In January of this year, I sat down to write this entry. Or at least I thought about writing this entry. But, because I did not want the permanence of what I am about to say to seep into my life forever, I held back.

Kept my mouth shut.

Did not write anything.

But things have not gotten better. Four months later, I’m reaping the same results from the same actions. Much to my stupid surprise.

They say that the definition of insanity is repeating the same action and expecting different results. They tell you that in Alcoholics Anonymous.

And I know it’s true.

Because I’m an alcoholic, you see.

And to leave that element out of this story would make everything I’m writing a lie. It’s too important to leave out.

And so I’m telling you now.

I’m an alcoholic.

For sure.

I can see that clearly now.

There are not enough justifications or excuses in the world to explain it away.

Even though I wish there were.

Because as easy as it is to admit I’m bipolar, admitting my alcoholism is a million times harder.

It seems so much more damning. So dirty and stigmatized and sad.

I hate it. I will say I truly hate being an alcoholic.

***************************

When I was young, I didn’t drink at all.

I was afraid of drinking. I was afraid of people who drank. My life had been deeply touched by people who suffered from alcohol addiction.

But I attributed my shyness toward alcohol to being nerdy and boring and naïve. Three qualities in myself I grew to hate with an intense passion. And three qualities in myself on which I blamed so many things.

After graduating from high school, the underlying, undiagnosed depression from which I had suffered bubbled to the surface. I started to suffer from the very obvious effects of manic depressive swings. But I blamed it all on myself. I thought I was a bad person. A rotten person incapable of moving forward. A person who was not capable of attending college or fitting in or doing much of anything at all.

I had this overwhelming sense that I was supposed to do something important with my life, but the frustration from not being able to pinpoint it was crushing. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. I thought I was supposed to be a comedian. But I didn’t know how to make that happen. And I had these random bursts of energy followed by months upon months of depressive fits. There were times I could not get off the couch. Times I could not get out of bed. I felt like I was falling off the edge of the world.

I hated myself.

I hated the confusion that drowned my senses.

And I wanted to die.

A lot.

It was then that I started drinking.

I was 19 years old.

The decision was conscious. I was in so much pain. I felt that my glaring naiveté had hurt me too much. I reached a point where I felt that I needed to be tougher. To be “cool.” I didn’t want to be surprised by things I didn’t understand anymore. So I set out to understand everything. Mostly things from which I had been sheltered. “Bad” things. Things in which I had little to no interest.

Like alcohol.

So one night I locked myself in my bedroom at my parents’ home. Or, sat up against the door. A friend and I had decided to experiment with beer. It was warm and had been sitting in the trunk of her car. I enthusiastically encouraged her to bring it inside and share it with me.

So she did. And I sat there against the door, facing her and laughing. It was the worst stuff I had ever tasted in my life.

I drank it quickly and was affected soon.

I loved the way it made me feel immediately. I was tingly and unworried. I felt light. And I wanted to feel it more.

I guess for someone who spent her days feeling weighed down, constantly bothered, and so alone, feeling light was different and amazing. I needed to not feel sad anymore. And the beer helped me not feel sad.

So I drank some more.

It was then I started smoking cigarettes, too. Because I was told it would increase my “buzz.” And it did. I felt even more euphoric when I smoked. And then I started smoking even when I wasn’t drinking. Because it helped quell my anxiety. It made me feel better. I was instantly addicted.

After my first time drinking beer, I started telling people that I had started drinking. As a result, I was immediately enveloped into groups in which I did not normally circulate and started drinking more often and much more heavily. I learned that I liked hard liquor. A lot. And I learned that once I started drinking, I often could not stop. Blacking out became routine. Over the next five years, I drank more and more and started to get into minor trouble here and there. I was always a binge drinker. A social drinker. An emotional drinker. But when I drank, I drank. And the blackouts got worse and worse. And people started confronting me about my problem. It went, they thought, beyond the normal level of social drinking. They were concerned. They loved me and hated to see me hurt. They were afraid I was going to die.

And so, when I finally had my most substantial breakdown and was hospitalized for major depression, I decided to give up alcohol for good. They had meetings in the hospital, you see.

And I went along because they gave out free cigarettes.

But I started to listen. And even though I had never been officially diagnosed, everything these people said around the tables made sense. So, I started talking, too.

I remember it like it was yesterday.

“Hi, my name is Lori and I’m an alcoholic. That’s the first time I’ve ever said that.”

And then it turned into a running joke.

“Hi, my name is Lori and I’m an alcoholic. That’s the 9th time I’ve ever said that.”

And I began to be drawn into the words of these people who shared their stories – stories that were exactly the same and different from mine – and for the first time, I did not feel so alone. What they shared was honest and dramatic. Most of these people had been so much worse off than me. Some of them suffered from major disorders in addition to their alcoholism. And yet they had survived. And they were happy. And could function. Life had started to make sense for them. And seeing all of these people, I thought for the first time that life could start to make sense for me, too. If they could do it, so could I.

Life was no longer an endless wall of faces who automatically understood what they were supposed to do. Who followed the status quo. Who looked at me and said, get over it. You’re fine. Just do what you’re supposed to do. Just do what everyone else is doing and you’ll be fine.

Oh my goodness. Life had hurt so badly when I believed that was the case. It was then that I thought I didn’t stand a chance.

But with the organization of A.A. shining like a beacon in the night, I thought I had just as much a chance as anyone.

And my participation over the next two years changed my life.

During that time, I was extremely active. I attended meetings several times a week. Called other members who helped me turn my negative, hurtful ways of thinking into actions that made more sense. The healthy, positive ways of thinking had come to me so difficultly. I struggled to eliminate my mind of the negativity. Sometimes, I cried. And I often hurt a lot.

But little by little it got better. With the help of my new friends, I incorporated coping mechanisms into my life that made every day a little bit better. Inside my mind, my soul, my body, a revolution brewed. And as the old, negative coping mechanisms and thoughts were pushed grudgingly aside, I learned the new ones that came into play were so much easier and left much less residue behind.

And, with the help of my friends, and this most significant organization, and God, a peace came over me. I knew then that things would never have to go back to the way that they had been. I knew then that life would not have to be so hard anymore.

And though I stopped going to meetings after only two years, I stayed sober for seven. To the month. Almost to the week.

But those seven years had been quiet. I had been hidden away in a cocoon, not getting out, not participating in life.

Then, when I finally burst from this shell, I’m sure a part of me became scared again. Because underneath, there’s a remarkable level of social anxiety within me that many people cannot see. They think that I am confident and brave and socially adept. And in some ways, on some days, I am. But in other ways, I am so very afraid. And I feel so very alone.

And it is difficult when I see groups of people who are drinking and enjoying themselves. Because I want to join in. If I am drinking, and they are drinking, then I am not alone. I am not different. I am not the one who isn’t cool.

And even though I know better than that, there’s a part of me that surfaces from so long ago – the super insecure part, the shy part, the “I’ll never be as good as anyone else here” part, that inspires me to drink.

And when I do, I feel like I am in control. I feel like I am fun. I feel like I am everyone else. And for someone who feels so different, feeling these ways sometimes helps. For a very little while.

But then the pain and guilt and the self loathing wash over me in ways they don’t when I’m sober. And the five minutes of comfort I feel as a result of drinking turn into a nightmare of hating myself and what I’ve done. Again.

So I guess the time has come when I have to accept that I am never going to be the same as everyone else. And in some ways, that is okay. And in other ways, it makes me angry and horribly sad. And I feel like it’s not fair. And I feel cheated.

Because I know I can’t drink anymore. So I won’t. All I’ve ever wanted was to get continuously better – to continue to cope with the demons with which I fought for all of my young life. And I have gotten so much better. So this time it will be a little bit easier. In some ways. And in other ways, it will be a hell of a lot harder.

But I know it is something that has to be done. And so, May 2, 2009, will be marked as my new sobriety date.

I’m admitting it again. I’m admitting that it doesn’t make my life any better and that it has to go.

And I mourn for the loss. Even though it’s not that important to me and it serves no purpose that is good. I guess I mourn more for the idea of being the same than I do for the alcohol itself.

And my heart is broken over the loss of that idea.

But I know that when God takes something away, He replaces it with something better. I know this, because I’ve given up so many bad things in my life. When we let go of the bad, there is room for good.

And I’m so sick of the bad.

So, I’ll let this go.

For the good.

There was one time I thought I might leave him.

It stands out more clearly than any other.

I remember sitting on our filthy stained and striped couch, crying. Telling him that I couldn’t be with him anymore. That it was over this time for good.

I couldn’t be with someone who acted the way he did. It wasn’t fair to me.

And I was scared.

*************************

We had been on our way back from Tennessee. He had taken me to see Loretta Lynn – one of my dreams.

I had always wanted to see Loretta Lynn.

When she came onstage, I cried.

It was amazing.

I didn’t realize then that he had relapsed on alcohol and somehow hid it from me for months.

But I knew he was still extremely paranoid.

He was always extremely paranoid.

And that day driving home was no different.

We were on the highway in Illinois, quickly moving past open fields and vast spans of nothingness, as we dodged in and out of other cars.

Other cars full of people.

The traffic was fairly thick, which meant we were constantly riding next to people. They could see into our car. We could see into theirs.

And, like so many other times, he caught a glimpse of a group of people in a car next to us talking and laughing.

It was a group of teenage girls. They were obviously having fun.

But he thought they were laughing at him.

And he became angry.

In his anger, he began screaming uncontrollably and displaying lewd hand gestures at the girls. And then he began weaving the car. Weaving the car and slamming on the brakes.

As he did this, he caused another car to spin uncontrollably off the road and almost fully across the median into the oncoming lane of traffic.

And I was mortified.

My God, they could have died, I thought. So many people could have just died. He got uncontrollably angry for no reason and all of those people could have died.

My heart sank. I was sick. I knew I could not go on like that.

The whole way home, we both thought we were going to be pulled over and that he was going to be taken away.

We were sure of it.

I spent the rest of the trip dreaming up ways I would get home if they took the car away.

But, somehow, we ended up back in our living room instead. With me crying on the filthy stained and striped couch. Because I knew I’d have to let him go.

And maybe that day I did. Just a little.

Although physically I stayed.

For five more years.

I knew he was trying.

At least it seemed like he was trying.

When I looked at him…and he didn’t know I was watching…I could see the pain in his eyes. I knew he wanted everything to be better.

I knew he wanted good things for us.

And that’s why it just killed me. My heart broke for him.

I didn’t want to give up on him.

I had told him I would stay and support him. And encourage him. No matter what.

I told him that I believed in him.

I thought that maybe if someone believed in him, he might finally learn to believe in himself.

If I gave up on him, I thought, he wouldn’t stand a chance.

Other people thought this, too.

And they told me so.

But you just can’t change other people.

You just can’t.

Lord knows I tried.

Even though I pretended I knew better.

I just wanted everything to be alright.

I just wanted to be happy.

I wanted him to be happy. I wanted him to change and be happy.

But like so many other times in my life, I had taken something that was irrevocably broken and fought tirelessly to fix it.

Broken objects.

Broken thinking.

Broken people.

And I grew so tired.

And finally, so numb.

Even though I have to admit that I still grow a little sad when I think about that look in his eyes. The way he used to smile broadly and excitedly, like nothing had ever been wrong.

Those were the times I believed he could change. That he wanted to change. That I could really make a difference.

But I couldn’t.

Nobody, save himself, really could.

And it is this truth that inspires my heart to break and quietly deaden at the same time.

Oh my.

Let me clarify.

You see, I have this friend.

And I love her very much.

Very, very much.

And she loves me too.

But I think she is concerned.

Because of my recent writings.

So I’d like to explain.

Here is the way it really is.

Most of the time, I am not afraid of people. In fact, I consider myself to be fairly adept socially and gregarious in crowds.

I love people. I love laughing. I love talking. I do not mind being around those I do not know. I am comfortable in almost every social setting.

Most of the time, I adapt easily and do not worry that people do not like me.

I think, at heart, I am a fairly likable person.

The feelings I have written about recently (which were almost constant in my youth) now only surface when I experience extreme social anxiety.

This anxiety creeps in before or after a breakdown and when I am not fully balanced.

Right now, I’m still regaining balance.

You see, it is difficult to go back into a social situation where everybody knows you were laid up with the bipolars.

Very difficult indeed.

But please don’t worry that I don’t know I’m loved. I do. And I love being loved and completely appreciate everything that everyone has done for me.

I have more friends, really, than any one person should. I feel more love and encouragement on a daily basis than I ever imagined I would. The only things more amazing than the life I lead are the people in it.

Yes, my dear, loving friends. I know that I am blessed.

And yes, the anxiety can be real. And it can be scary.

But every day I am more okay than I was the day before.

And as I regain my balance, I become a fuller me again.

A me who is not afraid or alone or insecure.

And nobody can take that away from me.

The only key is to keep moving in a forward direction.

And I am.

Still moving in a forward direction.

Dear God, please help me remember to be patient and to stop and enjoy every second I have with my daughter. Please help me remember that she won’t be four forever. And that she won’t be able to curl up next to me with her head in the crook of my arm or scream delightedly when I tickle her feet or tell me that she’s really glad we took the time to cuddle.

And I know she won’t forever sit on my belly and coerce me to join in nonsensical wordplay that reduces us to fits of giggles every time.

And eventually, the time will come when she won’t think that jumping off a chair was the best part of her day.

And I know that I will miss these times.

So help me be patient.

Help my words be kind.

And my heart be open.

And my arms be loving.

No, I know these times won’t last forever.

But I hope the memories we are making will.

I was always so sensitive.

That is what they said.

And the way I hurt, the way I felt so open and aching inside, I know it must have been true.

They constantly teased.

And called names.

And I would reel.

Why do you have to be so sensitive? they would ask.

And the thing is, they weren’t all wrong.

Not, at least, in calling me sensitive.

I was sensitive.

I know.

Hypersensitive.

Things just hurt more than they should.

I constantly felt like I was going to fall apart.

I guess it was the big things we had to ignore that made the little things hurt so deeply.

The big things we could not acknowledge.

The little things were addressed more readily, usually to friends or anyone who would listen.

And I guess it was around that time, in my childhood, when I learned to pin big strong emotions on little things, and people, that did not matter.

This is when I learned to divert the pain.

***************************

When I got older, after I had my first breakdown at the age of 19, I made the conscious decision not to be sensitive anymore.

I just couldn’t do it. Everything hurt too much. If I had continued at that rate, I knew I never would have survived.

So, I tried to shut down.

And I tried to immerse myself in anything I thought would numb my senses. This is when I began to drink. And this is when I began to introduce myself to situations that overwhelmed, and eventually deadened, my sensitive soul.

Because I believed that my naiveté had been the catalyst for my sensitive nature, and consequently, my intense pain, I wanted to be exposed to everything in hopes that one day, nothing would surprise me anymore.

And I got there.

Nothing surprises me anymore.

As a result, I know I will never again be as sensitive as once I was.

And, perhaps against my better judgment, I still can’t help but think that this is a good thing.

I got so tired of being dumb.

Of being the silly one.

The crazy one.

And eventually I fell apart.

The whole of myself was built on things that weren’t all true.

I wasn’t dumb.

I could be silly, but it wasn’t who I was.

And in admitting my imbalance, I wasn’t crazy anymore.

I believe, to some degree, we create our persona.

In a time when I felt so unnoticed, so unimportant, I clung to any label I was given. If anyone said anything about me, I took it and made it true.

Just because they had noticed something about me.

Being noticed, for whatever reason, was what I thought validated me.

I just wanted, in some way, to be important to someone.

And I wanted, in many ways, to be noticed by everyone.

I didn’t like who I was.

I didn’t know who I was.

And the pieces I picked up and stuck to my skin burned like glue and made no sense.

They weren’t me.

The me that cowered beneath these falsehoods was gaping and afraid and had never been dealt with.

Until now.

That is what now is about.

This is the time for embracing, and understanding, and letting go.

I believe that in letting go, new and better things will come my way.

So I try hard to understand.

I think on these things because I believe they’re important.

Sometimes, the words come easily and make sense.

Other times, I struggle to connect the dots.

I know what I mean, but sometimes it is too overwhelming or too confusing to completely tie it all together in one sitting. Or as the result of one event. Or one meeting.

I don’t want to be sick forever.

I don’t want to be scared forever.

And I don’t believe I have to be.

Sometimes people ask me why I think so much.

And the answer is complex.

First, I don’t believe I have much of a choice. I was born with a brain that winds constantly and spins in directions I can’t always control.

Medication helps.

And when I am medicated, the spinning slows to the point of gentle but still constant swaying that allows for creative output that the more unattractive racing thoughts do not.

Second, I believe it is important. Every day, I am given gifts. Every day I am shown new light. I do not look at the challenges as pains or permanent obstacles.

No.

I look at them as opportunities to learn. As opportunities to stop and ask myself, What can I do differently next time? Or, Why were you so scared? What will help you to overcome a future situation such as that?

All valid questions. All questions that will help me move forward in ways I am sure I could not have imagined.

As they already have.

No, nothing is perfect yet.

Nothing ever will be.

But I believe if I keep moving in a forward direction, things will always be better than once they were. Things can only improve.

Even when challenges arise, as I learn to grow, I know I will face these situations with more aplomb. With more perserverance. With more trust.

Because I know I’ve survived them before.

And because I know I’ll survive them again.

Of course, the final reason I think so much is because of Em. I know that, as she grows, it is my job to lead her wisely. I am not the perfect mother. I make mistakes all of the time. And I know that some are big and remarkably stupid. But I want to teach her better than I knew. I want to hold her in my arms and show her to deal with life intelligently, and compassionately, and bravely. I want her to be better than I was.

So much better than I was.

And I guess what I ask of you tonight, as I re-enter my life, is that you not worry about me. The things I write about and the fears I have are real. But they are not all bad. At this time, I believe they are portals to something better. I believe that acknowledging them and identifying them and stripping them are all essential to my growth.

Yes, sometimes I am still confused.

Other times I am not.

But for the first time, maybe ever, I am learning to like who I am.

And I think, for me, that is a very important step indeed.

Perhaps the social anxiety I still experience will begin to dissipate as I continue to learn more about who I am and how I function.

For so long I have replaced positive coping mechanisms with those born of fear and misunderstanding.

When I was initially diagnosed as major depressive at age 24, I began a long process of learning to function properly for the first time. Over the course of my life until then, I had worked steadfastly and confusedly in an effort to piece together things I thought would help my daily life make sense.

These things involved almost everything one shouldn’t do to get by in any given situation.

And in the end, they left me feeling empty and lost.

At bottom, they did not work.

So, in an exhaustive effort to get better, I learned to replace them with things that did.

This mostly involved learning to think in completely different ways.

And, as a result, I became a completely different person.

Or, more accurately, a much better version of myself.

But I am still not perfect.

No, I never will be.

But I can see the places where improvement is still desperately needed.

And the social anxiety, accompanied by the things I do to make it better (read: worse), accounts for one of these areas.

So, this is something I will think on.

Along with several other things.

I have several personal goals this year and I am looking forward to tackling them as best I can.

Yes, the road to self discovery can be a real bitch.

But it can be quite rewarding, too.

This night I am alone.

In a room of 200 people.

197 of whom I know.

Give or take a few.

On the outside I am bright, smiling, and loud.

I walk through the crowd and hug and shake hands and laugh uproariously.

Almost everyone has something personal to say.

I read your blog.

I’m so glad you’re back in choir.

Your smile brightens my day.

All things I want to hear. All things I am grateful to hear.

I am happy and warm. Receptive and embracing. Gregarious and energetic.

And absolutely scared to death.

Halfway through the evening, I realize that I am shaking uncontrollably. On the inside. Nobody else can see. At this point in my life when this happens, I even fool myself. But I am overwhelmed by everyone who surrounds me. I do not make eye contact because I am afraid that everyone is mad at me. That nobody likes me. That this is the day everyone will turn from me and I will lose everyone I love. And everyone who loves me.

Tonight, in a group of 197 hugging, loving, smiling people, I am so alone.

This extreme social anxiety I experience did not begin 3 hours ago. Or 3 months ago. Or even 3 years ago.

The first memory I have of anything like this began when I was in 3rd or 4th grade. This is the time that I now pinpoint everything to have started happening – the depression, the inability to focus, the crushing fear of almost everything.

It is when I believe the physical symptoms to have started – the anxiety within me that ate away at my tiny body and racing mind – the coursing energy that cleansed my insides of normalcy and left me feeling frantic…and nervous…and worthless.

Looking back on it now, I’m sure I was a hyperactive child. I’m sure I suffered from would now be described as Attention Deficit. But, I did not act out. I was deathly afraid of getting into trouble. I did not want to divert from set rules in any way. I did not want to rock the boat.

So I kept it all inside. The coursing energy, which I’m sure is what is now recognized as my mania, was trapped without any means of escape. Because unleashing it and somehow upsetting other people was never an option, I contained it effectively and turned it inward.

Between the ages of 9 and 11, the degree of self-hatred I developed was impressive and only exacerbated by an already sharply honed level of perfectionism. By this time, I was unwilling to accept any degree of error and punished myself by inwardly judging every aspect of my young self.

You are no good, I would think.

Over and over and over.

You are not pretty.

Nobody likes you.

You can’t do anything right.

And I lost almost all ability to function. I was socially awkward. I was physically awkward. I could not concentrate in class. I knew I would never win. These were very hard times.

At school, matters only became worse. The feeling of not belonging grew exponentially. I hid as much as I could. I was small and miserable and lonely. My grades suffered. I started thinking I could benefit from seeing a counselor.

Then, everything drastically changed. And my world began to spin in a different direction. It spun so wildly that it rolled off the table and cracked just enough to let the tiniest bit of light seep in.

And the tiniest bit of light was just what I needed.

It all started when my friend Elayne began talking about a performing group to which she belonged. She did plays and traveled around the area, singing and dancing in a poodle skirt and a t-shirt with her name puffy painted on the front.

And gosh, it all seemed so great to me.

So, I quit piano and joined the group, too. In my mind, the kids who already belonged were so ridiculously talented I was afraid they wouldn’t let me in. I was afraid of this for a very long time. Even after I’d been around for a while, I thought they might approach me and ask me to leave. This would have been devastating, as belonging in this group was something that became important to me really fast. Though I did not initially feel like I fit in, I immediately understood that I was around other people who had the same passion as me – they liked performing. And they liked it so much that they were willing to devote much of their time after school to rehearsal and shows.

It was not long before my mom had adorned my 5th grade choir skirt with a poodle and lace and I was traveling about the area singing and dancing with everyone else. And though I loved it, I still felt inferior. I knew I would never be able to match the abilities of many of my fellow performers. And though I fit in with this group much more than I did at school, I still felt like I wasn’t socially worthy there either.

Until summer came.

And we found out that there would be auditions for a musical: Bye, Bye Birdie.

This knowledge sent a weird excitement through me. It thrilled me in a way that nothing else really had before. I had always fantasized about being onstage. I thought it was something that I might do well. As a result, I decided I really wanted to be in this show. I knew that I would never get cast, but I remember making a very conscious decision to go into the audition and give them everything I had.

So I did.

And in return, I got everything back.

My life, myself – everything I did and everything I said – what I wanted and who I was – how I related to people and how people related to me – all completely changed. It was the beginning of my self discovery. I had finally tapped into something that meant something to me. It gave me identity. It made me feel special.

In the broad comedy role of Mae Peterson, I learned two things that would shape my life forever: I was funny. And I was good onstage.

And this was important. Because onstage, I felt like I fit in. Onstage, I felt like I could do something not everyone could do. And people laughed. People applauded. It was like magic. And it made me want more.

Slowly, I learned to incorporate what I had learned from being onstage into my personal life. Perhaps I could not pay attention long enough to connect the dots in math class, or win any junior high beauty pageants, but I was funny. And being funny meant the world to me.

It was a badge that, over the years, I wore more and more prominently. I knew that if I was funny, people would like me. So I made endless jokes, particularly at my own expense. If I acted dumb, that was funny. If I made fun of the way I looked, that was funny. If I fell on the floor, that was funny, too.

And eventually, my self deprecating humor twisted until it cemented my belief that I wasn’t any good at all. I absolutely hated myself. And the only payment was laughter…which for years I truly believed was enough.

But it wasn’t.

And when I became sick upon graduation from high school, I wasn’t always funny anymore. Being funny had become something to hide behind, and it no longer benefited me. In my depressive spins, I still made constant jokes. I still smiled all the time. If I didn’t, I was sure people would have left me alone. So when I finally had the breakdown that ended in hospitalization so many friends came to me and said they had never known me to be depressed. I had been chronically happy, they thought.

But it was all a façade. It was just something I had built and cowered behind it in fear of being left alone. If the thing I had cultivated to make people love me was gone, then they would be gone, too. And I couldn’t afford that.

The effort to keep up what was no longer real began to exhaust me even more. Something I thought would never leave me left. Being onstage brought me no longer brought me joy. And I began to resent being funny.

The only respite I had from these feelings was when I finally made it to Chicago to do improv comedy. That was the point when my dream came true. And I poured everything I had into it – and for a while I was good. For a while they said I could make it. For a while, I truly thought I was on my way. And then I fell completely and totally apart.

***************************

Seven years later, after an exceedingly long period of antisocial existence with a man who did not think I was funny, I came back into the world.

And I started doing shows again.

And, once more, people thought I was funny.

But this time it was different.

I felt like two very important parts of me had been given back to me as gifts – to better appreciate this time. To enjoy for the right reasons. And, finally, after so much struggle, I understood the right reasons. For so long, though I never realized it, I enjoyed being onstage because I thought it validated me. That it made me special. I thought that if I was able to go to some other city and become famous for being talented and funny, then people would finally understand that I was okay. That in some sense, I mattered.

But the thing is, I never really had to convince other people of this. In the past two years, I have found that nobody else had ever doubted me. That I had nothing to prove to them. I had always been special – not because of what I could do or how much I made them laugh. But because they loved me.

I had only doubted myself.

And it turns out that ending up where I am has left me more satisfied than ever. Like Dorothy, everything for which I’d been searching was in my backyard all along. I can do shows now because I thoroughly enjoy being onstage. It is fun for me again. I can enjoy being funny again because it is no longer a desperate tool to coerce people like me.

And on nights like this night, when I am smiling and frightened, too, I must remember to take it slow. For me, the social anxiety may never completely dissipate. It might always, on some level, be there to raise challenges here and there. But now I can recognize it and move through it. I don’t have to fight it by trying to win over everyone in the room.

I don’t have to be funny or talented or prove anything to anyone.

I can just be me.

And I guess, at bottom, that is perfectly alright.

And then there are the times when someone kisses you…and you let them… only because…for a moment…it feels good to have someone else’s lips touching your own.

And these are very different times altogether.

And nowhere near as good as the ones that come from those who  you choose to thank.