Shame

Before I say anything further, I'd just like to thank everyone from the bottom of my heart for the amazing feedback I received from "Million Dollar Baby." It's one thing to fill your own head with talk about that Oscar, but to have other people, even strangers, tell you the same thing...there really aren't any words. I'll be sure to mention all of this in my speech until they try to play me off.

So many people have reached out to me and told me about their own issues, and those they know who have suffered diseases similar to EDS. Some have even pointed me in various directions as to other possible factors that could have contributed to my debilitating health over the years. Believe me, every word sent my way has been read, researched, and discussed in-depth. I appreciate any feedback that comes my way, so if you have anything you'd like to discuss with me, don't hesitate to ask. 

Despite all of the positivity, I've been subconsciously putting off writing this post, because I almost always cry when I talk about my EDS. It's not something I've been able to talk about without shedding lots of tears over the past few months, and I don't see that changing anytime soon. I started seeing a pain psychologist last week and I think my near-immediate plunge into hysteria took him entirely by surprise.

The majority of these days have been hellacious, but that's not anything new. I try to think about it like this: Satan and I are old friends now, and we like to make each others lives a living you-know-what just to fuck with each other. He's going to regret the day I get down there!

Monday through Friday on the last week of July was particularly awful, as I had three health-related appointments every day. EVERY DAMN DAY. It was a circus of doctors, IVs, physical therapists, exercises, psychologists, medications, and rushing to make sure I was home in time for dinner every night. While I do indeed have a driver's license, it's incredibly painful to operate a vehicle when you've just subluxated your kneecap for the umpteenth time and can't feel your ring and pinky fingers in your right hand because some nerve has decided to be pinched that day. So, shout out to the parentals, especially Mom, for Driving Miss Lucy around everywhere. I love you so very much.

I don't know what it is about me and late nights, but that's typically when the words decide to come. After I watch a film or two, I always get this profound urge to write, primarily because of the impact of the story I've just invested myself in. Tonight's film is Shame (2011), Steve McQueen's pre-12 Years a Slave masterpiece starring Michael Fassbender and Carey Mulligan. Now, this picture and I have hardly anything in common, as it's about Brandon (Fassbender), a New York businessman who's addicted to sex. He's incapable of having a real relationship with anyone, especially his sister - ironically named Sissy (Mulligan).

What really struck me about Shame was this dysfunctional dynamic. Brandon and Sissy acted like they got along in the light of day, but behind closed doors they each had their own issues, much of which they refused to acknowledge. He can't go a day, let alone a few hours, without sleeping with someone, and she is incapable of taking care of herself. It's obvious by the slits on her wrist and the way she longingly looks at the oncoming train that haunted me to the very end; she's in such a bad place, despite the act she puts on for others, that she'd rather end it all.

While I've never tried to commit suicide, I've honestly thought long and hard about it several times, mostly within the last few months. Some days, when you can't get on top of the pain, and you can't even sit down at the table to eat breakfast, and you feel as though God has decided to continuously beat you while you're down, ending it all is an enticing option. Because if you can't do what you love anyway, then what's the point? I can't even read this without tearing up. It's a horrific place to continuously find yourself in.

But then, the little things that matter show up. A friend who comes over because she knows you're not feeling good and brings you a wooden "L" she painted, complete with LMU colors and stickers of Captain America and Thor. Finding an old Imagine Dragons shirt you forgot you had. Seeing one of the people you idolize the most in the film industry, Megan Ellison (JOY, Her, American Hustle,) pop up on your Facebook's "People You May Know" list.

And then you think, No. Not yet. Because I have so much I need to do before I can even think about calling it quits. I have so many people I've yet to meet, so many films I've yet to see, and an industry I can't wait to be part of. I need to be around for Imagine Dragons next tour, and the one after. I need to write a letter to Megan and tell her how much her films have changed my life. I need Harrison Ford to call me and tell me he loves me so I can say "I know" and hang up.

So, for now, I'm still here. And while it sucks, I know I just need to give it time. I've got too many plans. As Butch Cassidy said to the Sundance Kid, "Boy, I got a vision, and the rest of the world wears bifocals."

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to watch Paul Newman and Robert Redford kick some ass for the umpteenth time.