Anger Management

I am currently reading a book about this new culture of rudeness we live in. Specifically how it's a psychological epidemic because it actually impacts the way we problem solve, process, and carry-on long after exposure to rudeness. "F You Very Much: Understanding the Culture of Rudeness - and What We Can Do About It" by Danny Wallace has only been on my nightstand a couple days. I am not tearing through it nearly as quickly as I just devoured Busy Phillip's "This Will Only Hurt a Little" probably because this is pretty depressing and Busy's memoir was filled with interesting anecdotes about Health Ledger. 

I mention this as a precursor to this blog because I diligently want to keep my anger from overflowing into the world around me. And I understand the social repercussions of this space I am currently holding myself in. This blog is to hold me accountable to putting this anger somewhere, without causing my own Hot-dog Incident*. 

Part of me has been foaming at the mouth to get these words out in a blog lately. Because I am experiencing a form of my depression that is rare and I feel like I should lean in and see what it does. That's the thing about reoccurring depression and anxiety, you can run different plays on them and if they fail, it's all good. You'll get to implement a new strategy tomorrow! Notoriously the time of year that my dad passed away has a lot of triggers for me. And I am used to becoming lethargic and introverted. But this year, SURPRISE - I am FUCKING PISSED.

I am not fucking pissed my dad is dead. I mean, I am certainly not pleased about it. But I have come to terms with his passing and the grief of that loss looks different every day and I imagine always will. But the reason my PTSD triggers from this time of year feel particularly bad has very little to do with the loss of my dad. In fact, it's the same circumstantial life stuff I would stress and feel anxious and/or depressed about, but instead of those regular feelings, I am angry.

After my contract with Hilton being cut short in the fall of last year, it took some time to get another stable job. I have always kept my self-esteem closely intertwined with my career, because it was something I felt I at least had control over. But that's far from the truth. In some cases, things just aren't based on performance or merit or logic or fairness.  Sometimes you can do your absolute best and your position will be dissolved because the owner doesn't like change or their isn't money in the budget, or you're being asked to make white nationalist propaganda videos.

So here I am, unemployed again after having an already rough go of it just nailing down a new position. And then maintaining it for 3 months with a 12 hour day, due to a 2 hour each way commute, and to show for it - not even enough time at a company to worth mentioning on a resume. They lose nothing. I go back to living in fear and panic of where the next rent check comes from. I'm not sad this time. I'm fucking pissed.

I guess you can say I have been sad and anxious about situations like this for so long now (i.e. having my water shut off in my 20s, getting arrested after my house got burgled for having a missed court date, etc) that now I am just getting angry I am in them time and time again. Why does this keep happening? I believe I am a fundamentally good person.  I try to do what I can for others whenever I can. The dumb financial choices I have made in my 20s have virtually ended (with the exception of Taylor Swift merch I specifically wait to become available secondhand on eBay). I am doing everything right now, I feel I have really been trying hard at it since moving to LA, and the wrong things just keep happening.

I have always thought anger was a useless emotion. And for the sake of my relationships right now it certainly is. I have more or less cocooned myself in my home while I figure out my next move. Not to be dismissive of how my mood can be changed in the company of good friends, but because I don't want to bring down company with my anger. Which I will, because I am angry at aspects of the people I love's lives. And I certainly don't want to put that on them unnecessarily. It's unwarranted, it's their lives and their choices. and at the end of the day their failures or successes have no real bearing on my happiness and if I am achieving my goals.

Which if you are just skimming, I am not. Unless my goal is to be irrationally angry at the minefield of shitty life paths I have in front of me. I don't want to work for another old, white, republican man. Ones who don't understand the value of a dollar, nonetheless the value of the people that work for them. At first I wondered if that meant having to leave LA. Then on a broader scale, I wondered if I would have to move to an entirely different planet. 

I also don't want to be so naive as to think the perfect, humanitarian POC, preferably female, is going to knock at my door with a viable career opportunity that also allows me to see a doctor with a co-pay in a medical emergency. Or you know, just get my monthly medication for under $300. 

This blog has been a LOT of personal bitching, but I will get back to the point. My life right now is not where I wanted it to, nor expected it to be. The people I keep a focus on are the ones that keep working and never stop despite their circumstances, because they don't have the opportunity to otherwise. The ones with no savings, no safety nets, no phone-a-friends left. The ones that have to get up every day and do it for themselves because there is no other option.

So if I have to strap on my helmet, and run fearlessly into the minefields of potentially more toxic careers, filled with heartless, money-grubbing fascists, I am going to fucking survive it. I am going to channel this anger into energy and just go at it full speed ahead. I am too fucking pissed off not too. And who knows, perhaps if I pay it to the man for another decade I can have the opportunity to "follow my bliss" like every care-free, Netflix documentary tells you is the way to spiritual enlightenment. 

I've followed my bliss a few times now, never once has it walked me to ComEd and helped explain why I can't keep my lights on. But that's just me. 

*Reference to "F You Very Much: Understanding the Culture of Rudeness and What We Can Do About It.

Me Also: A Non-Active Participant's Story

It's been about 12 years since I sat down and wrote about my first sexual assault. It's laughable to think back on. It was more or less a two page, overly-abstract essay about an affair between a high school freshman girl and her then English teacher. In hindsight, of course that's the story I wrote when I was 19. I think that was about as much of the experience as I had processed at that time.

I was making the bed this morning, and for some reason going over the story in my head. I don't know what triggered it today, it comes and goes when it wants. But normally I would outline the story of what happened, maybe to keep working through it - going painfully point by point in my head to remember and re-remember for myself what actually happened. For whatever reason I have developed this new method of processing the event, I found myself starting to choke on it. They've welled up into a knot and the words are just holding themselves tightly in my chest.

So here we are. I know exactly what I am going to say, but I am terrified to say it. I would say still terrified, but I don't think I have ever come this close to sharing this story publicly. I genuinely worry about the ramifications of my words personally and professionally. It's a silly little blog and I have no intention of naming names. And I have shared this story with many people over many years. But something about putting it in words requires owning it. And I think my hand is being forced to own it now. By my heart.

Last year when the #MeToo movement started to pick up steam, my depression came at me strong and hard. It wasn't any particular victim or person being accused that triggered me. It was the whole weight of it. Everyone had an opinion. People were debating openly on social media what qualified as sexual assault. And even worse, what didn't qualify as sexual assault. And I think it was that idea that brought to life the reality of what had happened to me when I was 13. Because for years I had written it off as not being a molestation or rape or anything forced per say. So it just wasn't that bad.

My psychiatrist and I have covered the fact that many victims will blame themselves for being active participants in their own abuse. Because we didn't say no, or we feel as though we invited or encouraged the behavior. An understanding of this, in addition to the constant conversations about it around me, starting bringing to surface details of this experience I must have repressed. Details that made me finally feel as though I wasn't a willing participant, I was a child who couldn't have or shouldn't have been forced to make the distinction between affection and abuse from someone that should have known the difference.

When I was 13 years old, a then 29 year old teacher started an emotional and physical relationship with me. We were around each other all the time. During school where he taught classes to my peers, and after school where we would spend more one-on-one time in drama class, show choir, and speech team. He was always around, not only myself, but all of the under age school children just trying to be involved in the arts. Left with him after 3pm when the other teachers have gone home, the school empties out, and you can trust your children are in the safety of their after school programs.

At the time I had a really big crush on him. How could a 13 year old girl getting attention from an older man NOT have a crush? I grew up on 90210 and Dawson's Creek. This was the teenage drama story-line of my dreams. We would sneak phone calls late at night on my home landline and he would come pick me up at the end of our cul de sac so know one would see it was him. We went out swing dancing once, a few towns over where we most likely wouldn't run into anyone we'd know. He made me mix CDs, and I still even have a poem he wrote me when I turned 14 about how we were closer to finally being together publicly.

These are the things I remembered for so long. Because I did participate in them. I could own that happening because it wasn't a bad thing I let happen, it was inappropriate - yes. But I was there too. It was consent as much as consent can be given at the age of 14.

But there are big parts of the picture I had cut out and kept from myself for years to not see the situation for what it was. He lived with head of security for the whole high school at the time, a cop, the irony not lost on me. Through this he had access to her office in the school and learned where all the security cameras were. He learned the corner angles of certain hallways he could touch me in without being detected. The doors he could pull me behind in the middle of practices, rehearsals, classes, when he wanted, to touch my child body.

I remember the smell of the gymnastics mat he brought up to the dusty choir robe closet that he laid on the floor for us to "fool around on". I had only had my first kiss a few months prior to this, and so fooling around for me was making out. But now I can remember him pushing my hands down his pants, or forcing his mouth up my shirt - to my resistance. And worse, all the times I didn't resist, but I now vividly remember the feeling in my stomach that I didn't want it to be happening. But I was afraid he wouldn't like me if I made him stop.

The reason it stopped wasn't because he was caught, or he worried what he was doing was wrong. The reason it stopped was because after a few months of trying to push my hand down his pants, and me resisting doing anything more than letting him touch me while I lie there, he got bored and didn't want to try any more. I remember the words verbatim, "Whats the point?"

I think of the calculated 30 year old man, looking for dark corners to hide in, trying to make a physically uncomfortable 14 year old girl do things she told him, trusted in him, that she wasn't ready to do. Then the mix CDs and poems don't seem like something I signed up for. They seem more like tools that were used to keep me on the line for him to sexually abuse a student, a child. I was a child.

It's been 17 years since this happened. And I honestly feel like I am just now starting to process it in any real way. It's required acknowledging that my body has held onto physical trauma from that situation. That I was emotionally manipulated in a way that directly impacted (impacts) relationships I have had with every male in my life to this day. Not just males, but any person in a position of authority or mentor-ship. He reshaped my entire life of academia and involvement with the arts, negatively. But finally after 17 years I don't see that teacher that broke my heart when I was 14; I see my sexual abuser.

I knew sooner than this it was a fucked up situation. And I have carried a lot of guilt with me even since 16 or so that I didn't speak up or tell anyone. The first excuse was that I didn't want to cause my family the embarrassment. I would see stories on the news of the girls that brought down teachers, I knew the teachers were obviously in the wrong, but it always kind of felt like they vilified the girls that "brought them down". And I didn't want to be that.

I finally wrote a letter to the then superintendent of the school when I was 25 years old or so. Being apart of my school's drama club alumni page on Facebook I saw that he was teaching at the school again. And I felt strongly enough at that point that they had a right to know what he had done. I wasn't looking to press charges or do anything about it - I just didn't feel right knowing he was in those hallways with more classes of children who shouldn't have to write these blogs in their 30s. I never got a reply.

So here I am, years later, telling the story as it was then and as it is now. I am secretly glad 20 somethings Katie was able to protect herself from some of this. She was already going through so god damn much. I feel way more equipped to handle processing these memories now than I could have then.

But even now I am taken aback by how profoundly the need to write this down came over me today. Maybe I am tired of processing it alone. Maybe I am tired of people defining what sexual assault looks like and doesn't look like. Maybe I just need another version of this story to exist so someone else who has been here with a line-cook when they were 16, or any older boy or girl (17 is still old enough to assault someone Mr. Kavanaugh) can know they didn't participate. That they didn't ask for it. And that they shouldn't have had to be the one to stop a sexual assault.

This Blog is My Hobby

I have had depression my whole life. (Can someone check and see how many times I have published THAT sentence in this blog?) I like to preface stories with this because it's important to know anything you are thinking in response to this story, I already know. I am not a depression expert, nor am I a doctor. I am simply stating that this has been my normal long enough to not be alarmed by it, but simply to work through it as it comes. As it always comes.

I started a new job just shy of 2 months ago. It is the most ambitions position I have ever accepted, and I knew I was going to have to step up my game significantly to hold my own in this new environment. And what gives me confidence to walk into roles like this is my undying passion to do good. To be good. To produce good results and be successful. It's that mentality that assures me I can do anything in time if I work hard enough at it. It's that same mentality that has made this job a huge trigger for my depression and anxiety.

You see, that undying passion to be good has a tendency of taking up more brain space than it should. And while wanting to learn and be effective in your position is certainly not a bad thing, when that desires creeps into every aspect of your life and starts to blend into everything you do, you can't ever do enough to feel like you are doing good. It never turns off long enough to see the accomplishments behind you. And the standards you hold yourself to professionally become very unattainable standards you hold yourself to in personal relationships or emotionally. You can look at the whole picture objectively like this. Acknowledge what those feelings are, and how unfair they are to put yourself through or hold yourself to. But depression gives no fucks. All it knows is your aren't doing good enough.

Here's a value-add for those of you playing at home: now that I am settling into a job that provides me more money than I've ever made, freedom to work from home, freedom to be creative and excel in a prestigious environment filled with opportunity; I feel guilty as hell being depressed. It is unreasonable to have my emotional reaction to success and monetary stability be stifling sadness. It is unreasonable that after 15+ years of depression and anxiety, and medications, and cognitive behavioral therapy, and in-patient stays, that I still can't just be fucking happy in this moment with everything I have. It's a great cocktail, the depression + anxiety + guilt that I assume I learn from Catholicism. 

I have been more sensitive to things I shouldn't be. I find I have more triggers in this particular shade of depression than others. I get really sad when my boyfriend gets excited about Marvel films. Hear me out. I don't get upset that he loves Marvel films, I love that he loves Marvel films. I hate that he has something to get excited about and to look forward to because I don't. I hate that I don't have Marvel films. I am basically triggered by anyone with a hobby. Or that can stay up past 9pm to do social things. Or that don't feel sick to their stomach looking at pictures of themselves. Essentially I am triggered by every representation of what I am not doing for myself in my own life. That's exhausting. Especially because all I have the energy to do is hold myself to unrealistic expectations and put myself down for not being great all the time. And that's a full time job. Who has time for hobbies? 

My job is challenging. I am proud to tell people what I do. And I am proud with how much I have learned in 2 months. I know I will find balance again. I know when I have settled into this position my hobbies will come back, and I will be able to make moves without being terrified of failing or letting myself down. I also know that when that happens my depression may manifest itself into new form to meet me there. And that's fine. I'll just come back and write a blog about it.  I feel better, thanks for listening. 

Clown Lover

You know that meme of boy and girl clowns that says something like "how you and your significant other look after breaking up on social media and then getting back together"? That meme always makes me cringe, because it is totally my boyfriend and I. So ridiculous over the past 7 years of on again/off again, very publically - as was completely my own doing. And after this summer when we broke up, albeit very briefly, I took to the internet for support more than ever. I was going through a devastating break up 2000 miles away from the people I needed the most. And the easiest way to connect with everyone was to tell the sob story of our demise all over social media. I did, and I felt so much better about it to be honest. But when we got back together a few weeks later I thought of those stupid clown faces and decided it best to not say anything about getting back together. It was embarrassing.

It's been 4 months since Vic moved out to Los Angeles to be with me. And it has been better than any time in our 7 year history prior. The brief breakup this summer was necessary for us to address and move on from some issues that had been plaguing our relationship for too long as it was. The reason we broke up, the things we said and did to each other, they happened.  All of it was real and true and none of that is lessened by the fact that we got back together. And the fact that I have held the healthiest, happiest version of this relationship so close to my chest was partially because I needed to keep it close to work on it, nurture it, and mend it to where it is now - and partially because I felt stupid saying we were back together. But I will no longer let that embarrassment stand between me and my truth: that my best friend sticking out this hard shit and working our way back to each other time and time again doesn't make us clowns. It makes us look like god damn love warriors who have too much love between them to say stop. Where's that meme?

I know this isn't the case for every relationship. And I am sure, even 2 paragraphs in, there are probably some of you thinking "sure thing, Katie - read back 3 blog posts and see how wrong and stupid you are". But the fear that maybe this blog will someday make me look foolish, or not stand true doesn't take away from the fact that this relationship is real and wonderful and worth being proud of now. Especially in a climate where the men we ARE talking about are the terrible ones that do awful things to women. I don't want to be in fear of talking about one that isn't a garbage monster. And I certainly don't want to feel ashamed of a relationship that is stronger than any I have experienced, and quite frankly seen around me. 

I am not going to go into our history - it's all splattered through the pages of this blog if you dig deep enough. But with the holidays being around the corner, and being just a few hours away from my first anniversary as a Californian, I am hyper-aware of how lucky I am to have him be my family here. The fact that no one could have been more scared than me of us moving in together, especially after a rather tumultuous summer, to find that we live together better than any ex-boyfriend or roommate I've ever had. That I get more excited to come home to him having only been 8 hours since last saying goodbye then I did when I would leave his apartment in Chicago unsure of our next night together. The boy that friends told me time after time wasn't worth my tears (and they were always warranted in saying so) has turned into the man that wipes my tears away at the end of bad days. The boy that couldn't let those walls down to let me in failed attempt at a relationship after failed attempt at a relationship, is my safe place and my family now.

I guess the point of all of this, outside of bragging about my lovelife which hasn't always been something worth bragging about, is to say it's okay if your relationship doesn't start off in some particular way, only have x amount of break-ups, or maybe comes with one too many passive aggressive sub-tweets at the other person; your love story is your love story. No one else's. If you are lucky enough to find someone you love through hell and high water - paint your clown face proudly. Because at the end of every day, we're the ones laughing. 

I Am Iron Man

My additive genetics have made the last 30 years a real struggle. For someone who has spent the majority of their life surviving through depression and anxiety, the body and mind craves anything that can replace those feelings. For better or worse, if you can feel anything but what you are feeling you'll pretty much take it. Which is why so many of my young adult years were spent drinking very heavily. And smoking a million cigarettes. But I have come a long enough way to recognize what I was doing, and why I was doing it.

What I am finding about my new life here in Los Angeles is that my predisposition to addiction is actually working in my favor. Over the last few weeks especially, I have become obsessed with feeling the high of the fear of doing new things all alone. It scares the shit out of me walking into a room of strangers to try something I never have before. But oh my god, when you stick that social landing and experience new things with new people - that's fucking crack to me. 

I give off an air of confidence that people often times confuse with the real insecure girl that lives inside me. But that insecure girl is becoming a really bold and brave woman. And chasing the moments where I actually feel that way has become so gratifying. 

I went to a puff and paint event last night. I heard of the event through a fabulous artist I connected with on Facebook. I have never met this woman, and I certainly didn't know her friends. But I bravely walked into an art gallery last night, extended my arm, and let my name out in a shaky attempt at an introduction. Over time the room had filled with people I had never seen before, and slowly with each exchange I started to grow confident in my ability to fit in there. 

The thing that always amazes me, and I would compare to the first time you stand up after a few glasses of wine and realize the intoxication is hitting you, is that in a group of strangers feeling as nervous as can be I manage to make people laugh. Like real belly laughs; getting a moment of joy through a comment my clever little brain came up with and released without much thought.

Outside of being charming and hilarious, I am also really good at caring about what people have to say. This quality, like addiction, has certainly made life harder in some regards. But when in the process of meeting new people and making new friends I want to learn about who is standing in front of me. And not to live up to some social expectation of conversation, but because that human right there has done things and seen things I never have and never will and I certainly want to know as much about that stuff as I can absorb in a brief encounter. People often times seem taken aback by having someone show interest to that level, which to me personally is sad, but it's nice to validate people's existence through a quality I naturally possess.

My other new addictions include trying to drink at least 64oz of water everyday. The feeling I get in my thigh muscles as I walk up a god damn mountain on my way home every day. I'm addicted to wearing my hair curly, as curly as the good lord made it because I don't have time to make it be something else all the time. I am addicted to seeing how many days I can go without a cigarette. And I am addicted to being able to look at my life through eyes that don't criticize and attack the decisions I am make each day. I am addicted to forgiving myself. 

Life isn't always rainbows and sunshine. And although I pride myself on being the eternal optimist, we all know I get down and shit sucks sometimes. And I am going to emotionally reach for a bottle of wine for time to time when I want to feel something besides the bad stuff. But now that I see what my mind and body are capable of turning my weakness into, I feel like a god damn superhero. A superhero with an addiction disorder. So basically I'm Iron Man. 

But Did You Die?

I am right on track for a post break-up blog. The night we broke up I had a girl's night-in with a couple bottles of rose and more than a couple tears. Last night I put on a dress and went dancing with girlfriends and ended the night stuffing my face with chili cheese fries. It seems the next step of the cycle has usually been to put it down on paper. I have had 48 hours to step away from it as well as run the gambit of emotions by submerging myself in it. Now I sit down and tell the story to get it out of me and start doing my best to move on. There is a lot of familiar and comfort in heartbreak for me these days. That's probably sad if you think about it too hard, but I'll take an advantage any where I can find it. 

I'm not going to waste time with the back story. The history is different every time I look at it. I know his history is vastly different from mine, which is vastly different from what it once was to me. My interpretation of how we got here makes sense for me now, and it doesn't change the outcome anyway. The man I love came to come see my new life in LA, with the prospect of making my home his and starting a new chapter together in a new city. The chemistry between us when he arrived was as we'd always left it; completely electric. No matter how much time had passed, we could always pick up somehow more sexually charged for one another than we'd last left it. The days and nights were spent tossing around in sheets, laughing, and affirming our love to one another in every kiss, touch, and dream we shared. 

When we had first started entertaining the idea of him moving here, it was important for me to establish that he would only move here if he saw us being together longterm. Forever. It wasn't that I needed a ring on my finger tomorrow, or him to even have a timeline for us to get there. I have just become really protective of my life here. It has taken all the courage I've ever known to move here and force myself to create a new life from very little.  And now that I have my feet planted firmly enough to know this is where I will thrive and the rest of my life starts, I don't want that to be derailed by someone carelessly coming in and out of it. I wanted to know that we were moving forward together and I wouldn't be taking any steps back for him or us to play catch up. I didn't want him to move here and then be blindsided if he came here to find he didn't want me at all.

The last night he was here the topic of his family had come up. I had enough beers in me to be emotional about the fact that I'd never met them. He is 26, we met when he was 19. And in every year we've spent growing together and sharing big parts of our lives with one another, he never brought me around them. But I had made a big enough impact on his life that I know that they at least knew I was an important part in the success he's had. It was very casually then that he said "they don't even know you exist!" with such levity in his voice you would think he was poking fun at an inside joke that I was just not in on. 

This escalated quickly. He got defense. I was so shocked I couldn't do much but cry. It brought three days of security and romance to an immediate halt. We cried and yelled until the sun came up. Then, exhausted, we held each other for a few final moments, kissed, and resolved to figure it out later. He left and I laid in the exhaustion on a vacation ruined for the next 2 days alone. 

I understand him not acknowledging me to his family is shitty. And it was important to me that he understood that I truly believe I deserve to not only be acknowledged, but to be recognized for everything I have been willing to do to contribute to his life in a positive way. He should want to tell his family about me knowing that's something that would make me happy, but in addition to, he should be excited to share with them that he's able to be supported in a move across the country by someone that loves him so much she will do everything in her power emotionally, fiscally and otherwise to help him through it. Fuck, I have non-romantic partners who have supported me getting out here and I fucking stop strangers on the street to talk about them. It's an incredible thing. Why would you not want to share that with the people in your life? 

As long as I've known this man, his defense to every problem that could come up between two people is tearing apart any benefit of a life shared. He has always looked at needing people, commitment, and relationships as a weakness. And that if you don't get close to people, if you keep everyone arm's length away, you can protect yourself from everything and you won't get hurt. So his response to me saying I needed more was that he didn't want any of it. He didn't want to be forced to make a long term commitment to me, he never wanted that life at all, despite being asked only that thing before agreeing to come out here. I was forcing him to make a decision for US instead of just for HIM and he couldn't risk it. Or maybe it wasn't worth it to him. Or maybe he truly thinks he is going to be better off walking away from someone like me. 

It could have been different. And as heartbroken as I am, I don't want to think that I am breaking free of some horrible abusive relationship. Lord knows the hardest part of this is that I still think that version of my life with him would be an incredible one. But if he doesn't see that, I can't make him. And I don't want to let someone infiltrate my life here without making at least that commitment to me. I do believe our lives are better shared. And I do believe that I am going to be able to love a man until the day one of us dies in such a big and wonderful way it will be the best thing that's ever happened to both of us. I really thought that was going to be him. But if it's not, I'm not going to risk the chance of getting to have that somewhere else in my life. 

I miss him so much some times I get dizzy. It's when life dips back into normalcy for just a moment and your finger goes into autopilot to send over that meme on instagram. It takes my breath away how crushing it feels to remember he's not there anymore. We have been through a lot in 7 years. And the thing I was most proud of towards the end was I knew we would always find a way to make it work. Because our love was the big love. Our love is a big love. This one definitely rocks my foundation harder than any heartbreak before. But heartbreak is heartbreak, it'll be a fucking beast until it's not anymore. Until the absence of him becomes the norm and time blurs the memory of every raw feeling I am suffering through now. Because a broken heart is the absolute worst, but not once has it ever killed me. 

Dream Job Nightmares

You learn something pretty quickly when you start going after your dreams. You learn that there are so many thing about your dreams (specifically the difficult parts) we tend to look past as we fantasize about our perfect lives. I moved to California and yes that was a big part of living out my dreams. I live on a mountain overlooking the most beautiful city I have ever seen. I am a quick ride to the ocean, were I can lay against the sand and sync my heart beat to the tide and let the water calm me. And I love nothing more than the irony of this vast, unknown, potentially panic inducing body of infinite water being the thing that slows my racing heart and brings me a sense of peace and calm when I need it most.

So you find the place your dreams live. And you rent a house, an apartment. You try to sign a lease for a determined amount you can only hope to be able to maintain because getting to your dreams does not always offer the most consistent cash flow. But you know you are where you are supposed to be, so you find a way to make it work. And though you dream of eating great food, and drinking great wine - but you will more often than not have to eat ramen and hope the few social outings you have per week include someone you know bringing some sort of alcohol or maybe an herbal treat to give us calm to enjoy what we do have - which is ramen.

LA is it’s own planet filled with opportunities in pretty much any field you could want to work. You want to work in movies, music, television, be a writer, be a chef, be an artist, a personal trainer, a teacher, a curator - you can do literally everything here. But here’s the catch - all those jobs, though the are in the field of your dreams are not all good jobs. But you land a job in music in Los Angeles and that’s your dream right? So go live your dream, because you got it.

I dream of publishing music for a publishing house. I dream of selling/licensing songs to television, movies, etc. I dream of working in publicity, and continue to fine-tune my marketing skills. To use my love of arts and my strong communication skills to become a vital asset to the music industry. If I can do these things, some of them, any of them, I can then say I am working my dream job.

I got hired as a Development Director for a privately owned label a few months ago run out of the owner’s personal home in Encino. I was doing everything I loved doing. I was generating press for the artist, writing copy for press, creating press releases for single and video launches, I cast a music video, and then directed a music video. I got to hire a PR Firm and select all the assets that were eligable to be used by press. I was running social media accounts with 300k interactive followers. I was doing everything I wanted to do for a record label. I was working my dream job.

The problem was the woman who owned the label was also the only artist on the label. And she comes from a background with a lot of money and can afford to self produce her albums which is super for her. But because of her sense of entitlement and expectations that everything should be done her way despite it being detrimental to the label, she became impossible to work for. And it didn’t stop just at work related things. She felt she needed to have complete control over the staff in their personal lives and would become incredibly threatened if she felt anyone around her were creating any sort of connection despite us all working together 40 hours a week. And when you work with someone as frustrating as that, those people are vital in helping you maintain your strength to stomach the boss.

I found myself spending more time defending relationships she had made up in her head that I was going to have. That I was going to steal her personal trainer, or her gardener, or her driver - all relationships that never exceeded past an occasional hello if they were in the office. I do realize I was the only woman working for her and I think a lot of jealousy may have come from me working around her all male staff. But this would spiral into screaming fits where she just knew everyone was conspiring against her. She didn’t just share these accusations to the accused but she would tell everyone she could find to make sure who ever the target was that day was going to be put down in front of every other person around. 

For me it became humiliating really fast. I was carrying myself with the highest level of professionalism every day. And when she we go off on these tangents I would listen and shrug if off. When it was about me I would explain the made-up situation as best I could, and then usually ended up apologizing for things that didn’t even happen to continue doing all the previously mentioned things I love doing so much. But I’ll tell you what, if you are doing what you love but coming home upset every day - it’s not your dream job. You are doing your dream responsibilities, but this ain’t the job.

The important lesson here is that I have the skill set to get hired to do the job I want to do. And I know I will never have a work environment that’s perfect and doesn’t have difficulties. But you can’t just keep fielding emotional abuse and being overall unhappy to be able to say you have your dream job. It’s not worth it.

I am on a plane to LA headed back to no job as my monster of an employer decided to fire me. She also decided to stop payment on a check that was issued a week before she decided to let me go. She still hasn’t paid me for my last week work or reimbursed me for services purchased by me for the label. In addition to stopping payment on a week old check, it over-drafted every bill I had paid that week and I now have a negative bank balance for all those transactions along with overdraft fees per transition. Which, yes, is like super illegal for her to do as I was a contracted employer and the stopped check was payment for services previously rendered. So now I am fucked with negative money in the bank and no job with another first of the month rent due just around the corner. FUCK, right?

This blog isn’t to complain, it’s to hold myself accountable to seeing what I need to see which is that I am talented, strong, and driven. I recently had a conversation with a man named Albert Brooks II who won a grammy for producing Beyonce’s Lemonade. We talked about my passion for getting my hands in an industry that has kept me alive for my whole life. After I finished my elevator pitch he shook my hand and told me I would. He said I will do great things for music because I have “the juice”. I do have the juice - it’s a blend of passion, charisma, professionalism, follow through, and my father’s superhero work ethic.

I don’t have my dream job, but I am certainly closer to my dream life, and I know what I have to do to get there. And I still in my heart believe you get there through kindness and honesty and respect for the people around you. And I think in that way I will soon be eclipsing this previous job as people who don’t work like that can only get themselves so far. I truly believe that.