Baby got back.

I'll never forget one of my very first days at school here in New York when a girl by the name of Gina (who was of African American descent) clicked her pen on my butt and said, "Girl, you got a black girl's booty." I was mortified. I used to just be this skinny, little bean pole from Texas. And I liked that. Well, somewhere along the way I developed an ample (not too ample, but nice and shapely) behind and I've never fully embraced it. 

Well...

It's a new day indeed.

I saw this picture of Michelle Obama in Vogue and  thought, if the first lady is gonna rock out her derriere then it's practically a presidential edict and thus my responsibility as the good, true American I am to embrace my God given asset. 

I mean...look at her...she's divine.

I've been a bad New Yorker.

west village, nyc

photo by moi

Or perhaps I should say, I've been a typical New Yorker.

I've lived in New York for five years and only now do I truly love living in the city. I'm entrenched in the heart of the Upper West Side, saddling up to one of the city's great singles' meccas. I've got Riverside Park on one side and Central Park on the other. It's clean and beautiful and convenient so why need I venture out of my perfect little pocket? 

 I had dinner last night with my friend Kathy, who I know through school. It'd been forever since we'd seen each other, so we agreed to meet up at GOOD in the West Village. In celebration of Fat Tuesday we threw caution to the wind--meaning we had cocktails followed by fries followed by half a MAGNOLIA cupcake followed by free wine and then free creme brulee. How I wish I had photos to share. Last night I went sans the usual date of my ultra sexy Canon cyber shot. We traipsed around the New York's West Village as any two gals should. And I thought, why don't I ever come down here? It's like a whole different city--a city where the careful grids give way to careless, winding streets, low-lying buildings and an energy far more European in tilt. It was here  that Kathy revealed her plan to show me her New York--to remove my Upper West Side blinders and allow me to love the city in new and exciting ways. One condition: some things were not to be blogged about. I would be allowed to give descriptions without giving names--so fearful was she that my blog would prove the gateway for the masses. I told her not to worry. I don't get quite that much blog traffic. 

But this does raise a salient point. All my friends now enter into our friendship or continue on in it knowing full well that they are fodder for my foray into blogdom. I feel like a photographer who has to constantly have consent forms singed. In fact, it was only revealed earlier that evening that Kathy even knew I had a blog. I blushed and stammered. She ploughed right through my blushes and applauded my courage. What courage? And I really do mean that: what courage? I was doing it shrouded in anonymity (for the most part). Well, turns out if you google my name, this blog shows up. Woops, how did that happen? Damn, now I can't complain about that girl I work with, or name the department store I worked for (and now loathe). But this is probably for the best. This blog was never meant to be a forum in which to air my complaints.

A year ago I didn't know what a blog was. And most of my friends are even slower on the uptake. So when I explain all this to them, they get quizzical looks on their faces and kind of shrug it off. And then, before long, they're counting the number of references I include them in. It's funny how that all works.

 The first time I told my parents I was going to start this thing, we fought. I mean we really fought. Hard and long. And so I started it against their wishes--perhaps one of my only acts of true rebellion. Surreptitiously I worked. I would send them my posts copied into email format--as though I had put it together for just them (so uncharacteristic of me, it proved a dead giveaway). They knew--long before I knew they knew, then knew. And then my mom gave me this incredible gift: she said to me that I shouldn't ever censor myself for fear of their reading--all I had to do was tell them to skip a post and it would be done. She now sends me daily emails with inspirational quotes (the quotes scattered throughout are one of the things she enjoys most) and my father sends me his version of a blog (which, go figure, does happen to be private and in email form).

 When I was accepted into Juilliard, I took it for granted that my parents had any say in the matter. I would be going there. No questions asked. So my parents quietly let me soar, they just asked that I keep a journal. That was their only demand. To keep up my writing skills, they said. And so I tried. Truth be told, I wasn't very good at it. Weeks would go by without an entry. And if I did write it was mundane and  broad. Sweeping in nature (and not in a good way). But here I am. Now. When all is said and done. Doing, really, what it is that my parents asked of my four years ago.

 I like blogging. It makes me look at things through a very particular lens. An optimistically skewed version of the truth, perhaps. But truth, nonetheless. And it's not really an act of courage, it's simply the only thing I know how to do (telling the truth, that is). 

And as this blog evolves, so do I.

So thank you for that. All of you. Thank you.

I got kicked out of a candy store tonight.

Or rather...I was asked not to return.

It began innocently enough. It was a drizzly day here in New York City. I had spent the afternoon babysitting and was walking home when I passed a candy/ice cream bodega. I had never really noticed it before (despite the two-block proximity to my home), but today as I passed I got a hankering for sour candies. And I just had to have the ones that you scoop up into a bag.

I didn't need many. So I took a few sugar free gummies and then a few of the sour treats. The bag was light. I know this because I usually always get a heavy bag. Heavy. Always. But tonight, I just wanted a few--a few gummies to satiate the palate. 

So I headed to the front, placed my bag on the scale and waited to pay my few dollars. That's when the man (the owner, maybe?) declared my total to be $6.50. Double take. "Are you sure?" I said, "That's quite a bit." "Hang on," he responded punching in new numbers, "My mistake, it's four dollars."

Hmmm....four dollars. He had tried to scam me. But fine. Four dollars was still too much, but best to cut my losses and get out (after all I was holding him up from his pressing phone call--he hadn't even hung up). I handed him a twenty (a bill I received babysitting). "You don't have anything smaller?" "Nope," I said. "Nobody has anything small," he then muttered under his breath. 

Enough was enough. I wanted to out of there. "You know what, I don't want this." When he said 6.50 I had thought of getting an out right then and there, but I pressed on and was rewarded with nastiness. I was out. I didn't need his bad mumbo-gumbo gettin' all up in my gummie groove. I could get gummies somewhere else, thank you very much. He somewhat obligingly handed me my not-small-enough-bill and then told me to put my candy back. I stared for a second. "Okaaaay," I said slowly. I went to pour it back in, at which point he yelled at me, saying I would mix the candies (this was before they had even left the white paper bag (the non-see-through-white paper bag). He then proceeded to yell at me for mixing the candies in the first place. I didn't know. So I pointed to the two types (all the while he's waiving his phone in the air, wielding it like something of a weapon). Finally, he tells me to just set the bag down and to not come back next time. 

There it was. "And don't come back next time." "Don't worry, I won't " I said superior-ly  as I stormed out. The door closed behind me (not the kind you could slam. Darn.) And huffing my way home I pondered the fact that he had asked me--me the candy connoisseur--me the white-bread, innocent-enough customer not to return. 

Didn't he know who I was? Didn't he know that a good review from me and my wily, little blog could make or break him. Oh wait, let me pull out my inflated ego pedestal and try that one again....Didn't he know that a good review from me and my wily, little blog could MAKE OR BREAK HIM?! I guess not. Hmph.

So there you have it. The story of how Ms. Goody Two Shoes did in fact get thrown out of an establishment. Check that off of life's lists of things to do. So what if it was just a candy store? Just a candy store?! What am I saying? That's what makes the story so PERFECT.

Sometimes you gotta make a little mess...

...before you can pick up the pieces and figure out where things belong.

Today.

Today I woke up and had five (or was it six?) cupcakes for breakfast--don't panic Mom, I'm fine. Today I rued the fact that I don't have a bedroom door that opens and closes--too much noise, not enough privacy. Today my favorite picture fell of the wall, with absolutely no warning--adding to the mess I find myself cleaning every five minutes. Today my landlord kept the heater on all morning despite warmer weather outdoors--where was the heat when we actually needed it? Today, today--it's just gonna be one of those days, isn't it?

To go.

I did it. I went back. Monday night to be exact.

I donned red lipstick and my Frye motorbike boots--things that would make me appear confident even if I felt less than so.

I smoked a cigarette on the walk to the subway. I never smoke. Not ever. Angela gave it to me. She felt bad doing it. Corrupting me, she feared. But I had asked, and in my state I was not to be denied.

I downed two glasses of wine at the reception preceding the start of the show.

Truth be told, I didn't need the wine. And I didn't need the cigarette. Heck, I didn't even need the lipstick or boots. It was fine. Lovely, even. Joyous.

Fear is funny that way. When you have your back turned to it, it's tremendous in size, casting an engulfing shadow that keeps you in a perpetual darkness. And then when you get just enough courage to turn around and face it, it vanishes altogether leaving you to wonder what you were afraid of in the first place. 

When I posted about the end of Ned (how it was getting worse before it got better) I think I scared my mom a bit (the getting worse part). So she sent me info about an upcoming support group that would have one initial two hour session and then an optional addition of three follow up meetings. I had been once before to the initial meeting. I went with my mom (that series had a friends and family focus) last March. I remember I cried. I agreed to try again. Why not? The meeting was much the same this go round, but I was different. I didn't want to cry. I wanted to talk. To say--to shout--I feel myself getting better, it's ending. But I focused on listening. Listening to the other stories. Unique and hauntingly familiar. I saw myself--my actions--reflected in their words. I opted not to continue on. I'm so close to the brink that I fear being pulled back in by others who were at very different stages. On the way out, one girl said to me "My biggest fear in coming today was that I would be the fattest one here." I know that thought, that sentiment. And so I chose not to hang around it. Not now. Dr. Bob says that's the biggest argument against eating disorder therapy groups is that they teach you how to have a good eating disorder, all the while telling you not to. 

However, I was struck most by one girl there. She spoke of her anger towards those around her. She was angry at those who said they understood--how they knew exactly what she was going through--they felt fat today too. No, she would tell them, you have no idea. How many times I felt that way. How many times I reached out, only to be told by those around me that they had the same issue. But they didn't. Not really. And so I got angry. I assumed they were making it about themselves when what I needed, for just a moment, was it to be about me. How many times my mom would tell me, they're just trying to relate--empathize in their own way. This would infuriate me. Why are you standing up for them? But as I listened to this girl speak of her frustration, I felt the anger literally radiating out of her. And I thought, huh, it's not that important--let it go. And that moment became the first step in the release of my anger--the realization that anger is an inward action. It affects you far worse than anyone (or anything) else. No, an eating disorder is not the same thing as an eating problem (though the media uses the two interchangeably) and those who have not suffered from an eating disorder will most likely never fully comprehend it. But they don't need to. And I can't fault them for that.

I thought my release of anger would end there. For the time being, anyway. Well...go figure. When I returned to school I didn't feel a lick of it (anger that is). And when I said I had nothing nice to say about the school...that's just not true. I was reminded last night of the best Juilliard has to offer.  The people. And in going back I felt myself returning home. If I had to do it all over again, I still wouldn't. I still would  make different choices. I would change it all. Yet I don't regret any of it. Does that make sense? Doesn't seem like those two sentiments could co-exist. But they do. 

One of the school administrators approached me and confessed that he had happened upon my blog. Oh, shoot, I thought. He asked if I might sit down and talk to him because he thinks my experience might help others. Of course, what a complement. But as flattered as I was, when I returned home I quickly popped open my Mac to review my words and assess the damage. 

What I put down--what I published (if you will) here--that is exactly what I was feeling at that moment in time. But after last night, after allowing myself to feel something other than anger and fear--I re-read those words and thought, I have been just as close-minded as I accused that director of being. So he wasn't that nice to me...okay. I don't really know why that was--maybe he just didn't care for me--thing is, it's not my job to figure it out. Let it go. He's very good, the director we had. And the show last night was astonishing. Clear and striking and infused with hope (and I usually loathe Greek drama for the simple fact that I can't find the hope in it to save my life). This is my way of saying, I don't know what drives another person any more than they know what drives me. I have asked others to forgive me my faults all the while holding them to an impossible standard. Perhaps it's time I begin to forgive those around me as well as myself. 

I do have nice things to say. About the school. About my Greeks experience. About the director. Last night didn't make my Juilliard experience any easier, but it sure as hell put it in perspective. 

P.S. I'm on day ten of life without Ned.

I love Central Park in the mornings. And afternoons. And evenings.

Dear Naomi, 

Now that the weather is turning warmer won't you come play with me when I take my morning walk in Central Park?

We'll walk by the Delacorte ( and I'll talk about how one day I'll do a play there).

And as we do the ring around the Jackie Onassis Reservoir, we'll make a point to stop (just like Erin and Whitney in The City) and admire the view.

Maybe we could get Carolyn and Vic to come too. 

What do you think?

Signed,

central park speed demon (or snail) in search of a friend

I love coming full circle. I love new beginnings.

I remember sitting in the school cafeteria during the Summer of 2004. We had all just arrived. Fresh faces, bright eyes, and endless expectations. I sat across from Erica and I knew immediately that I liked her. She was kind and intelligent--truly lovely. She asked me if I had a boyfriend and I had come to New York dating a guy who already lived there, so I replied yes. And she went on to tell me about her boyfriend, Chris. 

I remember sitting in Arte around the Corner in the fall of 2007. I sat across from Erica. Celebrating both of our birthdays we drank biodynamic wine and talked about boys and sex and school and love and the rest of our lives. I had long since moved on from my first New York City boyfriend, but Erica was still with Chris. 

Chris would surprise Erica at school, waiting outside when we finished at eleven. He would come see the shows and sit on the end of the row (easy access to leave in case he got to nervous). He would cry with us and laugh with us. And he loved her all the while. And so we (Erica's friends) loved him for that.

He proposed last March, just before our graduation. I squealed like they do in the movies when Erica held up her hand. 

And so they were married in City Hall this Friday. Erica wore her mother's wedding dress. And the figurines atop her cake originally belonged to her grandmother. Everything was steeped in history, a rich tradition. The restaurant where they held their reception, Five Front just under the Brooklyn Bridge, was the same place they had their first date. I can only imagine what it was like for Chris as he sat across from Erica that first time. And for Erica, sitting across from the man she would one day call her husband. 

I can't wait for countless more meals, more glasses of biodynamic (giggle, giggle) wine, where I get to sit across from the two of them and watch their love--their marriage--grow and flourish.

Sometimes (and yes that's a very qualified sometimes) I wouldn't live anywhere other than New York.

A little mid-day performance at the 79th street subway stop. 

I love that I wouldn't have spent today any other way. Not for anything in the world.

How did I spend it? With Popops and cousin Sean in Connecticut. 

And yes maybe we went to Constantine's. Which maybe my family begrudges me for liking because it means they all have to go when they're in town. And maybe if they complain they hear, "but Meghan likes it." And yes, maybe my full name is Meghan. And maybe I had the burger. Because let's be honest, I'm maybe always gonna be that girl that's gonna have the burger and get tipsy off of one glass of wine. And maybe Pops got some ice cream on the sleeve of his sweater. And maybe as he tried to eat (yes, eat) it off, it then fell on the front leaving another chocolate stain. And maybe this led to a Wal-Mart trip to get Spray and Wash. And then maybe we got home to find he already had some.

And maybe, just maybe, today was perfect.

Maybe the reason I'll always love Valentine's Day...

...is because growing up there was no better reason to celebrate our immediate family unit.

We had red and pink themed dinners where everyone was in charge of a course. 

Sesame shrimp. Red bell peppers filled with assorted somethings (I remember looking at it in disgust (I was seven, maybe?) and being introduced to the term antioxidants). Apples. Pink frosted cookies. 

And we always got a Valentine's gift. Nothing fancy. Nothing flashy. 

But perfection indeed. 

So when mine came in the mail today. I pulled out each piece and set them on my dresser. Though, I did peek in the red box. And as I suspected...cookies. Now, let me level with you. My mom makes the best sugar cookies. I've heard others make this proclamation and perhaps they're good, but my mother's frosting puts her over the edge. The best frosting. Best. I scoff at store bought frosting--yes, occasionally it hits the spot, but then you taste my mother's and you start to mourn for those who have only ever known the kind that comes in a can. 

So I had one cookie. 

Mmmmm.

And then put the others in the freezer for safe storage.

I feel so loved.

Why I love my family: Reason number 3,342.

At one point, when we were all together this past January, we had a ten-minute discussion as to whether we prefer to fold or crumple our toilet paper before using it.

Think about it.

I myself prefer the folding method. Funny, since I do almost nothing else the civilized way.

Another thing I love? Okay, here goes...

I read these words and thought, yes--that is what I want in my life more than anything else.

"Bashert is a Yiddish term that means finding one's preordined soul mate. Because it is a union created in heaven, even if all the forces of the world were to conspire against the meeting, it would still take place."

From Once Again to Zelda by Marlene Wagman-Geller. 

Putting Ned to bed. For good.

I was watching The Biggest Loser when it happened. 

Angela turned to me and asked, "What would Dr. Bob think about this show?".

"Well," I replied, "I don't think he would like it very much." And I started to think about just what Dr. Bob would say. He would say that anytime weight loss becomes the ultimate goal then you set yourself up for failure. He would say it has to be about the process. About changing your lifestyle. 

And it was then that it hit me. What he, what others have been saying all along. Essentially it boils down to this...

If you're not willing to do it everyday for the rest of your life then it just won't work. 

Do you know what that means? It means there is no such thing as a jump start--no cookie diet, or 1,000 calorie diet, or carb-free diet that will catapult me into a place where weight loss becomes a reality. 

And then if you think, okay--so everyday for the rest of my life--that kind of eliminates the idea of losing weight altogether and replaces it with one of your body figuring out where it likes to live--at what weight it feels the healthiest.

Does this make sense?

Everyday for the rest of your life. It sounds scary doesn't it? If it does then you're thinking with a diet mentality. Because in truth, I think it's actually quite freeing. I can't go without carbs everyday, which means I never again have to. Oh, feel that...I'm starting to breathe again.

The whole point is small changes over time. Dr. Bob had me set "going to the gym" as a priority for one week. And that one week blossomed into an almost everyday (but not obsessive) habit. This past week I was meant to up my fruit and veggie count. Thit endeavor has been slightly less successful. Not to worry, I'll try again.

Last year when things got really bad in October my mom flew to New York to stay with me for a week. As sad as I was, it was in many ways the best week of my life. I felt so enveloped in love. We ate lunch in the park everyday. And we saw the Grace Kelly exhibit at Sotheby's. We shopped and bought silly pictures off the men on the sidewalks. After the first day--I remember she made a really good chicken salad with almonds and grapes for lunch--she said, "See you got through one day. And tomorrow will be two days. And then three. And we'll just keep going from there."

I've begun the count again. After my biggest loser revelation it was as if I pulled the sword from the sorcerer's stone (remember that great Disney film? oh, it was so good). It was as though I now had the tool to slay my greatest nemesis. And with the weight of that sword in my hand I became afraid. They tell you to name your eating disorder so that you distinguish it from yourself. But in truth Ned is a product of some part of me. He is of me. And can I kill that part of myself? Well, you all (yes you blogdom lovies (as Micaela would say)), you all are right. I don't need Ned anymore. He is something I will carry with me as part of my past, but he sure as hell doesn't need to be my present or future any longer.

I've just finished day two. I haven't been perfect. Far from it. But I've got the rest of my life to figure out what perfect means to me. 

Day one down. Day two. Let's just keep going from here and see what happens.

I love organic cake in the shape of male genitalia.

And the celebration of impending nuptials.

Erica, a very dear and beautiful classmate from Juilliard, is getting married next Friday to her long time love (and Peter Parker lookalike). 

I love weddings. I love everything about them. That's the hopeless romantic in me--I can't think of anything more beautiful than two people standing in front of their friends and family and having the courage to say, this is the person I want--the person I promise--to spend the rest of my life with. 

I'll be sure to post pictures following next week's celebration. 

Oh yes, February is the month of love indeed. 

In the interest of full disclosure...

The end of Ned has come. I can feel it. Any day now I'll wake to find my bed empty once more. 

I should be celebrating. Should be.

Instead I'm afraid. Any doctor will tell you that an eating disorder sticks around because there is something positive you're extracting from it. I rebelled against this idea for a long time. Nothing good, I would shout. Nothing good has come from him. 

But this is not true. 

Ned makes me feel safe. Think about it...he literally built a second skin for me--a layer of insulation. He is my form of protection from a world that seems overwhelming and unnavigable. He has been my constant companion these past three, almost four years.

And so while I pray for his departure, I also fear it. Letting go of him feels like leaping off a cliff. What will the world look like if I'm not looking through his eyes? 

In some ways my body is rebelling now. Trying to cling to a dying a relationship. Purging him up and out in convulsive spurts. 

I've been bingeing more of late. Like I used to. In the old days. But these worse days lead to better days and I can feel my system cleaning itself. 

But in the interest of full disclosure...sometimes I feel Ned so strongly. Moving inside of me. So strong is he that I can barely breathe. And I wonder if I allow that to happen--if I stop breathing--what will happen? Will my body learn to take air in in a new and different way? A better way? 

Perhaps my skin will break open and my heart will learn to breathe.

In the midst of this cold, harsh, bitter winter...

...I absolutely love my new mittens.

They make me feel like Katherine Hepburn in the midst of a 1940's winter landscape. 

Oooh la la...it's love indeed.

I love the kindness of strangers.

Jessica thought this quote might have some meaning for me. So she sent it my way care of Naomi over at Rockstar Diaries. 

All your life you are told the things you cannot do. 

All your life they will say you are not good enough or strong enough or talented enough; they will say you're the wrong height or the wrong weight or the wrong type to play this or achieve this.

 THEY WILL TELL YOU NO, a thousand times no, until all the no's become meaningless. 

All your life they will tell you  no, quite firmly and very quickly. 

AND YOU WILL TELL THEM YES.

I love that: until the no's become meaningless.

And then, the other day, I got a really unbelievable email from a young woman who spoke of the importance of faith. Faith in one's self. And of course faith in a higher power. And there I was reading it when I had (what Oprah would call) an ah-ha moment. Of course. Faith in a higher power I'm working on. But faith in one's self? How many times has someone said that to me? How many times have I seen that stitched into a decorative pillow? And each time I glossed over it going, yeah, yeah, yeah--duh. But here it was once more. And it hit me. My faith in myself has faltered. I put far too much stock in the opinion of others. And faith in one's self takes work (if it doesn't than you're a far better person than I--though I'd venture a guess that you work at it without even realizing that's what you're doing). 

The yes must begin in me. 

This is the year the nation said Yes, we can. It's about time I started saying Yes, I can. 

Was that too cheesy for your taste? Well...sometimes I like a little bit of cheese.

And February keeps rollin' on. (aka speaking of things I love...)

This is my friend Angela...

Today is her birthday, and so there is no better time to say that I love her. Wholeheartedly, I do. She came into my life as a temporary roommate and quickly nestled her way into the folds of my heart. Girls' Nights. American Idol parties. An open ear--always. And a tremendous talent.

Walt Whitman said, "I no doubt deserved my enemies, but I don't believe I deserved my friends."

I don't know what I did to deserve Angela, but I sure am humbled to call her my friend.

February is the month of love.

I love Valentine's day. I love that the holiday brings out the best in Gap Body pajamas. I love the heart-shaped sugar cookies my mom makes. I love the hoopla of it all. And I don't need no boyfriend to celebrate it with. I think it's a great chance to celebrate love in all its many forms. 

So, how's this to kick the month off...

I love that when I went to Fairway on Sunday night the store was empty as I've ever seen it. Why you ask? Well, I went during the Superbowl. Football is one thing I do not love (I know, and I'm from Texas).

 Inspired by the near empty aisles, which allowed for me to fully see all the many food options, good and bad, I decided to show some lovin' to my body...note the chicken breast, pumpkin flax cereal, and soy milk. 

So there you have it...this month as I celebrate all those things I love, I will stop hating Ned and start loving my body. Or at least make a go of it.

kisses and hearts to you all...

To go back or not?

I don't have anything nice to say about the college I went to. That's not to say I never will. But right now? This close to graduation and leaving? I don't. Not one nice thing, so please don't ask me to. 

Alot of this falls on me. The thing about having an eating disorder is you lose yourself in it. So slowly that you don't even realize it's happening. And then you start to get better and you come back to yourself. And it's only in the return that you realize you disappeared in the first place. 

I went through school as someone other than myself. However, I was left with enough sense (enough of myself) to ask for help. And that's where they failed me. Helpless were they in helping me. 

There are those out there that will say it was not the school's job. And perhaps they're right. But for a school who sends young artists out into a profession where distorted body images are placed on a pedestal--they should have information or professionals who can guide students and arm them with the ammunition of knowledge. That at least. 

The school referred me to a nutritionist who photocopied an article from Self magazine and sent me on my way. 

The four years of the drama division culminate in an epic work under the direction of a particular director. For our year we performed the second part of John Barton's translations of the Greeks known as: The Greeks, Part II: The Murders. The work consisted of the play Hecuba, Agamemnon, and Electra. I played Hecuba in the first play and then folded in as chorus in the following pieces. Despite my differences with the director I'm extremely proud of the work I did in Hecuba. Despite loathing every day of rehearsal, despite loathing the process, despite a director who seemed to have no confidence in me, I remained true to myself and allowed myself to be pushed in new and different directions.

Ned has never really been present with me on stage. It's the one place he can't touch. He's never been able to penetrate a character's surface and so I've been safe. 

However, each night as we entered Agamemnon and then Electra, Ned came along for the ride. Having no real character and no clue as to what story we we're telling (and that was not from lack of trying to figure it out on my end), Ned superceded all else. 

Dressed in skin-tight, striped pants and a fish skirt worn as a top, I wanted nothing more than to disappear. Perhaps to die. 

And that feeling that I had every night, for the short run of the play, was enough to make me never set foot on another stage so long as I live. 

The costume designer told me the director asked her to make me look nothing like myself. 

Doesn't sound that bad. We all want to transform. That's what the stage is for. But I knew--I knew the director thought he had me all figured out and he was going to topple my own image of myself. 

But my image of myself at that time, wasn't really my own--it was Ned's. If I had any sense of my own image, it was so precariously placed that the director's careless push sent me spinning. 

He thought he knew exactly who I was. Truth be told, he hadn't a clue, or care enough to find out. 

In two weeks time the third installment (The Greeks Part III) will go up.

I've seen the first. Acted in the second. And yet I'm afraid to go back. 

I haven't gone to school since I've graduated. I'm terrified. 

And yet I feel I must go and face my demons head on. I know it's not healthy to harbor all this anger. I know I have friends who will read this and disagree with every word I've written. 

But perhaps the only reason I am still angry is because I haven't embraced it fully. 

So if I return for the one night and allow myself to feel exactly how I feel...what will happen?

Dr. Bob will tell me I should go. So maybe I will. Time will tell.