Little Girl, Big City

All Good Things

2013-01-01T15:29:00.000-08:00

I decided since this New Year's holiday has been markedly better than ones of the past, that I'd compile a list of my favorite things about 2012. I've made some amazing friends, had an epic amount of good food, and listened to a you know what ton of music. So, here's a brief "Best of" Lucky Girl Style...

Best Coffeehouse - Gaslight Coffee Roasters in Logan Square (http://gaslightcoffeeroasters.com/). Hands down the best espresso you will have in Chicago. And I should know. Also, this place gets bonus points for having a superb staff of non-douchey baristas and supplying music via turntable.

Best Restaurant - Yusho (http://yusho-chicago.com/) If you want a gin and tonic that will change your life served alongside twice fried chicken with matcha- you should come eat with me. This place is less like going out to eat and more like an edible euphoria. The bar staff are also incredibly knowledgeable and friendly. They don't judge when you tell them to bring you all the desserts.

Best Podcast - Wrestling with Depression (http://www.wrestlingwithdepression.com/) Why is this worth listening to? Because it's a realistic, non-sugared, humorous way to talk about things that suck. It's engaging and enlightening look into how individuals cope with depression while making others laugh.

Best Place to Drink Beer and Make Poor Dietary Decisions - The Rocking Horse (http://www.rockinghorsechicago.com/) Tater tots and $4 craft pints. Enough said.

Best New Album - The Gaslight Anthem's Handwritten. But I think we all knew I was going to say that. These guys just don't make anything that isn't amazing. And their new album, written as a letter to their fans is full of gorgeous emotions. I've listened to it a solid 100 times. It's still beautiful.

The Best Show to Watch in my Pajamas While Ordering off Grubhub - How I Met Your Mother. I can't express enough how much I love Neil Patrick Harris. Like a whole real lot y'all. I had never really watched the show, but I once drank a beer with Josh Radnor on a porch in the Berkshires. True story. He's a super nice guy.

Best Book - "Air" by G. Willow Wilson and M.K. Perker. My first real foray into graphic fiction and I'm smitten. Surreal and smart and addicting. It's amazing reading a story mostly conveyed in pictures, I like creating my own gaps of dialogue and am eager to finish the series in 2013.

Best Concert - Dropkick Murphys at Riot Fest. Yeah, I danced.

Best Accomplishment - Maintaining a healthy weight and not giving into set backs that tend to draw out my self-destructive tendencies. I also finally started going back to a doctor. I get out more and feel a lot more hopeful. That feels pretty nice. And I wish the same to all of you as you start a new year. Sometimes bad shit happens, but there's a lot of good things going on at the same time. Sometimes we make mistakes and hurt those we love, but we learn to move past those mistakes and fix ourselves. Sometimes we sit alone in the evening and feel sorry for ourselves, but we reach out to our friends who make those evenings fewer and further between. I'm not much of one for resolutions, but for this year I'll continue to keep my head up and my humor in tact and surround myself with people who make me smiley. I hope you do as well. Good game 2012, here's to the next round...

The Thanksgiving Prelude

2012-11-18T19:05:00.001-08:00

Thanksgiving. It's a fairly simple concept. A time of the year to reflect upon that which we have been fortunate enough to receive. It's a lovely little holiday. And while I won't be going home until Christmas, I'm looking forward to my second Chicago Thanksgiving. No real plans yet other than feeling more content. I feel very fortunate that the past couple of months have been going rather well for me. So it seems easy to enjoy Thanksgiving this year. I suppose I could post day by day things I'm grateful for, but it seemed easier to compile them and bask in the view of such an epic list.

1. New friends. I firmly believe you meet people at just the right moment in your life. Exactly when you need them. Sometimes you meet assholes and you become a better person for not killing them. Sometimes you meet people who challenge you and you become a smarter person. And sometimes you meet people who make you forget you feel lonely and you become yourself again. I feel so very, very grateful for a certain couple of ladies who have become my partners in crime and food. Friends that not only literally shower me in glitter like possessed fairies, but bring me out of my reclusiveness and remind me what its like to be alive in a wonderful city and make me feel sparkly. Friends who make sure I eat a polish hot dog at 2 am. Friends whose energy is contagious. Friends who still want to hang out with me after I do my Professor Longarms walk down a very public boulevard. Thank you.

2. Gorilla Tango. They gave me my first performance opportunity and have kept me performing for almost 150 performances in my first year. Every weekend I get the honor of making a new set of people laugh and become a better performer. Where else do you get to dance around in sparkly underpants, do comedic stripteases to everything from "Holding out for a Hero" to the Doctor Who theme to "Highway to Hell," and hang out with some of the funniest people in Chicago? Thank you.

3. My family. This seems pretty cliche, but it's just truth. Honestly, if it weren't for my mother's intense love and strength there is a distinct possibility I would not be alive. I've done some terrible things and I've done many terrible things to myself. And the part of my family that I consider my true family have stood by my hospital beds, they've sat on couches and held me, they've supported me when I couldn't support myself, and their pride in my current pursuits is something I often forget. My family kicks ass. Thank you.

4. Doctors and medical staff who have had mercy on an uninsured me. I have recently been able to get back on medication for my anxiety and depression due to certain medical facilities who make treatment affordable. They have also been very kind and have gone out of their way to speak with me. Thank you.

5. Nice people. Sometimes people do things for you that are unexpected but remind you that there is still quite a bit of good out there. Customers who have given me cards, sang to me, and left candy at my station. The two homeless guys that always compliment me every time I walk to the theatre. People on the bus that pick up dropped items. Fans who go out of their way to say they enjoyed a show. The bank teller that genuinely wishes me a good day and lets me pick out the good candy from the bowl. Thank you.

6. Random awesome things. Yusho gin and tonics, bacon, warm socks, Netflix, dogs, cheese, Gaslight Coffee and coffee in general, music, laughter, Guinness, Guinness (the beer), necklaces with birds on them, oatmeal cookies, the VFW, the tamale guy, hand sanitizer, books, puns, parks, hoodies, and I'm sure I'm forgetting several things... Thank you.

Sunday Evening Lethargy

2012-09-23T18:46:00.001-07:00

I spent the majority of today being useless. Sure, I tidied up my room, went for a jog, drank coffee, and even ordered my first winter thermal t-shirt online; but after that I lost motivation and fell asleep for several hours. I had every intention of venturing out and finding an aspect of the city to feel like home to me.

After living in Chicago for just over a year; I'm still attempting to figure out what constitutes feeling "at home." I have been missing my family and friends rather horrendously of late; despite never truly feeling content to just be home in my hometown. I'm starting to realize physical location might not be my issue. Moving halfway across the country was never supposed to be a cure-all. I knew that. I also know I have a tendency to live in the past. And on my jog through Palmer Park on an almost perfect fall morning, I thought about moving. Not necessarily moving home, just moving on.

When I get depressed, I often revert to the self-destructive coping mechanisms I adopted as a kid. And I wake up feeling like that seventeen year old girl in the hospital. Lots of bright white lights, a numbness in the chest, the hollow howl of your heart when you realize you weren't able to let loose your grip on that which is holding you down. Maybe the fatigues of memories mellowed by years of starvation, alcohol, and sleeping aren't necessarily for wearing anymore. Maybe they're meant for packing away neatly; only to serve as reminders of why you're lucky - taking up minimal space until you figure out how to haul them to a side street and watch them being tossed with everyone else's emotional excess.

I don't feel so different anymore as I've encountered more and more people with similar scars. But I still have that sense of feeling alone, which I admit is self-inflicted. And the older I get, the more I'd like to lose that feeling. And in order to do that, I have to decide the best way for me to move on. That starts with remembering that at this point in my life - no one hurts me but me. No pawning off of pain, no making someone else responsible. I make a shitty decision, then I've made that shitty decision. I don't have to be forever seventeen and half-dead; I never have to be anywhere I don't want to be.

Because even the littlest birds were meant to fly.

The Red Flag Article

2012-09-03T17:48:00.000-07:00

I'm not much of a dater. In fact, I'm rather wretched at it. But seeing as I'm thirty and not wanting to die alone licking burned cheese off a Lean Cuisine watching "Battlestar Galactica" - I'm making a concerted effort to come across as more "available." And I've got to admit, there are some red flags that I'm just now learning are a testament to whether a guy is going to be a burlap sack full of donkey cocks or a genuinely decent human being. I feel like I should share what I've picked up on -

1. Do not go out with a man who uses emoticons. A semicolon followed by half a paranthesis does not make whatever you just texted more mischievous.

2. Cut it short if he opens with how much he likes the Grateful Dead.

3. I'm done with guys who still own and wear Vans. Get Converse like all the other hipsters out there. Vans make you look like a mental patient and their music tour line-up reads like highlights from a high school journal.

4. Guys who are willing to watch you consume ten percent of your body weight in red meat and/or bacon without being repulsed are awesome. If they encourage it - make sure you get their number.

5. Men who order "bombs" of any kind or anything with the word "panty" in it at a bar - go ahead and leave (with your Mace ready) ladies.

6. Make sure he's laughing because he finds you funny; not because he doesn't know what the word "twat" means.

7. Good banter is hard to find. Relish in it if it happens along.

8. Genuine gentlemen don't make you feel like they are doing you a favor by spending an evening with you. Frack that. Time is valuable, and if you think halfway through the date that your Saturday evening would be better spent eating Lucky Charms in your pajamas and listening to Social Distortion - it probably would be.

9. If there isn't at least one bookshelf (with books) in his apartment - just say, "No."

10. Nice guys will ask you how you are after your dog dies. They will also tell you to have a good week, send you funny pictures to cheer you up, and smile at your shitty jokes then call you out on them.

Little Storms

2012-08-19T18:34:00.001-07:00

I could start this post with what a shitstorm the past couple of weeks have felt like. Between the overtime, hitting the wall at work, losing a dog that had been a huge part of my heart for many years, rehearsing and performing, throwing out my upper back - I got pretty tired. And depressed. I wanted nothing more than to go home, sit on my mother's couch with a glass of red wine, cry, and fall asleep knowing the coffee would already be made when I woke up. But it's not really a shitstorm at all. I have a job, I was forced to tell my employer how exhausted I was and stand up for myself a bit, I'm a better person for loving my dog as much as I do, I still get a regular opportunity to do the one thing that makes me truly peaceful, and I got my back fixed in two trips to the chiropractor. Having coped with depression and anxiety for over half my life - I know this feeling of failure and loneliness will eventually fade if I get off my ass and make the necessary changes. I've been so terrified that I will end up like my biological father recently that I've forgotten how far I have actually travelled. We all feel pain. But we choose whether we push that pain onto others. Either take a deep breath, change what hurts - or your misery will affect those around you. I have promised myself I will not permeate sadness. I have promised myself I will make at least one person laugh every day. I have promised myself to keep trying to figure it out.

On Gaining Weight

2012-07-15T18:32:00.000-07:00

Recently I went to the doctor's office where I was, by standard procedure - weighed. And I've spent the week beating myself over a number. A number I haven't heard in awhile. In other words (gasp) - I've gained a few. Now the rational side of me knows this gain isn't even perceptible to those around me and is healthy; but the 17 year old Rebecca sees this as a sign of failure. I haven't even had regular access to a scale in over ten years for this very reason. It's been awhile since I've truly restricted, even when I've gone through my ruts this past year - I kept eating. This is the first time in my life that has ever happened. And I'm completely frightened by the prospect of having beaten the anorexic side of me. I had become so accustom to being depressed and looking at a sunken face. And feeling better when my hands would shake with physical weakness. Anorexia is a strange disease. It's like any addictive disorder. It has a calming effect. The act of disappearing becomes a worn blanket fort for anyone who uses it as a self-defense mechanism. And I don't have my fort anymore. I suppose I pulled the blankets down; and now I'm just looking at them. On the floor. They appear faded, well-loved, and useless against outside forces. My gut reaction earlier this week was to restrict, and honestly part of me desperately still wants to take the rough past couple of weeks and numb it with the feeling of starvation. But I'm tired of my blanket fort. Afraid of hiding in it. I have to remember I'm 30 now, not 17. I have no reason to be frightened now. No reason to make myself ugly. No reason to be affectless. I know this uncomfortable feeling of being at a slightly different weight will pass. Just like when I would first gain weight back after a hospitilazion. You live with it and see that you are okay. It won't kill me. It won't make me any less funny. It won't make my friends and family love me less. It won't mean I'm weak. In fact, it might just mean I'm making progress instead of just moving...

A Walk in the Park

2012-07-04T18:38:00.000-07:00

I'm approaching celebrating my one year anniversary of moving to Chicago and I almost didn't make it. With an enormous amount of homesickness, my anxiety and depression nearly bested me in a decision to return to Louisiana. I wanted to go home. I wanted so badly to be rescued again. I wanted to return to being numb. It's just easier to stop feeling sometimes. Let someone else tell you they're sorry for you. It becomes simpler to resort to addictive behaviors and say it's excusable because you survived a shitty childhood. Sometimes it feels the older I get, the less I understand my life up until New Year's Eve 1999. Seventeen years and the only way I had figured to quiet my brain after years of starvation was to run away and overdose. I let someone save me that night. I remember the pill bottles and the telephone in my bedroom. I recall my hand on the receiver, the cool feel of plastic on my cheek, and spitting out the words. I remember freaking out when I thought - "what if one day you could feel something again, what if you miss out on being happy, what if you can accomplish something bigger than yourself?" I had been rescued before on occassion when my weight would get too low. I had developed a right efficient system of recovery into relapse that allowed me room for hope, and space for denial. But I always knew someone else would swoop in and I could cease trying too hard for awhile. I relished being the sick little girl, the malfunctioning smart girl, the quiet affectless girl. Sometimes I want to be her again. Because it is easier to be her. When I felt myself want to go home, I felt myself go back to that place of emotional dismissal. But I will not choose the easier route this time. It's about discovering strength. Knowing I can live my life without a safety net, knowing I can feel again and those feelings sometimes include less than desirable days. I have much to be thankful for, even more to be humbled by, and a healthier frame to carry me through. Today I walked through Palmer Park and cried. Parks are good for walking aimlessly and remembering there is more life than just your own. Today was just a bad day. But it doesn't need to be fixed by anyone other than myself. I have bigger plans for tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that...

No Retreat, No Surrender

2012-05-27T20:57:00.000-07:00

Well, it's been a "long" week. And it's caught up with me. As I sit here with my glass of red wine, listening to a mix of music I compiled over a year ago - I'm being still. Except for the striking of keys. I felt like it was time to write again. I quit one day job and am waiting to start a new one - which is equally stressful and exciting. Attempting to put myself in the best position I can to remain in Chicago became an evident need when I realized I was returning to life in the "safe rut." For those who don't know, the "safe rut" is what I do when I withdraw. A safety measure of sorts. I've been lucky in that I haven't returned to the food restriction rut that often goes along with withdrawing, which means I've reached a level of actual recovery. This makes me feel kind of proud. Scared, but proud. Letting go of past coping mechanisms is fucking intimidating. So is realizing you need to let some things go, even if that means losing part of a serrated exterior. I also need to return to actively improving myself. I started full force a year ago when I decided to move. I left my family, my friends - in an effort to support myself, to grow up, to fight on my own, to perform again. And I've been homesick, and homesick for the familiarity of having somewhere to crash and fail. I think we all need to have that place or person we can break in front of and throw our fists about and generally splash about in our discomfort. I haven't found that here. And that's been the most difficult part of leaving home. It's even made me consider going back. But I'm not ready to retreat. I think I just need to start being a bit more social, a bit more motivated, and a bit nicer to those who have shown me kindness. So as my lease draws to a close, I will find a new place in the city to reside. I will take my first year in the city as a year of "training," a year of letting go. Year two will find me feistier, but friendlier; motivated and focused - healthier and forgiveness-seeking. Cheers, y'all.

2012-05-06T18:47:00.001-07:00

Photo credit - K Leo. I haven't written in awhile. You're probably all curious as to what the little girl in the big city has discovered during the past two months. And in all honesty - I'm not sure I've grown up as much as would warrant a blog entry. Or maybe I hust haven't taken the time to think about what I've learned. It's much like the picture - I feel like I'm moving forward, but I'm still looking down. I work towards moving on every day. But somedays (especially the past couple of weeks)- I've just wanted to sit in my past. And that sucks. I don't know what puts me there; or what triggers me to start thinking I'm worthless and that I should just give up again. But ultimately I know - 1. I will never bring myself back to the point of hospitalization - I've come too far and I like being able to jump again. 2. I am responsible for how I feel about myself. No one else controls my self-confidence. 3. I make the rules now. I never have to stay somewhere I'm not happy. And with that, I'll get over whatever it is making me feel less than the punkster I've grown to be. I've lived a long time with depression, anorexia, and at times debilitating anxiety. But that's just it - I've lived. I'm still learning to cope, and most likely will always be learning new ways to deal. I know I can't withdraw or quit. I get a little too excited to see where I'll be in another year when I start thinking about what I've done since leaving home. And that's me looking forward. So, maybe what I'm trying to say is - while I've recently felt lethargic and anxious - it's nice to know that when I have these bouts I will still manage to come out on top. There's too much cool shit out there, y'all. Too many amazing people to meet. Too many opportunities left. Too much passion left. Too much for me not to look up next time I jump.

On Motivation

2012-03-04T19:00:00.000-08:00

Last month was eating disorder awareness month. I watched inspirational videos, read postings, even briefly watched bits of the Nova special filmed over twelve years ago just to remind myself that I'm no longer a face on an eating disorder documentary. My struggle with food has been a sixteen year battle. It's ranged from a control mechanism to a coping mechanism to an addiction to a superiority/inferiority complex. And it's never been about my weight.

Fortunately, I know when I'm letting my disordered eating tendencies compensate for dealing with day to day issues. I've stopped skipping meals because I had a shitty day, I've stopped restricting because I fucked something up, I've stopped seeing how long I could feel hungry just so I could feel something other than being hurt. And that in itself has been a trial. Sometimes I feel as if I don't deserve to be healthy, that I'm a better person when I'm withering. This comes from having put on a little weight. Muscle, actually. But muscle equals motivation. Eating healthy equals energy to accomplish goals I spent years missing out on. I finally feel as if I'm starting to move forward, and I know that regressing is not an option. I know that if I fall again, my odds of getting back up as the Lucky Girl are slim.

And I get tired. And I often feel that retreating back to silence and starvation would just be easier. I could shut down and let someone else do the work - save me. But I've lost the desire to be saved by anyone other than myself. I've received so much love and support, even when I fought it - it was still given to me. I lashed out at many people who tried to help me. I was a squawking, trembling mess of a girl for a long time. And I was angry at anyone who dared try to change that about me.

Moving to Chicago was like hitting the reset button. I'm starting to see a little closure on certain elements of my past. I've stopped wanting to hate myself. I've stopped wanting to wake up hurt. I've stopped a lot of things. I know that I will most likely have food hang-ups for the rest of my life. As long as I keep my head up, keep dissolving my past, keep pushing myself to be better - those hang-ups will become negligible. Because I'm finally motivated to be bigger than myself.

I write this blog to share. I also write to push myself. Because we all know that if it's on the internet, it's got to be true. Right?

On Turning Thirty

2012-02-20T18:58:00.000-08:00

Thirty.

No meltdown. No panic. Or thoughts of becoming "old." It's actually been a celebration. Maybe it's because I'm more okay with where I am than I have ever been; or perhaps it's just that I'm realizing my worth isn't related to my age or weight. Those numbers are starting to become inconsequential.

It's almost as if I'm growing up and living the childhood I didn't have concurrently. In thirty years I've learned the following (in no particular order):

1. I'm happiest in a theatre. And I brag on Gorilla Tango quite a bit, but I am still amazed (after six months) at how much I love being a Geek. It's the greatest little theatre in Chicago I could have possibly weaseled my way into. And as tired as I sometimes get - it is my happy place. Period.

2. I know so many phenomenal people. And those people outweigh the bad. I can't let one horrible individual ruin the love and respect I get from others.

3. Only I can move myself forward. Staying stagnant breeds self-loathing. No one is responsible for making me happy other than me.

4. If it hurts - stop. This is true on several levels. Whether I'm dancing or whether I'm with a person - if it is painful, just stop. Avoid the injury early.

5. I like being a little Spitfire.

6. If I drink coffee after 5pm, I will be awake until 2am.

So those are my turning thirty revelations. It's been a grand birthday and I'm glad I'm wrapping it up with a post. Thanks to all of you who keep up with my shenanigans and meandering thoughts. And a friend sent me this quote today from Neil Gaiman - "To absent friends, lost loves, old gods, and the season of mists; and may each and every one of us always give the devil his due." I think that about sums it up...

Home

2012-02-05T19:44:00.000-08:00

I've now been a Chicago resident for six months. And I've been welcomed by both the people and the weather (so far). It's finally beginning to feel like my new "home." But that doesn't mean I haven't been homesick as hell. I really didn't anticipate just how much I would miss my friends and family when I pulled out of Ruston, Louisiana.

The one drawback to living in a city this size is that no one knocks on my door every day to talk music, drop off a pound of bacon, or split a bottle of wine. I miss that. I knew the greatest band of assholes in my little town and life without their presence has been trying. They also knew it was time for me to leave and encouraged me to go. In fact, a few of them actually kicked me out. I had sat in my own lethargy long enough and begun wasting away again. And for that, I am grateful. I shouldn't even be sad I suppose - I'm in a much better place physically, emotionally, and career-wise. But I'd sell my Joe Strummer t-shirt to have school night/pint night back or another sushi/Sundown Saturday.

What does this mean? Nothing, really. Chicago has won me over. I will stay here indefinitely. But distance makes me appreciate the people who supported me, laughed with me, smacked me when I needed it, and stayed with me when I couldn't be alone. It's just made me think about how I define being "home."

I happen to perform with some of the most phenomenally talented and downright nicest people in Chicago. And they've seen me very tired and downtrodden this week, and if it weren't for the kindness of several Geek Girls I would be a hot mess. The theatre is my home. Even when I'm frustrated, depressed, functioning on too little sleep, and missing my dog - being back onstage and working alongside so much talent reminds me that I made the right decision. As chintzy as it sounds, I'm always happiest in a theatre.

Now I just have to learn how to deal with my homesickness for those I had to leave, and remind myself that my new home is where I've always needed to be.

Burlesque Bit...

2012-01-15T22:03:00.000-08:00

I moved to Chicago five months ago. I settled into my snug shoebox and fell in love with Gorilla Tango Burlesque. All I knew when I got here was that I had to return to performing. And I stumbled upon an audition notice for an Indiana Jones burlesque show. Unbeknownst to me, that audition and subsequent casting and rehearsal process would benefit me more than just providing me an opportunity to perform.

I am a trained actor, dancer, combatant, and vocalist to some degree. I have also struggled with an eating disorder for fifteen years. So delving into the world of burlesque seemed an odd route to attempt. But after watching my first burlesque show, "Fellowship of the Boobs," I was enamored at the confidence and empowerment that radiated from the performers. It was clever, funny; and while boobs made many an appearance - the sexiest thing was the talent and confidence. I realized it wasn't about physical perfection or having the perfect set of ta-ta's. It was about what you did with them. And I wanted in on that.

I'm still learning to look in the mirror and see talent, not a body. What Gorilla Tango Burlesque shows epitomize are beautiful, confident women whose sexiness is exuded through their skills; not just their bodies. It's character, it's dance, it's humor - all with shimmying boobs.

And while I'm starting to flex my performing muscles again, I'm also developing a desire to take better care of myself. I want the energy to perform, to scale doorframes, to stretch - I want to eat better so I can be a better performer. It's not about restricting what I eat to fit into some ideal; it's about obtaining the actual muscle strength to last through performances and give the audience the show they deserve.

I'm proud to work with a company that promotes smart, sexy comedy. And I'm honored every single time I walk into that theatre and I am give the opportunity to do what I love with a remarkable cast and crew. That's my inspiration. And I'm thankful every time I walk on that stage and I have the strength to dance. That's my blessing. And I'm a lucky girl to know when to claw back the bullshit and eat a peanut butter sandwich. That's my resolution.

New Year, New Lucky Girl

2011-12-29T20:39:00.000-08:00

I've never been one for New Year's resolutions. But with 2012 rapidly approaching and having started over in a new city, I figure it might behoove me to at least reflect on the past year and maybe set a goal or two.

2011 was a strange, stressful, adventurous, and revelation-filled year. It saw a break down, an intervention, a move to Chicago, and many new opportunities. And it's over. 2011 also saw me finally beginning to realize that my life isn't defined by what was taken from me; rather it revolves around those who give me more than I possibly deserve.

I left my hometown, my friends, my past, my safety net that also strangled me. I had fancied myself a hardass, a serrated soul with a penchant for social disregard. My low points had become a source of pride. I was the bluntforce barfly and I had ruled an insignificant kingdom of self-deprecation. And it was time to leave who I had become. My friends saw it before I did. And there are two friends whom I don't even know how to thank for sitting me down and verbally backhanding me back into reality.

So I moved to Chicago. And I began to see that my Lucky Girl status went far beyond the fact that I survived an eating disorder and various addictive behaviors. Honestly, I know the best people. I have family and friends that stuck with me when I was nothing more than a skinny shell. I have met people who have given me strength, laughs, and the means to keep going in a new environment. I have learned I have people in my life who fight for me harder than I fight for myself sometimes. And that means as shitastic as the world gets sometimes, I am never helpless.

So what does all of this mean for 2012? I suppose it gives me a reason to try to better myself. And in the new year (with the ominous 30th birthday in less than two months) I will hold myself responsible for accomplishing the following:

1. Remind myself of what I have instead of dwelling on what I've lost.
2. Quit quarantining myself from life when I don't want to deal with it.
3. Learn to persevere with grace.
4. Let some shit go. Whether it's injuries from childhood, rejection, or hurtful comments - holding onto it isn't worth the sleeplessness.
5. Realize that I've come an effing long way and it's okay to do things in my own time.
6. Drink more water.

A new year should be an opportunity to improve, move forward. Recognize your strengths, appreciate what you have, learn how to deal with the horseshit - that's really all you can do. I'll leave this post with my favorite quote from Christopher Moore (fantastic author, you should read him)-

“Don't drive drunk. Ever. Don't shag anyone you don't like, or who doesn't like you. Get a look at how people live in a place where you don't. Suffering is over-rated, don't pursue it. Ask for help when you need it, don't when you don't, and learn to recognize the difference. Don't confuse movement and progress. Be kind. Be forgiving. Pay attention.”

What I Learned Today

2011-12-15T19:34:00.000-08:00

It's been a strange day. Riddled with hope, early Christmas presents, anticipation, realization, and tears - today has kicked my ass.

And here's what I learned today (it's been a long 24 hours y'all):

1. It sucks to be a jerk. Why some people make a regular practice out of it, I'll never understand. Sometimes we have to hurt those we care about in anticipation of a better eventual outcome. Because lying to yourself is just as bad as lying to someone else.

2. It sucks to be on the receiving end of a jerk. But after thinking about number one, I realized some people I thought were jerks - well, they most likely weren't. They were just pulling a number one. However, my list of actual jackasses is still intact.

3. Things will not always happen on my desired timeline. I'll admit that I lack patience. I worry, I stress, I crave instant answers to uncertainties. But waiting is not a reason to lose hope. I can either keep my chin up, or be swallowed by the doubt. And doubt and fear have nearly ruined me before; I refuse to go back.

4. I miss Guinness (the canine) really, really badly. Living alone is more challenging than I thought without him.

5. I have a father. It took me long enough to realize "father" is not a biological term. There's nothing like coming home after a rough day to a box full of Christmas presents waiting in the lobby of your apartment. A box full of theatre supplies and chocolate. And Tom Waits posters. My dad is the shit. The Shit.

6. Life is going to be a complete bastard sometimes. But it's a complete bastard to everyone at moments. It's a good thing I have no qualms about kicking a bastard in the trachea and walking away.

7. This Christmas is going to be difficult. I will be alone. But it's my favorite time of the year, so I'll put on my best sweater and go eat Chinese, watch a movie, and find an open bar. Then I will write about it. And it will be epic.

8. Never trust Google maps.

That last one isn't particularly meaningful, it's just fact.

Beauty

2011-12-06T22:27:00.000-08:00

Today as I was getting my Facebook fix, I came across a site speaking out against the media's portrayal of women. Photoshopped images, completely flawless skin, perfect bodies... Images women strive for, but can never possibly attain. I always look at these sites, watch the clips, and reevaluate where I am.

I was diagnosed with anorexia nervosa at the age of fifteen. It was the fall of 1997. Eating disorders were just beginning to get recognition as an actual illness that needed to be addressed. People often saw an eating disorder as a "right of passage," a sickness of vanity, a "diet" gone wrong. My illness actually did not form from seeing images of perfection, or wanting to be thin. I stopped eating as self-defense, to gain the upperhand where I could. And I recovered. For the most part. But like any addictive disorder - you never lose it completely.

Now that I'm no longer on the defensive, my struggle with self-image is sometimes fueled by the beauty I see portrayed and praised. My struggle is internal, but I know how much of an impact media wields over people. I've heard so many women complain about their bodies, I've seen young girls suck in their stomachs, listened to people discussing unhealthy attempts to lose weight. And I know - this is how it can start for someone. And once you develop an eating disorder; that's it. It stays beside you like an unwanted acquaintance. You learn to subdue it, you learn to pretend it's not there. So, it breaks my heart to know that something as simple as an advertisement, a retouched photo, can send someone down a similar path as mine. And I wish there was something more beautiful, more meaningful to say; but all there is that beauty can never be found in a mirror, in an image - it is what we share with others. Beauty is not a physical representation. Beauty is what we do with what we are given.

You can't airbrush a personality. You can't retouch humanity. You can't Photoshop grace. The media gives us illusions of physical perfection, that is all. They sell us an "image." I suppose what I'm trying to get at is this - the less we focus on physical perfection, the more beauty we will see. Advertising and media aren't likely to change, I think we just need to change the way in which they are viewed. The more unrealistic and superficial we know them to be, the less we will strive to attain such a definition of "beauty."

Ramblings

2011-12-01T20:03:00.000-08:00

Sometimes it's just difficult to put words on a page. It's one of those nights where my brain has completely unhinged itself and my thoughts are sounding like a drunken gas station loiterer mumbling. Perhaps it's stress from the lack of a steady day job, weird realizations I've made, lack of sleep, or being taken off guard by people's extreme generosity - but it's been hard to write lately. But I want to write, because I know the words are neatly packed away in my psyche somewhere. I just have to figure out what needs to be said first. Which means this post might be a bit rambl-y and inspired by a myriad of events.

Sometimes I worry that my posts are overly honest. I put a lot out there. But I also keep quite a bit packed away. I'll never say it all. I'll probably never write it all. But after being so silent, so reserved, so numb for such an incredible length of time; it was time to put shit on the table. And I've always written my thoughts better than I could ever state them out loud. I let other people read them for two reasons: first, it forces me to deal and better myself; second - my struggles resonate with others. The feedback I have gotten from individuals with either similar back stories, or those who just enjoy reading my blog has been more rewarding than I anticipated. My intentions when I post are to discover something within myself and spark the reader to their own cathartic event; whatever that may be.

I discovered the kind of coincidence this week that makes you look skyward and say, "seriously?" I won't explain said coincidence, but it was enough to freak me out sufficiently. I don't know how much I believe in fate, destiny, blah, blah; but sometimes something happens or dawns upon you that makes you think about kismet (not the musical). I do think we all meet certain people for a reason. Relationships; however fleeting, remain intact in some form in each person's memory. And as hard as we may try to forget certain encounters, scars and symbols remain. And the only vaguely intelligent truth I can glean from that is - never underestimate even the briefest of relationships; sometimes the quickest heartache onset is the most beneficial.

I listened to gypsy guitar jazz last night and smiled.

A Little Thanksgiving

2011-11-24T22:33:00.000-08:00

It's the holidays, which always makes me a bit sentimental. Perhaps it's because I miss certain faces from back home, or how much I'm beginning to realize just how long I had been living in embittered victim mode. But as I sit here, next to my Charlie Brown Christmas tree and unable to sleep, I know that I am still a Lucky Girl. And for the longest time (I'm talking decades)- I let one man terrorize my perception on every person and every situation.

I was for so long under the impression that he killed whatever was loveable in me. My father left me a broken shell of a girl - ugly, torn, refuse. And I have been helplessly holding hostage this notion that all I could ever be was what he left me. I put myself out there with the serrated edges somewhat exposed so no one could shatter me further. And then it occurred to me that for all these years I had been giving him power. It was actually a strange realization. Listening to a stand-up comedian one night discussing women with father issues, I no longer wanted to be the subject of that joke. I thought, "Oh shit. My self-esteem is at the level of being so pathetic it has become comedic fodder."

But I can't blame my father anymore. I'm no longer twelve. I haven't even seen him in nine years. It's time to let the fog of the past go; and build my self-worth on what I've accomplished, the family I have that loves me, my incredible friends who put up with me - breathe life back into myself. I look at my tattoo as a reminder that I never have to be somewhere I don't want to be. I may be small, but I cannot be contained.

This Thanksgiving, I am grateful for finally starting to grow the fuck up and learning to be a stronger person. As I go into the holiday season, I will remind myself daily that I am lucky to have a family that supports me, old friends who continue to make me smile, new friends who have welcomed me to the wonderful city of Chicago, and a chance to start over.

Risque Business

2011-11-06T19:31:00.000-08:00

Performing burlesque is the mutt's nuts (thanks for that phrase, Christopher Moore). Here are just a few reasons I love what I do:

1. Every weekend I become highly flammable. Between the Aquanet, spray on pantyhose, and "adhesives" - no one should light a match within twenty feet of my person.

2. I love to dance. I love to dance in my undies even more. I love to dance in my undies as part of my job a ridiculous amount. I'm a lucky lady.

3. I found glitter in my coffee the other morning.

4. It inspires me to find new ways to move. I forgot for awhile what it was like to push myself physically to find characterization, intriguing body shapes, rediscover flexibility.

5. Every show is an adventure. Will my pastie stay on tonight? Oh shit, I thought I had another 8-count to get my shirt tied. Where's my bra for the next number? Why is this audience member not pulling my tail?

6. I couldn't ask for a more talented, beautiful, fun-loving group of people to work with and for.

7. Shimmying in a dancer's thong and pasties is a pretty rockin' adrenaline rush.

8. It's an amazing workout. I love a performance that requires stretching, water bottle, and post-show peanut butter sandwich.

9. I'm effing Slightly Spitfire. I named myself after a Gaslight Anthem lyric and World War II aircraft. I've embraced my not-so-inner geek.

10. Burlesque is not only entertainment, but empowerment. The shows I've seen and the ones I'm involved with inspire confidence. It's sexy. It's fun. It's spectacle. If it doesn't make your day, then you might be dead inside.

I can't believe I'm fortunate enough to be a part of Gorilla Tango Burlesque. I know how incredibly lucky I am to be able to say I love this job. Now, go see some burlesque. See what all the fuss is about.

And This Is Why I'm Single

2011-11-01T19:47:00.000-07:00

Dating.

I've never really done it. I'm not good at it. And sometimes I don't even realize when I'm on a date until the guy has to point it out. Yeah, that's happened.

-You did know this was a date?
-No. I thought it was dinner. And cookies. And "cookies" isn't code for anything other than cookies. I really like cookies.

Even I miss my own dating experiences. I could piss and beleaguer about my lack of luck in the department of love, but that's been done (by yours truly after a couple of glasses of red wine). Instead I thought it might be more enjoyable to share my awkwardness and generalizations on the opposite sex in different circumstances. Or what I like to call, "And this is why I'm single."

1. I'll start with the slightly inebriated guy who stopped me as I was walking to the grocery store this weekend.

-(Inebriated, yet attractive guy): Let's talk about these bags you've got. What are they about?
- I'm going grocery shopping.
- Oh. You're all green and shit... and I'm just that drunk asshole on a corner in Chicago.
- No. You're fine.
- I'm Dave.
- Rebecca.
(I continue on my merry way as I hear Dave as he exits into the Dairy Queen, something close to)
- I'd like to get into those bags.
(I poke my head around the corner because I'm neither deaf, nor drunk)
- What'd you say?
- Nothing. I just think you're really cute.
- Well, thank you.

I was actually highly flattered by this encounter. (And this is why I'm single).

2. I despise silence between two people unless I'm angry. My inability to cope with awkward silences with men I like lead to awkward phrases such as, but not limited to:

- I have had sooooo much caffeine.
- I have that dude's shoes. I really like sneakers.
- I dance in my skivvies on Friday nights. It's my job.
- Guinness. It's my favorite. It's like a liquid potato.
- My back up plan is to marry Elijah Wood and move to Hobbitton.

Ladies, all of these phrases are turn-offs. Even the third one. (And this is why I'm single).

3. One time I ran into a man I had a sizeable crush on at a bar, and he shook my arm. That's right, my arm - like it was a Magic 8 ball. It lasted twenty seconds, I said nothing while staring at him, and promptly went home.

(And this is why I'm single).

4. I have, on multiple occasions, been caught dancing with an inanimate object. I've also been busted playing in cardboard boxes, seeing if I could fit into certain tight spaces, smacking my own behind and saying, "good game Taylor."

(And this is why I'm single).

5. I gave my number to a guy. After (*cough*) beers, I'm not sure it was mine.

(And this is why I'm single).

And after reviewing this list (knowing I could easily list fifty things without stopping); I'm not disheartened. I realize my life is full of amusing qualities that keep me from jabbing coffee stirrers into my eyeballs on a daily basis. I say weird shit. I maintain eye contact. I go out alone. Is this why I'm single? Hell if I know, but it's kind of fun figuring it out.

On Weeping

2011-10-30T20:21:00.000-07:00

I moved to Chicago with the intention of starting over. Wiping off the cliched slate and attempting to move forward instead of in circles - it's a hell of a lot harder than I originally envisioned. I naively thought the move itself would remove my past, quell my defenses, and generally make me better. And while I know I am in a better place, feeling safer than I ever have; I realize I still have to deal with this shit. Distance is not my savior. Performing again on a regular basis does not redeem my personality. Finding a new home does not make every last nightmare evaporate. But I am dealing with my life. Finally. When you leave your home, leave your family, your best friends -you are forced to sit with yourself and cope.

Admittedly, I'm not one who cries. But I've wept more since I've arrived in Chicago than I have in years. And we're talking straight up wailing, heaving on the floor style weeping. And for awhile, I thought this meant I was weak and still stagnant. But then the realization trickled over the course of technical rehearsal week and opening night at the theatre - it's not weakness, it's just living. And I have been numb for a very, very long time. I'm no longer somewhere where someone can swoop in and pick me up off the floor. I have to find the strength in my hands again, push my pale face away from the cool of the linoleum and keep going.

The fatigue of fighting to gain self-confidence and being okay with what I see in the mirror is wearing, but I am not lost anymore. I am honestly coming to grips with how incredibly lucky I have been. I am starting to see what I have instead of what was taken from me. It's looking at the possibilities that is starting to keep me sane.

So I am starting over knowing that I still have work to do. But I am finding strength in what lies ahead of me, instead of trying to garner my courage from the fight of my past. At some point it will all become moot and I will only be myself in the present. And that's all anyone needs.

Boobs and Birds

2011-10-19T21:53:00.000-07:00

It's getting close to the opening night of Temple of Boobs. I have done many a show that I've loved. But Temple of Boobs has become a show that I am both proud of and grateful for it's personal impact. Aside from being my first Chicago gig, it has started to give me a level of confidence I wasn't expecting. I have always had a wretched sense of self-esteem and skewed vision of my capabilities. Growing up as I did, developing and surviving with multiple addictive behaviors, and hitting a mental concrete floor on numerous occasions - I became abrasive, inexcusably blunt, and ugly. My past was my excuse for my behavior - I deserved to be an asshole and I deserved to do whatever I pleased with my own body.

Now, at almost thirty years of age I am learning how to be okay. Being with Geek Girl Burlesque is the first time I've had to be okay with my body; since I get down to only the essentials while I dance. Sure, it's a physical hurdle my formerly anorexic self is proud to have surpassed. But it has really become more about letting go of the bullshit I've clung to for all these years. I don't have to be afraid to the point where I am on a constant defensive; and I have a reminder that I never have to be in a place that I can't leave.

Coming to Chicago, being in Temple of Boobs - has begun stripping me of how unattractive I have felt since I was a little girl. It's not gone by any means, but the facade is cracking somewhat. I'm encouraged by the strength of my fellow Geeks, and determined to find my place while becoming the kind of person I want to be around.

My grandfather once had a sermon about always burying dead birds. And my affinity for sparrows grew out of retaining that lesson. I don't even remember why we were supposed to bury them, I just knew that even the tiniest bird deserved that much respect. And to be a bit trite, I've always felt as if I was that small, insignificant sparrow. And I'm content with that thought because they can fly. And you can see me fly (and dance) starting October 28 at Gorilla Tango.

The Smartest Idiot I Know Revised

2011-09-28T18:27:00.000-07:00

Somewhere, underneath dirty tank tops, pairs of Chucks, and copies of poetry collections I've been meaning to read, are the last remnants of my self-dignity. I've decided this is as good a time as any to pick it up off the floor, run it through the delicate cycle, and let it air dry. Granted it may not fit like it used to; but at least it'll cover the necessities. And like my favorite hoodie from high school, I'll keep wearing it till the zipper breaks and that shoestring thingie falls out.

We are all allowed periods of utter stupidity. Mine lasted many, many months after I got divorced. Like an episode of mono, my wretched bout with asininity just hung around. It's amazing how much stupidity can feel like superiority when you're at your weakest. I was sleeping with men whose intelligence level was so far below mine that I may as well have been making love to damp beach towels. The conversation would have been better anyway. I've now come to realize I was only seeking to feel a sense of normalcy and to fill a need for being desired. And on my way to this conclusion I have been down every emotional road possible. I like to think of myself as a Kia - functional, but oddly unpopular. People see a Kia trucking along and think, "Huh. Wonder
how long that thing is going to hold up; maybe I should just rear end it now and put it out of its' misery."

I know I'm a creature of comfort with a disturbing need for someone (anyone) else's approval. Learning to feel self-sufficient alone is a trying and enlightening venture. I'm beginning to wonder how many times I'm going to have to claw my way out of a trash bag before I realize that I don't need to be validated by a man. One would conclude that in twenty-nine years an individual would have "found" themselves. I don't even know where to start looking.

Here's how it works when Rebecca consorts with the opposite sex:

Say I meet a man I like. A nice man. An attractive man. A witty man. A "god help me if he likes punk rock and bacon half as much as I do" man. Like the Olympic winner I am, I manage to foul it up in a matter of weeks. My inability to maintain a sense of decorum; paired with my coarse humor and stout drinking mentality, leads to an inevitable Death Star-like explosion. Nerding out might factor in as well. It's like an out of body experience. I watch myself sabotage what might be a damn fine little fling. The whole while, I keep trying to stop myself. But to no avail, I am waving my arms like a possessed nun screaming obscenities at the more stupid side of myself.

I look back on my idiocy, and as I approach turning thirty I feel less apologetic about my personality. I effing love punk rock, I write better than I speak, I'm a recovered anorexic who loves cured meats, I like to scrap fight and get bruised up, I've got a filthy mouth and a scarred ankle. I read. A lot. Maybe if I embrace that aspect of myself more instead of trying to be something beautiful and tame; I will be less likely to feel like the bottom of a shoe after a night in a Wrigleyville bar. It sometimes seems I'm not a lady
worth keeping around to some, and that is okay. I'm beginning to understand that concept. It sucks epically, but I'm still alright. I don't starve myself anymore to make amends for what I can't be or to make myself as physically unappealing as I feel.

With these words I realize I am indeed the smartest idiot I know. I am simultaneously brilliant and utterly stupid when it comes to men. I suppose if they weren't so damned attractive I might have better luck maintaining my sensibilities.

Sometimes ... I Got Nothing

2011-09-18T20:06:00.000-07:00

It's been a week of writer's block. And a day of complete worthlessness. I listened to the strained sounds of coffee brewing, spent a grey afternoon on top of cold sheets, and kept my eyes closed for as long as possible. I attempted to hack out some poems earlier, but they all wilted on the page. I thought about posting some old pieces, but that felt too defeatist. So, these are the thoughts of the thoughtless.

I'm not really thoughtless. In fact, I have far too many items competing in my brain blurred by recent rejection of the amorous sort. It happens every time I face the self-doubt of not being what someone else wants. I have so much I want to say only to have it take the shape of heartache hangover and verbal vomit. Words attempting to capture brief and lovely moments - thinking the words on the page makes those moments real, permanent. But what I typically end up with is an abstraction of what went wrong.

I suppose if I learned to doubt myself less and discipline my writing habits more; I'd be more prolific and effectual. If I learned to not take every slight personally, I wouldn't churn out drivel such as, "unlike the descents before, this one hasn't bruised or caused a minor concussion. It has merely left me fidgeting with bits of loose gravel and pressing the rough edges into the soft spots around my knee. Envisioning the trickle of blood and consequent rust tint around a future scar."

I'm hoping after a few more rehearsals I will have new inspiration for posts. Posts about celebration of the female form, humor, shaking my "thing," and adventures at the Tango. I promise to spare you all of self-deprecatory pieces about failed dates - unless they end up being incredibly humorous. Which knowing myself, is a distinct possibility.

On Time

2011-09-07T19:30:00.000-07:00

I have always been overly obsessed with time. Even when I was a child
I could never accomplish tasks quick enough, or grow up rapidly enough
to keep pace with outside elements. I was stuck being forever too young.
I felt time had lost me and I would be continually trapped in my youth.

I remember the day time sped up.

I was fourteen. My grandmother picked me up from high school. I recall
cursing due to embarrassment around my friends. She drove a silver Thunderbird.
I got in the car. It had maroon felt seats and felt like a hearse.
The words got lost and I shut down because I knew without hearing.
They had taken my father.

And in that car ride, I saw my childhood slip away. I knew I wasn't an
adult, I was simply surfing a line between dependency and blankness. Then
the years of being a lucky girl ensued. It seemed before I could get
a breath in, I was going to college, getting married, working, playing
with my dogs, getting divorced, living alone, existing. The
days passed after that, mesmerized by prescriptions and alcohol. Somehow
thinking that was how life worked. And one day they would take me
away too.

With the prompting of those closest to me; I started emerging from living
in the bottom of an hourglass. I stopped feeling too old, like I had grown up too
quickly, missed all the opportunities of youthful endeavors, and I started moving
my ass. And with no time lost, I was in Chicago.

It has been one month.

And sometimes I still feel like I'm not moving quickly enough, accomplishing enough, or
I begin to panic about failing. Then I remember that the better part of my life is always
going to be what is ahead of me. I no longer need to measure time in years, achievements,
or the grey beneath my eyes. In fact, I don't need to measure it at all; otherwise, I forget to
live. Stop trudging through the past, cease to obsess over the future, just be here -
now.