acting it out

the art of learning to live

my mothers daughter

I am my mother’s daughter

Or at least I hope to be.

The older I’ve gotten,
& especially now,
I’ve realized more & more who my mother is.

But I’ve also realized how much I don’t know her.

I know that she is smart.
I know that she is beautiful.
I know that she is funny.
I know that she is kind hearted.
I know that she is talented.

& I know that she is strong.

But was she always so strong?

I wish I could know all her moments of weakness. All her struggles. All her defeats, failures, & short comings.
But also know her comebacks, her revivals, & her survival of her life this far.

Because our lowest moments are what defines us. How we handled it. What is was that broke us down to that level.
& most importantly:
how we rose above it.

Because how can we measure a person with only their good qualities & still gain a wholistic understanding of that person.
A knowledge with breeds:
sympathy, empathy, apathy.
Patience. Respect.
Full, unbiased love.

Because how can I truly know my mother without knowing these things?



It’s been a month,again, since my last post.

& that last post was what I want this blog to be.
What I need need need it to be.

Honest unedited words just spilling out of my mind through my fingers onto the screen
Onto the screens of anyone who comes across this page

That’s a fucking terrifying thought to me

But it is also a satisfying one
Because I don’t want to edit myself
I want to be able to read this months, years from now & know that what I said here is exactly what I was thinking and exactly what I was feeling.

I want that for myself

And that’s who this blog was started for

& yes I want it to touch people
& I want it to mean something to someone
& I want it to be a non socially & personally damning representation of myself

But why?

If someone is offended
Or critical
Or judging

Why do I want them in my life?
Why should I care?

I won’t. I don’t. I can’t.

I can’t, because I legitimately feel that those people, that type of person, is detrimental to my soul & to who I am & to who I want to be.

So, yes, this may become a chaotic mess of emotion.
& yes, it may become more real
More brutally honest than most people would like
But it will just that.
It will be real
It will be honest
It will be me.

& I’m done being anything other than those things.


writing is a struggle against silence

But my problem isn’t silence.

It’s blaring, soul-wrenching, blood curling screaming
inside my head.
How do I get it out. How do I put it down into to type.

I feel like I’ve lost it.
The eloquence. The beauty of writing my thoughts.

It’s everything,
Our words. Our thoughts.
are/our everything,
If we were stripped down and left in a desert, what would we have?
Nothing but thoughts and words inside our heads.

So what does it matter how it comes out?
A jumble mess of thought vomit spewing out,
lacking that perfect pentameter and punctuation

Just do it. Just say it. Just write it.

But fear.

What oh what will people say? What will they think?

This poor girl with all her problems and her sad life and her poor dying mother and her poor fucked up family and her poor sad mind all jumbled up and upside down and inside out and spinning spinning into the darkness only to be drowned out by her 4am cries of self torment and self doubt and self deprecation and anger and sadness and anger and confusion and anger and loss.

Does it matter?

Who are these people who’s thoughts are more important than the ounce of sanity you feel after the release of your thoughts and words? Who are these people you care so much about?
Is it the friends or is it the former friends
Is it the family who already criticizes your every word and action
Is it the new people in your life
who you fear will label you as the girl with the dying mum
Is it the random acquaintance or the strangers
Why do any of them matter
Why do they matter over yourself?
Why why why why why

What is this society standard of self censorship in the matters of free thought and any emotion below happy?

So what if I’ve got problems? Who doesn’t?

adjectives of a girl.

I Am

characterized by or resulting from despair; hopeless

feeling of bitterness at having been treated unfairly; wounded

not able to resist external force or withstand attack

to be deprived of something expected

feeling of anxiety, apprehension, or solicitude

destitute of sympathy or support

drained of energy and emotion

sound of emotion

All around
An absence of sound
This is: alone.

Through the void
Almost playing coy
This is: hope.

In the dark
Hitting every mark
This is: fear.

From within
A last second win
This is: joy.


having the disorienting,
hallucinatory quality of
a dream

…or sometimes a nightmare

If you had asked me just 2 months ago to give an example of surrealism,
I would have whipped out my art history knowledge,
referencing Salvador Dali or Max Ernst.

I’ll tell you about hospital beds & zip lock bags full of pill bottles.
about conversations with ex-lovers & ex-best friends.
about breakdowns in the shower head aisle at Walmart.
about house fires & heart attacks.
about the beautifully sad irony of burying your beloved family pet
at 2am, in the pouring rain, on Christmas.

This is the current state of my life.
surreal. sur. real. so. real.

It’s not an entirely unique story.

In 2012 there were an estimated
1,638,910 cases of cancer in the United States
& 577,190 cancer related deaths.

those “cases” are (were?)
brothers, sisters, sons, daughters, fathers,
& mothers.

They were strangers,
or even perhaps a distant acquaintance through Facebook.

They were someone else’s mother.

They were not my Mother.

They were not the woman who almost died giving birth to me.
They were not the woman who cried about how I had gotten her nose,
which she had always hated.
They were not the woman who handmade my clothes growing up,
often consisting of matching mother/daughter outfits & entirely too much denim.

The woman who, when she couldn’t work her corporate job
while pregnant with my brother, went to work changing diapers
so that I could still attend the best Montessori School in our area.

The woman who taught me how to make angels out of
different types of pasta noddles.
The woman who always made sure Santa Clause came,
despite what her bank account looked like.
The woman who taught by example, to be myself
& not worry about what others thought of me.

The woman who over the years found time to manage a full time job plus:
cheerleading, debate team, united nations, & mock trail competitions.
lacrosse, soccer, basketball, baseball, & football games.
track meets, chorus concerts, theatre productions & student film festivals.
not to mention all the fundraising, driving, & snack providing that went along with.

This is a sliver, a mere glimpse into my childhood
being raised by a single mother
in a town where a lot of my friends’ moms worked for fun, not necessity.

This is my mother.
& she is dying.

and all I can do is watch & wait.


beautiful, inspiring, raw, vulnerable, sincere, and made ME (the reader) feel liberated.

Well, the reviews are in I guess.

I never imagined that something I wrote would warrant a statement like that.

I never imagined anyone would read this blog
outside of the 3 people I told about it in the beginning.

But I hit that share button to send it to Facebook &

VoilĂ  !

I have readers?
I have “followers”?

Most importantly,
I have someone who took time out of their day to make sure I knew that they liked my writing,
that it meant something to them!

I realize that this little thing, is not as little as it may seem.

I know how life is, and how it can get.
busy, stressful, hectic.

Even that small effort of clicking the “like” button means something to me.

So, to the ones who support me & encourage me,
even in the simplest of actions:

I recognize you & I thank you.

& I hope to return the thoughtfulness someday as often as I can.

Which brings me to my next thoughts.

How often do I need encouragement?

A lot.

Probably more than the average person.

I’m an artist, an actor.
it’s almost a requirement to be needy & insecure.

But how often do I give out encouragement?

Not very.

It’s true.
& it’s sad.

Why would I ever neglect to give that which I am so desperate to have myself?

There are a number of reasons & excuse that could be named.

But that isn’t what matters.
What is important is that I realize that everyone around me deserves, wants, & needs encouragement,
Just like I do.

& I need to make more of an effort to make the people in my life know
how much they mean to me,
and how much I believe in them.
Even in the little things.

As often as I can.


anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it is stored, than to anything on which it is poured.

I can see how this anger I am carrying around is affecting myself.
I can see its negative influence in my life.

But I am still having a hard time letting go.

I’m not use to feeling this way.
I’ve been mad.
But never angry.
Not like this.

This anger is paired with resentment.
It is magnified by years worth of broken heartedness
& feeling like I can’t let anyone new into my life.

How does one conquer anger?


It’s a catch 22 though.

I am angry.
I need to forgive.
I can not forgive because I am so angry.
I am angry because I am holding on to something I can not forgive.

Where does forgiveness come from?


Again, a conundrum.

I am angry.
I need to forgive.
I need to love to forgive.
I can not love because I am so angry.
I am angry because I need to forgive.

I am only human, after all.

So how do I get the love I need to forgive?

The Universe?
The Force?

Or is it that I don’t need to “get” it from anywhere?

Is it already here, in me.
Buried beneath the anger.
& all the other lies I tell myself I can not get rid of on my own.

I believe so.

How do I unbury the love I need to find to forgive so I can rid myself of the anger?


Where do I get my strength to unbury the love I need to find to forgive so I can rid myself of the anger?


I take the anger I have towards others.
Towards the situation I am in, and I re-direct it.

It becomes the fuel to my discovery of love.

Because I’m not really angry at anyone.
I’m not really angry at how my life is.

I am angry at myself for thinking that it has to be this way.
I am angry at myself for believing the lies that society impresses upon me.

So I use my anger to attack the parts of myself that I want to lose.
The baggage I carry around.

I take my anger & I attack the negative things in my life that are built up around my heart & I free myself to love the way I need to so that I can forgive what I need to so that I can rid myself of the anger & move on, carrying only what is left.
Holding on to only the love.

I am angry.
But I will be strong.
I will love.
I will forgive.
I will start with forgiving myself.

echoes & shadows

time heals all wounds

I want to shoot whoever first penned this sentiment.
When I am hurting, I find it to be a filthy, bloody, lie.
When I am not, I still think it is a misrepresentation of a truth.

Perhaps others feel differently than I do?
I often believe that I feel differently, love differently, heal differently
than the people I am surrounded by.

Yes, time lessens the pain of a wound.
But the wounds, the ones which strike me deep to my core,
Those are the ones that stay, throbbing still.

I imagine my spirit to be a pumpkin.
(bear with me here).

The whole of who I am is a pumpkin.

Over the course of my life I am cut open, I am hollowed out.
Every cruel word.
Every lie, every betrayal, every friend turned foe.
Every email, text, vague Facebook status
that I obsess over.
These are my wounds.
These are the swift spoon like blows that swoop into my heart & scrap against my insides, taking bits of me with them.
I am left one layer thinner with each ill force.

I am not a blind victim. I know that I also cause the layers to be removed even further each time I re visit my pain, each time I dwell on the negative.

But all the same, I become more & more hollow over time.
The wounds do fade into one another, some completely forgotten.

But then there are the ones that hurt the most at their conception.
The ones that are repeated in cruel irony due to my bad judgement in who I associate with & who I let into my life, my heart.
& the ones that, sometimes were not even necessarily intentionally harmful
by their deliverer.
Just comments made by those who are blind to how much their words effect others,
because they are not saying the words for the one to whom they are speaking,
but for themselves as a result of their own wounds, or insecurities.

These are the wounds that resonate in the empty void that is left in my center.
The wounds that become echoes in my soul.

I create a smiling exterior.
A fixed look of happiness to deflect from my internal damages.

Life has made me a jack o lantern.

But every carved pumpkin has that light.
The candle placed in its center to make it glow
& to illuminate the face, to bring it to life.

So, what’s my candle?
What is my light which will chase out the shadows left by the people in my past?
& how do I make sure no one can blow it out?

A general life update.

This blog needs some positivity.
& we’re in luck,
because my life is starting to have more & more of it as of late.

I found out I will be acting in a theatre production with a director
I’ve really been hoping to work with, early next year.
I’m still so new to the Atlanta theatre community
& I am excited to delve more into the theatre world.

I do miss working with my film family, as an actor.
I’ve been taking on a lot of behind the scenes roles in the last year or so.
I’ve done everything from casting, wardrobe, set dec, office administration, & even catering.
The true mark of an indie film maker is
to be able to wear many hats,
in my opinion.

I’m most excited about the next “hat” I will be trying on: Writer.

The Project I’m working on is somewhat intense and complicated.
I’ve always had the mind set of, “go big or go home”
& if I’m going to try something new, then I am going to give it all I can.
Writing the script, developing the story, creating the characters.
It’s all so fun & a great outlet for my creative mind, but it is also
Nerve-wracking, time consuming, & insecurity inducing.
But it is worth it every time I finish a page, or have a new, brilliant idea.

I’ve always enjoyed writing poems, songs, & even school papers.
But the concept of creating a script, and having that script turned into a moving, breathing work of art is so inspiring to me.
I find I think more in images when writing this way.
I can see how I want a shot to look.
I think learning & doing so many other jobs has allowed me to be able to think of a script from all the different divisions of the film making process. I already know how I want the characters to dress, what objects I want to be in each room.

The Project as I’m referring to it for now, is my seed which I will plant, sow & nurture.
I can’t wait to see what fruit it bares!

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