"If you don't love yourself then you've got nothing to spare…" (Warning: Triggers.)

 My depression is something I've battled with my entire life. It's always been a vicious cycle and one time, when I was about thirteen, my mom walked in on me with a pair of scissors. I was cutting my wrist, and I remember being completely spaced out while I was doing it. I'd gone into a weird trancey state where everything felt totally normal and I was hypnotized by the way the blood looked on my arm. I'd cut myself before, but I always kept it to my thighs or somewhere that people couldn't see. More than cutting, I was into hurting myself in a thousand tinier and less obvious ways. I was hiding food and eating it like it was going to be taken away from me at any moment. I was coming home from school and drowning my heavy heart in ice cream and junk food and frozen pizzas and lying on the couch watching movies that felt like a comfort blanket. I was writing angry, angsty poetry in notebooks--- I found one recently when packing up my house. A black spiral notebook and within the first few pages I had written "I wish I was dead" and then traced it so hard and so many times that my pen had torn through the paper and bled ink onto the pages below. "I wish I was dead" and its ghostly echoes took up the first maybe ten pages of the notebook. It was a mantra, but I was never quite brave enough to actually do it. Instead I just retreated into myself, put on a careful mask of laughter and confidence and a bubbly personality. Inside I was slogging through neck-deep water in concrete shoes, just trying to keep my nose above the tide lines.

It's always come and gone, and I don't know how to explain it to people who don't have depression. (I'm not, you may have guessed, referring to "Oh, my team lost the Superbowl, I'm so depressed" depression here.) Sometimes you see it on the horizon like a summer storm, ominous hints; a song comes on the radio and you feel the familiar sting in your sinuses that means you're about to cry, or you wake up with an unexplainable sense of "Today's going to suck" (self-fulfilling prophecy?). Other times you're sitting at work composing a perfectly innocent email and the next thing you know you've locked yourself in the bathroom and you're crying so hard you can't breathe. I've given myself multiple panic attacks before because my depression couples with anxiety. I get depressed, then I feel guilty about being depressed ("There are people who have it so much worse than you, are you KIDDING me?!"), and it snowballs from there until I am unable to function and I just totally shut down. I wind up crying and hyperventilating and pulling into myself and I can't explain to anyone why it's happening, only that it is. 

I've been like this for as long as I can remember, even as a very young kid, but it just really manifested itself and found its legs when I became an adolescent. My mom knew, but she didn't know how to help. A therapist wasn't covered by her insurance and she didn't know what to do for me. When I was seventeen, I went to my regular doctor, who was kind of a prick. I'd already been having heaps of medical problems--- I was morbidly obese and the doctor was sure that I had polycystic ovarian syndrome because I wasn't menstruating. He sat me down and said matter-of-factly "It's going to be incredibly hard for you to ever have children. Your body just isn't producing eggs. I can put you on birth control to make you have a regular period, but there's no point to that because it obviously won't make you fertile. So you're just going to have to accept that it's going to be a very difficult and unlikely thing if you want to get pregnant." Now at seventeen I had no intention of getting pregnant, but I also had no idea if I was ever going to want babies, if I was going to meet some amazing partner and decide I wanted to be a mommy. So needless to say this was pretty devastating news. I started crying and instead of exhibiting any good bedside manners, the doctor asked me if I considered myself 'overly emotional' as a regular thing. I told him that yes, I did cry at the drop of a hat and something as minor as a commercial could literally ruin my entire day. He asked me the routine questions and I went through the checklist, thinking about it.

Do you find yourself losing enjoyment in things that you once loved doing? I thought about writing, how when I was younger I hadn't ever been without a pen or my electric typewriter. I drove my family insane thrusting pieces of paper at them, "Here, read this!" every ten minutes. I was enamored with words and I made them my bitch. And then I thought about me at seventeen, using my words like weapons, writing trite bullshit about being sad all the time. Where had my stories gone, where had the actual imagination and happiness and beautiful stories gone in my brain?

Do you isolate yourself from others in social situations? I was the king of bringing a book or two to school with me, of reading through lunch, of sitting on the bleachers during gym class when I could get away with it. I loved what friends I did have, but I was perfectly content to run by myself. I didn't like the pressure of always having to be charming and sweet and fun around my friends; I felt like if I showed them that I was sad or fucked-up or depressed they would go away and find someone who was less of a 'downer'.

When we finished our stupid little interview he smirked and asked how long I'd been dealing with these feelings, and then he wrote me a prescription for Prozac. He told me that I should've come forward sooner, that he could've helped me with my depression years ago.

I took it for weeks, and after awhile I realized that I wasn't sad anymore, but everything felt dull and desaturated. Instead of the ultraviolet brilliance of my joy and my pain, there was only blunted, staticky transmissions--- my emotions were a radio station that was a mile out of comfortable tune-in range and I was getting them in starts and fits through a veil of crackling, muffled nonsense when I got them at all. I didn't care about school, though I still made straight As. I didn't cry when I heard a particularly moving song, though I still listened to the same music I always had. There was just nothing there, and I didn't wean myself off the pills or tell the doctor that I was stopping. I just quit taking them and flushed them down the toilet. They weren't an answer, not for me, and those few moments of peace they brought me weren't worth the price I felt I was paying to give up what made me who I was.

I was officially diagnosed with manic depression that day when I was seventeen, and the 'manic' part of it is very true. I don't ever understand what's happening inside my own head. When I'm alone sometimes I'm perfectly happy and content. Other times I feel like the apocalypse has happened and I'm the only person on this earth--- I am crippled by despair and loneliness and a desperation to connect. Sometimes I laugh too loudly at jokes or cling to my friends like a kid to his mother's apron strings; I am overly affectionate, holding hands, hugging, playing with someone's hair in that need to feel connected to someone. I've been known to be self-destructive; I have picked fights with people over insignificant shit just to see if they'll fight with me or if they'll decide I'm not worth the trouble and just walk away. Deep down a part of me is convinced that if I died, only a handful of people would even attend the funeral--- I often lose myself in fantasies about me dying, wondering who would care, what impact it would have on the people around me. I used to think that everyone thought like this, because I couldn't remember a time when I didn't. I have found journal entries I wrote at seven and eight years old saying that I wished I would die or disappear, that I hated myself.

Now I am twenty-seven years old and for about half a year there, I had a good run. When my mom got diagnosed with cancer I tried to remain optimistic--- my mom was a goddamned superhero. Nothing as stupid as cancer was going to take her down; she was going to die of old age someday after I'd gotten married and had a bomb-ass job in a big city. I used to joke with her that if I ever got famous she'd walk the red carpet with me, that she would be my 'date' to awards shows and signings and things like that. I knew that she was going to beat that shit. I put warpaint on her cheeks and took pictures of her in pink boxing gloves, ready to kick cancer's ass. I called up sponsors and companies and asked them for donations for a raffle and auction to raise money for her fight, knowing that once we paid the bills off and she'd finished her chemo we'd laugh about it. She'd sit with me and help me write the thank-you notes to all of those companies who donated shit to the charity event. She would be there when I someday decided that yeah, I did want to get pregnant, and she'd make fun of me for not knowing how to work the velcro tabs on a diaper and she'd teach me how to get the baby to stop crying at 4 AM because I never met a baby who didn't love my mother the instant they met her.

Instead, she died, and I shut down. It was like someone unplugged my heart the day I got the phone call at work. I was in the middle of ringing up a customer at the comic book store where I worked when the hospice worker called, and matter-of-factly said with notes of sympathy in their voice that my mother had died a half-hour ago. I hung up and finished bagging the customer's books; then I looked at my boss. She knew in my eyes what had happened, and her face was a theatre mask of tragedy and grief and pity. I simply said "I need to go" and I took my purse and walked out to my car. People offered to drive me, but I was fine. I was numb. My mother was alive last night but now she wasn't. It didn't sink in. I drove to the nursing home where we'd been forced to put her, and my grandmother and uncle were already there. My grandmother was sobbing. We walked to her patient room and I thought she would be in the morgue or somewhere waiting for the coroner; there wasn't even a sign on the door. Do Not Disturb would've been nice, since we opened the door to pack up her personal things and there she was, lying in the bed without the curtain even drawn around her. She could've been asleep except she wasn't. Even then, I just felt hollowed-out like a jack-o-lantern. I couldn't go in there; my uncle had to remove my mom's rings and things because I couldn't set foot in the room with her body.

For a year after she died, I did nothing. I went to school and I worked at my job, making money and making perfect grades. I drove to Dallas every weekend to see my friends and sought solace in their arms. I didn't write; when I went to open a word processor, I would feel a sense of bland tranquility like when I took the Prozac. Nothing was there, nothing mattered. I had no words for the first time in my life. I started to get anxious about this--- if I couldn't write, who was I? What was I going to do? This quickly escalated into me having panic attacks when I tried to write, and so I stopped. For a year I didn't write. I took pictures because it was easier and it still gave me the artistic outlet I needed, but I wasn't particularly pushing myself to make good art. I just wanted to do something before I stagnated and rotted away.

Moving to LA felt like plugging a live wire directly into my heart. There was adrenaline, there was the sense of urgency that came with being told "You have to go right now, you don't have time to think, this job offer expires in a few weeks". There was the chaos of packing up my life in a little over two weeks, in leaving my lifelong home, in dropping out of school two months before graduation with a perfect GPA. There was the support and the doubt from my friends and family, most of whom thought I was probably making a mistake but who smiled and nodded and waved pom-poms for me anyway. I got here and had about two days to move into my apartment before I was thrown headfirst into work; I came to work in an amazing FX shop full of werewolves and monsters and aliens and Terminators, with a crazy boss who pulled me into his world. We worked in tandem, writing and editing the script and scribbling on Post-Its, chain-drinking Coke Zeros and making five-AM runs for breakfast burritos after endless sleepless nights, passing out in office chairs, listening to movie scores and watching Prince of Darkness and forgetting what sunlight and fresh air felt and looked like. But it was phenomenal for me. I was living my dream, I was working on a major horror film starring people I really admired, the assistant to not only a great director and FX master but a good friend. I was lucky as fuck and I had been rejuvenated, I was remembering how not only to walk but to run. We got on set and we kicked ass through chaos and adversity and lots of weirdness, and we made a movie.

I started to make a life for myself here. I began slowly to build myself a tribe out of the people I was meeting; I was finding other weirdos like myself, other outcasts and rebels and most importantly, artists. People who loved life and art and music and culture and adventure, people who made me laugh and cry, people who inspired me. I started going out more and more because being home in my apartment was such a sad, bleak alternative. This city is electric and full of incredible people living out insane, beautiful stories; I wanted to be one of them, not a voyeur anymore. I jumped off the deep end; I went out dancing until my feet were numb, I drank until I couldn't stop laughing, I was completely entranced by the city and its beauty. Every moment here was a triumph and I could get drunk on the sunshine and the palm trees and the Hollywood sign. I wanted to be a part of it more than anything.

And then the depression clouds began brewing.

The movie was over, things had slowed down a little, the insanity of work had become a memory like a phantom itch. My friends were becoming busier with new projects. I went home for a week and was desperately reminded of how much I loved my friends there, my life there. I walked through my old house and stared at the open walls and empty floors and felt pain echoing through my heart. I kissed my best friend and wondered, as I slept in his tattooed perfect arms and listened to him breathe, how the fuck I was going to walk away from something so comfortable and wonderful.

Since I've been back, my panic attacks have been teetering in the peripheral of my vision. I can see the darkness coming but I don't know what to do except batten down the hatches and buy up a lot of canned goods because I know from experience that once it gets its hooks in me, I'm pretty much toast until I reach the eye again. I am full of this dull ache like the aftershock of a quake; I lay awake at night, unable to sleep, and yet during the day I'm so bogged down with my own despair and insecurities and feelings of inadequacy that I can't fathom the idea of getting out of bed. I just want to lay on my sheets, buried in the pillows, and listen to music that makes me feel something through a safety railing. I want to have Matt here because he knows how to listen and how to touch me and kiss me to make me forget how much I hate being me. Instead I just find myself crying myself to sleep in my apartment, canceling plans, eating junk food when I'm stressed, curling up in a ball and wishing the world would stop being so mean sometimes. And then feeling guilt and remorse and stress over the fact that I am depressed when I'm, for all outward appearances, living this charmed life and experiencing things I dreamt about since I was a kid. The guilt only makes the depression worse, and by the end of things I am just unable to lift my head off the pillow. It feels like a noose around my neck getting tighter and tighter.

But I keep smiling, and pushing it down like a drunk girl swallowing back her puke.  All of this sadness and heaviness and futility in me is growing, feeding on my brain, and to anyone who says "Just shake it off! Your life's not so bad" I say fuck you because that isn't how mental illness works.

My depression has teeth and they're in me pretty firmly right now. And no matter how gently I manage to pry its jaws open, or how many fingers I may lose in the process, sometimes those teeth leave pretty gnarly scars.

I am terrified of making mistakes. I'm terrified of people being disappointed in me. I'm convinced that I am a fuck-up who has fooled people that I am capable and has my shit together. I am a mess and I am frightened when people put a lot of pressure on me and ask me to do things I've never done before, because I've never been without a support system and a spotter. I am so afraid of fucking things up that I will stay in my comfort zone for years because I'm afraid of wasting someone's time, of having them think I'm incompetent, of having them realize that I'm a fraud and a loser and stupid. My boyfriend goes onto a set and learns difficult FX shots on the fly sometimes simply because he has to and if he doesn't, they won't get done. My coworkers blindly throw things into the ether with the hopes of hitting a target because they are fearless and courageous. My mom went at cancer with her teeth and claws bared, positive that she was going to beat it even as it sucked the life out of her in a few short months. She never stopped fighting and even though she was afraid, she almost never let anyone see it.

And me, I am sitting in my bedroom with the covers pulled up over my head, wishing I was brave. Wishing I had half the balls other people seem to think I have. Wishing that I was the person that I always thought I'd be.

Wishing that drowning was harder, because sometimes sinking just seems so fucking easy that it's seductive. I know the saying is if it's easy it isn't worth fighting for but fuck, sometimes I get tired of fighting against the current and trying to convince those little voices in my head that I'm not a complete failure and fuckup.

I just want to know what it feels like to go "I got this" and actually mean it.

I want to stop being scared of everything, most importantly scared of myself.

Show me how you do that trick, the one that makes me scream.

I spent the last week in Texas, working on getting my affairs in order to make the move to California feel a little more permanent. I inherited my mother's house, a three-bedroom affair in Waco, but I have no desire to move back there or hold onto the house. Waco took twenty-five years of my life and I never want to call it  'home' again; not saying LA will be a permanent headquarters for me, but for now it's certainly better than the alternative of my hometown. Unfortunately, when I moved out the first time I was in a bit of a hurry and was forced to leave a lot of my stuff behind to be dealt with later; now I'm ready to put my house on the market to sell and it's still full of my things. Books, mostly, shelves of signed first editions and large coffee-table books and letterboxed special printings of tomes dear to my heart, and I need to pack them and move them out here safely. Most of the other things in the house, furniture and odds and ends, will be sold off in a big garage sale before the house goes up for sale. My uncle's doing some minor repairs and painting to make the place look more presentable to potential buyers. Soon it will close that chapter of my life for good.

I spent a great deal of time this week with my man. I've talked about Matt to the point that people are probably sick of it; I've become one of Those Girls who does nothing but gush about my boy. But I can't help it; I have never been in love like this. I've never had a love that it literally felt like 'completed' me; he picks up what I slack, and we meet in the middle on so many things. His laid-back amiable nature is a perfect balance for my neurotic insecurity, and I feel so fucking happy when I'm around him. Holding his hand feels as natural as breathing; falling asleep beside him, I've never slept so well. I love when he wakes up before sunrise, the room the purple-gray of a bruise, and kisses me before he gets up to make his coffee. I love all of his little quirks, I love the way he always smells like soap and a hint of tobacco and sometimes leather if he's in his old punk-rock jacket, I love that he listens to death metal and hardcore punk and then switches to smooth retro R&B. I love that I have to get on my tiptoes to hug him and that he automatically touches me, squeezes my neck, pats my shoulder, something every time he walks by me. We just sync up in a way I've never experienced before, and it feels so completely normal to be dating, like it was the next step to a long and deep friendship.

It's still hard, though. Being apart sucks and while everyone knows that long-distance is hard, we know that it's totally worth it to stick it out. Distance isn't forever; Matt and I both work in transient industries where sometimes you might spend a month at home, other times you might be stationed in bumfuck nowhere for two weeks or two months or half a year. You never know what's going to happen, and with Matt being an FX artist he's constantly bouncing from film set to film set. I'm a little more grounded out here in Hollywood but there's always the potential that I will be taking off, that I will be going to a set somewhere at any given moment, and we both have to stay on our toes for things like that. It means that for February Matt will be kicking ass on a film in North Carolina and I'll be working on things here in LA and we'll have an entire country between us. I won't see him until the end of March when he comes out west for Monsterpalooza. Two months of not getting to do all of the little things that people who live close together take for granted. I have all of the faith in the world in us and our love for each other-- he's the man for me, he's the one I want to be with. I can't imagine anything driving us apart, not with how close we've always been. I can talk to him about anything and it's an amazing feeling.

Matt is also finding out the not-so-cute side of me, which is that I'm still insecure and self-loathing and that I never truly feel pretty or glamorous or sexy. I don't like being undressed in front of him because of my body insecurities, and I still can't take my clothes off if the lights are on. I hide under the blankets as soon as they're off. I don't like when his hands come down somewhere that I'm mentally wracked about, and I pull into my own head like a snail retreating into its shell until he stops touching those areas. My stomach, my thighs, my upper arms, my ribs… everything makes me shrink into myself and mentally cringe, thinking about toned and fit women, about curves where they should be and not where they are necessarily. When I should be reveling in the feeling of a sexy man who adores me and wants to make me feel beautiful and loved and wanted and special.

He asks me what he can do to help, and I have to be honest and say 'nothing' because he already gives me his love and attention and affection. He's already better than I could've hoped for in a boyfriend. I don't know how to tell him to 'fix' me; I'm just messed up in the head, and I don't know if I will ever be 100% happy with myself or how I look and feel. I wish I could stop thinking about it and focus more on the moment, but that's the beautiful fucking nature of depression and self-doubt; they don't pick and choose when they rear their ugly little heads.

I need to start working out now that I'm back on LA soil. I have no excuses except my own head, which has always been my number-one enemy.

Too weird to live, too rare to die.

It's been a wild ride since my last post on Dec 31; it's 2014 now and the new year started off quite literally with a bang.

I will forever be grateful to Rob for giving me so many great opportunities in this life through offering me a job with his company. I've gotten to hear horror legend Robert Englund say lines that I wrote. I'm going to see my name on a credit crawl on the big screen for a major feature horror film. I got to meet people who started out as just talent that I admired (Robert Englund, Corey Taylor, etc) and turned into people I was joking and laughing with. But one of the things I'll forever be most grateful to Rob for was introducing me to Thomas. He's one of the sweetest, most genuine people I've ever met and the two of us can have these awesome rambling discussions about movies and music and books for hours. He is so incredibly talented and artistic that it's kind of insane; I'm pretty sure there's absolutely nothing on this earth that he sucks at. His music, his artwork, his acting, his writing, his photos, all of it is so great and he consistently wows me with his skill and creativity. To boot, he's also one of the most generous and thoughtful people, a sincerely good person, the kind you don't usually see. We've spent a lot of time together, both in Ohio and in Vegas and here in LA, and I am so lucky to call him a friend.

Because of him, I've found a renewed passion for my writing, and I find myself challenging me to do better in every artistic endeavor I tackle. I want to get on his level, so to speak. It makes me strive not to suck, something I'm always self-conscious about.

Not to mention his bestie Cally, who is incredible and amazing and so much fun, and Anthony, who is also awesome and who I look forward to getting to know more in the future.

When we got back from Vegas, it was back to work at the shop, and of course surrounded by my surrogate family. Megan remains one of the strongest, fiercest women I know and she is such a fun little firecracker. I really admire her in every way; same with Ikuo, who is honorable and kind and always has a nice word to say when you're having a rough day. Sam is one of the funniest and sweetest people I've ever met, as well as the most competent and capable and trustworthy, and there are no words for how much I love working with this team of people day in and day out. We've very much become a family up there, sticking together through thick and thin in the few short months we've all known each other, and I would take a bullet for any one of these people. Rob and Angelina have a really strong support system going, and the family are all here for each other no matter what.

I am still absolutely loving my life out here in Hollywood, even though it isn't without struggles. When I moved here in October I really didn't have time to be homesick, and it felt absurd to miss Texas when I was living a few minutes from the Hollywood sign. Everything here felt like this surreal fairy tale, a city of glamour and magic and possibility.

But then I went home for Christmas after the bleak, stressful insanity of Ohio, and when I got home there was just such an overwhelming onslaught of love. Love from Shawn and Jeff, of course, and love from Brandy, and love from Matt.

I think that last was the craziest and in some ways the hardest for me to accept. Matt being one of my best friends for years meant that we had a very strong, stable relationship foundation. I don't know if he ever knew what a crush I had on him, but I used to call Brandy and just gush about how adorable he was or how much I loved him. When he was going through hard times, I wanted so badly to fix it and make him feel better; when he was doing something awesome I was so immensely proud of him that I wanted to shout it from the rooftops.

And now he's mine, and he's thousands of miles away. Irony's a bitch.

We both work in the industry and he's always working on projects for various films, going to locations and such the same as me. As a result this year's going to be a little chaotic as far as us spending much time together. Still, he understands the demands of my job and vice versa; I will never get on his ass about working long hours and not having the energy to call me, just like hopefully he will understand if I am texting him at 4 AM someday stressed and sad and overwhelmingly lonely and just needing to talk to someone.

But sleeping beside him, getting to kiss him and hold his hand and all of those little things that add up into huge ones, was enormous and it hurts not having access to that whenever I want it. We call each other a few times a day and text every so often just to say we're thinking about each other, and he knows he's always on my mind; I probably annoy everyone around me by talking about him every chance I get. But he's my guy and I've waited a long time to have a 'good' one. Victor, of course, was unfaithful and an asshole in the end even though I tried to end things with him gracefully. Before Victor  was a long single spell where I just explored myself and tried to get comfortable with who I am.

But Matt gets me. He knows me, he's known me for years. He's seen me at my best and my worst, he's seen me grow and change, he's laughed and cried with me. He knows what I've been through and why I am who I am. And he looks out for me. He has my back. He supports me and knows what to say and when to say it. He loves me even though I'm not perfect and even though I'm not beautiful. And it's been a very, very long time since I was with anyone who understood me like he does, who accepted me for who I am instead of tried to figure out what they could get me to change.

I love him with my whole heart. I don't think if I scoured the entire world I could find a guy who's better for me, who would treat me nicer or be more of a good boyfriend than he is. And I know that no matter how hard things are with the distance and the drama and the bullshit we'll inevitably face, I will never ever hurt him on purpose. Just the idea of him hurting makes my whole heart twist like someone's squeezing it. I've seen him hurt and it's never a position I'd want to see him in again. So no matter what happens, I will always love him and treat him with respect and the humanity he deserves. He's a good man, better than most, and for whatever crazy reason he has, he's mine. :)

I'm going home next week for seven days to finish packing up the rest of the stuff in my house and to see him. I'm excited to see all of my Texas friends of course, but Matt goes on location for a month in February and will be sequestered in North Carolina, so I want to get in some time with him before then.

I don't think I could ever love another guy as much as I love Matt. I am head-over-heels smitten as a kitten in love with him, and it's the best feeling in the world. It's like having firework sparklers and Pop Rocks inside your stomach all the time--- fuck butterflies, these are Mothras flapping around in there.

I am still unhappy with myself, even though I have so much beautiful stuff going on. When I get depressed, I still don't cope well and for whatever reason my instinct is to go for food. I don't know why, most of the time I'm not hungry at all, I just don't know how else to deal. I ate several pieces of chocolate the other night; I bought a box of pumpkin cheesecake cookies. I hate that I haven't developed better coping mechanisms by now even though I know how good it feels to pull on clothes from the 'normal' side of the store instead of the plus-size side.

I'm also very self-conscious about my weight, especially my extra skin. I really need to get plastic surgery to remove it; there are probably forty pounds of excess skin around my stomach, thighs and upper arms, and it's killing me. It's ugly and I hate how I look without clothes on. In Vegas, I was probably fucking high because I bought myself a bikini and actually wore it in the hot tub. It was from the 'normal'-sized section and it fit and it was cute, but my midsection was so flabby and gross and loose-looking that I can't believe I actually wore it in front of people. I hate the minute that I become aware of my flaws, when reality comes slamming back in. And of course I can't help but compare myself to other girls, especially all of my curvy-but-thin, beautiful friends.

Sometimes I think that I will never feel beautiful, that no matter what happens I will always be 'lesser' than all of my friends, and the idea of that makes me feel sort of sick and even more angry and disheartened with myself.

150 pounds down and I still don't feel 'good' enough. The fat was just physical; my brain is still fucked.

A life so wild and precious.

My life is so surreal right now I feel like I'm the main character in some low-budget indie film. The kind with a pretentious shoe gazer score and lots of desaturated lighting, and montages of kids dancing on rooftops with sparklers in their hands or something.

This isn't necessarily a bad thing.

I have a lot of catching up to do on here. First off, I'll say that wrapping principal photography on Fear Clinic has been bittersweet. It's nice getting to choose the food I eat and the hours I keep (for awhile anyway, since it's the holidays; when I go back to work in a few days it'll be back to crazy hours and more junk food than I want to admit) but at the same time, I dearly miss the friends I made on set. The cast and crew were so terrific and seeing the same faces day in and day out for three or four weeks really makes you feel close to people sometimes. I met some great folks on the set and some of them will undoubtedly stay in touch and remain friends, at the very least friendly acquaintances, but others will fade and shift into anecdotes and old photos. It's the way it goes and I get that, but it feels like graduating high school when you know you won't see some of those people ever again.

I headed back to Texas as soon as we finished filming and of course I was greeted by my favorite bitches in the world. It's the only thing I hate about having relocated to Hollywood, because honestly everything else there is amazing and perfect and exactly how I dreamt it. But my best friends in the entire world (the non-blood family I made for myself) are there, congregated and living their stories without me, and that's the toughest part. I missed their faces so much and no amount of hugs felt like enough. I practically launched myself at them the minute my feet touched Texas soil.

We had a Krampus party to celebrate, which consisted of fucking delicious food. Shawn's an amazing cook and of course Brandy can rock some stuff herself, and Blanca made yummy green bean casserole. I ate way too much and we played Cards Against Humanity and it was freaking wonderful. I spent the night as I usually do when I'm around that group, which is snuggled in bed with Matt. Matt's been one of my favorite people in the world for years, and he and I have always had a very strong bond. He's been there for me whenever I needed him and I've done my absolute best to do the same; he is a really good soul who just wants to keep the peace and make everyone around him happy.

He recently went through a rough breakup with a woman he'd been with for a long time, so he's been a little fragile lately and it fucking kills me not being able to be there for him when he needs it because I'm across the country. But the second I was able to hug him, I couldn't seem to stop. He told me that he didn't really have plans for Christmas day, so I dragged him down to Waco with me to visit my grandma and uncle. Our family's obviously gotten much smaller after the deaths of my grandpa and mom, and everything has kind of drifted to the wayside, so our family gatherings are really small and unremarkable now. But my grandma had put up a little tree in her living room and we ate roast and veggies and too much pie. We went back to my house, which is a ghost town with no electricity or running water and we walked through the ruins, looking at the things I left behind. There's a little of it I want to bring to Hollywood, mostly my books, but everything else may end up a casualty of the move. I just find myself wanting less material possessions and more good people around me; I want to up my more creative output, keep putting out writing and art and photos. I want to keep making instead of destroying or holding myself back.

So on Christmas Eve, snuggled up to Matt in my grandma's guest room, we got to talking and things came around to the topic of love. I decided to just plunge myself off the cliff and leaned in to kiss him, which was terrifying because I had a lot riding on it. I could've fucked up a several-year friendship, I could've made everything awkward and skewed for all of us. Instead, it led to a conversation and by the end of that conversation, Matt and I decided to try this thing out.

I can't really express how it makes me feel, not really. I think he's one of the most beautiful people I've ever met in my life. He has one of the best hearts in the universe and bends over backward to make other people happy. He has such a gentle energy, so laid-back and sweet-natured, but beyond that there's this whole vibe with his makeup where he is so passionate and interested in learning and expanding his knowledge of creatures. He wants to make monsters more than anything, and I love watching him geek out when an effect works out well on set or he is able to flex his creativity and make something really cool. As someone who grew up as 'the girl who loved the monsters', I love being friends with so many people who can make them. Matt inspires me to be a better person; his mellow energy balances out my manic episodes, and he is just a good compliment to the way I am. Being best friends for five years definitely helps too, because we both know so much about each other that the next step felt like a natural progression instead of a big scary cliff dive.

The next couple of days were pretty great but also made me feel very sad because I knew it wasn't going to last forever. I have the west coast waiting for me and Matt's actually going to be on location in North Carolina for a film for most of February. They say that nothing good comes easy, and I know that Matt's worth fighting for. But we're only going to see each other a few times a year unless one of us moves somewhere closer, and that's going to be rough as fuck.

When I left Dallas, I flew out to Las Vegas, which was an event in itself. I had a layover in San Francisco, my luggage strap broke so my bag was not exactly easy to manhandle through the airport, and I had to change in the rental car station's bathroom from jeans and a t-shirt into a couture dress and Michael Kors high heels. I was out here for my friend Tom's birthday, since this is his hometown and he was sweet enough to invite me to join in the festivities. We went to Lavo at the Palazzo, which is one of the most decadent and ridiculously delicious Italian restaurants I've ever been to. We all looked pretty fabulous, rock stars in our ensembles, and we were invited into the club upstairs where we hooked a table and had bottle service. We spent the night dancing and drinking, which was fantastic. I had a great time and managed to maneuver in my heels the whole time even as we were several cocktails in. We took a cab back to Tom's house, which is beautiful and spacious and full of light, and we've been here since. It's been a fun few days--- Tom's best friend Cally lives here and she's freaking fantastic. Such a big, beautiful personality and so much fun to hang around, I can see why he adores her. And another friend of Tom's, Mojean, is also here, and he's this really interesting Australian who is an amazing cook. One day we drove to the grocery store looking like Ke$ha video rejects (leather jackets, fuzzy sweaters, flip flops, last nights' makeup) to buy the stuff for a cookout and we had a fantastic barbecue of skewers and s'mores and caprese salad and pesto and wine around a fire pit and danced to music. The night ended with us on a futon watching a movie Tom shot when he was seventeen, which was amazing… honestly, I've never met someone who has just always created art since he was old enough to do so.

Yesterday we went down to the Strip for a late lunch and walked around the Forum Shops at Caesar's Palace, then headed down to Fremont Street and met with some of Tom's friends from here. They were very cool and I really dug them, they seemed like awesome people. We had a few drinks and wound up at a gay bar called the Piranha, which played really good music. Danced and drank until I was pretty trashed, I'll be honest, which hasn't happened in a very very long time. I've been drunk recently, but this was like stumbling around apparently, I remember dancing and the lights being so gorgeous and I was staring at my friends and thinking about how in that moment everyone was beautiful and perfect. It was one of those times where, like in The Perks of Being a Wallflower, Charlie says "In that moment we were infinite". I felt young and alive and electric.

I don't really know what happened after that though, I got hit with this huge wave of emotion in the car.  I remember just thinking about my friends and how the world needs more people like them, more beautiful bohemian fucks who create instead of destroy and who love each other so freely. Something earlier in the day had been said in conversation about one of my friends not ever giving all pieces of themselves to someone, and it struck a chord with me. I think that that friend is one of the most giving and true people I've ever met even in the short time I've known him, and we've had some conversations that have really made me stop and pay attention to myself and the world around me because of things he's said. I just remember getting incredibly sad thinking that this friend might not realize how amazing he was, or how much other people love him not for what he does but because of who he really is. It made my heart hurt and I went into Tom's room, where I'm sleeping, and lay down in the bed.

A few seconds later I was crying and I couldn't get myself to stop. Everything inside was aching and I just felt so completely hollowed-out and sad and lonely. I miss my mom so much; the holidays are always hardest for losing people but this one's been particularly rough because last year it was fresh enough that I don't think it had really had time to sink in yet. This year I've done so much that I wanted to share with her, that I wanted to pick up the phone and tell her. Sometimes I don't even feel like a real person, I feel like a shadow or a ghost or something and it's so rare for people to actually see me. I'm not beautiful or particularly interesting or terribly talented. I just exist, and when I get down on myself the entire weight of everything comes down like a guillotine. I try to be strong all the time and to be optimistic and keep my shit in line but sometimes I feel like I'm so unbelievably fragile and then I get mad at myself for not being strong enough to handle it.

I wound up having an anxiety attack, and Tom sat there and talked to me and tried to calm me down. I feel fucking terrible and so embarrassed about it because I was a total mess and I don't remember whatever I said. I'm sure I was just rambling and sad and a disaster because that seems par for the course. He is wonderful for trying to help me because he was drunk too and I'm sure I was totally destroying his buzz, and babysitting an emotional mess is no one's idea of a good time. Eventually I fell asleep, and I woke up early this morning and just sat on his balcony for awhile staring out at the sky.

This entire year felt like a dream, a surreal art film montage of heartbreak and love and music and movies and monsters and transition. I dropped out of school, moved to LA, got an incredible job, made unbelievable new friends and lost 150 pounds. I also fell apart a lot and was lucky enough to have amazing people around me to help pick me up.

I am a mess, but I want to be better.

Tonight's New Years' Eve and I hope everyone is looking forward to 2014. There's so much pressure on New Years'--- make resolutions, fix things that may not necessarily be broken, take a good long look at ourselves and analyze what we see. But today is really just another day; your personal New Years could be March 17 or October 2 or January 1st. Any day that you wake up and make a change marks the beginning of a new era, you don't need champagne and noisemakers and balls dropping to tell you how to hit the 'reset' button. You need champagne and noisemakers every day of your life, to celebrate the little victories and the huge ones, to mark the milestones, to wash away the sins and reinvent yourself as a better, stronger, more resilient version every chance you get.

So here are my resolutions for 2014.

1) Love myself and allow others to love me back.
2) Create more, without inhibitions or boundaries or self-doubt. Allow my muses to govern themselves.
3) Live.

That's all I need, and the rest will come.

I am so grateful to those who've helped me through the disasters of 2012 and 2013, and I am looking forward to seeing all of the chaos and beauty of 2014.

Say something, I'm giving up on you.

Everything on my end is total chaos right now but I still feel like at the essence of everything, I'm where I'm meant to be. It's a rocky road; some days everyone is encouraging and excited and a big close-knit family and other nights it's a shark tank and someone is chumming the water to stir things up. I've had plenty of near-nervous breakdowns and more than my share of stress, but I've also had some amazing moments I wouldn't trade for the world and made connections with people I never expected.

That being said, my emotional state isn't great right now. I am trying to throw myself into work, into being what other people need so that I can feel valuable and worthwhile. I like taking care of others, making sure they're happy. But I'm not really happy myself, not inside where it actually matters.

The holidays are always depressing and this marks the first full Christmas since my mom's death where it actually feels like things are sinking in. Last year it was too fresh and I was still sort of in shock. Now I really have time to appreciate every Hallmark commercial and every twinkling light. It's incredibly hard to be on set and unable to call her to tell her what's going on. It's painful doing something really cool and knowing she isn't there to see it or root for me or give me advice when I get into a messy situation. I know how much she loved Rob and his whole group, and I know how much she would've adored Thomas's laugh or brought Joe coffee or joked about how many "Tom"s we have on set.

We had a particularly stressful shooting day a few days ago and when I finally did go home, I felt completely hollowed out. I felt like nothing I could do was right, that my heart hurt, that my head was ringing. I wanted to curl up and die; I was embarrassed at my own fuckups and ashamed of my weakness in moments of panic and I was deeply aware of my ignorance. But I never once seriously thought about throwing in the towel or heading to the airport to fly back home. I could get a steady schedule of work somewhere like Target or a restaurant or even being the receptionist for some company, but I wouldn't be happy. I wouldn't be living my dream of being a part of the industry that's made me happy for so long; I wouldn't be hanging out with some of the coolest people I've ever met, helping bring something awesome to life, letting my creativity actually take root.

I'm surrounded by people but I'm kind of lonely. There are a few people on the film who I really connect with and who I consider friends, but I know that we'll most likely all go our separate ways after the film wraps and won't talk in the future. If we do, one or two times a year maybe. I hope not but I just kind of know how it goes, at least how it used to go with the bands I worked for. Can't imagine it's much different this way. I don't want it to be true though. I'm already really attached to these people and I will miss them a lot when we aren't hanging out on the daily.

I really just need an arm around me and a connection that won't dissolve. I'm really afraid of being alone and the holidays don't really make the fear much less tangible.

Victor and I broke up two days ago, which is still sort of sinking in. We've only been together since the middle of October so it was a two-month run, but it was a two-month run of seeing him almost daily and sharing a lot of intimate conversations and moments. However, he just wasn't right for me. I was trying to fit him into a mold that he wasn't made to fit, and there were so many places where our personalities just didn't come close to gelling as a cohesive unit. I love my freedom and being able to travel and be outgoing and exuberant and wander around aimlessly finding my own fun. He is in a rough place in his life right now where he's financially dependent and without a lot of ability to find his own feet without help, and it's very hard for me to reconcile that with my own lifestyle. Add to that the fact that we barely talked the entire month I've been on location; texting with him was slow and awkward, lackluster, and after a few weeks I came to the painful realization that I missed the idea of him more than the reality. Victor is an incredibly sweet guy and I wish him all the best, but he isn't going to be someone who can be with me in the long run. I am always running at 80 mph and it simply isn't a lifestyle he agrees with.

It still hurts though, ending it. It was nice having someone to care about who would cuddle me on cold nights and listen to me when I had a bad day. I was hoping things would work out with us, that we'd sort our differences out and make something really great happen instead of self-destruction, but it didn't work out that way.

I am desperately, wildly in love with my crazy job and my hectic lifestyle and my friends here, though. It is never a dull moment, and I have been lucky enough to fall in with some wonderful, beautiful, creative, talented people who always strive to better themselves and live their lives to the fullest.

My boss, of course… Rob is my big brother more than my boss, and I will always go to the  mat for him. He's a mad genius whose mood swings and brainstorming sessions are downright exhausting, but watching him in his element keeps a shiteating grin on my face. That manic energy and frantic need to create, to bring his vision to life, is so inspiring and something I only wish I could realize on my own someday. Rob's very driven and he has a circle of loyal people around him who love him and respect him for his unique eye and abilities.

And Thomas, who is one of Rob's best friends and one of the most talented young men I've ever met. I've been a fan of his films for years but he's also a wildly accomplished musician, and he is the sweetest person with a heart of gold. From the minute I met him I knew we'd hit it off, but I had no idea we'd become such fast friends. We have so much in common and beyond that, we jive so well together when we're talking.

                             

There's so many more, too… Megan, who is a makeup effects artist, is one of the toughest and most resilient women I know. I admire her so much for her strength and tenacity and ability to roll with the punches. Corey, who never fails to crack me up, is a fantastic guy who is just so easy to be around that it feels like you've known him for years. Andy, Ikuo, Erica, Liz, all of them are just these calming presences when I'm stressed out.

Honestly, it's true what you hear about film sets being family. You spend between twelve and fifteen hours a day with the same group of people and you begin to learn them. You know how they take their coffee and what brand of cigarette they smoke. You find out if they're a gossip or a wallflower, if they have been in the game forever or if they're green and shy and unsure of their footing. You develop bonds with some and learn to watch your back around others. Alliances and enemies come and go. You all exchange information and pretend that you'll keep in touch in the future, but really, most of you won't. You travel in the same circles and you may work together on a future gig, but the likelihood of remaining friends is probably similar to high school seniors who declare that they'll 'never lose touch' with their buddies when they move away to college.

Life goes on, love is transient. I believe that people are put in your life for a specific purpose, for a very specific length of time. They tell a chapter in your story; some of them are vignettes, others novellas, and others are masterworks. But in the end, they complete their arc and they leave the plot one way or another, be it by their own will or by fate or by death or some other factor beyond any earthly control. But they come into your life when you need them most to develop the story, and they leave when their purpose is done.

And if you're very, very lucky, when it's all over you have a book with a happy ending.

I would have told you if you'd only asked me.

Lately my depression has been spiking like crazy, and I don't know what's wrong with me. I know I've made several major life changes in the past few months and I'm sure that had something to do with it, but honestly I am to the point where I hardly feel human some days. I run on erratic sleep and eating patterns, I have irregular exercise routines and my mood swings are insane. I go from laughing and having an amazing time to curled up in my bed crying ten minutes later.

I love my job. It's highly stressful, fast-paced and demanding but it's amazing. I'm working alongside people who are legends in their fields and I could listen to them talk all day and swap information and discuss the technical aspects of bringing creative visions to life. Sometimes I just sit there in silence trying to absorb everything, realizing that these are the moments I'm going to think about years from now when I'm an old bitter spinster talking about my golden years. I feel like a beta fish thrown into the ocean for sure, way out of my league and in far deeper waters than I've ever swam in before, but I've been treading okay so far. A few missteps, but nothing catastrophic, so all is well in that field.

Part of the problem is money, which is kind of hemorrhaging out of me. I'm making house payments on the house back in Texas and paying rent for my apartment in LA and paying the difference on my hotel room in Ohio that production doesn't cover. That's three living expenses at once, which is insanity. I also had to make the incredibly difficult decision to board Ouija. I didn't want to do it at ALL because the whole point of bringing him out here was to keep him with me and make sure he was safe and had me to socialize with and whatnot, but when we moved to this hotel they have a very strict no-pet policy and no amount of talking to the manager could help me. I couldn't stay at the original hotel because it was a piece of shit with no hot water, filthy conditions and etc, but also because Rob moved over here and wanted me to be close to him for working purposes. It's a LOT easier to walk down the hall to get him for something, or to rendezvous in the lobby and ride to work together, especially since we're sharing a rental car while we're here. So I found a reputable, very nice boarder nearby and they put up Ouija for the month. It hurts my heart and I am so fucking lonely and sad without him, but it had to be done and I know he's in good hands there. At least people are with him throughout the day and he isn't spending fifteen or sixteen hours by himself.

I'm also in such a weird headspace right now and I feel like I'm trapped in a corner in several aspects of my life. Victor makes me so happy and I'm really excited about our relationship, but sometimes I just get sad or take things the wrong way and it's hard for me to tell him why. I'm pretty experienced in being passive aggressive, but also in just tamping down hurt or disappointment and acting like it's no big deal when really my heart is hurting. We haven't talked nearly as much as I had hoped… or thought we would. Sometimes I've asked to Skype or talk and he just isn't in the mood or he's busy with something and of course I shouldn't take it personally but I do. I know he misses me but I guess a big part of my brain feels like if he really missed me that much, he'd be more persistent and he would be the one calling me or trying to Skype with me all the time or something. I don't know. It's likely my own insecurities, which have reared their heads big time lately. I'm surrounded by beautiful people, people in relationships, people on the prowl, everything in between. And I spend a lot of time in my hotel room by myself with too much time inside my own head.

I am painfully aware of my body right now and instead of seeing my weight loss, I am seeing the loose skin, the bulges, the curves where there shouldn't be, the sag to my breasts now. I have pretty much zero confidence at the moment. I've been slumping around set in sneakers and jeans and a shapeless hoodie, a beanie to cover my hair because my hair sucks right now. I want to shave my head maybe. I want to hurt myself sometimes. I want to hide and curl up in baggy shapeless clothes because I am not toned and tight and beautiful like these actresses, because I hear the crew talk about how hot the waitress is, because I see all of the pretty girls around me and I see myself in the mirror and I know the difference. It isn't like I'm on the make or trying to hook up with anyone. I just hate the fact that I am automatically, unquestioningly shoved into the 'friend zone' or worse. I am insecure and on shaky unsteady ice and I am trying to be good at my job so that people don't resent me for being around.

I used to think I was a good photographer until I started meeting these people. Now I don't know if I want to strive to become better or if I just want to sell all of my equipment and keep my head down. I used to think I was interesting until I heard some of the stories my new friends tell, and I realize that I am a sheltered, clueless girl from the south who has never even been out of the country, who has never had some of these experiences.

I just feel very fragile right now, china glass, and it's insanely weird to me that my friends keep telling me I'm 'brave' and 'strong' for coming out here. I'm not brave or strong. I'm total chickenshit. I just fell off the edge of the cliff before I could think to apply the brakes. I don't regret the choices I've made, but it's been a very rough and painful road for me the last few years and even though I love Los Angeles and my job and my boyfriend and the people around me now… I am still as delicate inside as sugar art.

Guess this solves the age-old question of whether you lose your 'fat girl' mentality even when you lose weight. I'm 205 pounds as of this morning, but I still feel as bad about myself as I did at 348. It's actually maybe even a little worse because now I'm "normal fat", I'm the kind of 'fat' that can shop in regular stores and fit in airline seats and squeeze three across in the backseat of a small car, but I still feel horrible and sub-human most of the time. I just found new ways to channel my insecurities and amplify them without a catalyst.

I am still the fat girl in the room even when I'm not.

So sick of myself right now.

Fear on!

Everything's still chaotic on my end, but it is most definitely the best kind of chaos one could hope for.

I am writing this from the Northeast, Ohio to be exact, holed up in a Super 8 with my cat on my feet, a gloomy and frozen day outside the window, and a granola bar in my belly. I've been here for almost a week and honestly I feel like I'm going to pinch myself and wake up at any point in time.

We're working on this movie, and seeing it all come together has been so ridiculously cool that it's sort of absurd. The production office is abuzz with people who do this all day long, every day, and it's fun watching everything fall into place. From script revisions to scheduling to casting I've gotten to glimpse the inner network of people who have to bust their asses to make a movie happen, and it's nowhere near as glamorous as the tabloids make you think it is. It's hard work, a lot of politics and paperwork and phone calls and compromise, but in the end you make art that gets released into the world. You're making something that will (hopefully) entertain thousands, maybe even millions of people. Your footprint will always be there, on video store shelves, on the Internet… debated on forums, dissected in reviews, rehashed at conventions.

Kind of fucking cool.

I've also been working closely with some of the coolest cats I've ever met. Our director, of course, Rob, who I love dearly. He's like a mixture of a boss and a big brother, and he can make me laugh so hard I'm snorting or inspire me to sit down and pound out pages of writing in ways I haven't in years. Watching him work is nothing short of awesome because even now, in the 'boring' pre-production stage rather than the energy of actually shooting, he is a mad genius. He has a thousand things happening at once, dozens of people wanting his individual attention in blocks of time from the moment he wakes up to the time he eventually goes to bed, and he still manages to stay focused and aware of his vision for the film. It's so cool watching him and seeing how he makes this stuff come together from his head to reality.

And of course our DP, Joe. It's so funny, Joe has shot dozens of movies I love, including Repo! The Genetic Opera. He's hilarious, down to earth and really fun to hang out with. He really knows his shit too, which makes me feel about an inch tall as the amateur photographer I am, but it's great listening to him talk gear. You learn more listening to Joe talk for five minutes about his technical set-up than you would taking a college-level crash course in photography.

Andy, our AD, is fucking rad as well. He's a very funny, dry Australian who is a calming, very assertive presence even in the middle of chaos. Andy knows his job inside and out and so even when he's rattled, he's always in charge of his world. Under pressure, he's still amiable and in control, something I definitely envy since I tend to freak out under that kind of demand from others.

The crew's got a lot more people in it of course, but these three boys are the ones I'm working with the most closely right now and so we've spent the most time together since we all got out here. They're fun as hell and really helping me forget things like missing LA and missing Texas and missing my friends and family and being nervous about this job.

It's been pretty inspiring though, for me as an artist as well. I got to write a press release to announce our casting decisions for Fear Clinic, and several of the big horror sites have picked it up and published the information. It's so cool seeing tidbits of something I wrote on sites I go to myself for 'breaking news'. I love setting up interviews and set visits and coordinating with press liaisons. My press release so far has been translated into French, Italian, Spanish and German and posted all over the Internet. I kind of love seeing my Google alerts pop up with new places that have reposted the info about this project that's become pretty dear to my heart. Whatever kind of fan base, critic response or exposure Fear Clinic finds, I will always love it even more for the friends and experiences it's allowing me to have. I'm a very, very lucky girl.