in the world, was no god of mine. Therefore, I had no god.

In all honesty, I found much more sense in the Greek and the Roman gods. They were selfish, spiteful and vengeful. This behavior fit my life experiences much better than a Christian god. Even so, I was much too pragmatic to accept that canon. I was steadfastly non-religious and I wore my non-religiosity like a badge of honor. The faithful would try to convert me, so I would argue with the faithful and try to convert them to my way of thinking. I took great pride in shaking their faith. I know for a fact that I sent a couple of devotees to their priests for ecclesiastical clarification and reassurance. I quickly lost track of how many times I was told that someone was, “going to pray for me.” I am no longer proud of these actions, realizing that they were simply desperate attempts to release some of the boiling anger I had inside. It never worked.

goodwithoutgod

I’m sure that at this point, some of you are expecting me to announce that I have had some miraculous change of heart and have found god. Nope. That has not happened. In fact, when I first started seeing my current therapist she asked me if I wanted to address the obvious issues that I have with religion. I let her know that under no uncertain terms was I interested in doing that. Apparently that particular fire is what keeps me warm at night and I can’t address it without fear of freezing in the dark. She acknowledged my wishes and we moved on to other topics. After all, I was suffering from PTSD at the time, we had PLENTY of other things to deal with. However, once we got that in hand, she questioned my spirituality, and how I maintained that if I didn’t have a god or larger entity of any sort. No judgement, just curiosity. This conversation ended in her recommending a book to me – Autobiography of a Yogi.

I think she wanted to expose me to a non-Christian faith, and journey to find faith. I have finally gotten around to reading this book, and in all honesty, my bullshit meter has been going off a lot! Especially all of the instances where he talks about his guru divinely healing someone, or meditating to find a cure to an ailment. I’m sorry, I don’t care how long I meditate, or who puts their hands on me and wishes me well, if I eat a bunch of bread I’m going to wind up in the hospital. No amount of wishing or believing is going to change that, just like no amount of wishing or believing could change my mother’s life. Until I see it with my own eyes, I will never be able to accept that tenet regardless of what religion you’re talking about. I can’t take that leap of faith. I don’t have it in me.

bth_bullshit-meter-011

I did not find this surprising. Either the presence of healing stories within the book, or my inability to accept them as true. What did surprise me, is that early on in the book the Yogi, on more than one occasion, refers to a Christ-like disciple. At first, my hackles went up. What was Christ doing in my Hindu book?!? I kept going. The next thing I know, the book is discussing Genesis and Adam and Eve in both the Christian sense and the Hindu sense. I have actually lost track of all of the Biblical references in this book about a Yogi. Color me flabbergasted! Not only did this Yogi read the Bible, he was encouraged to study and learn from it by his guru. He obviously was not encouraged to become a Christian, but that didn’t stop him from studying what they had to say. The next thing that I knew, I was following along and I was interested. For the first time that I can remember, I was thinking about Christianity and I wasn’t mad. Huh? I still don’t believe in god, and I still have absolutely no faith in divine healing, but for the first time I can feel some of that anger slipping away. Who knows, maybe that is divine healing?

Over the past few weeks, I have been on this crazy mission to clean and organize everything in my apartment. My roommate, God bless her, has tolerated my mania and even joined in to take care of her areas. I love me roommate. Well last night I finished . . . okay 95% is done. There are still a couple of little projects but those involve reorganizing something that is already in its proper place. Therefore, for all intents and purposes, I finished last night.

As I looked around my dusted, vacuumed, organized, color-coordinated, alphabetized – just kidding, I didn’t alphabetize anything . . . yet – this profound sense of peace settled over me. I even folded a fitted sheet neatly, that is how Zen I was.

Sheet

I LOVE being in a neat and tidy space. It makes my heart happy. My grandmother would be so proud, I definitely get this from her. It’s not that it has to be sparse, it just has to be neat. A place for everything and everything in its place. I feel like I should cross-stitch that on a pillow or something.

My living space hasn’t looked this good since I was a kid. It’s always close, but there’s always something amuck. Some area that is a disaster area, and I have done this on purpose for years. Growing up I felt as if I had no control over my life. My mother was sick and our lives were ruled by her sickness. Therefore, I found myself something that I could control. Namely, my bedroom. It was pristine, at all times. Everything had a place, and I knew if someone had moved a tchotchke even half an inch. How did I know this? Because I kept such a tight rein on all of my belongings that I would be driven to distraction until it was returned to its correct place. It was the only thing I could control, so half an inch was that important. I can only assume that my friends picked up on this, because when they came over they either put things back exactly where they got it, or gave it to me to put away.

OCD

Sounds pretty OCD, right? That is because I had OCD, a mild case thankfully, but OCD nevertheless. I had to cope with mess and disorder everywhere else, but in my room, everything could be perfect. And there is the reason that I’ve always left something messy as an adult. After leaving college and getting my first place on my own, I discovered the downside in needing things to be perfect. Perfect is a dangerous word, because it is un-achievable and will only make you crazy. Over time, I broke the OCD cycle and have never let myself be completely organized since.

It was earlier this year that it occurred to me, that I’ve come a LONG way since I was that depressed, OCD kid looking for an outlet. A LONG WAY. I no longer need things to be organized, I like them to be organized. Therefore, I decided that it was high time that I love the space I live in. It was high time, for everything to have a place, and for everything to be in its place. A milestone had been reached. To celebrate, I cleaned and organized my entire apartment. I know how to party.

I worked in retail for years. Everything from a mom and pop tourist junk shop to fine jewelry to a major department store. And if there is one commonality between all of them, it is that there will be people who come in and act like assholes. It doesn’t matter what you’re selling, what your price points are, there will be people who come in and do nothing but make fun of your prices, your merchandise and sometimes you. It’s good times. (insert sarcastic font) As employee in these establishments, the only thing you can do is grit your teeth and hope they get bored and leave sooner rather than later.

Despite my years of experience dealing with this, now that I’ve been removed from it for a couple of years, I had totally forgotten about this phenomenon. Until this weekend when I had a yard sale. This woman came by and started browsing through stuff. Every time she would ask for a price, she would roll her eyes. At one point she even laughed at me. Now mind you, the majority of the items at this yard sale were priced at $1. However, we had a couple of larger, nicer items that were priced accordingly. She of course, was only interested in the nicer items, but still expecting the $1 price tag. Calling on my years of training, I gritted my teeth and waited for her to go away. She did and all was well. Until she circled back.

Customer

It was at this point that I remembered that I was at a yard sale, and I wasn’t anybody’s employee. Therefore, I didn’t have to deal with her shit. Nor did I have to sell her anything if I didn’t want to. The individual prices of everything were still the same, however because of her behavior I would now impose a twat tax on anything she wanted to buy. What is the twat tax, you ask? This tax doubled the asking price to compensate me for the mental anguish I suffered from having to deal with her. Surprise, surprise, she didn’t buy anything, but I felt better.

Fast forward to last night. I’m trying to sell a rug on Craigslist and this guy and I have been going back and forth negotiating price. Scratch that, he’s staying the same at 60% of my asking price, and expecting me to come down to his price. Last night I got fed up, threw out my final offer and said that I wouldn’t go any lower. This twat responds with, “You can do my price. Where do you live, I’ll pick it up tonight.”

Can't Be Serious

Are you kidding me?!?!?! Does that actually work on people? Too bad for him, I now have a twat tax, and he most certainly qualifies as a twat. Only this guy graduated to a whole new level of twat, and I decided that I was done dealing with him. So I responded back with, “No, I cannot, and I am now done dealing with you. Please do not contact me again.”

Amazingly, he responded back and actually said sorry and made a counter offer. Mind you, it was a counter offer that was lower than the price that I said was my lowest offer. Nope, delete! Then I got an email offering to trade me his 37” TV for my rug. What? Nope, delete! Hate to tell you buddy, but if you want something, don’t be a twat to the person who has it. The twat tax. I’m a fan.

I think the universe might be trying to tell me something. Over the past couple of weeks, I have come across several articles that all have the same basic principle behind them: even in your dream job, there will be things that you don’t like. I don’t know about you, but that is not something that was ever addressed during career day back when I was in school. A dream job was always painted to be something that would make you so happy that every moment was going to be akin to skipping through dandelion fields, with a puppy and a kitten, while being chased by butterflies to a rainbow’s end. They left out the part where you’re allergic to the damn dandelions, the puppy is chewing on your shoelace, the kitten keeps eating the butterflies, and there’s no such thing as the end of a rainbow. All of my childhood dreams have been crushed. Okay, not really. Mostly because I always hated, loathed and despised career day. I never knew what to say.

I had no idea what I wanted to be when I grew up. Even as an idealistic six year-old, my response was a shoulder shrug and an,

“I don’t know.”

Little-Girl-Meme-I-Dont-Know-02

When I was told that wasn’t an acceptable answer, I switched to,

“A teacher, I guess.”

This seemed to make everyone happy as my dad was a teacher and my mom was a retired teacher. So I stored this away and whipped it out every career day. Truth be told, I had no desire to be a teacher, but as it got everybody off my back, I professed my undying love for the profession. This worked great, right up until my senior year in high school when I realized that I had to pick a college and a major and actually do something with my life. Cue major existential crisis! I was right back to, “I don’t know.” And no college I could find offered that. Trust me, I looked. Seriously, I did.

Fast forward 16 years, and I finally friggin’ know what I want to be when I grow up. And now I’m left pondering, what will the crap be, and am I willing to put up with it? As one article put it, what shit sandwich are you willing to eat every day? Pretty graphic, I know, but poignant, and stuck in my head. This is what happens when I read articles online.

Shit sandwich