The Ted Mosby Effect

There is an excellent episode of 'How I Met Your Mother' in which the gang tries to convince Ted that in order to get over his break up with his ex Stella, he needs to confront his feelings about her.  Ted goes on to explain that he is from the Midwest, and when people in the Midwest feel pain they push it deep down inside themselves, and if it starts to rise back up, they push more pain down on top of it.  I've always loved this line because I believe it to be so true.  We are the nation's leaders in avoidance.  We suppress, suppress, suppress.  This has been how I have handled most every thing in my life for the past 24 years.  But I am starting to believe that I might be out of room inside.  That I've pushed so much pain on top of so much pain, that my emotional space is at capacity and that is why I haven't been able to really keep down anything that has been going on recently.

I have had some pretty awful things happen to me throughout my life.  And though I consider myself to be an open book, I don't hide my scars well, I have done a great job pushing these things down inside for years and years as opposed to dealing with them as they've happened.  24 years worth of things have been compressed deep inside myself, pressed down with more bad things, and kept closed tight with a padlock made of pseudo-confidence and the larger than life character I portray.  In the past few months I have taken a bit more than usual to stuff deep down within myself at one time.  My father's health being the biggest, and then of course the horribly timed breakup with the ex.  So I went about my normal process of stuffing it all inside and latching it shut behind me.  The problem is, IT'S NOT LATCHING ANYMORE.  It's like an over-packed suitcase, I'm sitting on it, jumping on it, rearranging the contents, I can't seem to close myself up to save my life.

Now, any doctor or rational human being would say "Hey, Katie.  Why don't you get your shit together? Start unloading some of the issues you've pushed down since the age of 14.  Become a lighter, free-er, better person!".  But to be honest, that sounds like a whole thing.  I don't know if I am ready and/or capable of taking that much on right now.  In fact, I really just want a wee bit more space inside myself to deal with what's happening in the only way I know how.  Because if I had that little bit of space left, I wouldn't be crying into my pillow at 1am every other day, sending highly regrettable text messages that don't really solve anything.

I've resigned to the fact that I am going to have to deal with these recent things head on.  I'm sure a noteworthy breakdown is just around the corner.  And when that does happen I hope those closest to me with be patient.  Because I am out of practice in legitimately dealing with my problems.  It will take me some time to find my footing, but I don't know what other option I have.  Unless someone knows where I can find a larger emotional suitcase to repack my issues into.  Now, if you don't mind, I am going to crawl under a table at the nearest Tapas restaurant and wait for Stella to leave.

Comedy + Time = Tragedy

Now, maybe I am just a "comedian-fucker" that has no leg to stand on.  But my relationship with comedy goes back long before any boyfriends, hookups, best friends, ex-friends, producers and rooms.  I listened to Denis Leary's 'No Cure for Cancer' for the first time when I was 13 years old.  And after that moment I couldn't get enough stand-up comedy in my life.  In high school I did my research; I read Carlin's books, watched Pryor's specials, caught just about every Comedy Central Presents from every budding comedian, and comedians who recorded the cable special and were never heard from again.  In college I started attending comedy shows, primarily bigger name comedians at larger venues.  And it wasn't too long before I stumbled into a little comedy room under my favorite bar in Oswego.

The coolest thing for me as a fan of comedy, about the Comedy Under the Tap room, was that I had the ability of not only chatting with comedians after the show, but I got to know them.  And even more appealing than that, they were getting to know me.  After a few months of regular attendance, local comedians knew my name.  They associated the little basement room with the curly haired redhead who sat front and center, drank way too much, and was always ready for some quality audience banter.  These playful relationships spilled out of the comedy world, and into facebook.  Then sometimes into text messages, late night phone calls, and endless smoke sessions on bar patios.  That spark of celebrity I felt when meeting a talented comedian soon after died, and I felt like any interaction with comedians from that point on was earned, some how deserved.

I was forming opinions, not only about these people's comedy, but about their relationships with other comedians, rooms that they frequented, and the way they interacted with their fans after shows.  This information made me feel like a valuable resource to the friendships I was forming with producers and other comedians.  I have the unique perspective of not being a comedian myself, but respecting the shit out of the writing process, as well as the execution of good stand up.  I know comedy, I know what the audience sees and hears more so than the comedians.  Who, in my opinion, spend far to much brain-space being heavily in competition with other comedians, as well as themselves. 

I tried my hand at producing.  But the timing of the job was wrong, and I needed a lot more of myself to be available to be dedicated the way I wanted to be.  I tried my hand at being a comedian's girl friend.  And even though there are a laundry list of annoyances associated with carrying that title, it was another opportunity to be intertwined with a world I so adored.  I appreciate that relationship for the inside exposure I had to a world of pipe-dreamers and laughter.  But it has definitely forever changed my feelings towards comedy.

I look at the comedy world much like I look at the local music scene.  I love music, I will always lust the sound of a distortion pedal and a great beat.  But I got involved with that scene far too closely, far too quickly, and left feeling like I invested my whole heart into something, only to find it is not as alluring as it once seemed.  Part of me misses the music scene desperately.  Being that girl that went home with the bands after shows, and not even in a sexual way, but in a 'the groupies have disbursed and I was playing beer pong with the bass player and talking about great music, great books and life' kind of way.  But I know the best place for me, after 5 long years of supporting and actively participating in the local music world, is that of a fan.  That person that will go to shows, dance, sing back the words on cue, give my old band friends a hug once a year and stay detached.  And truth be told, I have been happier ever since.

This is the cross roads I am at with comedy.  I will always love stand up comedy.  But with everything I have experienced being on the out skirts of this world, I don't know how close to I want to be anymore.  Maybe I will have a change of heart, maybe I will find a positive way to contribute my observations and critiques of an art I love so much.  But more likely than not this very conscience decision to distance myself will become a permanent outlook on the scene.  The great friends will remain just that.  And I will hope to come back every once and a while to see my old favorites with some new material.  (Because let's be honest, I've heard all of your jokes at least once - but usually far more). 

The comedy scene is filled with passion and a whole lot of heart, it's also filled with insecure people and heavy competition.  I don't regret a minute of it.  I'm glad I've had every last moment, and I will some day find exactly the right kind of relationship to have with it.  But for now, I'll stick to Louis CK specials and Mike Birbiglia books.  Thank you, and good night.

Saints and Sailors.

I have been avoiding writing this blog for almost a month now.  Because I was so proud of my ability to internalize the breakup I was going through without having to display my heartbreak on a public platform.  But fuck it.  This is my blog.  This is the one place that I get to write anything and everything that I want to say out loud, and much like I promised myself with my first blog of the year, in a way that no one can interrupt me.  So here it is.  Buckle up, this is going to get ugly.

 

(I'm just kidding.  It's not that bad.  I am just an addict for dramatics.)

 

I entered a relationship at the end of December last year.  I was hesitant to become involved with this person, because we had tried dating a month or so earlier, and it didn't seem to click for me.  Not in the way that I was expecting it to, at least.  I had, and still do, become so accustom to that new boy feeling.  The one that is shared with Erik, Jerod, Andy, and Dan more than others. It's that nervous, butterfly in your stomach, can't breathe when they just touch your hand with theirs feeling.  When I started dating this guy initially that wasn't there for me.  I wanted it to be, desperately, he seemed like someone that would be a good fit for me.  But it wasn't there.  So I ended it before it even had a chance to begin.  Now I am not sure why the next few weeks happened the way they did, more likely than anything I just wanted to keep around the attention he was giving me, but we continued talking.  Talking a lot.  Talking every night on the phone for hours.  And it was in these phone conversations that I began to feel the new boy feelings and I reconsidered why I had ended it in the first place.

 

So we went out.  And it was there.  Just the way I imagined it and needed it to be.  That was at the end of December.  And from then until about 3 weeks ago, things were good.  Not perfect.  But good.  I was happy to be his girlfriend.  Our circumstances were difficult between location, schedules, and transportation.  But I felt despite that we were supportive and patient with one another.  The phone conversations that first made me fall for him became the core of what we were, and the time we did get to spend together was a whole lot of fun.  My friends and family thought he was great.  And I loved doing little special things throughout the time we were together to remind him of just how great I thought that he was.  We had cheeseburger phones, hot wings, inside jokes, and a great physical relationship.  It was hands down one of the healthiest relationships I have ever had.

 

So this is where things get a little hazy for me.  The week leading up to when we broke up wasn't one of our best.  It is hard enough dating someone within the circumstances, but it is even harder when the person you are growing close to isn't the best at vocalizing their own emotions.  And when those things that they say is all you have to go off of 90% of the time, this can be a little rough.  So I got frustrated, and I pushed for more, like typical Katie Keller does.  I didn't expect the events that would follow, but here's how it went down.

 

I get a bunch of cryptic text messages on the afternoon of Easter.  I am no fool.  I have been broken up with enough times to read the signs.  The "I think we need to talk" is never followed with good news.  Like the Mike Birbiglia joke "When a doctor tells you they found something it's never anything good.  They're never like 'We found something in your stomach, its SEASON TICKETS TO THE YANKEES!"  So for the sake of not prolonging the inevitable I picked up the phone and called him.  Which probably was a poor choice seeing as though I was walking into dinner with my family at a very lovely Italian restaurant for Easter supper.  But I also knew I couldn't force down lamb chops and conversation with my folks when I had this impending breakup looming over me.

 

There was a lot of crying, and screaming (on my end, obviously) and the resurrection of Christ became far less important to me.  I tried to salvage dinner with my family, though most of the meal was spent in the bathroom with my sister picking wet pieces of tissue off of my face.  And then I went home and continued to cry for a good 3 days.  Insult was added to injury when I received some of the darkest news I have ever heard concerning my dad's health just hours later.  And that person who had been my rock, my best friend, my constant source of support was no longer there for me.  I felt broken hearted, and overall just broken, when 24 hours earlier, though things weren't looking great for my dad, at least I had him.

 

I was very proud of my ability to stomach the heartache, I did the responsible thing and deleted his number from my phone and got drunk a lot.  This didn't help with the crying, but it numbed everything if for nothing more than a few hours each night.  I stalked his facebook regularly, of course.  But I didn't call.  I didn't text.  I was fully prepared to walk away and deal with the much bigger issues that were at hand in my life.

 

My brother told me something in the midst of what was going on, because once news came out about my dad I didn't talk to my family about the boyfriend situation.  He told me not to feel guilty about being hurt about a boy, despite everything that was going on with our dad.  And this was important for me to hear.  Because up until then I did feel guilty for being heartbroken.  Who am I to feel abandoned and sad when the world is falling down around my dad and the rest of our family?  But what was happening with my family actually amplified the sadness that I had felt over a boy, because that boy once held my hand and let me cry when things with my dad first got real.  And now he was gone.

 

I broke down a week or so later and told him I needed to talk.  I didn't care to discuss the demise of our relationship, and to be honest I wasn't ready to hear why it was over at all.  I just needed my boyfriend to be there for me while bad news was being toppled over with more bad news.  This worked for a few days.  But even in just talking about non-relationship related things, our conversations were just as 'us' as ever.  We laughed, we shared those same inside jokes, and it felt like he'd never really left at all.  These conversations are what set me assail to what I like to refer to as 'desperation island'.  Population : me.

 

So after a few days of great conversations and much needed support on my daddy issues, we were left to have that talk that I don't think either one of us wanted to have.  The one where he, again, reiterates that he doesn't want to date me.  That I am not worth him putting effort into a relationship for.  And that the heartache that I was able to put on the back burner for a few nights was still very much so there.  But this conversation didn't actually end anything because on desperation island relationships don't end, they go on forever with the very little amount of love and affection that is being offered to them, and you pretend that any amount is better than no amount and go with it.  We actually at one point determined that we could continue our physical relationship, though the emotional relationship was no longer being offered to me.

 

Now, I don't like to use this phrase often, and it is only something that occurred to me since I have departed desperation island, but

"Nigga, Please."

Why in a million lonely desperate or not years would I think it would be okay to offer ANYONE my jelly without putting in the effort for an actual relationship?  I mean, yeah, sex is fantastic.  But I have never had any issue getting laid in or out of a relationship.  So if I continue to sleep with him it isn't for the sex, at least not for me.  It is so that I can hold on to some semblance of life prebreakup.  But not for him.  If he wanted to be with me more than just physically he wouldn't have ended our relationship on a high holy day a month ago!  I can and will continue to get laid anytime I feel like, because I have the magical lady parts that give me the power of dialing just about any number in the ol' phone book for a night of rough and tumble fun.  But I'll be damned if he gets to continue reaping the benefits of being in a relationship with me without actually being in one.

 

As far as rekindling the friendship, I guess the lack of phone calls and text messages speak for themselves on his end.  If he did care about me or my dad he isn't doing anything to show it.  So I have resolved to this being another heartbreak that I will wake up eventually one day and be over.  I'm a pretty great girl.  I work really hard to have everything I do, and I love with all of my heart always.  For whomever becomes the next Mr. Katie Keller, they will get the same amount of patience, love and support I tried to offer up to this one.  And maybe that person will be more grateful for what I offer and be more patient with me when I need them to be.

 

Oh yeah, and they will get all the sex they could ever imagine having ;)

Forever Young.

I haven't blogged in a few weeks, because I can't find the right words to say what I think I need to say.  I still don't have them. Nothing I can type here today will ever be big enough, or right enough to honestly reflect the way my heart and head have been lately.

I have experienced a whole lot of heartbreak in my day.  From broken relationships, to personal failures, and many unanswered questions filling all the space between.  Nothing could have prepared me for what the last two weeks has laid out in front of me.  I'm a tough girl.  I have spent 24 years creating the thickest layers of skin to shield me along the way.  But there are things in life, as I am learning, that no amount of protection can prevent from happening.  And from making you feel like someone just kicked you in the chest at full force.  I still wake up every morning, and put on my game face.  I smile and laugh through work and play - and it's only a few moments throughout the day that I let it in.  But when those moments happen I am left breathless. 

Life is too short.  There never seems to be enough time.  The reality I am starting to gather the strength to wrap my head around is that you can't count on any moment you picture in your head for the future.  Whether it be the perfect wedding dress, or holding your first baby in your arms.  There is no promise that you or anyone else will get to those points.  Not that you shouldn't hold on to them, or hope that someday they come true.  But if we could paint the perfect pictures of life, and they would come true on hopes and dreams alone, we would all be millionaires, celebrities, and stand up comedians.  The sad reality is that there is no promise that anyone can make for you, or you can make for yourself, that can truly be kept.  And that is really fucking depressing.

All I can do, all anyone can do, is try to make every moment count.  As cliche as that is to say.  You need to fight and hope and pray - even if there is no promise.  Even when the chances of that hope or promise are a lousy 9%.  I will most likely not get walked down the aisle at my wedding on the arm of my father.  This thought has broken my heart, every minute, of every day for the past 14.  And though that mental image of us dancing to 'Forever Young' in my beautiful red (sorry Mom) dress will never leave my head, it will keep me praying harder than ever until the day I have to accept that as one picture I have painted that I will never be able to physically hang on the wall.

Today my dad took me shopping for a dress to wear at my birthday party tomorrow.  It wasn't a wedding dress.  His eyes didn't well up with tears when I walked out of the dressing room to have him zip up the back.  But we laughed as we crossed through the mall, and we spoke honestly to each other across chicken sandwiches and waffle fries.  More important than any picture, promise, hope, or dream I may conjure up in my head is just knowing that he loves me.  And him knowing that I love him.  And I feel so incredibly blessed that this is breaking my heart, because that means I have a dad that did something right.