Drawing-a-Day Sidetrack: Reflections on Turning 28

Built To Spill – You Were Right

Most of my friends are at least a year older than I am. As I've been a part of many birthday celebrations over the last few years, several of my friends have made jokes about avoiding membership in the 27 club. I was tempted to do the same -- the opportunity appears only once in a lifetime, after all -- but it seemed unnecessarily macabre in light of recent events. Had just a few details of my car accident in March of this year been altered slightly, I could have been severely injured or even killed -- a thought that has alternately terrified me or allowed me the freedom to consider restructuring my life completely, depending on my mood.

But let me backtrack a bit: In July of 2011, while sitting innocently in a lawn chair on a friend's patio, I had my first grand mal seizure of my life. I regained consciousness in an ambulance soon after, but I had no understanding of where I was or why. I couldn't speak, I couldn't think clear thoughts, I couldn't move; it felt like one of those surreal dreams that result from slipping into the shallowest of sleep. I understood on some level that the EMTs were asking me questions, but I couldn't figure out what exactly they needed from me or how to provide it. As the hours went by -- hours that felt like minutes to my confused mind -- I regained the ability to process information and form coherent sentences, but only very slowly. Even toward the end of my ER visit, about five hours after the seizure, it took a few seconds for me to bridge the gap between the doctor's questions and my answers. I was unsteady on my feet and completely exhausted. I felt almost drunk or high, but it was incredibly disorienting and frightening. Once all the basic tests had been administered, the IV drip had done its job, and my heart rate had fallen to a normal pace, I was released -- with no insight as to what had gotten me there in the first place.

Over the months that followed, I endured many medical tests -- some draining, some embarrassing, some merely inconvenient, and all rather expensive. The day I turned 27 -- the same day a nasty storm plowed through Massachusetts -- I began my day at Mount Auburn Hospital with a brain MRI. Eventually, my neurologist flatly told me that sometimes people have one seizure and never have one again, and that that was probably the case with me. We agreed to schedule another check-up down the road, but he seemed quite confident that I was just fine and dandy, and maybe my body had merely had an unusually strong response to stress or sleep deprivation. He gave me the green light to resume all my normal activities -- exercise, swimming, driving, and so on -- once six incident-free months from the first seizure had passed.

Fast forward to late March 2012, during the week when it was unusually hot, in the mid-90s. Then-boyfriend TJ was out of town; I was taking Memphis, the dog, to visit my friend Jen at her apartment not too far from mine. The location was just far enough and the weather just hot enough that I opted to drive. I remember the dress and shoes I was wearing that day; I remember that I was chewing peppermint gum; I remember the feeling of the humid air swooshing through my windows; I remember approaching the intersection of Temple and Broadway in Somerville, where I was preparing to turn left. What I don't remember is the impact of rear-ending an MBTA bus, demolishing the front end of my car and scraping the tops of my feet beneath the brake pedal. (I found out a few days later that the car was totaled.)

I awoke for the second time in less than a year on a stretcher in an ambulance, motionless and completely baffled by the circumstances. I remember freely shedding enormous tears, frustrated at having been rendered mute once again by the misfired electrical pulses in my brain. The EMT, a young woman, showed immense patience as she tried to coax information from me: Where was I going? Who was I going to see? Who could she call to come get the traumatized (but unharmed) dog from the scene of the accident? Somehow I conveyed to her that we should call Jen, but when Jen answered her phone, I was still too out of it to explain what was happening. Somewhere in all this, a very angry police officer stomped into the ambulance, thundering at me about how my license would be revoked. My heart rate was stuck at a whopping 160 beats per minute, so I ended up with another (ultimately inconclusive) trip to the emergency room.

Adding to my feelings of helplessness and utter frustration, two weeks after the car accident, TJ and I broke up. A few weeks after that, I moved out of the apartment we shared, and in with Craigslist strangers; meanwhile, my job moved from the South End to middle-of-nowhere Newton, dragging out my commute to an average of an hour and a half each way. Many friends were also going through big life changes, but positive ones -- weddings, babies, home purchases, grad school, and so on -- and I felt completely out of sync with everything that was happening around me. I struggled to adjust to the sedative medication I was given to control the seizures -- medication that was eventually doubled in dosage when my doctor decided that what he once thought were panic attacks were, in fact, minor seizures. I oscillated between an odd sense of manic relief at the possibilities provided by a fresh start, and the feeling that my entire world was crumbling, far beyond my control.

The late spring and summer had that contradictory and impressionistic feel to it -- somehow simultaneously insanely fun and horrifically depressing, assembled from smears of dulled colors and unfamiliar sensations, blurred by the new chemicals coursing through me as well as too much alcohol, made complicated by too little sleep and disturbing dreams of ex-boyfriends and lovers. The energy at my new home was unpredictable, and I felt compelled to stay out late, overindulge in rich foods (after initially losing my appetite completely for about a month), skip showers and much-needed trips to the laundromat, leave mail in unopened piles on the floor. I spent more time socializing than I had in many years -- maybe ever -- yet I was suffocated by a ruthless isolation.

Gradually, some sense of balance -- or at least a more urgent need for it -- crept into my life. I celebrated my 28th birthday on August 27th, a perfectly warm and blue-skied day that I spent away from my office, basking in glorious sunshine and the company of dear friends. Now, as fall settles in and everyone is slowly returning to their tamer routines, I'm attempting to prepare myself for transition. I've spent most of my life analyzing everything to death but rarely acting on my instincts. I have been in a constant state of doubt, letting other people's opinions slither into my world view until I forget which ideas originate within me and which are infiltrators. I think I'll always struggle to conquer my anxiety over potential failure, but I'm wearied by the equally heavy burden of all that I could have done by now and simply haven't.

In the aftermath of all that has happened over the last few years -- and especially the last six months or so -- I've realized that I'm so much stronger and more capable than I ever dare to give myself credit for. I know myself better than anyone else, and the vast majority of the time, I know what the best choice for me is -- I just don't always listen to myself closely enough. Year 27 was extraordinarily difficult for many reasons, but the truth is that nothing has gotten in my way as much as I (and my unrelenting fear of rejection) have gotten in my own way. I can feel my perception of my future shifting, allowing me to see the many different directions in which I can go rather than all the lurking obstacles. That need for validation is slipping away and revealing something better: myself, as I have always been and always will be.

I've been reading a really excellent book that frequently refers to Michelangelo's belief that every block of marble contained a statue, and it was his job to chip away and "set free" the work of art that already existed within it. I see myself this way -- that is, a store of potential confined by the weight and restrictions of everyday life, waiting to be liberated. The difference between me and Michelangelo's block of marble is that I am both art and artist, the instigated and the instigator, the idea in need of emancipation and the emancipator. I think maybe I have been waiting all this time for someone else to chip away at that exterior, that fear, when I have had the power to free myself all along.

One week from tomorrow, I'll begin classes at Cortiva Institute and thus begin my journey to become a massage therapist. I hope it's just one step toward a better life, a happier one, a life that is defined by my terms and my goals. I know it will be hard for me to tune out the static of doubt, but as I said to a friend early in the summer, I feel more like myself now than I ever have -- and that should be more important to me than the other (mostly arbitrary) markers of adulthood and/or success to which I have previously held myself and inevitably fallen short.

This is my year. I know it. I feel it in every cell of my body, vibrating with anticipation. There will be struggles, as there always are, but I'm ready.

"The greatest danger for most of us lies not in setting our aim too high and falling short, but in setting our aim too low and achieving our mark."

-Michelangelo

30-Day Drawing Challenge: Day 14

"In my own little corner, in my own little chair, I can be whatever I want to be."
- Rodgers and Hammerstein's Cinderella, 1965

I've always been a bit of a hopeless romantic. I'm not really sure how that happened, considering that my parents divorced when I was eight and they viciously hate each other, but somehow, I came out on the other side still believing in some version of happily ever after. Cinderella is at the top of the favorite fairy tales list -- maybe because it reinforces the idea that no matter how bad circumstances may seem or how many people kick you when you're down, a little sacrifice and a kind heart can eventually lead to everlasting love (a bit cheesy, perhaps, but not the worst idea I've seen on a TV screen).

Most of you reading this know that I just went through a pretty difficult breakup myself (immediately following a very traumatizing combination of a serious medical issue, the resultant car crash, and the revocation of my driver's license -- another post for another day). It stings a little less every day, as one might expect, but every now and then the hurt still takes my breath away. Sometimes I wish I could harden my heart and mind, develop an unrelenting cynicism, put my desire to marry and have children in the same category as my desire to win the lottery... but I can't. No matter how many times my heart is shattered, I keep hoping -- and I guess on some level, believing -- that finding a long-term partner to be happy and make babies with isn't totally out of the question.

I guess I am my mother's daughter in that regard -- despite how difficult that divorce must have been for her, she got right back in that saddle and started dating, eventually leading her to my amazing stepdad. It's difficult to imagine going through such a traumatizing relationship experience and being willing to open up to someone again, but she did, and she was rewarded handsomely. Maybe it will take a few more trials and errors and maybe the source will surprise me, as was the case with her; maybe I will come up with a less conventional way to arrange my life and be just as happy. I'm trying to move forward with both eyes open and mostly focused on myself, for now, and perhaps one day, things will fall into place in some form or another.

I guess we're all doing the best we can... but I think I can do better. Honestly, I think I deserve it. And pushing myself to return to this 30-Day Drawing Challenge is as good a place to start as any, don't you think?

No matter how how your heart is grieving, if you keep on believing, the dream that you wish will come true.
- Disney's Cinderella, 1950

30-Day Drawing Challenge: Day 13

I've always considered myself a cat person -- I've never disliked dogs, exactly, but they always seemed so needy and noisy and annoying to bathe. I grew up with cats (our one dog was an outdoor dog and, honestly, didn't get the attention she really needed, which made her more irritating to try to play with, which just made it less likely we'd go out and spend time with her, and so on), and they always seemed to me to be a perfect combination of affectionate and aloof.

When TJ and I moved in together, we brought his little dog, Memphis, along with us. I hadn't had a pet in several years, and I had never had an indoor dog. Having seen how aggressively cuddly he was in our few encounters before, I knew I'd be OK in the lovin' department, but I was a little nervous about suddenly being thrust into the stepmom role with a pet I hardly knew -- he had, after all, been living with TJ's brother in Quincy up until move-in day.

Now, I'm damn-near obsessed with the little nugget. We've had to kick him out of our bedroom, as he constantly wakes me up with his frequent location changes under the covers, but I sing to him, snuggle him, smooch him, and tug on his enormous ears like he's always been mine. He can drive me nuts with his eternal lick-fests (anyone who has been to our apartment knows exactly what I'm talking about), but I can't deny that he's a never-ending source of entertainment.

The following comic represents a fairly typical day in our apartment.

Memphis, bless his little heart, ain't the sharpest tool in the shed. He convinces himself that he can't jump up onto the couch or the chair in the living room, despite the fact that he's done it a million times before. He burrows himself into blankets, only to find himself stuck. He can't always find his chew toy once we throw it. And even though this isn't his fault, the fact is, he has really bad fart breath.

But I have fallen completely in love with him, more than I ever would have imagined. The excitement he shows every time I walk through the door -- even if I've only gone on a fifteen-minute Walgreen's run -- shatters my heart (in the best possible way, of course). I still love cats and always will, but come on -- just try to resist this precious face. I dare you.

30-Day Drawing Challenge: Day 12

I feel like it would be a little silly for me to draw this, my drawing/blog project, even though it feels like a much bigger accomplishment (despite how far behind I am) than what I'm about to discuss. I have to save that for the end, unfortunately, so instead I'm going to talk about a small accomplishment that still feels really, really good: staying in the no-hangover zone.

I'm not an alcoholic (though it does run in my family on my dad's side); on the other hand, I've realized recently that it's rare that, once I start drinking, I stop when it's appropriate. I like to think I knew where that line was at some point, but maybe I'm romanticizing the past. I don't know -- I just know that there have been way too many times where I've told myself I could have just one more, only to deeply regret it the next day.

It was different five or six years ago, in my early 20s -- which is funny considering that that's the time when everyone expects you to drink the most heavily. My self-destructive phase was more in my mid-20s, after college, when I was single. I went out all the time, especially when I lived in Allston. I think mostly I was bored, and getting drunk and being foolish was an easy way to distract myself without feeling truly responsible for the consequences of my actions.

These days, I don't go out with self-destruction in mind the way I used to, but alcohol has become a part of my daily existence in a different way. I don't drink every day, but it has somehow become an integral part of every weekend and every social engagement. It's extremely rare that I spend time with friends in any context without alcohol. It's not the worst thing -- we're all fully functional adults with jobs and creative lives and relationships and blah blah blah. Maybe it really isn't that big of a deal. But... maybe it is?

As someone who struggles with anxiety, it's disturbingly easy for me to rely on alcohol as a social lubricant. After a drink or two, I stop clenching my teeth and fists; my tongue loosens and I laugh more frequently. On paper, that sounds like a good thing... until you read the next chapter and discover what happens after drink four or five or six. My habit of mentally reliving embarrassing drunken moments for days after they happen should be enough to stop me or at least slow me down, but it doesn't. Hangovers don't seem to bother me much, either.

But how difficult would it really be if I went out one night and hardly drank, or drank nothing at all?

I tested myself twice last week. As it turned out, the fear I had built up over confronting the world sober, anxiety and all, was much worse than the reality. And waking up the following days, maybe a little tired but without a hint of a hangover, able to remember the conversations I had, was heavenly. I'm a creature of habit, so it may take a lot of reminders that I am just as awesome sober as I am tipsy to make social sobriety a regular thing, but I think it's worth a try. That doesn't mean I'll never drink again, of course, but I don't have to drink every time alcohol is available to me, and I don't have to drink to the point of intoxication. I have a lot of nasty habits I want to change, and it seems like this is a good place to start. Wish me luck.

30-Day Drawing Challenge: Day 11

I hadn't lived in Boston very long when I met my first real boyfriend. The beginning was, as it always is, intensely lovely. I instantly fell madly in love with him. I really, truly believed we were going to get married and have beautiful babies and live happily ever after.

And I really, truly believed this not just because I was so in love, but because I ignored a lot of red flags. I ignored all the long periods when he was so high-strung and nervous that he depended on a combination of weed and Nyquil to get to sleep. I ignored the times when he'd sleep entire weekends away and resist going anywhere or doing much of anything. I ignored the OCD, the jealousy, the obsession with obtaining alcohol (and weed) above most other things. I ignored his unwillingness to admit that there was something more going on with him than simple depression -- and that a bottle of anti-depressants, prescribed by his pediatrician from another state, couldn't fix everything.

Once he got to the point of having suicidal thoughts, it took only a few weeks for the relationship to completely deteriorate. I still loved him passionately, but it was too much responsibility for me to be his primary source of support. He couldn't accept that. The details are somewhat irrelevant now, but eventually, I was forced to file a restraining order against him. The day I faced him in court was probably the most devastating day of my entire life. I had never cried so much in one day before that, nor have I since.

By that point, I had fallen far behind in all of my classes at Northeastern. All the drama (and I've left out quite a bit of it) made it impossible to focus. My professors were as understanding as they could be and extended many deadlines, but every time I sat down to do school work, I was completely overwhelmed. For the first time in my life, I started having panic attacks.

I finally recognized that if I tried to finish out the semester, I would fail. It became obvious that the only viable option was to take a medical/mental health leave of absence, putting Incompletes on my transcript for all my classes, and take the rest of the semester (as well as the following one) to get my life back together.

I felt strongly (against the advice of many people) that the best way to gain strength from such an awful situation was to stay here in Boston, away from my best friend and my family, and push through the sadness and panic myself. It wasn't easy. I had to work a full-time retail job plus a part-time job working the door at a bar just to pay the most basic bills. I ate as little and as cheaply as possible. I was sick from exhaustion nearly the entire time and had no insurance to go to the doctor. I had no financial help and little emotional support, especially as a relative newcomer to Boston. My parents worried that I wouldn't return to school and regularly questioned my decision. I had frequent nightmares about my ex breaking into my apartment and trying to kill me. I felt utterly alone.

But the truth was that I, like my ex, had issues that I'd been unwilling to confront for a very long time. I had always had bouts of depression and anxiety, and I'd always been insanely insecure -- and of course, like everyone, there were things from my past (both in my childhood and more recently) that I'd never fully processed. I acknowledged this to myself, but I was ashamed to acknowledge it to anyone else. As traumatic as the experience with my ex had been, in some strange way it liberated me; I finally had a reason to seek the help I had needed for most of my life. It was a turning point. I began weekly therapy for the duration of my leave of absence, and I continued to see my therapist for a long time after. When I went back to school (as I'd always known I would), I was highly successful, earning solid A's and generally kicking butt for the remainder of my college career.

I took a break from therapy for awhile, once I felt like I'd eliminated most of my PTSD symptoms, and I came off the anti-depressants I'd been prescribed. A few years later, when my job situation became unbearable (and the panic attacks returned), I started again. I also used anti-anxiety medications for about a year, despite the protests of a few people who are close to me. Throughout all of this I have realized that, for me, mental health work is never done, and therapy is a key tool in keeping me a relatively sane and happy person; I've realized that none of this makes me defective or broken or less valuable than anyone else; I've realized that I know myself best, so it's up to me (with some help from my doctor) to figure out how to make my life better, even if it occasionally invites negative judgment from outsiders.

And though I wish mental health issues on no one, I feel some measure of comfort knowing that many of my friends struggle with similar issues. I don't know if we're naturally drawn together, if we recognize that feeling of brokenness in each other, or if everybody is equally screwed up and some are just better at hiding it than others. It doesn't matter, really -- I just hope they know that it is a show of great strength, not weakness, to ask for help.

And everybody needs a little help, every now and then.

30-Day Drawing Challenge: Day 10

I love sugar.

I love cookies, I love cake, I love nearly every form of candy from Jolly Ranchers to the fanciest dark chocolate. I couldn't get myself addicted to cigarettes -- and I did try! -- but I have never been able to break my addiction to sugar. It's the thing I crave most and the thing I always turn to when I'm having a crappy day.

Oh, sugar, I wish I knew how to quit you.

My enthusiasm for sugar drastically increases when it comes to holiday treats. After all, the normal stuff comes in fun shapes (a Snickers that looks like a little soldier!) and there are certain mind-blowingly tasty things you can only get that one time a year. I think you all know what I'm talking about.

Cadbury Creme Eggs, y'all.

I have loved those things for as long as I can remember. They were a major reason I looked forward to Easter as a kid (and they're pretty much the only reason I still do). When I worked at CVS, I used to buy tons of them on post-season clearance with the intention of hoarding them year-round; instead, they'd all be gone within the week. In more recent years, I've purchased a box or two of the miniature ones, thinking I could enjoy the smaller doses of deliciousness and thus feel less guilty. That didn't work either; I could never eat just one.

These days I try to just avoid the seasonal aisle at Walgreen's as much as I can. A few days ago, however, I caved and bought one. Some childhood loves lose their luster after a few years, but that Cadbury Creme Egg was every damn bit as delicious as I'd remembered.

And I didn't feel even a little bit guilty.

30-Day Drawing Challenge: Day 9

"If we live our lives the right way, then everything we do can become a work of art."

~Claire Fisher, Six Feet Under

I'd never really considered how much we sanitize death until I watched Six Feet Under. Suddenly, it seemed very strange: the way we try to preserve the bodies, make them look like they did in life, lay them on a bed of satin, cry on their graves not once but over and over and over (but quietly, and mostly in private), until we die ourselves. When did this become the normal way of doing things? Why is death -- just as natural and inevitable as birth -- such a shameful thing, so blanketed in denial?

When I started watching the show, I hadn't really experienced death myself. I knew some elderly neighbors or distant relatives or family friends who had died, and although I felt a lot of empathy for their families and some measure of sadness for myself, it wasn't until my grandparents died that I truly felt grief.

I don't have much to compare it to, of course, but I'm so grateful that my grandparents opted to skip the embalming/viewing stage and go straight to cremation. The thought of having to see them as mannequins, false representations of their former selves, made my stomach churn (as it still does). I'm unconvinced that literally seeing them one last time, but minus the opportunity to say any real goodbyes, would have done much to help me grieve. I'm also unconvinced that having a grave site to obsess over would have made the process any easier, especially when I already have such complicated feelings about living far away from my family. Everyone has their own way of grieving, of course, but for me, there is no point in trying to have an ongoing emotional relationship with their bodies; the people are already gone, and pretending otherwise gives me no comfort.

One of many things that drew me to this show was its willingness to confront a wide range of people's complicated feelings about death, along with what actually happens in a funeral home, how many things about death are concealed from the mourners, and how bizarre (and often darkly funny) it all really is. Outside of the macabre, its brutal honesty, no matter how controversial the topic, and the complexity of all the characters make it a shoo-in for my favorite show. So far, I have found nothing else that sucked me in as immediately or tugged as forcefully on my heartstrings. I can't wait to watch it all again, from start to finish.

Sorry, I couldn't get it to stay rotated, no matter what I did. :(

30-Day Drawing Challenge: Day 8

I think I probably watched about the same amount of animated shows and movies as any other kid did -- Bugs Bunny, Smurfs, Care Bears, My Little Pony, The Jetsons, Animaniacs, and on and on. I watched tons of Disney movies, I watched Pixar movies as a teen and and an adult, I still occasionally watch shows like Family Guy and South Park. But what show or movie used my favorite animated character? Unlike my favorite book or my favorite movie, nothing instantly sprang to mind. What cartoon still evoked the same emotional response in me now as it did five, ten, fifteen, twenty years ago?

When I look back on all the Disney movies that I watched over and over as a kid -- Cinderella, The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, Sleeping Beauty, Pocahontas -- I feel a short burst of nostalgia, and then I feel apathetic. I still know all the words to the soundtrack, but all the heroines feel interchangeable to me. Why?

I think, after awhile, so many of those classics blur together because they're all so heavily focused on the heroine finding love. Don't get me wrong, I'm a total sucker for a sappy love story -- after all, as you recall, my favorite movie is The Princess Bride -- but it's problematic as the primary representation of a woman's life goals (animated or otherwise). Over the years, more movies have come out that are not so singularly focused on the happily ever after, but a lot of them feature male main characters rather than female ones.

I'm not the first to wonder if that Disney-princess influence has done more harm to little girls than good; it seems we should be teaching them that there is more to being a woman -- and a human -- than getting married and popping out babies (and I say this as someone who very much wants both of those things). I won't get into a heavy analysis of all this, as it's well-covered territory, but it's something I've thought more about as I've gotten more comfortable in my own views about gender roles, and closer to possibly having a little girl or boy of my own.

I find it odd that so many women try to distance themselves from the label of "feminist," even though it means something that most people actually want: equal treatment of women and men. (If you think feminism means hating men, you're wrong, plain and simple.) The fact that all these "men's rights" groups are suddenly popping up turns my stomach -- they are completely missing the point! -- and although many of their claims are clearly sexist in nature, I think some of that anger comes from ignorance of what feminism actually is. No one is asking for special treatment, here, y'all.

The fact is, we're not living in a post-sexist society any more than we're living in a post-racial society. If you really need proof, take a look at the case of the eleven-year-old girl who was essentially blamed for her own gang rape because she "dressed older than her age"; sympathy was given to the rapists, of all people, because they would have to "live with this for the rest of their lives." This happens all the time -- women are routinely accused of lying about their own sexual assaults; they are told they "asked for it" by wearing a short skirt or a low-cut shirt, or by daring to go out alone at night; they are told that if they were dumb enough to get too drunk to consent, or if they found themselves alone with a man (even if, again, they did not give consent to sexual activity), they deserved it; they are told that carrying their rapist's baby is the "right" thing to do, despite the many potential emotional, financial, and physical dangers. I hope it's obvious why this is damaging to women, but it's damaging to men, too -- they're often painted as these lust-filled, uncontrollable animals who can't stop themselves from attacking a woman when she's doing all those "wrong" things.

Anyway, I could go on forever about the ways in which we could improve the standing of women (and men!) in American society, but I'll get back to what got me thinking on all this in the first place: a lack of intelligent, forward-thinking, not-love-obsessed female role models in my childhood. Somehow, I had forgotten all about Lisa Simpson.

I watched a lot of The Simpsons growing up, and although I no longer follow it (as I feel the quality has declined over the last decade or so), it holds a special place in my heart. I can't help but have a soft spot for Lisa in particular; despite the merciless mockery and rejection that nearly always ensued when she pursued her progressive interests, she always stood firm in her beliefs and trusted herself completely. I certainly know how it feels to be put down for asserting myself -- especially growing up in the South, where it seems women are punished more severely for speaking up -- and even though she's just a cartoon character, she deserves some respect and props for that.

Go on with your bad self, little Lisa. It gets easier.

30-Day Drawing Challenge: Day 7

"Hello! My name is Inigo Montoya! You killed my father! Prepare to die!"

This may be one of the most instantly-recognizable film quotes in the English-speaking world, and for good reason -- even if, oddly, the movie wasn't a box office success. It really has stood the test of time and reached a broad range of audiences; I've met very few people who haven't seen it, and I've met exactly zero people who didn't love it.

The Princess Bride is only a few years younger than I am, and it was a staple of my childhood -- I went through several phases where I watched it every single day. My dad's favorite greeting for me was, "What's up, Buttercup?" and my mom is, to this day, convinced that I will wear a wedding dress like the one in the movie. (She will have to be disappointed. This is New England, not medieval England...)

As a result, I'm one of those (kind of irritating) people who knows every bit of dialogue and every move of the sword fight choreography by heart. TJ always switches the channel when it comes on TV because I just can't resist quoting along at certain parts, but that's fine with me because I know exactly which parts they've whittled away to make it fit into the time slot (and it irritates me to no end). It's the DVD version or nada, my friends.

This year marks the cult classic's 25th anniversary, and to celebrate, the Brattle Theatre is showing it this weekend. I encourage you all to see it and get yourself a case of the warm fuzzies.

I'll always be delighted by the fact that the man who plays Inigo shares my first name... and by that amazing moustache and crazy pirate hair.

30-Day Drawing Challenge: Day 6

According to family legend, I taught myself how to read at age three. I don't specifically remember how old I was, but I do remember sitting in the living room of a house I barely lived in with a copy of The Velveteen Rabbit, something clicking -- some conscious understanding that all those little letters meant something, and I could decode their message.

I have a late-August birthday, which meant that, when it came time for kindergarten, my parents could choose whether to send me on or wait another year. They opted for the latter. Although I think ultimately this was the right choice -- after all, even at nearly-nineteen, I didn't feel ready for college, either -- it also led to a lot of boredom in school. I was automatically placed in the Academically Gifted program, but it was rare that the "special" assignments interested me; instead, I turned to books.

I always read books that were several grade levels ahead of me, often going to my older brother's reading lists for suggestions. I truly loved to read. You could stand a foot away from me and loudly say my name, but if I was absorbed in a book, I didn't hear you. I read constantly, often camping out in the living room even on beautiful summer days so I could finish le livre du jour.

When I hit high school, something changed. I think part of it was the much more pronounced pressure to earn good grades, but a lot of it was logistical: I participated in multiple weekly dance classes, I worked fifteen to twenty-five hours a week at a retail job, I was in honors and AP classes, and I had to be at school at 7:15 am. I don't know if the root cause was anxiety or undiagnosed A.D.D. or exhaustion or some combination of the above, but after awhile, I sort of gave up; I didn't finish half my reading assignments for school, so where the hell would I find time to read for pleasure?

It only got worse in college. By the time I graduated, I had nearly forgotten how to get lost in a story the way I once did. I still read occasionally, of course -- Kurt Vonnegut while working the ticket booth at Bill's Bar; D.H. Lawrence and Gabriel Garcia Marquez on the T; Aldous Huxley on the beaches of Thailand -- but I always got distracted or fell asleep before the chapter ended. I started many books that I never finished.

Koh Ang Thong, Thailand; June, 2008.

There is one book, however, that I did manage to finish for school, one that I have read innumerable times and that never fails to remind me of why I love to read: Le Petit Prince. I had never heard of it until I read it in my senior French class in high school, but it completely captivated my heart from the first page.

So once I'd crossed over into the world of tattoos with my best friend just before entering college, it didn't take me long to come up with my next piece of body art.

As I get older -- and thus relate more to the narrator than the hero -- I only love the book more. I'm so completely obsessed with it, in fact, that I decided to be the little prince for Halloween. Admittedly, not everyone got the reference, but those who did were delighted, which kept a perpetual grin on my face both nights I wore the costume. I don't know how I'll top this next Halloween -- or how I'll find a way to express my infinite love for this book any more than I already have.

Top: me on Halloween (with TJ's/my dog, Memphis, as the tamed fox); 2011. Bottom: the illustration on which the costume was based.

For now, I plan to expose everyone, adult and kid alike, who has never read this absolutely marvelous book to its timeless charm. I mean, seriously y'all, it's kind of perfect. If you're reading this and you have no idea what I'm talking about... I beg you, read it!

For now, here's a preview (part of which is a translation of one of the quotations in my tattoo)...

"Here is my secret. It is very simple: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."

30-Day Drawing Challenge: Day 5

Alana and I became attached at the hip in early high school. We developed the rare kind of friendship where we could spend day after day together and still find things to talk about, we laughed constantly, and we never fought. (She's also a total snuggle monster like I am, so I could always count on her for some comfort-cuddles when I was upset. Bonus!) She was my partner in crime and the one person I could tell anything to without fear of judgment. When it turned out we'd be going to college very far away from each other -- me to Rhodes College in Memphis, Tennessee, and her to Northeastern here in Boston -- it instilled far more panic in me than the thought of being separated from my parents.

We committed to making the most of our last summer together. We kicked it off with a seven-day Caribbean cruise -- along with, and thanks to, my grandparents. The old folks' only rule was that we show up for dinner -- which we did, save the day we got so drunk on the beach that we were puking by mid-afternoon. (I desperately wish I could post some of those photos, but sadly, I don't have a scanner.) We took full advantage of the international waters, stayed up late hanging with a family from California, and generally acted like the hyperactive, flirtatious, over-intoxicated 18-year-olds we were. On our way home, when our flight was overbooked, we traded our seats for a later flight and vouchers from the airline. We used the vouchers at the end of the summer for our final pre-college adventure: a trip to L.A. to visit the family from the cruise, at the end of which we went to Venice Beach and got matching tattoos near our right hipbones.

Christmas of our freshman year of college (2003), at the annual "girls' night."

We both struggled a lot, for very different reasons, our freshman year of college. I had made a stunningly bad choice with school -- though the academics were fantastic, it fell very short of my expectations socially, and I hated Memphis. I was depressed, rapidly gaining weight, and drinking heavily, but when I visited Alana in late winter of 2004, I fell in love with Boston and saw a glimmer of hope for my remaining academic years. I transferred to Northeastern the following fall.

We had one school year together before she decided to transfer to UNC Chapel Hill. I tried to understand her reasons, but it was difficult to accept that I would be separated from my partner in crime yet again, after I'd moved 1,000 miles from home to a city I'd just started to explore. At the time I was dating my first serious boyfriend, so knowing I still had an emotional support in Boston lessened the sting a bit, but I had a hard time not resenting her for it.

Despite all the chaos (and there was plenty more to come), we remained close until we graduated college in 2008. At her enthusiastic prompting, we signed up to go on our 40-day Thailand adventure that June.

The end of the Thailand trip (photo bombed by a fellow traveler); Bangkok; July, 2008.

When we got back to the U.S., she moved in with her then-boyfriend, which rapidly led to their marriage and the birth of their beautiful daughter. I adore Ray and Ella, so as rough as it was to lose proximity to her a second time, her return to North Carolina turned out better than I could have possibly hoped. We're both now busy leading very different lives, but even after all this time, we do what we can to see each other at every opportunity and keep each other posted on our most important life developments. And I will never, ever forget that she found a way to come to both of my grandparents' funerals, pushing aside myriad logistical issues that would have stopped anyone else.

I tried drawing her approximately a million different times before I had to give up and settle on this one. As you can see in the photos above, she's much prettier than I'm able to draw her... but the photo I based this on captures the spirit that I love so much about her. We're both a little crazy, she and I, but we understand each other; she is, without a doubt, my best friend.

30-Day Drawing Challenge: Day 4

I've entertained the idea of moving away from Boston once or twice, but it's really hard for me to imagine living anywhere very far from the ocean (sorry, Austin). A witch in Salem once told me that in past lives, I lived on the coast of England and on a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean Sea in Greece. She also told me I belong near the ocean, regardless of where I end up. Say what you want about tarot and reincarnation, but she was right about that.

I love to travel, and I've noticed a pattern in the places I'm drawn to: if I don't have access to a beach at some point in the journey, I am noticeably less excited. It's not about getting a tan (although of course that's a nice bonus); I just feel more like myself at the beach than anywhere else. No ipod or book required -- I'm perfectly happy to just sit on the sand and watch the waves crash.

Happy Mandy! Temple of Apollo, an hour or two outside of Athens, Greece; August, 2007.

My love of the beach started when I was a wee little Mandy. In addition to an amazing vegetable garden, my grandparents had a beach house in North Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, where I spent at least a few days every summer from the year they bought it (I believe I was around three years old) until I moved to Boston. Some of my happiest childhood memories took place there: building sand castles with my cousin Maggie, playing putt-putt (also known as mini-golf to you yankees) despite my utter lack of skills, eating blueberry pancakes and bacon, slurping down frozen lemonade from the wheeled carts on the beach (reliably driven by cute college students), trips up to Calabash, NC, for fried popcorn shrimp and hush puppies.

It's hard to articulate how devastated I was when I learned my grandparents would be selling that house in 2010. It was never really "mine," but it felt like it; in many ways it was more of a home to me than anywhere I'd lived in my hometown, especially because of my parents' divorce and the resulting housing changes. There were no traumatic memories attached to it -- it was my happy place. Even though I'd lived too far away to spend much time there for quite a few years, I couldn't imagine the option of visiting being removed.

Me and TJ on my final trip to the beach house; May, 2010. Photo by TJ Miller.

But more than that, the sale of the beach house was a painfully clear acknowledgment of my grandparents' declining health. Despite the physical struggles they'd faced across the previous decade, they always did everything they could to make trips to the beach house. It felt as if resigning themselves to Concord meant resigning themselves to death.

I understood intellectually that they couldn't possibly be around much longer -- they were in their 80s at that point -- but you can never fully prepare yourself for losing someone you love. Weirdly, it was my grandmother who went first, not due to some long-term health issue, but from a freak accident. The day of her funeral, my grandfather -- the man who I'd spent most of my life avoiding hugging because it was so awkward, who showed affection by teasing me mercilessly and hiding my shoes -- would periodically burst into tears and wail, "What am I going to do?" He would be gone about seven months later.

I don't believe in God, so I can't really console myself with the idea of seeing them again one day (although I do occasionally have extraordinarily vivid dreams about them, which helps). I try to be grateful for the time I had with them and forgive myself for the time I missed from living so far away. My grandmother really tried to understand why I chose to leave, even though she didn't like it, and I hope she forgave me too.

I think about those trips to North Myrtle Beach and feel instantly calm every time I step foot on sand, so in response to Day 4's prompt: my favorite place is anywhere with a beach.

Aruba; January, 2012. Photo by TJ Miller.

Based on a photo taken in San Francisco; May, 2011.

30-Day Drawing Challenge: Day 3

A lot of people think they don't like tomatoes. (A lot of people are crazy. I think there may be a connection.) I have to assume that some of them don't like any tomatoes under any circumstances, ever... but for most of them, I've long held a theory that they just don't really know what a tomato tastes like.

See, those tomatoes you buy at Stop & Shop are not real tomatoes. The poor little guys have been plucked long before they've reached their true potential. They are sad imitators of tomatoes -- imitomators? -- that taste like dirt and sorrow. I beg of you: do not judge all tomatokind based on the mega-depressing stock at Stop & Shop.

To be fair, I'm kind of spoiled. Growing up, my grandparents had a large garden in their back yard in Concord, North Carolina, and every summer it provided a steady supply of luscious and delicious produce for my family. Okra, green beans, butter beans, summer squash, zucchini, corn -- it seemed totally normal at the time, but I realize now how incredibly lucky I was, especially when I think about those tomatoes. Gawd.

Of course, anyone who has gone out to eat with me (or spent a few hours with me when I'm upset or depressed) knows that I love rich comfort food. When I first started contemplating today's prompt -- my favorite food -- many of those dishes crossed my mind: mac and cheese, fried chicken, biscuits and sausage gravy, country-fried steak and mashed potatoes (and again with the gravy... mmmm... guess you really can't take the South of the girl, eh?). Even as my palate has become more sophisticated over the years and I've learned to appreciate textures, flavors, and spices that I never would have imagined for myself ten years ago, my tastes are, at the core, pretty simple.

Thus, on this, the third day of the 3o Day Drawing Challenge, I give you an unremarkable depiction of a remarkably tasty fruit: the almighty tomato!

30-Day Drawing Challenge: Day 2

"An elephant's faithful -- one hundred percent!"

- Horton Hatches the Egg, Dr. Seuss

I don't remember when, exactly, I became obsessed with elephants. At some point in my elementary education I must have learned something about them -- learned how the females form tightly-knit family groups, how intelligent they are, how well they communicate with each other, how they mourn their dead. Whatever the trigger, I became more and more obsessed with them over the years until, at last, I found a way to meet a few.

My best friend, Alana, and I had signed up with a Canadian travel group to spend 40 days in Thailand. We'd both just graduated college, and Thailand was our last hurrah before feebly attempting adulthood. I love to travel and there were a million things to be excited about, but more than anything, I was counting down the days until I got to hang out with elephants.

We journeyed into the jungle of Khao Sok to meet our river-trekking pachyderm pals. I was on the verge of hyperventilating with anticipation. When the moment finally came, it was hard to fully comprehend that these enormous, dinosaur-like creatures were real, live animals. I'd seen an elephant or two from a distance at the zoo, but it was nothing compared to walking up to one, touching one, climbing on its back and scratching the rough skin behind its ears.

I would have been happy to spend the rest of the evening feeding them green bananas, awed and delighted by the immense power of their trunks. (Those things are totally genius, right? Why didn't evolution pass those out to more species?) I will never forget that feeling -- a purity of joy I don't experience in my day-to-day life.

The next logical step in the progression of my elephant obsession was, of course, to get an elephant tattoo. I did that in Thailand, too -- bamboo-style, the design an original from the Thai tattoo artist. (Up next? Landing myself some sweet elephant-created art.)

Thus, it was a no-brainer what I would draw for today's challenge: my favorite animal. I picked one of Alana's photos on which to base my drawing. That very quickly got out of hand -- it was entirely too ambitious... but then, I've never been good at setting realistic goals. It's not finished (and it's certainly not perfect), but it's a start...

P.S. If you want to have yourself a feel-good cry, check out these videos about Shirley the elephant. Part 2 is especially gut-wrenching -- elephant besties! Snuggling with their trunks! Aaaaagggghhhh ::heart 'splodes::

Shirley, Part 1

Shirley, Part 2

30-Day Drawing Challenge: Day 1

I'm just going to cut to the chase, here, friends: Lately, I kind of feel like a failure. I'm sure you're rolling your eyes right now, and believe me, I know that I am lucky and privileged in many ways -- I have a job; I'm in a loving and stable relationship; I'm more or less healthy, despite a few recent bumps in that road; I have a supportive family and lots of friends. But I'm telling y'all, something is plaguing me.

Like many people my age, I'm disillusioned by the lack of stable job opportunities my over-priced college education has provided me, and although that's led to a few post-university meltdowns, an equally troublesome issue persists: At some point in the last five years or so, I developed so much anxiety around my perceived shortcomings in my writing and art that I completely stopped trying. No matter how many pep talks I gave myself, no matter how many times I claimed, "I really want to [insert creative activity here] SOON!", I couldn't follow through. It's easier to fail by avoidance than to try but fail anyway, right?

I tried to combat some of this by signing up for a figure drawing class at the Cambridge Center for Adult Education. It was amazing in many ways -- I had never done figure drawing before, and it was good to have someone forcing me to step back and literally see the big picture -- but I felt like an imposter. I wasn't a "real" artist, and I didn't belong in that room. My insecurities must have shown in my timid half-attempts at sketching, as my instructor made quite the habit of snapping my charcoal from my hands, aggressively etching his own drawings over mine, and shouting, "Like this!!" That ended just before Thanksgiving.

And then finally, today, a friend posted one of those viral Facebook status updates containing a 30-day drawing challenge. I don't know why this one in particular caught my attention; maybe it was just that the prompts were open-ended enough to get the gears grinding while providing enough structure so that I wouldn't feel lost or overwhelmed. Regardless, the moment I stopped reading the post, I decided that it was time to stop making excuses and just do it. I saw later that my friend's portrait contained the following footnote: "Age: old enough to know better, young enough to change it." Yes. Exactly.

And THEN it occurred to me that if I blogged about the experience, I could hit the drawing bird and the writing bird with the same freaking stone, y'all, and that making it public like this could be a way of holding myself accountable. I know the internets don't really need another driveling idiot, but I guess I care more about my mental health and happiness than what you losers think. (Just kidding! I'm the loser here, remember? Sigh.)

2011 was a tough year; 2012 has already presented a heartbreak or two. But if I can come out of these 30 days with at least one drawing that I'm proud of, then maybe, just maybe, I can feel optimistic about the 305 days that remain.

And so, without further ado, I present my drawing challenge for day 1: a self-portrait.

Try not to judge me too harshly for how emo it is, OK? I'm hard enough on myself.