Two Years Later: A Letter to My Suicidal Self
T/W - Suicide, Self-Harm Dear Chris, Hey, sup. I hope this letter finds you well. Wait, no. You are definitely not well. Why the hell do people say that? How about we just say, "I hope this later FINDS YOU", and leave it at that? We'll take care of the "well" part later. Anyway, it's me, you, two years to the day when you almost took your own life. If I were to pick a moment for that Western Union Guy from Back to the Future II to hand you this letter, it would be here, when
My Impostor Syndrome and Me
It's been awhile since I've seen myself on television. I hit a bit of a slump before the pandemic, then when things slowly got back up and running, I again hit a snag. Four years ago, I started teaching acting classes. I was beginning to think that I was destined to just be a teacher... that I couldn't possibly have both things that I love at once. Because fuck me, right? This line of thinking isn't a scheduling matter, or a work ethic matter, or, hell, even a talent matter.
Gaining Peace... in Exchange for a Gut
When I first became medicated in 2019, I started off with a mood stabilizer to treat my bipolar disorder. I got one warning from my psychiatrist, regarding side effects - a permanent rash that can occur if I don't slowly work my way up the dosage ladder. Considering I'm in a profession where my face gets me jobs, it scared the bejesus out of me, to the point where I hesitated a couple of days to take my first dose. Google-imaging "Lamitcal rash" on the subway ride home may no
I GOT THE BROOM TAP
Anxiety manifests in so many sneaky ways. I could fill a CVS receipt with a list of dumb shit that could send me into a tailspin at any given time. One minute I'm walking down the street enjoying a podcast, the next minute I'm staring at an empanada stand. Then I think "empanada", and I think "party I went to twelve years ago". Then I think "party twelve years ago where Adrian made delicious empanadas but I didn't get a good base before the party so all I had were the empanad
Pages Before Phones
Friday is street sweep day in my neighborhood. I'm one of those Manhattanites who have a vehicle for the purpose of driving to the Bronx to going to Target once every six weeks. The rest of the time, I sit in the car for an hour and a half every Friday so I could keep my precious spot. And, holy shit, if I get a spot IN FRONT OF MY BUILDING, that fucker is staying there till the season (and my seasonal depression) turns over. Anywho, that's not what today's post is about (but
Breaking Up With a Therapist
We've all been there. You start seeing someone new and they see you, get you, ask questions and are invested in your stories. You do little things to test their boundaries - things you can joke about, how deeply you want to go into detail about a particularly traumatic experience. Little by little, the walls start to come down, you become more vulnerable, share more, cry more, discover more - all the while never feeling judged. You learn all their little ticks and facial expr
The Mania Guy
T/W - Suicide Mania has never been as devastating as depression for me. Sure, I have highs - lots of time, it's in the creative sense. I'm one of those people who will get zinged with "inspiration" and say "let's make a fucking movie!" and actually make the damn thing. I'm pretty-sure it was the mania voice who told me to quit my job and pursue acting on a whim, which turned out to be the best decision I've ever made. (He also ran and hid when the $15,000 worth of credit card
Odd Years in Autumn
I have a cycle. Every two years - odd years, to be exact - I hit a hard seasonal depression. It usually kicks off just around Labor Day. Summer into fall can be difficult for anyone. I'm sure any teacher can tell you that. But, seriously, what the fuck? Why does this happen to me? I LOVE the fall. I love football. I love walking on crunchy leaves. I love Halloween. I love horror movies. I love BEER. BEER IS SO GOOD IN THE FALL. I love hoodies. I love wearing flannel shirts.
Five Years Later
T/W - Suicide, mental illness. Five years ago today, I took the risk of my life. I quit a well-paying, union job with full-benefits to pursue a career in acting. I gave it five years. I told myself, "In five years, I'll be 37. If I don't make any progress by then, I'll figure something else out." Well, I'm here. How do I put these last five years into a few paragraphs? It should be noted that Uber, the pandemic, and a burst pipe at my told stomping grounds that shut the place
