SometimesInsanity

Do the thing that might not always seem sane. It's probably actually quite awesome.

[sometimesinsanity]

How to be perfectly unhappy.

This is another stolen post.

The Oatmeal did a lovely little cartoon based on Augusten Burroughs’ “How to live unhappily ever after.” I wanted just the words, so I copied them here.

I am not a happy person. When I tell people this, they infer that I am unhappy. They assume my status is binary: either I’m a joyous triumph, or I’m a miserable wretch. They recognize no spectrum, only two states of being: happy and unhappy. 

But I’ve never felt “happy.” I’ve felt joy. I’ve felt bliss. But those feelings are ephemeral. Being “happy” implies permanence. It implies you completed all the prerequisites. And now you get to sit atop your giant pile of happy, forever. It implies you won. You beat the end boss. You made it. You’re a triumph. You’re incredible. You’re whole. When I disparage this idea of happiness, the counter-argument is always the same: “Oh I know! It’s all about the journey.” But that’s not it, either. The conversation about “the journey” is always coupled with the idea that the journey is a joyous one, rich with smiles and fun and laughter. Also, journeys require endpoints, otherwise you’re not Frodo, you’re just a homeless guy wandering around with stolen jewelry. 

The problem with “happy” is a lot like the problem with Pluto. Several years ago, Pluto lost its designation as a planet, which caused a lot of uproar. But Pluto itself was never the problem. It’s our definition of “planet” that was the problem. “Planet” comes from a greek word, meaning “wanderer,” and was used to describe bodies that move in the sky against a fixed background of stars. It was a vague way of describing a complex thing. Does a planet move in a fixed orbit around the sun? Does it clear a path within that orbit? Does it have moons? Does it have to be a certain size? These were the questions that arose when we clarified our definition of “planet.” These were the smart questions that got Pluto downgraded. 

Pluto is no longer a planet because our definition of planet wasn’t very good. I’m not “happy” because our definition of happy isn’t very good. It’s a monochromatic word used to describe a rich, painful spectrum of human feeling. Our sense of happiness is so brittle, it can be destroyed simply by asking whether or not it exists. 

Maybe I’m just build differently. Maybe I was born anxious and angry and this is how I find peace with the universe. Maybe I truly am miserable, and everyone else is feeling something I’m not. 

Or maybe they’re all full of shit. 

It’s irrelevant. Because I’m not happy, and I don’t pretend to be. Instead, I’m busy. I’m interested. I’m fascinated. I do things that are meaningful to me, even if they don’t make me “happy.” I run. I run fifty miles at a time. I run over mountains until my toenails fall off. I run until my feet bleed and my skin burns and my bones scream. I read. I read long, complicated books about very smart things. And I read short, silly books about very stupid things. I read until their stories are more fascinating to me that the people actually around me. I work. I work for twelve hours a day. I work until I can’t think straight and I forget to feed myself and the light outside dims to a tired glow. I work until I smell weird. 

When I do these things, I’m not smiling or beaming with joy. I’m not happy. In truth, when I do these things, I’m often suffering. But I do them because I find them meaningful. I find them compelling. I do these things because I want to be tormented and challenged and interested. I want to build things, and then break them. I want to be busy and beautiful and brimming with ten-thousand moving parts. I want to hurt, so that I can heal. I’m not unhappy. I’m just busy. I’m interested. And that’s ok. 

[sometimesinsanity]

You were supposed to sing or dance while the music was being played.

The words of Alan Watts are on my mind as I try to see life as a day to day thing. A thing in which I should enjoy (or hate) everything moment to moment. As I grapple with the “journey” not going as planned, perhaps coming to terms with the fact that there is no journey. There is no destination. There is only now, and all I can do is be the best I can be, right here, right now. I cannot focus on the end, because I do not know when the end will come, or what it will look like. Forget about the end. There is no end. There is no point at which I should arrive.

Alan Watts:

The existence, the physical universe is basically playful. There is no necessity for it whatsoever. It isn’t going anywhere. That is to say, it doesn’t have some destination that it ought to arrive at. 

But it is best understood by analogy with music. Because music, as an art form, is essentially playful. We say you play the piano, you don’t work the piano. Music differs from, say, travel. Why? When you travel you are trying to get somewhere. In music though, one doesn’t make the end of a composition the point of the composition. If that were so the best conductors would be those who played fastest, and there would be composers who only wrote finales. People would go to a concert just to hear one crashing chord because that’s the end. 

Same when dancing. You don’t aim at a particular spot in the room, because that’s where you should arrive. The whole point of dancing is the dance. 

Now, but we don’t see that as something brought by our education into our everyday conduct. We’ve got a system of schooling which gives a completely different impression. It’s all graded, and what we do is we put the child into the corridor of this grade system with a kind of, “Come on kitty kitty,” and you go to kindergarten and that’s a great thing because when you finish that you’ll get into first grade. And first grade leads to second grade and so on. And you get out of grade school and go to hight school, and it’s revving up, the thing is coming, they’re you’re gonna go to college and by jove then you’re get into graduate school, and when you’re through with graduate school you go out to join the world. Then you get into some racket where you’re selling insurance, and they’ve got that quota to make, and you’re gonna make that. 

And all the time the thing is coming. It’s coming, it’s coming, that great thing. The success you’re working for. 

Then when you wake up one day when you’re about 40 years old and you say my god I’ve arrived! I’m there! And you don’t feel very different from what you’ve always felt. Look at the people who live to retire, who put those savings away. And then when they’re 65 they don’t have any energy left, they’re more or less impotent, and they go and rot in an old peoples’ senior citizens community.

Because we’ve simply cheated ourselves the whole way down the line. We thought of life by analogy with a journey, with a pilgrimage which had a serious purpose at the end. And the thing was to get to that end, success or whatever it is, or maybe heaven, after you’re dead. 

But we missed the point the whole way along. It was a musical thing, and you were supposed to sign or to dance, while the music was being played. 

[sometimesinsanity]

Game.

The Olympics are never short of inspiring to me. Watching people at the absolute top of their game is invigorating on all levels.

A radio commentator today wondered if the training required of an Olympic athlete might be taking away the “childhood” experience they would otherwise have. I laughed out loud. There’s no one correct childhood experience. If someone sees Katie Ledecky on television and wants to be just like her, and enjoys the hours they spend in the pool (much like I enjoyed all the hours I spent in the pool, though I wasn’t quite Olympic caliber), then that is their “childhood.” Very few parents are capable of forcing their children to commit hours and hours to doing something they don’t enjoy. Yes, there are a few stage moms out there who give a whole slew of parents a bad rap. But for the most part, kids who are crazy talented at something, and thus train for crazy amounts of hours, realize they’re crazy good, and do it because they love it and they want to be like that one awesome athlete they saw on television.

I realize I’m speaking purely from an American standpoint and know nothing about how other countries may or may not forcefully funnel kids into athletic training programs. But this radio commentator was also speaking purely from and American standpoint. Who does he think will entertain him in four years if we suddenly say, oh, kids shouldn’t be playing sports so often, they need to still enjoy their childhood. There certainly won’t be many Olympic athletes left in a few cycles if that’s the attitude we adopt. Yes, everything in moderation, blah blah blah.

Except not.

NOT in moderation if you want to be the BEST. Those who are the best rarely if ever practice moderation in the thing at which they excel. And they also all go on to write books and give TED talks about how they are the best because they LOVE what they do. I’d venture to say 98% of Olympic Athletes LOVE what they do. So they dedicate their childhood, their adolescence, their adulthood, to pursuing that which they love, and getting better at it every damn day.

And THIS is what’s so inspirational. A lot of these athletes only get to show off once every four years to a crowd larger than, say, 100 people watching a local race. That’s incredible. They’re pursuing this one thing that may never even happen (if you’re the third best swimmer in an event in the USA, you don’t get to go to the Olympics), and they’re pursuing it without a paycheck, without accolades, without admiration.

So, what am I doing every day to get closer to my goal/s? What am I doing, without recognition, in the quiet of my own life, to get where I want to get, be who I want to be?

It’s what you do without receiving an award that I think really defines you. It’s easy to be defined by the things for which you are recognized. And if your striving to attain your goals results in you being recognized? Awesome. But much like Olympic athletes, you might not be. Or only be once every four years. Or be one year, and then not make it the next time, and have to decide if your’e still going to keep doing that thing which you love, to which you’ve dedicated so much time, effort, sweat.

What are you doing each day to be the person you want to be?

And do you love that person?

[sometimesinsanity]

Food.

Ugh. The next thing to eventually tackle should be food. I ate three krispy kreme donuts today, because the dressing on my salad was super garlicky, and the donuts were right there, and I thought maybe they’d rid me of the garlic. So I ate three over the course of the afternoon. I don’t get full. That makes controlling what I eat difficult. Can’t have donuts around. Or really anything.

[sometimesinsanity]

Move.

I had trouble even moving in the weeks following Tommy’s death. Couldn’t get into bed, couldn’t get out of bed. It continues to this day. I couldn’t get out of bed the day after Gray died, either. It’s like I’m pulling myself through a sludge, weighed down.

I think all the good habits I want to bring back to my life have to do with moving. With doing. The main habits I want are those of fitness, regular bed and wake times, less time wasted on social media, and healthy eating. It’s obvious how moving relates to a fitness goal. The sleeping pattern relates to moving in that it requires me to move my ass out of bed in the morning. And if I do that, then I’ll actually be tired at a normal hour at night to go to bed. And that feeds into the healthy eating goal. I don’t grocery shop anymore because that means I’d have to move out of my apartment or away from my desk chair and actually do something. Instead of sitting or lying there on social media all day.

The fitness moving is starting. Yesterday I walked up and down the stairs by the beach. Today I’m going to a spin class.

Baby steps.

[sometimesinsanity]

Strive.

Today’s thoughts come courtesy of Hunter S. Thompson, and a letter he wrote to a friend before he became regarded as a prolific writer.

"As I said, to put our faith in tangible goals would seem to be, at best, unwise. So we do not strive to be firemen, we do not strive to be bankers, nor policemen, nor doctors. WE STRIVE TO BE OURSELVES.

“But don’t misunderstand me. I don’t mean that we can’t BE firemen, bankers, or doctors — but that we must make the goal conform to the individual, rather than make the individual conform to the goal. In every man, heredity and environment have combined to produce a creature of certain abilities and desires — including a deeply ingrained need to function in such a way that his life will be MEANINGFUL. A man has to BE something; he has to matter.

“As I see it then, the formula runs something like this: a man must choose a path which will let his ABILITIES function at maximum efficiency toward the gratification of his DESIRES. In doing this, he is fulfilling a need (giving himself identity by functioning in a set pattern toward a set goal), he avoids frustrating his potential (choosing a path which puts no limit on his self-development), and he avoids the terror of seeing his goal wilt or lose its charm as he draws closer to it (rather than bending himself to meet the demands of that which he seeks, he has bent his goal to conform to his own abilities and desires).

“In short, he has not dedicated his life to reaching a pre-defined goal, but he has rather chosen a way of life he KNOWS he will enjoy. The goal is absolutely secondary: it is the functioning toward the goal which is important.“

I don’t know. I just really enjoy this. And now I need to figure out how to make sense of it all and apply it to the path I’ve chosen in life. Because I’ve certainly chosen a path. I haven’t let anyone else choose for me or tell me what to do. Well, in the past I’ve fallen victim to that. It sucks, and it certainly still colors my life with some existential form of people-pleaseing PTSD. I just need to make sure that I’m letting my abilities function at maximum efficiency toward the gratification of my desires. And that I’m constantly striving to be mySELF.

[sometimesinsanity]

Joy.

I really enjoy seeing people who really enjoy what they are doing. My current example is the Olympics, specifically Gymnastics. I’ve really enjoyed watching both American teams compete, because 90% of the time, there are smiles and hugs and fist pumps and excitement. Particularly with the men. While the team final didn’t go so well for them, the team qualifying was a joy to watch! They were all so happy! In contrast, teams from other countries were all business. I can’t help but think the enjoyment that was evident on the faces of the American men helped them earn a spot in the finals. Laurie Hernandez has that same ever-present enjoyment. Sure she gets her serious game face on, the most adorable serious game face out there, but then after each routine there’s a pep in her step, a pure joy that she’s at the Olympics, competing in Gymnastics.

I know, I know, it’s easier to be joyful about what you’re doing when you’re the best. It’s more difficult to be joyful when life is a struggle, when you’re not the best, when your team isn’t qualifying for the finals. But this just stuck out to me in watching this group of athletes that is so evenly matched. All of them qualified for the Olympics. All of them are the best in the world. All of them have made it. Yet not all of them seemed to enjoy this moment, whether or not they were performing well. Some seemed constantly caught up in the pressure of it, in scrutinizing their own every move. 

Ok, I realize as I type this that of course they’re scrutinizing themselves, that of course there’s a ton of pressure and who wouldn’t let that pressure bring a wave of seriousness over their face. This entry is contradicting itself, and I’m struggling to make a point. I guess the point is...no matter how much pressure there is, if you’re doing something you love to do, and one would hope an Olympic athlete loves the sport they’ve dedicated near 100% of their life to, then do your best to really love doing it in the moment. You might not always love it, or find joy in it, but try. Because if you lose that joy, then what’s the point? I’ve been struggling with this and acting lately, particularly in a class setting. I love acting. It brings me joy. But I’m in a class that brings me little to no joy right now, because it is nothing like it was advertised. And I’ve stopped enjoying the acting that comes with it. And I’m trying to change that attitude in myself. No matter the circumstances, no matter the pressure or lack thereof, no matter who you are surrounded by and their level of talent or lack thereof, still do your best to enjoy it. Because that’s why you do it in the first place, right?

[sometimesinsanity]

Habits.

Well I’ve turned out to be quite bad at the “write every day” goal I began with. I believe I’ve now missed a week straight. Well done. This is my life these days -- attempting to form good habits and failing at all of them. One day at a time. I can do it. I’m basically trying to re-form all the good habits I once had, which were thrown off track by the last year of incredible ups and downs in my personal and professional life. Trying to re-form good habits of eating, physical fitness (or just plain activity), connecting with friends, reading the Bible, going to bed at a normal time, waking up at a normal time, showing up to work on time. I thought writing on a daily basis could be a good platform from which all those other habits may spring. So far, not so much. Church this week was about habits, in the shape of priorities. So it seems to me that God’s nudging me to really focus on habits. On bringing back the good ones. So I will. Slowly but surely. And I do think daily writing could be a good springboard. Perhaps I’ll write about what good habit/s I followed on any given day, and what depression/grief-ridden bad habits or lack of habits altogether crept in.

[sometimesinsanity]

Meat.

Traveling. Missed a few days. Here are entries for those days.

Monday.

Traveled back from the Cattleman’s bbq. Brought with us a 10-pound tri tip cooked at said bbq. Used two pounds of frozen hamburger to keep it cold on the plane, as research taught me that you can’t take ice packs on a plane unless they are fully frozen when you put them through the customs scanner. Which means you’d need magical ice packs, because of course they’re going to melt a tiny bit in the time it takes for you to drive to the airport and go through security. In a best-case-scenario, meaning you lived next door to the airport, and there was no line at customs, I still can’t see that process taking less than 5 minutes. And meltage happens in 5 minutes.

So we used frozen hamburger. No rule against frozen meat being slightly defrosted! Still not a liquid!

The TSA agent HAD NO IDEA WHAT TRI TIP IS. I knew the bag would get searched, but I didn’t think I’d have to explain to someone what a hunk of meat was. It was pretty hilarious. “It’s two pounds of frozen hamburger meat, and a 10 pound tri tip.” “What’s this?” “A 10 pound tri tip.” “What?” “It’s meat. It was bbq’d today. The frozen hamburger is keeping it cold.”

Aaron said we were lucky we didn’t get a black TSA agent or he may have “confiscated” the trip tip because it was “suspicious.” AKA take it home and have an amazing dinner. Ah Aaron and his everlasting gift of uncomfortable social commentary. At least he just said that one to me. If he weren’t so tired from traveling, he likely would have said it to the TSA agent.

[sometimesinsanity]

Ranching.

Traveling. Missed a few days. Here are entries for those days.

Sunday.

Today was the annual Cattleman’s bbq at Kennedy Meadows. This was my second time attending since my brother took over my grandfather’s ranch, and became the head griller for the event. The last time I went, we all toasted to my grandpa who had just died, and my mom told us she had breast cancer, as it was the first time we were all in the same place since her diagnosis. This time, we toasted to Tommy, since he had become a staple of the bbq, helping Michael with grilling duties. Was really odd being in a setting where everyone knows us as three siblings, the three grandchildren of Gerald and Rose Engler. And now we’re only two.

I’ve grown closer to Michael since Tommy died. I’m still not good at being close to people, even family members. But I’m trying. Michael needs it. I need it. We’re the quiet ones in the family. Both loud when the moment is right, both fiery, but both observers, often on the outside. Tommy was the one you’d never describe as an outsider or introvert. So even though it is due to tragedy, it has been a wonderful thing to grow closer to my other brother. To talk to him about his cattle and my acting. We are externally completely different people, living in completely different environments, with completely different ways of seeing things. But on the inside, we’re pretty similar. And that’s neat. Michael and I have connected over how hard it is to be in a new marriage (he’s getting married in one month) when dealing with the sudden death of a sibling. Meanwhile, my husband and his wife-to-be are similar in that they are opposite to us, so they’ve been able to support each other. Again - neat. Messy due to circumstances, but neat that something good can come of it.

[sometimesinsanity]

Sport.

It's my favorite time of every four years. The Summer Olympics. The winter variety is fine too, but the summer ones really get me. It's the time of year I'm infinitely envious of Bob Costas. It's the time of year I cringe as the sideline reporters repeatedly do their best/worst to get the competitor who just lost to to cry on national television. "What went wrong, 18 year old whose entire life has led up to this one defining moment that you just totally screwed up?" And it's that time of year I cry. At the USA National Anthem. At an underdog over-performing. At a redemption story. At pretty much all other national anthems. I've found a lot of peace in caring less about sports since Tommy died. Screaming at a football game just doesn't have the same effect. It's become more fun to just enjoy the experience of the game, without placing tons of weight on winning, losing, screaming, booing the opponent. But the Olympics are just the type of sport I can still fully enjoy. Maybe even more. There's a significance more than winning or losing. There are teams or competitors who want to beat each other, but rarely is there a bitter rival. And if there is, I feel like there's still a camaraderie there. There's still a sense of "we're in this together." And this year there is the incredible inclusion of a refugee team. And on that refugee team is Yusra Mardini, a swimmer who PUSHED A BOAT FULL OF OTHER REFUGEES through the Mediterranean when it started taking on water. What. Incredible. I'm beginning to think the closest we'll ever come to every Miss America's dream of World Peace is the Olympics. Everyone roots for everyone. Standing ovations are given to refugees. Country is greater than self. World is greater than self. Read all about Musra here: https://www.buzzfeed.com/davidmack/a-syrian-refugee-who-swam-for-her-life-just-won-her-olympics And then keep rooting for the world to get better and support each other better and love each other better.

[sometimesinsanity]

Sleep.

I don’t sleep well. I never have. The latest addition to my sleep problems is a snoring husband. And by latest I mean for the last year and a half. I can almost count on every night not being a restful one. Even if he isn’t snoring when I fall asleep (thereby allowing me to fall asleep), chances are he starts snoring in the middle of the night, thus disrupting my sleep patterns. 

I’m searching snoring solutions right now, and finding they cost around $100. Seems so expensive. But then...what is my sleep worth? It’s worth more than $100. So now I just need to bit the bullet and buy something for him. He won’t bite the bullet himself. I wonder how sleeping in separate bedrooms would help the situation? Thought first we’d have to have a place with multiple rooms. Ok. So that’s step one. Step two is convincing husband that marriage won’t end because we sleep in different beds. That in fact it will thrive because wife won’t be crazy tired all the time which makes her actually crazy which can’t be fun for husband.

We shall see.

Lame journal entry for today, but that’s what’s on my mind.

Because I’ve literally been reading articles about snoring and snore reduction devices all afternoon.

My life is fascinating.

[sometimesinsanity]

Oops.

Three days in and I almost missed a day. Can't say I'm surprised. The fog of grief makes me forgetful. Sluggish. Think I've done something when I haven't. Forget I have something that needs doing. I've been advised to make lists. Maybe I should start doing that. It's a weird fog. One that makes me always tired but never tired enough to sleep. I'm dreaming every night for the first time in my life. When I'm awake, my brain often doesn't function. When I'm asleep, it's firing on all cylinders.

[sometimesinsanity]

Happy.

In my decision to begin a regular journal, I found myself at 2:30am looking back through this blog to see what I have posted over the years. It didn’t take long. I’ve only posted a couple dozen things over the course of three years. There are a few posts I’d like to delete, as I feel they don’t reflect who I currently am. But that’s the cool thing about and ongoing journal I suppose - it’s a written record of growth. Where I’ve come from. Perhaps hinting at where I’m going, though probably not. So I won’t be deleting them. 

One post stuck out to me, as I’m on a mission to find joy in life. To choose joy. To acknowledge the things weighing me down, but to not let them define my entire being. The post ended with a list of things that make me happy. Three years later, everything on this list still makes me really, really happy. I think that’s pretty cool. The moment you’re in my be filled with negative, depressing, soul-sucking awfulness, but when you emerge from that moment, even if for a few seconds, the things that bring you joy will be there waiting. 

Things that make me happy:

The Beach, Really Great Worship in Church, Roller Coasters, Crying at a Movie, Swimming, Football Games, The World Series, Playing Soccer with Underprivileged Kids in Mexicali, Kittens, Great Beer, Malbec, Writing, Picasso, Experiencing Art Alone, Experiencing Art with Another Person, Baking, Tacos, Being Barefoot, Hiking, Acting, Making People Laugh, Making People Cry, Frogs, Super Comfortable Socks, Discovering Something New, Seeing My Friends Succeed, Helping My Friends Succeed, The Beatles, My New Record Player.

[sometimesinsanity]

Grief.

I need to start journaling. i take notes in a journal. I occasionally write out something that could perhaps be called a journal entry. But I have never journaled regularly in my life. The best I’ve done is week-long spurts while at camp, thinking, “Oh this would be cool to have an account of this really fun week in my life.” But I think journaling is probably more helpful during the not really fun times. A pen and paper form of therapy. Or a keyboard and screen. 

I’m in one of those not really fun times. So I’m going to start journaling. The not really fun comes from the two recent, painful events: my brother’s death on December 19, 2015, due to his own irresponsibility and the negligence of his friends, and my grandmother’s death on July 5th, 2016, due to cancer ravaging her body.

I have lived in a fog since December 19th. A fog that I think may lift any day, only to find it suddenly grows thicker for no apparent reason. It’s incredibly difficult to describe to someone what that fog feels like. The only people who really get it are my mother, father, and brother, all of whom are experiencing their own sorts of fog. So for today’s journaling, I’ll let Patton Oswalt do the talking. He posted a beautiful essay on Grief yesterday, and it rings oh so true to me. It is a beautifully painful description of what life is like when living in grief.

I have found that, in my grieving process, it has been helpful to read what others have experienced. How others have felt when faced with inexplicable deaths. I’m sure this is because I enjoy knowing as much as possible about anything I am facing. One op-ed on the latest happening doesn’t do it for me. Give me twelve.

So I will likely utilize the writing of others often in my journaling. Particularly when the day’s journaling turns to a topic of grief, loss, fog, figuring out how to now live life in a reality that is not at all what I expected. But this journal will take on different topics as well. Because, if I’ve learned anything so far on my journey of grief, it’s that you have to find joy in life. Someway. Somehow. You have to allow yourself to still live, even if you’re living without someone you never expected to lose.

From Patton Oswalt’s Facebook Page

https://www.facebook.com/pattonoswalt/posts/10154029789952655

August 1, 2016

Thanks, grief.

Thanks for making depression look like the buzzing little bully it always was. Depression is the tallest kid in the 4th grade, dinging rubber bands off the back of your head and feeling safe on the playground, knowing that no teacher is coming to help you.

But grief? Grief is Jason Statham holding that 4th grade bully's head in a toilet and then fucking the teacher you've got a crush on in front of the class. Grief makes depression cower behind you and apologize for being such a dick.

If you spend 102 days completely focused on ONE thing you can achieve miracles. Make a film, write a novel, get MMA ripped, kick heroin, learn a language, travel around the world. Fall in love with someone. Get 'em to love you back.

But 102 days at the mercy of grief and loss feels like 102 years and you have shit to show for it. You will not be physically healthier. You will not feel "wiser." You will not have "closure." You will not have "perspective" or "resilience" or "a new sense of self." You WILL have solid knowledge of fear, exhaustion and a new appreciation for the randomness and horror of the universe. And you'll also realize that 102 days is nothing but a warm-up for things to come.

And...

You will have been shown new levels of humanity and grace and intelligence by your family and friends. They will show up for you, physically and emotionally, in ways which make you take careful note, and say to yourself, "Make sure to try to do that for someone else someday." Complete strangers will send you genuinely touching messages on Facebook and Twitter, or will somehow figure out your address to send you letters which you'll keep and re-read 'cause you can't believe how helpful they are. And, if you're a parent? You'll wish you were your kid's age, because the way they embrace despair and joy are at a purer level that you're going to have to reconnect with, to reach backwards through years of calcified cynicism and ironic detachment.

Lose your cool, and you're saved.

Michelle McNamara got yanked off the planet and out of life 102 days ago. She left behind an amazing unfinished book, about a horrific series of murders that everyone -- including the retired homicide detectives she worked with -- was sure she'd solve. The Golden State Killer. She gave him that name, in an article for Los Angeles Magazine. She was going to figure out the real name behind it.

She left Alice, her 7 year-old daughter. But not before putting the best parts of her into Alice, like beautiful music burned onto a CD and sent out into the void on a spaceship.

And she left me. 102 days into this.

I was face-down and frozen for weeks. It's 102 days later and I can confidently say I have reached a point where I'm crawling. Which, objectively, is an improvement. Maybe 102 days later I'll be walking.

Any spare energy I've managed to summon since April 21st I've put toward finishing Michelle's book. With a lot of help from some very amazing people. It will come out. I will let you know. It's all her. We're just taking what's there and letting it tell us how to shape it. It's amazing.

And I'm going to start telling jokes again soon. And writing. And acting in stuff and making things I like and working with friends on projects and do all the stuff I was always so privileged to get to do before the air caught fire around me and the sun died. It's all I knew how to do before I met Michelle. I don't know what else I'm supposed to do now without her.

And not because, "It's what Michelle would have wanted me to do." For me to even presume to know what Michelle would have wanted me to do is the height of arrogance on my part. That was one of the many reasons I so looked forward to growing old with her. Because she was always surprising me. Because I never knew what she'd think or what direction she'd go.

Okay, I'll start being funny again soon. What other choice do I have? Reality is in a death spiral and we seem to be living in a cackling, looming nightmare-swamp. We're all being dragged into a shadow-realm of doom by hateful lunatics who are determined to send our planet careening into oblivion.

Hey, there's that smile I was missing!

[sometimesinsanity]

It’s super freeing to let go of feeling responsible for how other people feel. I don’t mean all the time. If you scream at someone, and then they feel like shit, well, yeah, you’re probably responsible for them feeling like shit. But it could be layered. Did they do, or not do, something that caused you to scream at them? Were they being irresponsible? Was your screaming justifiable? I don’t think screaming is ever fully justifiable, but it can be partially so. In which case, you are not completely at fault for this person feeling like shit.

I digress.

This thought of not feeling responsible for how other people feel popped into my head just now because today, I was 30 minutes late to the office. My work counterpart realized I was running late, and decided that meant she needed to come in earlier than she had intended. We ended up arriving at the same time. She immediately started working, and hasn’t left yet, even though upon arrival, she said she would escape as soon as possible to finish up what she had planned to do prior to coming in. She tried to make me feel bad for being late. She tried to find out why I was late. (I love sleeping, ok?) She kept making comments of, ugh, well this morning didn’t go as planned, under her breath. But not enough under that I didn’t hear them. 

But here’s the thing: She has been consistently working on things since her arrival. She could have left as soon as she saw me arrive. If she didn’t plan to come in until an hour later, then that means she didn’t really need to work on those things until that time. Heck, I could be doing them for her. Yet she’s still working. She’s not letting herself leave to go finish whatever she wanted to finish prior to coming into work. And she’s grumbling about it. And I initially felt like I was responsible for her grumbling, like my lateness caused her morning to be thrown off. But then I realized, her feelings are not my responsibility. She can choose to leave. She can choose to put off the work. She can choose to trust that now that I’m here, I can do the work.

People will try to make you feel bad for how they feel, when really, the way they are feeling is a choice of their own. Yes, things we do often contribute to how others feel, but in the times when that other could make a choice that would change how they feel, and they choose not to make that choice but instead to dwell, or grumble, or point fingers, it is incredibly freeing to not shoulder the responsibility of their bad mood. I’m not saying don’t ever shoulder responsibility. I’m just saying, if you’re feeling responsible, take a look at the situation, see if the person who’s bringing you down could actually be doing something to bring herself up instead, and if so, stop feeling bad for thinking you made her feel bad! 

Adults can be responsible for their own feelings. We can feel together, but sometimes, it’s unnecessarily draining on us if we let one person’s moping cause us to mope as well. The world needs less mopers.

[sometimesinsanity]

The Diary of Anne Frank at The Cupcake Theater

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

The Diary of Anne Frank, starring Sigi Gradwohl, at The Cupcake Theater

On February 15th, 2014, the story of Anne Frank and her two-year ordeal hiding with her family during the German occupation of the Netherlands comes to Hollywood’s Cupcake Theater.  Starring Sigi Gradwohl, a third-generation Holocaust survivor, as Anne Frank, The Diary of Anne Frank is a story of life, not death, and a depiction of raw, daily survival during the Holocaust.  Told with wit and sentiment, this production is sure to hit home with a truth that still resonates today. 

In addition to the traditional theater experience, select Sunday matinee performances will be followed by talkbacks with Holocaust survivors.  The interactive sessions between the survivors, cast members, and audience members will be moderated by Sigi Gradwohl, for whom the Holocaust connection is close and personal.  Gradwohl’s grandfather was a primary school classmate of Anne’s, but was able to escape Amsterdam thanks to his father’s Swiss passport; her grandmother escaped Germany as a child on one of the final Kindertransports to London.  As less and less survivors remain today to tell their first-hand experience, this combined program of theater and talkback sessions is aimed at keeping the story of the Holocaust alive and providing a platform for further education.

Performances are February 15th-March 3rd at The Cupcake Theater, 6520 Hollywood Blvd, Hollywood, CA 90028.  Weekends 1 and 2: Saturdays 8pm, Sundays 2pm.  Weekends 3 and 4: Fridays and Saturdays 8pm, Sundays 2pm. 

The Diary of Anne Frank, written by Frances Goodrich and Albert Hackett; Newly Adapted by Wendy Kesselman; Directed by Sabrina Lloyd; Produced by Caity Engler, Sigi Gradwohl, and Year Eight Productions; Starring Alejandra Bursik-Cervantes, Becca Leigh Gellman, Robert Gibbons, Sigi Gradwohl, Sabrina Hill, Frank Krueger, Max Lichtig, Maria Mastroyannis, Neil Miller, Robert Paterno, Brynn Sillyman, Terry Tocantins.  Performed with the permission of Dramatists Play Service Inc.

For more information on the production, Sigi Gradwohl’s story, and to support the show’s efforts via donation, pre-purchased tickets and advertising opportunities, please visit www.igg.me/at/annefrankcupcake.  Tickets also available at www.cupcaketheater.com.

For Interview Requests, Press Invitations, and Reservations, please contact:

Caity Engler – [email protected] – 310.502.0086