reward

the PC chocolate fruit fancies
[left to right: apricot (6/10), kiwi (5/10), bilberry (8/10), strawberry (7/10), mango (6/10)]

muscle relaxant

as i wrote in yesterday’s entry: i finished the first draft of a new screenplay.

six weeks ago, i had zero pages. by last night, i had 100.

they are not, by any stretch of the imagination, great pages. they’re not pages filled with wonder nor are they something i’d dare show anyone else at this point. they’re raw and unpolished, chaotic and occasionally hollow. the story has enormous, gaping holes that need filling, questions that still need answering and, alas, a character or two who must be eliminated by the time the second draft is done.

what i have, though, is a solid framework. a structure. a skeleton onto which i can now add muscle and meat, and into which i can infuse breath and heart. the first draft is always the hardest because you have to build it from nothing; subsequent drafts are about shoring it up and making the whole thing better and better with each pass.

and, believe me, there will be many passes, and a LOT of rewriting and revising, to come.

this entire exercise has been immensely valuable. it forced me to use muscles that had been dormant for a year. i’d worried that they’d started to atrophy, and i desperately needed incentive to get them warmed up and limber again. to get the blood flowing through those creative arteries and to prove to myself that i could do it.

so, i asked my friend jane to set some deadlines. accountability is, for me, a wonderful motivator.

as i mentioned in a previous entry, it was slow and agonizing to start. as with the outline, i started to doubt myself. i started to wonder if i’d made a horrible mistake by taking on this self-imposed challenge and if i’d only wind up disappointing myself in the end if i was somehow unable (or unwilling) to finish it. had i purposely set myself up to fail? what was i doing? what was the point in slogging through the process simply for the sake of meeting a deadline, if i didn’t like what i was writing?

then there was that little trajectory shift a couple of weeks ago, when i decided to take a chance, start over and just charge ahead, following the NaNoWriMo “NO REVISIONS!” philosophy. i took the so-so outline i had, changed it and began back at page one. and, in doing so, i once again wondered if i was subconsciously, or even consciously, engaging in self-sabotage. could i do it?

only one way to find out: to try.

each day, i’d get started and, inevitably, within an hour begin to hem and haw and pause about whatever i was writing. every time i did, i’d immediately give myself a kick in the pants and remind myself that i couldn’t worry about whether what i was churning out was actually any good, i just needed to write whatever i felt like writing and keep going, no matter what. that made it much easier to create drivel.

it was daunting – writing an entire screenplay in 13 days. but writing for the sake of expediency and volume instead of shooting for perfection with every syllable was also incredibly freeing... especially for someone like me, who’s much more accustomed to overthinking every detail before moving forward even an inch.

in the end, it was a bit like puking out a story more than properly telling one, and it was tiring. but, within all that crappy writing, every now and again i’d find myself coming up with a really clever line or an out-of-the-blue idea i wound up loving. little gems in a sea of mediocrity. (or, at times, a swamp of serious suckage.)

when i was finally done, i not only finished with a sense of accomplishment, i typed the words “FADE OUT” feeling considerably looser.

i felt like i’d breathed deeply and stretched slowly and become more flexible, and that this exercise had not only produced 100 pages of text, but had served as an excellent warm-up for whatever may come next.

mission: accomplished

just before 7pm tonight, i finished the first draft of the screenplay.

i typed "FADE OUT."

it's a totally crappy first draft, filled with holes and gaps and bad dialogue, but it's DONE.

i'll reflect on the experience in tomorrow's blog entry... as i snack on my fruit fancies.

for tonight, i just feel good that i did it.

:-)

(pre-)weekend update

* the blog's been quiet this week because i was in a weird headspace and, after the previous two entries, i figured i'd more than filled my quota for solemn navel-gazing for a while.

* also, i’m trying to finish my screenplay before the deadline (dec. 1st). my ass and my joints have had just about enough of my desk chair, and i’m looking forward to some guilt-free non-writing days. it’s looking good for a monday completion at this point. the NaNoWriMo mindset has worked well and, though every fibre of my being wants to keep stopping to go back and revise and change and edit, i’m sticking to the “forward only” rule. i can already see gaping holes in the story, and i’ve been making note of what will need to be added/deleted when i get around to my next draft but, for now, i’m forging ahead towards “FADE OUT.”

* when i eventually do type those blessed two words, i will reward myself with these. i’ve wanted to try them since they were unveiled, but decided to save them as a reward. after all this, they had better not suck.

* i’m debating whether to go to Cavalcade of Lights tomorrow. i don’t have anyone to go with, and part of me thinks that going alone will be just too pathetic and depressing. so, i may skip it this year.

* i think i’ve found the holiday movie for me. emily blunt, amanda peet AND jack black in the same project? with a dash of billy connolly? sign me up.

* i’m not sure if lefty is back, or if i’ve somehow developed some kind of painful intestinal issue, but i’d really love it if the intermittent pain in my lower-left abdomen would go away. as a precaution, i’m back on the anti-lefty regimen, and am hoping that helps. fingers crossed.

a little goes a long way, unfortunately

so, the weekend was a little challenging, emotionally.

even though i’ve pulled myself out of my hole over the past several months, every now and again something happens, or nothing happens, and i unexpectedly lose my footing a little. and i don’t always have someone there to toss me a life line or grab onto my belt loop before i fall.

i see a small thread – of my own sadness, or regret, or fear, or hurt, or self-doubt, or self-loathing, or disappointment, or whatever – and i hold onto that instead.

then i pull on it.

and i keep pulling and pulling and pulling, until everything is unraveled and i’m standing in a giant pile of ugly tangles.

each time, i realize – too late – what i should have done was snip off the small thread as soon as i noticed it.

but, sometimes, old habits, especially deeply rooted ones, die hard.

and, sometimes, i just can't find my scissors.

sometimes, even when you think they’ve gone...

those faint, insidious whispers can slip back in through the tiniest, unguarded fissure.

you're a loser.

you don't matter.

you are forgettable.

and you always will be.

handed down

i went to my parents' house today and made soup with my mom.

at one point, i saw my hands, and they were my mother's hands.

then i looked at her hands, and they were my grandmother's.

in that instant, it felt like time had flown right through the kitchen, leaving me unsteady and afraid in its wake.

and i wondered if anyone would ever look at their hands and think of me.

out of the mouths of babes

the other day, i was at my chiropractor’s office, packing up to leave after my appointment.

from the exam room, i could hear a small baby crying out in the waiting area – mild whines and whimpers at first, and then crying, and then wailing. 

when i came out into the reception area, the chiropractic assistant was walking back and forth, carrying the crying baby – who was perhaps five or six months old, tops – and trying to soothe her while the baby’s mother was being adjusted.

i go to my chiropractor once a month. always on a monday. always at the same time. often, i see the same fellow patients while there since they, too, have regular appointments at identical intervals. so, last month, this same baby was in the waiting area when i came out. only, that time, she was sitting very quietly and contentedly behind the desk in the assistant’s lap.

this week, though, this wee baby was practically inconsolable.

i asked the assistant if this was the same baby who’d been so tranquil and happy at my last visit, and she said yes. we both tried to calm the baby’s crying by speaking softly and reassuringly but, not surprisingly, it wasn’t really working.

a second later, my chiropractor came out to get the baby and bring her to her mom and, instantly, the crying stopped.

“isn’t it funny,” said the assistant. “nothing here has changed, everything is the same, she's fine. it’s the same office, i’m the same, nothing’s wrong, but her reaction is completely different. it’s all about what she’s thinking and her perception of what’s going on. it's all in her head.”

and she went on to point out how often we adults behave the same way – that our feelings often have nothing to do with external stimuli or what’s actually happening.

it’s often all in our heads.

our fears. our worries. our doubts. our insecurities. all the things that make us anxious. 

how often we let what’s in our heads influence the way we feel and what we believe, or even dictate what we do or how we behave, more so than what actually is happening around us. 

when in doubt, start over

my next screenplay deadline is december 1st.

by the end of that day, i have to have completed a first draft.

it can be an awful first draft, worthy of a recycling bin, but it has to be a finished one.

beginning, middle, end. finished.

because, from that raw, rambling mess, a masterpiece can gradually be molded.

if you recall, i wasn't exactly in love with my story when i finished the outline back in mid-october. i hemmed and hawed over whether to keep going with it, or revisit an old one i'd found in a moment of procrastination. ultimately, i decided to forge ahead with the freshly completed outline. sort of a "finish what i started" logic.

then, a couple of weeks ago, i realized i'd made the wrong character the lead character. and, thereafter, it became clear that i was also telling the wrong story. aw, f-word.

proceeding became something like trying to drag a sleeping elephant through a tar pit.

which is to say: slow and agonizing.

i couldn't get things moving. i started hating everything about the existing outline from which i was working and debated whether to continue just for the sake of meeting my december 1st deadline, or to scrap it all and start over... which might make finishing by december 1st extremely difficult.

i really struggled with what would be more important and useful for me: meeting a deadline, or producing a piece of work i liked. which one would make me feel good about myself? which one would be more satisfying? which one would mean more in the bigger picture of my life? and, for a while, i really believed it was an either/or debate. i could do one or the other, but not both.

then i remembered the NaNoWriMo philosophy of just writing.

quantity over quality.

charging ahead, writing whatever comes out and NOT EVER going back to edit as you do so.

always moving forward for the sake of the word count, and recognizing that endless amounts of editing and tweaking and rewriting can happen after the words "the end" are typed on that first draft.

huh.

wait a second.

why not apply that same principle to the first draft of a screenplay?, i thought.

why not see if i can just write without constantly reviewing and spinning my wheels to find the right line (or setting or word or joke), when i can write a functional line (or setting or word or joke) for now and go back to insert the absolute perfect one later?

problem (hopefully) solved.

so, today, i changed course. i changed main characters. i changed some of the story. i sketched out a very rough new blueprint using most of the old outline... but with key changes and new directions added.

and, though i'm starting over, i will be moving forward in a much more satisfying -- and likely much more chaotic -- way.

still aiming to have the first draft done on deadline.

in thirteen days.

fingers crossed.

a hole-y post-script

one additional note on cracks and holes, and perhaps something that might be better served analogously by the story of the chilean miners:

the importance of a helping hand out.

or, more to the point, simply knowing such a hand exists if you need it.

imagine what life would have been like for those miners stuck in that hole hundreds of metres below the surface of the earth had they believed that no one was coming for them.

that no one was up top, in the sunshine, trying to reach them.

that no one cared whether they lived or died in the darkness.

that people peered down into the hole, just kind of shrugged their shoulders and said, “they’re fine. i’m sure they’ll figure it out.” then walked away.

those miners survived their ordeal, in part, because they knew they hadn’t been forgotten.

they knew people – family, friends, colleagues, even strangers thousands of miles away – were invested in their rescue, even if the only “help” they could provide was simply a prayer or a good thought.

they knew people cared because people made sure they knew it.

the same holds true for anyone who slips through a proverbial crack, or winds up trapped in a metaphoric hole.

it matters to know that people care.

it matters to know you haven’t been forgotten.

it matters to know a hand will reach down to grab hold and help pull you to the surface if you can't do it for yourself.

because that kind of knowing helps get you through.

knowing. not hoping or wishing or suspecting or wondering or feeling "pretty sure."

knowing.

it’s a mistake for those standing outside the hole to presume that their love and support is automatically understood and felt by the person in it. that’s the time when it's important for those things to be spoken and demonstrated and confirmed, even if they seem like they should be obvious.

because it’s hard for the person in the hole to see much of anything when it’s that dark.

instead, when you’re in the abyss, there’s plenty of time to make note of who throws you a life line or acknowledges you’ve fallen and might need a boost back up. who drops “sustenance” down to you or who, to paraphrase Ferris Bueller’s ed rooney, leaves your cheese in the wind.

who notices and makes an effort, and who shrugs.

and, truly, it doesn’t take much to make a difference. i’m not talking about heroically riding in on a white stallion with an enormous floodlight and The Solutions to All of Life’s Troubles.

i mean little things.

a kind word. a silly email. a phone call. an invitation for ice cream.

a sincere “hey, how’s it going?”

any number of small, subtle gestures can make all the difference between a bleak day and one that’s a little brighter. or a lot brighter.

they may seem insignificant or pointless to a casual observer but they can be invaluable to the person struggling to escape or seeking rescue. they establish connection. they provide hope. they offer a momentary ray of light that cuts through the darkness to serve as a reminder that a way out is possible.

and, more importantly, they affirm that someone cares whether you find it.

say what you will...

... i like this song. its lyrics. its message. yes, even its sparkly video.
and the fact that, in it, KP looks like the love child of emily blunt and megan fox.

five-word friday

mild november days are weird.

i think lefty came back.

i have another new assignment.

Top Chef is pretty cool.

i returned the shoes earlier.

i had dinner too early.

dr. textbook is still useless.

Prevention magazine is good reading.

i didn't sleep last night.

why? because of unsettling nightmares.

blogger's compose editor keeps malfunctioning.

christmas is six weeks away.

cracks and holes

recently, i went to a screening of the film 127 Hours.

it tells the true story of rock climber aron ralston, who wound up trapped for days in a utah canyon crevice with his right arm pinned under a large boulder – an arm he eventually cut off himself with a dull pocket knife-type tool in order to survive.

the film is excellent. and, despite a handful of more frenetic sequences, it’s largely a very still, very quiet, contemplative tale that serves as an unexpected and surprisingly moving metaphor for the human experience.

specifically, what it’s like to fall through a crack. 

to drop into a hole.

to plunge into darkness, literally or figuratively, and get stuck.

alone.

with no discernable way out.

what happens? how do you handle it?

what do you need to do in order to set yourself free?

the more i watched, the more engaged i became and, for a while, i wasn’t sure why.

i mean, sure, it’s a compelling film with plenty of tense moments, but it was reaching me on a deeper level. then i suddenly understood what was drawing me in in such a profound way:

i recognized myself in the person struggling onscreen.

as someone who fell into a dark hole of her own for a good portion of this past year, i felt a strange but powerful kinship with aron and his predicament. he was me.

he was physically wedged tightly in a cold, dark place; i sat in one emotionally and psychologically.

aron never planned to land where he did.

aron attempted escape in various ways and watched those efforts fail.

aron relived his mistakes.

aron felt lost and alone.

aron knew no one knew where he was and, thus, no one would be coming to help.

aron dealt with despair, a sense of loss and waves of sadness.

aron clung desperately to hope and reveled in whatever tiny glimmers of light he’d see each day.

ultimately, aron realized he alone possessed the power to get himself out of that crack and out from under that rock, even if the process would be messy and painful and would leave a part of himself behind.

wrestling with this heavy, immovable thing and trying to get it to budge had proven futile; it was aron who needed to move.

and, when he finally stumbled out into the sun again, bruised and bloodied and frail, he was changed.

for the better.

so much so that, before leaving the crevice, he thanked it.

it was the same for me. in a different context, certainly. but the same.

nnnnnnnooooooooooo!!!! say it ain't so!!!!!

have eclipse mints been discontinued?!?!!?!?!!?!?!?!!?!?

YB and our mom have returned from their shopping trip.

i'd asked them to please bring me back four tins of peppermint eclipse mints.

i love peppermint eclipse mints.

they have been my go-to mint for the past SIX YEARS.

i have a tin in every bag i own.

i stock up every time we visit the states (because they're not sold in canada), and i always make sure i never have fewer than two tins on reserve. as soon as i get down to two tins, i replenish the supply.

but YB and mom had distressing news: they couldn't find the mints ANYWHERE.

i'd usually buy them at target, but trix said they checked every target they visited (and they went to several, in two different states!) and came up empty each and every time. they checked wal-mart, walgreens, you name it.

NO ECLIPSE MINTS!!!!!!!

i immediately broke out in a panicked flop sweat.

how can they be gone???

how???

HOW????????

in the feed

* i think i may defer my month of novel-writing to december. though i have my opening line, and a vague idea of the story i want to tell, i’m also trying to finish the first draft of a new screenplay before december 1st. as such, it’s now november 8th (!) and i have yet to begin the novel (beyond its title and that first sentence). so, maybe november will be the screenplay, and december will be the novel. in addition, i’ve realized that i made the wrong character the lead character in the screenplay, so i’m debating whether to start over or keep going as is so that i can finish the first draft on time and then rewrite the whole thing after december 1st.

* the above writing endeavours have also been somewhat sidelined by actual paid assignments. i just finished one, have two more confirmed and in-progress, and three more pending after that. even though it’s not a huge volume of work, it’s certainly more than i’ve had (all at once) in a long, long time. and, with any luck, a couple of those gigs may become recurring. please think good thoughts!

* YB and our mom are on a shopping holiday in the states. they spent a couple of days in pittsburgh, are now in erie (PA), and will be home tomorrow after a day in buffalo on their way back. tax-free shopping in pennsylvania has, i hear, turned out to be very fruitful for them both. i sent along a shopping list, so i’m very much looking forward to my haul upon their return. most exciting? because all of their hotel rooms have kitchens with fridges, they stopped at a CPK last night and picked me up my favourite dinner entrée... which they're bringing home for me (!) in the air-tight glass storage container trix brought along expressly for this purpose. mmmmmm! :-D

* the weather has been ideal for walking the past couple of days, and promises to be that way for the remainder of the week. as such, i’ve been walking a lot.

* the crazy girl at the end of the hall, the one who was taken away by police in the wee hours of saturday morning, returned yesterday. how do i know this? because she turned on her stereo. i dunno, if it were me, and i’d had a very loud, very public, very embarrassing (one would think) incident that woke up all my neighbours less than 48 hours prior, perhaps i’d be more likely to try to keep a low (i.e., quiet) profile for a little while.

* i am very much looking forward to Morning Glory.

the opening line

"On the day she turned 100, Ruby St. James wanted only three things."

pre-dawn drama

the police came to take one of my neighbours away last night.

but it was not the creep.

nor the weirdo.

it was the crazy girl at the end of the hall.

i think i’ve mentioned her before.

she’s dramatic and mildly volatile and, every once in a while, hysterical.

she looks like she’s maybe in her mid- to late-20s, and always dresses as though she’s coming from, or going to, a club. sort of pretty, sort of trashy.

she’s the one who, for a while after i first moved in, would have middle-of-the-night temper tantrums in the hallway – usually in the wee hours of the morning, usually screaming at some boyfriend who was high-tailing it out of the building.

she’s the one who once walked from her apartment to the elevator, screaming obscenities into her cell phone as she chewed someone out. i heard her entire conversation... then, a minute later, actually heard the sound of her yelling coming in my windows because she wobbling down the middle of the street outside, in heels, still screaming into her phone. she was that loud.

she’s the one who smokes a lot, and whose west-facing windows mean that smoke frequently drifts out the cracks around her door and into the hall and, often, in through the cracks around my (and others’) door.

she’s the one who BUH-LASTS her music and makes me so glad there are buffer units between hers and mine.

she’s the one who orders delivery and then tries to get it for free by claiming (usually tearfully) she doesn’t have enough money to cover the bill when it arrives. these episodes usually begin and end with swearing, loudly, which is also something she does a LOT.

all this to say, i wouldn’t be heartbroken if she moved out of the building.

so, cut to early this morning...

just after 2:30am, i was jolted awake by what sounded like someone trying to break down my door. i sleep with earplugs, so (after i peeled myself off the ceiling, heart beating out of my chest) i quickly took them out to find out where the noise was actually coming from. at first, i thought it was my 3am-hammering neighbour, but then realized the thumpy banging – which hadn’t yet stopped – was coming from the hallway, and from someone else’s front door.

it was LOUD. the kind of pounding that’s either a product of rage or rescue. as soon as i gathered my wits about me, i realized it was coming from the direction of the crazy girl’s apartment.

i heard men’s voices asking loudly, and repeatedly, to be let in, then conferring more quietly with each other.

“if you don’t open the door, we can just get the police to come and arrest you,” said one of the male voices. then a pause, presumably while he listened for an answer. then...

(to the door) “okay, then.”

(to whomever else was in the hall) “she said, `fine, get the police.’”

(into a radio) “you’re gonna have to come up. she won’t let us in.”

by now, i was w-i-d-e awake and eager to find out what the hell was going on.

a minute later, the police arrived on my floor. two officers called from the elevator, “is she in there? did you get in?”

to which the guys whom i’d later discover were paramedics replied, “no. she told us to fuck off.”

tsk. crazy girl once again proves herself to be sweet and charming.

the police officers banged on the door and, i suspect, woke up any remaining tenants who hadn’t yet been roused from their slumber by all the commotion. they identified themselves as police, asked her to open the door... and she refused.

they repeated their request (much more sternly this time), she continued to scream something indecipherable (to me) from inside her unit, and the officers then said, “if you don’t open this door, we’re going to break it down!”

!

it sounded like they were beginning to do just that when crazy girl finally opened the door and then started yelling at the officers!

“get the fuck outta my apartment, you can’t come in!” and so on.

so they brought her out of the apartment and, i believe (based on her protests) put her in handcuffs. they tried to get her to calm down, saying she didn’t need to be getting so upset and making it more difficult for herself, but she stayed on the offensive. they asked why she refused them entry, and she said, “because i didn’t know who you were!”

they explained that they’d identified themselves, and that the paramedics had done the same, and she said, “but i DID let you in!”

this back-and-forth went on for a couple of minutes, with crazy girl saying she let them in right away, the paramedics saying they’d been asking for more than five minutes (which they had been), and the police saying they’d been sitting outside the building just as long.

then they got down to business.

what i gathered from their subsequent exchange is that, either as a joke or an empty threat or just out of sheer stupidity, crazy girl had texted someone that she was going to down a bottle of pills and kill herself, and that person called 911.

and crazy girl was none too pleased that the authorities were now at her door.

the officers asked her if she planned to kill herself, if she had pills in the apartment, if she had drugs in the apartment, if she was on medication, if she was supposed to be on medication, if she was under psychiatric care, if she was manic-depressive, etc., and she kept angrily and tearfully saying, “no!”

“so then why would you text someone that you’re going to kill yourself?” asked a male voice.

and crazy girl claimed she hadn’t done that.

“let’s get your phone and look at your text messages, then,” said the male voice... which made crazy girl lose it further. she started crying crocodile tears (because that’s her M.O. – try anger at first and, if that doesn’t work, cry to get what you want) and apologizing, asking to be let out of her cuffs and to be allowed back into her apartment to go back to bed, explaining that she’d been under stress, blah blah blah.

the officers searched her apartment (i could hear them ask questions like “what’s in here?” and “what’s this?”), then informed her that, given her hostility and hysteria, she wasn’t fit to be left alone. they’d be taking her to the hospital.

she freaked out, they assured her she wasn’t being arrested and, eventually, she realized she was out of options. they got her a jacket, then led her out of the building. as they passed my door, i saw the two officers accompanying crazy girl (who looked like she might still be in cuffs), and three (!) paramedics... one of whom was pushing a gurney. two other paramedics had also come up during the incident, but left before it was over when they realized the situation was under control. so, crazy girl’s actions had resulted in no fewer than seven (!) emergency-services personnel wasting almost a half-hour of their time.

i looked at the clock when it was finally quiet again, and it was nearly 3am.

and i have to say, i kind of hope this smacks some sense into crazy girl. i don’t mean to sound unsympathetic, but she’s a bratty, entitled attention-seeker. she takes no responsibility for her own actions, doesn’t really demonstrate any regard for anyone other than herself, and generally behaves like a spoiled 13-year-old girl. if she truly does have psychiatric problems, fine. perhaps this mess will spur her – or force her by law – to get whatever help she might need.

because, seriously, enough already.

coming soon

a blog entry called "cracks and holes."

not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually. just so's you know.

when repeatedly asking "what if?" is actually helpful

way too often, i lose myself in a spiral of what ifs. it's usually related to worrying -- what if this happens? but what if THAT happens? OMG, and then what if everything falls apart???

and so on.

however, earlier today, i discovered the merits of what iffing as a way of brainstorming.

as i mentioned last week, i've decided to participate in NaNoWriMo again this year, but today is day two and i haven't written a single word. i've been stumped for an idea.

so, i browsed the site's message boards and found a thread where people "donate" random what-if questions as a way of spurring ideas in their fellow writers.

what if flowers could talk?

what if no one could understand what you say?

what if you woke up in another country?

and i thought, "hey! i'm really good at what iffing! i should sit down and just brainstorm what-if questions to see if i can spark my own creativity!"

so i did.

and i did.

bring the crazy

portia degeneres – formerly portia de rossi – was the guest on oprah today.

she was on to promote the release of her book, Unbearable Lightness, and to discuss its subject matter. namely: her life. her struggles with eating disorders, her years as a closeted gay woman hiding her sexuality, and the eventual escape she found from those physical and emotional prisons. she said she’d wanted to write the book for a long time, but feared everyone would think her crazy if they knew what had really gone on in her head. it reminded me of my own conflicting feelings about this blog and what i write.

anyway...

you’ll recall the last time she was on oprah, with ellen, their appearance brought me to tears. so, not surprisingly i’m sure, i was on my couch at 4pm sharp this afternoon, ready to watch the whole hour.

and i’m glad i did.

partly because i think it was an important step in terms of the visibility of gay women, especially famous ones. there are plenty of people who still believe someone who looks like portia can’t be gay.

partly because the whole ellen/portia romance has been a source of hope for me, so i’m on board whenever either of them wants to share some of it. (if you haven’t watched their lovely wedding video before, i highly recommend it.)

but mainly because, somewhat to my surprise, i discovered portia and i share some common ground. and what she revealed, very openly and sometimes heartbreakingly, really struck a chord with me.

she talked about her shame and self-loathing – in her case, related to her eating disorder as well as her sexuality – and did so in such an honest way that i instantly recognized myself in her. the reasons behind the self-hatred might have been different, but the way in which she saw herself, and the way she treated herself as a result, felt very familiar.

i’ve never had an eating disorder, but i’ve certainly done a fair bit of damage to myself psychologically with deeply negative self-talk. hearing her recount the harsh words she would literally speak aloud to herself (because she believed speaking burned more calories than thinking and would, thus, make her thinner) was like listening to a transcript of some of my own thoughts about myself. if not the exact same content, certainly the identical sentiment. the pain in her voice was obvious as she read excerpts from the book, and i know that pain. i know that crazy. and, however über-clichéd or cheesy it might sound, it was comforting to know there are other women – even beautiful, successful, famous ones – like me out there.

perhaps the most moving moments, though, came towards the end of the interview, when portia talked about finding love, and what her relationship with ellen has done for her head as much as her heart. ellen had appeared earlier and talked about how loving and generous portia is, and how shocked ellen was when she learned of her wife’s inner demons given how amazing she is. portia, in turn, explained how her life has been turned around for the better in so many ways since meeting, falling for, and marrying ellen. choking back tears, she said, “love really does heal you.” i felt a lump swell in my throat. then, a fleeting epiphany.

for so long, i’ve seen myself as an ellen, fumbling around in search of a portia. but, in that instant, i realized perhaps i’m just as much a portia, hoping to find her ellen someday.