Life.

Life happens.

People happen, illness happens, shit happens.

It just does.  There's no getting around it.

Sometimes life happens hard.  It floors you, knocks the wind out of you, then keeps on trucking.

Sometimes life happens soft, floating by in a gentle breeze.

But it happens whether you want it to or not.

Fifteen years ago life happened to me.  I got sick.  Sick in a way that I couldn't fathom.  I was scared, the doctors were scared, my people were scared.  They threw drugs at me, scared the crap out of me, took all of my money, and then left me to fend for myself.

I managed to get through it with the help of my people, but I didn't handle it very well.  I didn't handle it very well at all, actually.

Eleven years ago it happened again, only this time they couldn't fix it.  They threw more drugs at me, took the rest of my money, and told me to pray.  We could see the fear in their eyes, see them fidget with uncertainty.  The doctors would actually huddle up in my room, talking as though I wasn't there, throwing ideas at each other to try to find a way through it.  To say it was scary is a vast understatement.  And I didn't handle it well.

They gave me steroids, which are the devil's favorite candy.  They took my spleen.  They gave me chemo, which is what finally worked, eventually coaxing my body to work again. The result of this combination of drugs and surgeries was weight.  Lots and lots of weight.

Now, I was never a skinny girl, but I was thin prior to getting sick the first time.  Even after that first bout I was still proportional, still cute, still sexy.   Still me.

After the second bout, though, everything was distorted.  Everything.  And I ran away.  I ran away from everything and hid, and then I got stuck.  I couldn't find my way back to being me.  So I hid some more.

And I got even more stuck.

The more I hid the more stuck I was, the more stuck I became the more I hid.  A vicious circle of fear and pain.

This illness that I have is still bubbling under the surface, though managed and "safe," if there is such a thing, and there are certain things that I must avoid if I want to keep it that way: aspirin, aspartame, alcohol, and quinine.  These four, simple, everyday things could kill me if I have too much of them, or even a little of each in combination.

But I'm "safe" according to the medical people.

This safety is an illusion that, when I think of it for any period of time, can send me into a spiral of fear and tears.  So I don't really think of it if I can help it.

My spiral of shame, dread, despair, and weight continued for far, far too long.  But I was stuck and I couldn't see my way out.

My best friend tried to get me out of it.  She yelled at me, cajoled me, coddled me, coaxed me, shook me, shocked me... but I couldn't see my way out.  I just couldn't.

My friends tried to tell me that I was still me, still awesome, still worthy.  It didn't work.  Nothing worked.  I was just headed down that rabbit hole and I was powerless to stop the descent.

Then, three years ago, I found myself sitting alone with a bottle of vodka in my hand.  A large bottle.  I remember thinking, "All I need to do is drink.  It wouldn't really be killing myself.  I would just be having a drink."  Alcohol is probably the worst of the big four "must avoid" things in my life.  Rationally I knew what I was about to do.  Intellectually I knew what I was about to do.  Emotionally I hadn't a clue what I was about to do.

So I picked up the phone and I called my best friend.  I didn't tell her at the time that I was holding that bottle, but she could tell that this phone call was worse than the others.  She told me to talk to someone, someone educated in talking to people, someone whose profession is talking to people and helping them wade through their shit.

I didn't want to go.  "What if there are bears there?" I asked her.

"I promise that there won't be bears," she said.  

I looked at that bottle and promised her that I would.

The next day I found someone to talk to.  She listened to me cry, listened to me freak out, listened to my story of illness and fear.  Then she looked at me and said, "That sucks.  Doesn't that suck?"

"Well... yeah.  It does suck.  It really sucks."

"I can help you," she said.  "Come back next week.  I can help you."

So I went back the next week.  And the week after that.  And the week after that.

I didn't tell anyone about the bottle.  I didn't feel shame about it, I just wanted to keep that option open.  I told people, if I had to tell them something, that I was going to therapy for an eating disorder.  It's not why I was going to therapy, not even close.  But that's what I told them.

Then something extraordinary happened.  I started to feel better.  I had hope again.  I laughed again.  I started to see the world again, rather than just the space directly in front of me. The periphery came alive again.

A year after I began seeing my bear doctor (we call her the bear doctor because, as it turns out, she has a picture of a bear in her office so there WERE actually bears there!) I began to seek life again.  I began to see my friends again, to audition with joy again, to walk the world with my eyes open again.  My friends were so happy to see me, I began to get called back, I began to book gigs, I began to feel a part of things.

Six months after that I moved back home, back to New York.  On a Friday, I reached out to a few friends asking if they knew of any day jobs, I had an interview on that Monday, and I started my new job a week and a half later.

I began to try to lose weight again, making very slow progress but progress nonetheless.  Nine months after I started my job I began this online dating experience, terrified all the while.  I have had dates.  I have been kissed.  I have met a man who makes me tingle.

I have also lost weight.  The happier I become the more weight just drops off.  I have started taking self-defense classes and can only see joy.  Everywhere.

It gets better.

Life gets better.  It floats.  I float.

Three years ago I sat alone with a bottle of death.  Today I am excited about the future.  I can see a future!  And it looks so good.

I still have that bottle, though I no longer see it as an option.  It is a reminder.  A reminder of how stuck I had been, how desperate I had become, how hopeless.  And it is a reminder of strength, because I didn't open it.  It is strength because I asked for help.  I made that phone call, made that promise, found a bear doctor.

And I'm still here.

I have learned to ask for help.  I don't have to do this shit alone!  WE don't have to do this shit alone.  Someone will be there, someone will listen, someone will make you promise. 

There is joy to be found, and hope.  And bears.  It gets better.

I am living proof.