Monday, July 6, 2009

Learning to Arms-length

Yesterday I came to the realization that I isolate when I am not doing very well not because I do not want to be around anyone but because I don't like bringing people down. When did I start "playing the victim"?
I can remember the first time I had ever heard someone use that phrase and it was directed right at me. I was in Chicago at the stage door of the Chicago Theatre. A woman I performed with, Mindy, had decided to confront me. I don't recall the whole scene or her reasoning, but she said to me that I needed to stop playing the victim. (Fast forward a few months to an audition in New York where she adamantly and angrily told me that I was wrong for putting "Belle" on my resume because I was only the understudy on the first tour. Clearly, she was not a fan of mine). She had the ability to wound me deeper than most. And I still wonder why.
I can also remember a moment from my junior year of college. A fellow student, Jamie, informed me that I would have a nervous breakdown by the time I was 30. I remember it all so clearly. We were crossing the street in Tucson - and in that moment, time seemed to have slowed down and the mixture of hurt and fear shot through me like mercury. I was shocked to silence.
Both of these instances are so vivid to me. Embarrassing. Clear as day. And they hurt so bad because they were the truth. Truth that came as venom from two women that were strong enough to lash out at me to my face. These moments altered me. This is so amazing to me because I would never have pegged Mindy and Jamie as two women whom I particularly admired or respected, for that matter. There was something scary about both of them. Something that made me want to stay at arms length.
Those biting reactionary moments seemed fleeting at the time. When you are the person shooting the dart, you really don't know the effect you are potentially having on another person.
Taking a breath, sleeping on it, thinking before we speak, being mindful, apologizing, forgiveness - these are all rare opportunities to bring oneself up to date. When I think about that alley in Chicago, I am not the 36 year old Danyelle, but rather the still mentally under developed 24 year old not sure if she deserved the role. When I remember crossing that street in Tucson, I am the confused and neurotic actress in training with absolutely no armour or self esteem to speak of.
Putting this in perspective these years later, I realize, that yes, I was in the habit of playing the victim - and even to this day I find myself liable to play the victim when confronted with mistakes - only now I have the ability to label that behavior and stop myself.
And, yep, I'd say I've had several nervous breakdowns in my thirties! Losing my grandfather, divorcing an alcoholic, changing careers twice, moving across the country - if it wasn't for nervous breakdowns, I don't think I would have made the many changes I have in the pursuit of happiness and serenity.
There is peace found in surrendering to the truth. The truth of those moments in my life is simply that, yes, I had and have faults. The lesson of those moments is stay the hell away from toxic people.

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

My Cuppa

Morning. Coffee. Serious coffee. I'm not messing around. No Folger's trying to be fancy by calling itself Costa Rican blend. No way. I'm talking Pike's Place blend. I'm talking French Roast. Give me Starbucks. Bold coffee. I don't care if it's over roasted. If they've put some magical substance in it to make me crazy addicted. I love it. One cup is all I need... want. And I can tell the difference.
I know. It's a recession. I'm supposed to be ok with generic labels and Folgers. But I'm not. I can't take it. I just won't drink it. I tried. I tell you. I tried.
At least I'm buying my ten dollar bag of ground coffee (number 4 drip) and making it at home. That's recession-y, isn't it?
And then there is the creamer. I can't do sugar and milk. Ugh. It's gotta be french vanilla full on fatty sugary fakey goodness. NO WAY to the fat free crap. I just can't take it.
The morning can be hard enough with waking up. But give me Folger's-fake-lable-costa-rican-blend-with-sugar-free-fat-free-coffee-mate and I am a roaring b*tch in my head all day. This means I may be smiling at you, but that glimmer in my eye is not some special hidden joy, but rather a deepening only-child-I-didn't-get-what-I-want rage and I'd advise you to back the frak off.
But not today. Today I'm smiling satisfactorily knowing that I have my perfect cuppa at an easy reach. I can handle anything. I can host a friggin United Nations Summit if you asked me. I believe it's magic.