Mantra

"I just want to get out of here as soon as possible."

"Well, we'll have to see what we can do."

"I've been here for seven years--I don't know how much longer I can stand it." I was sitting in my advisor's office at school. He was munching on little red bell peppers and I was fighting back hysteria.

"Let's take a look at your transcript," he said.

For half an hour we chatted about classes and internships and grad school applications while he created a master schedule for me.

"So, it's a tall order but if you don't mind crazy work loads, it looks like you can be done in Spring 2015." [Sam (that's my advisor's name) does this thing where he kind of shrugs with his whole body--his shoulders come up, his arms flop over, his head tilts sideways, and his eyes get really wide, all at once. Usually when he's saying "so."] He full-body shrugged throughout this pronouncement.

"You know, I think I can handle a full schedule in the summer. Could that help? Could I do it by Fall 2014?"

"Well--"shrug"--It's possible, but I don't recommend it." Shrug. "Some people do it, but since it's a block schedule, it's a lot of work in a short space of time." Shrug.

I sighed. "I've been here for so long. I just want to move on with my life."

"I know. But if you think about it, figuring out what you want to do with your life is kind of a big deal. Your education is kind of a big deal. And in the grand scheme of things, seven, eight, nine years is not a lot of time when you're going to be working for the next forty, fifty years of your life. No two people are the same, and the educational process is different for everybody. I say it takes as long as it takes. If you finish in four years, great. If you finish in ten years, great; you've learned a lot. It takes as long as it takes, and you shouldn't worry about it."

It takes as long as it takes...


I thanked him, wrapped up the meeting, and wandered down the hall to a bank of unoccupied chairs. Normally, such a statement would have driven me crazy.

It takes as long as it takes?! Pah! I should be done by now! I should be long gone! I should be running wild through the Scottish lowlands, being all international and independent and free from the burden of the last ten years of my life! It takes as long as YOUR FACE!

But that day, those were the exact words I needed to hear.

It takes as long as it takes. I'll finish when I finish. I have my whole life ahead of me to worry about my life, about bills and jobs and seeing the world. I'm here now and that's that. This is my situation and I can live through it gracefully or I can squander my time feeling sorry for myself, pining after a future that isn't certain anyway. So, live gracefully it is.

With this new philosophy fresh in my mind, the next few days were different--brighter, easier, more comfortable. And then I realized that I was falling in love with someone who had just fallen in love with my friend. And a fresh wave of lonely impatience rose up and razed my newfound confidence.

Seriously? Again, Aubrey? You're really good at this. At this rate, you'll be 65 when you get married.

I'm pretty sure I can't recognize flirtatious behavior. Or maybe I have really bad timing. Or maybe I don't know myself very well. Whatever the problem is, three times in the recent past I've fallen in love and realized it too late. Three times I've decided to risk everything on a guy the second after he picked someone else. Three frickin' times I've been shy and emotional and slow on the uptake, and then when I finally think, yeah, maybe this is it, maybe it's my turn to belong to someone, to have comfortable conversations about mundane things, to hold hands, I turn around to face this possibility and he's holding someone else's hand, tracing patterns on her palm.


Three times I've looked on and thought, if only I'd realized it sooner, I could have prevented this. But that's wrong. Prevented what? Prevented happiness? Prevented two wonderful people from developing a loving relationship? Prevented an eternal marriage, that thing so precious and sacred? In my selfishness and my cowardice, I would prevent all of that so that I wouldn't feel passed by, because I thought it was my happiness, my relationship, my late-night talks about the possibility of us.

I completely missed the point. Three times I was so far off the mark that I couldn't see this invaluable truth: it takes as long as it takes. I'm still here, I'm still alive, I haven't died of a broken heart. In fact, I have a pretty good thing going (except that my new pants smell like mothballs and it's driving me CRAZY). Obviously it isn't my turn yet, and that's okay. Really, I'm okay with that. I know that I have so much to learn and so much to do and so much to give. If I can't graduate for another year and a half, that's fine. I'll survive. If I don't find a boyfriend in the next fifteen years, that's okay. I'll survive. I'll keep learning and doing and giving and receiving so much in return and trusting in my Heavenly Father and cultivating lasting relationships because that's what's really important.

And everything else? Well, it takes as long as it takes.

~~~

Recorded 9/14/13

Becoming More

I'm moving.

Not any time soon, mind you, but as it's graduation season and my friends are finishing school and moving on, I've been thinking about it a lot.  I'm 80% certain I'll head off to the University of Edinburgh the minute I graduate from UVU.  On study abroad 4 years ago, I fell in love with the city, the people, the purple-grey beaches, the lifestyle, the way the castle looks like it grew out of the mountain, and the U of E's MS Creative Writing program.  I'm going to a grad school open house in November to make sure, but if I can have my way, Auld Reekie it will be.

So in a couple of years, when all is said and done, I'll pack up everything I own, sort my belongings into the musttakewithmes and the putitinstorageuntilIsettledowns, and I'll set off across the ocean.

And I'll likely be alone.

The thought of spending a year entirely on my own, on a different continent, away from friends and family and familiar streets scares the crap out of me.  It seems so lonely and frustrating and a little bit empty.  But last night I was staring at my ring, the ring my mother gave me on her last Christmas, the ring I hope to someday wear on my left hand, and I saw, reflected in that hope, a potential for significance I had never realized.

I took this picture with my left hand!

This ring has meant so much to me in the last 5 years.  It is its own language of sentiment, rich with expressions of monumental loss and the good that can surface in its wake.  And when it changes hands, when it is slipped gently from right to left by a man who means everything to me, this ring will become more.  It will speak of two great significances, of before and after, of memories cherished and memories yet to be made, of a girl who sits writing in the park alone and a girl who sits writing in a park knowing there is someone to go home to.

And if a ring can take on  new meaning, more power with such a simple shift, what can a Thanksgiving alone do?  Birthdays and holidays and Sunday nights are just days imbued with the sense of belonging granted by a loving and generous family.  They speak of many years of difficulty and the perfect exultation of bringing new life into this world and the desperate sadness of watching it go.  But the transcendent and transformative power of new experience means that spending these days alone will give them new significance.  It means I can create or discover my own language of family and love and religion and self-confidence and home.  It's an exhilarating prospect.

I know it's going to be hard.  I'm not blind to the fact that starting from scratch is tedious and difficult.  But armed with this knowledge, I'm a little less intimidated and a little more prepared.  And I am absolutely ready to become more.


Watch out, Scotland.  Ready or not, here I come.

I did not take this picture. In fact, I didn't take any pictures while I was in Edinburgh.

~~~

Recorded 5/7/13



P.S. I'm now accepting donations.  Make checks payable to the Aubrey's Sooner Rather Than Later Fund.

From May

It's hard not to hate people who are in love.  Okay, that was a dramatic overstatement. I don't hate people who are in love, in fact I genuinely feel happy for the couples who aren't gross in public.  Still, when I saw my best friend's shadow connected to her boyfriend's, long and lean as we moved across the pavement, their hands indistinguishable from one another, a whisper of envy rasped through my mind.  I've never held hands with someone I really cared about.  I've dreamed about the familiarity of interlocked fingers, of thumb over thumb, of filling the space between palms with warm conversation.  I've thought about holding hands just for the motion—wrist to heel to crease to fingers.  But I've never been connected to a long, lean shadow, and so the envy creeps in.

Today (Memorial Day) was much more difficult than I had anticipated.  Perhaps it was due to the lack of sleep, or to the impromptu visit to the cemetery, or maybe it's just that I haven't cried in such a long time.  Whatever the reason, I found myself sobbing silently at the top of the staircase by the sound booth during "How Could I Ever Know".  I still had to sing the finale, and I knew people would see me, but I couldn't stop crying.  All at once I was overwhelmed with the anxiety I've been keeping at bay.  I thought of the sweet boy I had to hurt, and of the idiocy of my fears, and of the loneliness that ever  slinks along behind me, eager to pounce.  My mind was awash with every emotion I'd suppressed since Tech Week, and, unable to process all of this, I cried until I got home and had to wrestle my leftovers into the fridge.

I was shorter than I should have been with Laurel.  When we got in her car, she cracked a joke about the tissue box.  I came up with a snappy retort, I just didn't have the energy to say it out loud.

~~~

Recorded 5/28/12

A Better Answer

I recently had a long conversation with a dear, dear friend.  It began as a CD exchange but gained momentum and covered every topic from craft ideas to bad semesters to conversion stories.  Eventually we got to talking about my journey through the unknowable landscape of anxiety disorders.

"How do you do it?" My friend asked, and so sincerely.  "How do you motivate yourself to get up in the mornings?"

"I don't," I said.  "Most days I want to turn off the alarm and roll over and pretend I don't have anything to do.  But ignoring my problems won't make them go away."

This answer didn't seem to satisfy my friend, who traced the texture of my bedroom wall before replying, "If I could have this, this kind of beauty, this art, anything to live for, I think it would be easier."  (Only my friend was much more eloquent-- I don't remember most of the impassioned speech that followed, just that it was more beautiful than I think my friend realized.)  I said something stupid, I'm sure, and our conversation fizzled out shortly thereafter.  I've been thinking about it ever since.

Why do I get out of bed in the morning?  Why do I swallow my dread, suppress the feeling of impending doom and soldier on day after day?  What is it that keeps me from hiding safely behind my bepostitnoted door?

It's the journey.

It seems so counterintuitive, because the unsteadiness should keep me cowering in the corner, the insecurity should cripple me, but it gets me up and moving each day.  I'm still figuring out who I am, and the prospect that today will bring me closer to patenting/inventing/grasping/unearthing my own brand of Truth is enough.  It's not just art, it's the happening upon, the discovery of art in the least likely places: the ski and board shop tucked away off of State Street, the unassumingly beautiful mother and child on the bus, the accidentally poetic words of a dotty old Astronomy professor.

It's music-- the melody that never leaves my head, the beat that thrums through me in perfect sync with my heartbeat, the band I never knew I loved, the song sweeping forth from every fiber of my being.

It's lunches at Joe's and the sound of my nephew's voice.  It's the books I haven't read, and more importantly, the stories I haven't dreamed up.  It's the predictably steady downpour of a warm shower.  It's the hope that some day I'll meet a man who can't sleep at night because he's caught up in thoughts of me and worried that someone else might snatch me up.

I get out of bed in the morning because I am not yet complete, and the gentle curve of my pillow and the four (six) walls that keep me sheltered do not afford me the opportunity to explore, to discover, to name, or to change anything.  They are stagnance; they are death.  I get out of bed in the morning to breathe life into this potential that threatens to engulf me, to turn it into experience and find out how it all fits together, or how I fit into it all.

My dear, dear friend, I get up every morning because I will only know fear if I only give in to my fears; I will never learn to love or to see or to create if I never venture beyond my front door.  So I venture, I make memories, and I do the best I can to make a life for myself, or to find myself through the life I choose to live.

~~~

Recorded 4/20/12, embellished 4/22/20

Tongue-tied

I wrote about two pages of drivel in Miss Fix-It and deleted a couple of versions of this post.  I can't write about anything right now; words escape me.

Just know that I am happy right now.  I might have missed my chance with a wonderful boy, but this time I'm not going to let it destroy me.  Every painful experience harbors great change in its wake.  The new semester is right around the corner, and, provided I convalesce from this recent bout of stupidity, I have fourteen spectacular weeks ahead of me.

Who knows what they will bring?

~~~

Unsuccessfully recorded and consequently disregarded 1/7/12

And I Didn't Even Pack a Lunch

I pushed the snooze button for almost an hour this morning.  I laid in bed for another 40 minutes after that.  I was tired, my lungs kinda burned, it was a chilly October morning and my sheets were snuggly and bodywarm, and I kept thinking about my inevitably long, lonely walks down the hallways at school today.  Eventually I decided enough was enough, and I scrambled out of bed and set it back up, tetrising the pillows into an acceptable pattern and instructing Madeline to stand guard.  Since I didn't have any oatmeal or pancake mix, I settled for Cocoa Puffs -- the ones I bought just for the Kung Fu Panda toy inside.  I read the first chapter of Daughters In My Kingdom, rinsed my breakfast bowl, rinsed my dinner bowl from last night, took a shower, packed my backpack, put on some eyemakeup, and was out the door by 9:50.

I missed the bus.

Actually, saw the bus.

I try not to look over my shoulder when I'm running late because doing so inevitably summons the demon while I'm still a mile off, but I did.  I looked over my shoulder, turned my head ever so slightly at the sound of a passing Fed Ex van, then followed through on the impulse to see if the bus was coming.  There, on the not so distant horizon was the strip of aged white forehead sign and bug eye glass windshield, the symbol of my impending doom.

I picked up the pace, walked a little bit harder, half hoping I could make it.  I almost convinced myself when it stopped by the dollar store, and again by Down East.  But the bus approached the library just as I did.  It sat at a red light while I fought the urge to dash across State Street between the cars, behind the crosswalk.  Then it pulled up to the stop, and I watched from the other side of the intersection as it loaded the passengers and drove away.

I barely missed it.  If I had arrived less than a minute earlier, I would have caught the bus.  If one thing in my morning routine had been different, say if I had left my bed unmade or let my tuna bowl sit in the sink; if I had left off the makeup or not washed my hair, I would have been at that bus stop with enough time to complain about how the stupid thing is always late.

Instead, I stood lamely on the corner of missed opportunity and chatted idly with a stranger about student insurance and dental work.

~~~

Recorded 10/14/11

Neither Here Nor There

I am in limbo. I'm living out of a linen closet and sleeping on a couch while most of my furniture, favorite books, and blankets are at my grandma's, and my hopes and aspirations are in this little basement bedroom in a 6-person house in Midtown Orem. I no longer consider myself a theatre major, though I have not yet made the transfer official. I drive down to UVU for church every Sunday, but I never make the trek for mid-week meetings and I don't really know anybody in my ward. I'm playing a game of emotional twister, my feet and hands in all directions, not really accomplishing anything.

The meantime, the bit in between, the ambiguous phase before I move out and before I really settle in-- this is a time of reconfiguration. This is the point where I gather my thoughts, evaluate my position. I see equal parts inevitability and promise stretching before me, and I'm ready to topple into the future with all of its unknowable glory. But for this moment I stand on the meridian and gather strength.

I know that this coming semester is going to be difficult. I did it on purpose. I chose to retake most of the classes I've ever failed because if I'm going to start over, to reinvent myself as a good student, what better way than my conquering those classes that defeated me in the past? (When I say defeated, I mean they contributed to the development of my anxiety disorders. I'm not being dramatic for drama's sake) In the last golden weeks of summer, I am developing habits that will help me weather this self-inflicted storm.

Eliminating theatre has been so good for me. I never realized how much of my own life I was missing out on until I took a step back and really looked at it. Tonight I went to a little party, the first solid exposure I've had for a long while to people deeply entrenched in this world. They talked so much about other people's lives and business, and I saw clearly the toll that this lifestyle takes. I think theatre will always be something I do, and I know that I'm better for my little love affair, but right now I'm so glad to be walking away from it as a way of life.

I'm also working on a permanent assignment from Ann. She seems to think that it's okay for me to like myself, even though I'm not perfect. She wants me to try.

I am trying. It's so, so hard to find things about myself that aren't despicable, but I'm gonna give this assignment my best shot.

And I'm 'running' in the mornings and trying to eat better (ignore the twelve Oreo balls I've devoured this week), but those are far less interesting topics than limbo and self-loathing.

So while I'm poised on the Great Meridian of My Short Life and soaking up the pure energy of sunlit family-filled afternoons and early morning jogs and wisdom teeth surgery and meaningful scripture study, I acknowledge that the crap's about to hit the fan in a bigbig way, and tonight I'm perfectly happy to be neither here nor there.

~~~

Recorded 8/15/11

Dream a Little Dream of Me

I have... weird dreams. I don't know why my brain twists things into such intricate and terrifying stories while I'm asleep, but boy does it ever. I have always written down the really crazy ones, and last semester my creative writing teacher encouraged me to write down all of my dreams because it's a whole other life that I've led.

Last night I had a dream that was entertainingly convoluted (Extreme Master Chef/monter dance concert/trying to protect the castle/HUGE house/Randilee ate all of my snacks/new phone complete with DVD drive) and involved a lot of people I know, so I thought I'd post it on ye olde bloge. Please excuse the confused tenses and poor writing. This is brainword vomit from 9 this morning while I was still half asleep.

There was this huge brick room with high walls, long moonfilled windows, and doors all around. In the center of a room was a round platform on which sat The Judges of the Extreme Master Chef competition. A chef stood before the judges and inspected a pound of butter held out on a platter by a man in a butler uniform. The chef had been given a moose-deer thing to butcher, and the pound of butter was the only other ingredient he was allowed to use in his dish. He was really excited about it, but I was not. He was tossed into a little corral on the far side of the platform with his moose and another chef who seems to think he's going to get eaten. He said we should all run away and never come back. We didn't.

When all of the chefs had their ingredients, the judges opened the door that led to the sound stage. There were studio audience seats lining one wall and kitchen stations lining the other. After the battle the chefs were sent back to the first room, and that's when things got crazy. The sous chefs started complaining about the show because they did most of the work but received none of the glory. The producers found out and had the sous chefs hunted down. We (I don't know why I was there. I wasn't a sous chef. I think I entered the dream as me just after the Master Chef thing) ran into the next sound stage, which was separated only by a curtain. We tried to hide behind a platform that bat-ish monster creature human things were dancing on. They were enacting a story about a man who was eaten and they were really mad at us for screwing it up. They all little evil red eyes and they wanted to eat us for our impertinence.

Somehow we all ended up at a crumbling stone castle in something akin to the Fellowship of the Ring. We were running toward the heart of the castle, trying to protect it from a band of swarthy miscreants (for some reason, this included Levi Brown in his Mexican wrestling mask). We hefted falling stones in their way and they hefted them right back out. We were losing the battle.

Eventually the castle was actually a huge house, and all of the people there were family members and friends dressed in Sunday best. We were hanging out in the playground in the back yard when I found a crazy phone with several arms for different functions- a Swiss army phone. I didn't know whose it was, but my family and friends convinced me to pick it up. I thought that it must be my phone, but I didn't want it. I had a really bad feeling about it. As urged by my friends, I called the last number on the recent calls list. Ryan and Kelsey answered and told me that that was my phone and that I was to bring it with me when I reported to the Dallas/Fort Worth, Texas mission. I was very disappointed because I did not want to go.

Then somebody told me to come quickly and to brace myself for a terrible, terrible sight. Inside one of the rooms in the house, Randilee had eaten ALL of my snacks. I was so mad! She had devoured an entire bag of veggie chips and a bunch of other delicious things that I had planned on eating! I was also still upset about having to go on a mission, so I cleaned up the room rather angrily. Then I think the dancer vampire bat monster things showed up.

So there you have it. If I didn't mention you by name, you were still in there somewhere. It's an amalgamation of everything I've done this week and everyone I've seen with the classic screwed-up-brain twist that keeps me on my toes.

Be amazed.

And feel free to interpret.

~~~

Dreamt 6/26-6/27

Recorded 6/27

Ugly Days

I was home alone this evening and since I can't plop myself down in front of the TV like I usually do, I plopped myself down in front of My Big Fat Greek Wedding. I was feeling lonely, you see, and I thought that watching a movie about somebody else who is lonely would make me feel better. I forgot that Tula actually finds a man pretty early on and they get married. The movie didn't really help me to not be lonely.

I am trying really hard to convince myself that I'm worth it, that somebody is going to fall head over heels in love with me and won't be able to sleep for thinking about me. It's really hard to imagine, as I sit here with my greasy hair and an unwashed face in smelly clothes while foaming at the mouth with Crest Whitening Rinse, that anybody will ever find me attractive, much less attractive enough to spend the rest of eternity with.

But even on these ugly days when I can't see past my jiggling thighs, I am trying to discover things about myself that are lovable. I am not the prettiest, the smartest, the skinniest, or the most spiritual person around, but I love life even when it's a montage of empty Lean Cuisine boxes and late night Project Runway marathons. I'm willing to give myself time and to figure all this out.

I don't know whether I'm worth marrying, but I know I'm worth that much.

~~~

Recorded 6/23/11

Happy, Happy Birthday

What a good day. I woke up around 8 (that's really early, even thought I went to bed before midnight last night- I was exhausted), started the first day of the Summer Sit Up Challenge (Randilee and I are starting at 30 sit ups every morning. As soon as we can, we'll increase to 35, then 40, on up until school starts in August), at some breakfast (Cap'n Crunch), then went to Niccole's to work on the cake and play with the babies (parentheses party! I couldn't let this sentence be left out).Kelsey has quite the little attitude. Niccole had her all dressed and ready to go shopping for supplies by the time i arrived around 9:30, but she still needed to get her shoes on. We made a big production of looking for her princess sandals so she would be excited to wear them, but after all of that work she decided she'd rather wear her boots. They're pink faux suede uggs that zip up on the inside. They do not go with pink plaid shorts and a shiny Hello Kitty t-shirt, not to mention it's June and nobody needs to wear boots anymore. Niccole was exasperated. I thought it was adorable. If I were more prone to doodling, I would draw her with braided pigtails, that rainbow shiny shirt, those tiny shorts, and the huge pink boots. So cute!

While Niccole and I we

re decorating the cake, Kelsey was stacking the dye bottles on top of each other.

"I'm making a sand castle!"

Then she would knock them over and go "rescue" the ones that had fallen to the floor. She kept yelling at me.

"AAAAUBREEEEY! Hey AAAUUBBREEEEYY! AUBREY! HEY!"

"Yes, Kelsey?"

"Is this blue?"

"No, that's green."

"You're right! It's green!"

"Yup. That's green."

A moment of quiet babble.

"AAAAAAUUBREEEEY!"

And that's how it went for 40 minutes.

Before I left, I helped clean up a bit (that was the payment for the cake). Also, I cuddled with Kelsey until she fell asleep. I love holding sleeping babies. There is something exquisitely bitter-sweet about it.

I brought Randilee down here so she and BJ could see the show again. They went to Shoots and brought me some left overs.

Then.

After the show.

It was time for the cast birthday party.

It was so much FUN! First we opened the pinata in a rather imaginative way; since the Sacketts don't have a place to string up something to whack, we placed the pinata in the middle of the floor next to the bat and a pair of fuzzy gloves. We rolled dice for doubles. When doubles were achieved (?), the roller donned the fuzzy gloves and took one good whack at the pinata. Once everyone got the hang of it, it was a roaring good time.

Next, we did the white elephant gift exchange, Warner Style. We used a shortened, modified version of The Cat in the Hat, which David and Cameron read. Again, once everyone got the hand of the take each others' presents thing and the time wore down, it was a blast.

We quickly sang at the birthday cake, sans candles, so everyone who had to leave early could do so without feeling guilty about cutting into the cake. Then we had Sackett ice cream. I think I've been sworn to secrecy? I'm not sure, but it was hysterically funny. Word of advice: Do NOT get between Eric and his ice cream.

And then things kind of wound down. Most people had to leave. Those who stayed played Pounce. Me knees took a beating. It was just me, Scott, Shelly, Melissa, and Randilee by the time we decided to play Wario Ware Smooth Moves. That is my favorite party game of all time.

And then it was really late, so we all went home.

Mark this day- let it be known that on June 3rd, 2011, Aubrey Warner threw her first ever successful party.

Mmmm.

What a good day.

:)

~~~

Recorded 6/3/11

Jrunk Food

I am sick of food. Recently I came to the realization that I've spent the majority of every day over the last 22 years obsessing about food. 22 years! How exhausting. I think I became aware of it in LA when time flew by and I seemed to be sitting through a play just so I could go get something to eat when it was over. Yerdhglk.

Today some other frustrations got the better of me. I don't drink, so instead of hitting up a bar and drowning my sorrows in liquor, I resolutely turned my brother's PT Cruiser in the direction of the Wal(STAR)Mart. I decided to buy whatever I was craving, good or bad. I don't starve myself, but I usually try to eat healthy foods. But today, if I wanted to eat an entire bag of Doritos, so be it.

The little blue basket swung merrily from my arm as I stumped through the candy, bread, and cookie aisles (usually carefully avoided territory). I ended up with a box of Little Debbies (Swiss cake rolls), a package of Double Stuff Oreos (my first in MONTHS), a small box of Junior Mints, and at the last minute, a Kit Kat.

The cashier looked at me with a little bit of pity, a little bit of disgust . She asked with a very condescending smirk, "Did you find everything alright?"

I grinned, completely unembarrassed. "Yup!"

And so I set off for home. I put this song on repeat and cranked up the volume. (By the way, if you're wondering what it's like to live with an anxiety disorder, it's like that song.) I sang at the top of my lungs, way past the top of my range, all the while popping Junior Mints. I got home, warmed up some pre-made Pasta-Roni, and plopped down in front of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince with a mug of milk, my chocolate, and a journal to fill with ACTF memories.

At the end of the night I had devoured 7/8 of a box of Junior Mints, one whole Kit Kat, and a double package of Little Debbies. You know what the best thing is? I don't feel guilty about it at all. I don't care. Calories, shmalories. It's my life, it's my body, I usually take really good care of it, and one night of indulgence doesn't spell the end of the world. I needed to just do what I wanted to do for a couple of hours. So I did it. And I think I'm the better for it.

I don't plan on pigging out every time I'm in emotional crisis (and indeed, I usually avoid emotional eating). So.

Music.
Really delicious treaty-treat snack foods.
Great movie.
Alone time (bot not lonely time).

Overall, not such a bad evening.

As a PS-type side note, I decided not to attend Pulse, which is a bit of a breakthrough. Ann, if you read this, I decided the obligation I felt to the School of the Arts was ridiculous. I don't need to see the show, and not seeing it doesn't make me a bad person. I don't have to make myself sit through it if I don't want to. So.

Sooo...
Jrunk food. Heh? Heeeeh?

I'm not funny.

~~~

Recorded 2/18/11

Things to Suck On (Thanks, Robbie)

I woke up a little more tired than I had been when I went to sleep. I think it was

resistance, a hesitation to face the day's terrible absoluteness. The spare bedroom seemed stark, colorless, lifeless in the cold November sunlight. My air mattress had deflated a little, but I stayed in bed until the ache in my shoulder forced me to get up. The morning moved slowly; every action seemed a pointless ritual I could not help but perform. And then we were at the church setting up displays, pinning flowers to lapels, arranging tables and chairs, straightening skirts, brushing tears from faces, praying so fervently for survival and understanding.

The last thing I expected my father to say, with his family gathered around him in our too-small house, was "Your mother passed away this morning." It couldn't have happened. I hadn't said goodbye. She was supposed to have died at home surrounded by loved ones, sprawled dramatically on her fainting couch. Last words. Shouldn't there have been last words? Shouldn't I have said goodbye? It couldn't be true.

Yet there I was in my brightest orange outfit (the one she had told me to wear to her funeral), my long hair cascading down my back, tears spilling down my face, staring at her body in a great white casket.

The stillness- the unbelievable stillness.

I expected her any minute to sit up suddenly, throw her single yellow rose in the air, and to laugh. To laugh and to make some snarky comment about the carnations. But she never stirred.

She didn't look peaceful. She didn't look serene or happy or any of the things they tell you dead people are. She looked like a waxwork sculpted by someone who had never known her, never seen the tenderness or the intelligence behind her eyes.

The casket closed.

The procession marched on.

We sat and listened to stories. We cried. We listened to music- songs she had picked herself- and we cried. They all watched us file out. We cried.

A lone piper on the horizon gave voice to the sadness I didn't know how to express.

The carnations on the unyielding metal box. Even Brandon cried.

Two years faded uneasily into obscurity. I stood with a single yellow rose at the granite marker with my name scrawled on the back. I cleared away the dead leaves. I placed the rose carefully in the built-in vase. And I felt the weight of it all. It tore a chasm in me, wrenched open a space between my collar bone and my hips, an abyss vast enough to accommodate every awful second of the last two years.

I don't know how I have lived without her. Worse still, I don't know how I have gone several days at a time without thinking about her.

I could no longer predict her answer to a question of paraphrase potential advice. I can't remember how she smelled. I have forgotten the precise warmth of her hugs. I feel like I have lost so much of her reality, like she was my mother in some distant, marvelous dream and I've awoken to the horror of my lonely life.

And now every day is another dreary funeral. I trudge along, weary, listless, saturated in grief, able to see but unable to enjoy the best parts of life.

Ann is my new therapist, and she hopes to change all that. She has already proven more effective than Jack. We meet on Thursdays. I believe that our meeting was an act of divine intervention. I have faith that Ann can turn things around. I can't yet see the light at the end of the tunnel, but I can sense it- that slight change in atmosphere which promises better things.

This is a letter she had me write to myself:

Dear Aubrey,

These last two years have presented challenges you never imagined you would face, and trials you could only hope to survive. The days seem long; the world isn't quite what it used to be. Sorrow and disappointment have become staples. Most days you can't find the strength to confront simple tasks, much less the emptiness of your broken heart. When that is the case, I hope you will read this and find a small piece of comfort.

Remember the love of your Savior. Look to Him. Think of those times He has granted you a glimpse of paradise, and know that the full realization is not far off. A Sunday evening at the end of Spring, Asher in your arms, singing silly songs with Kelsey. A glorious sunset of burnished orange and fiery red. A family together in the warm embrace of a winter evening by the fire. The serenity of a deep sleep after a long day of work. All of these moments are treasures from heaven.

Your life is tedious and painful now, but it will not always be. Heavenly father is waiting to bless you with a loving husband, beautiful children, and endless, endless time in which to enjoy them. Remember this and rejoice.

A Refresher Course in Friendship and Life

I was delighted yesterday when I got a text message or an email or something that informed me that I didn't have to attend rehearsal. I was delighted because it meant that I could go see Uncle Vanya by Utah Shakespeare in the Park. The show was amazing, and so was the feeling of coming home. It was summer again, with my makeshift family in the basement of the HFAC smiling, hugging, cracking jokes in thick Russian accents. And it rolled over me-- the immensity of what I have gained.

Kat and Jordan and Jackie came over and, after an interior design party, we all watched Thumbelina on the newly rearranged couch. The familiarity was so comforting that I resolved to sleep in my own bed last night (let me explain the significance: when I get very lonely, I sleep on the couch in front of the TV. For some reason it makes me feel secure and important. I have been sleeping on the couch for a week, and my bed has been turned into a giant catch-all. the visit from Kat and Jordan and Jackie effectively banished my loneliness to the extent that I was willing to clear away the detritus and sleep in my own bed) . So I stayed up a few minutes later, changed my sheets, and was about to crawl under the covers when I decided that I should thank the Lord for this small but significant achievement. So I knelt to pray.

It wasn't extraordinary. It was short and sincere. but I had the strangest feeling- it was as if I had been screaming for weeks and weeks, screaming with my whole being, tirelessly straining against the infinite silence. During this prayer the feeling dissipated. It was replaced with an understanding of Heavenly Father's patience and His love for me.

I have never doubted. I read C.S. Lewis's A Grief Observed this week, and it's largely about how he felt abandoned by God after the death of his wife, Joy, and how he found his way back to faith. But I never felt that way. When my mom died we turned immediately to God for comfort. He has yet to fail me. I am ever surprised by His ability to console and His willingness to forgive and uplift.

I have never doubted (except myself).

How can I be doing so well one minute and floundering the next?

I just got this great job as a substitute teacher. I work for Kelly Educational Staffing, which supplies the Provo School District with subs. I have worked two days. I think it's too much for me to handle, but I don't want to quit because I need the money and Kelly needs employees. I only have to stick it out until December. It seems so far away from here. I purposefully left my phone in my car so I wouldn't have to answer a call if I got one this morning.

I'm about to fail my English class, which wouldn't bother me (seriously, I've been failing classes for the last 9 years. No big.) except that I would have to take it yet again, which would be attempt number four. I just wanna pass this stupid class.

I can't get excited for She Stoops. I mean, I am excited because I know the show is going to be great, but I can't be excited about my part yet. This bothers me. It's totally diva. I don't want to be a diva. I want to be agreeable and easy to work with. I want to learn from this experience. I want to work really hard and I want to create something worth watching. I suppose all of this will happen in time. I just have to find a way to fall in love with my character.

I don't much like it when someone tells me to enjoy life, as if that is the magic end-all that will put my sufferings into perspective and snap me out of this awful funk. I certainly believe that there is always something to be grateful for, always some sample of love to be relished. In every bad situation there is the possibility for immense good. I just think it cheapens the significant experiences of life when I just enjoy every minute of it. I would rather celebrate the cadence of life- its rises, its pitfalls, its exhilarating unpredictability. Sadness can be rich, deep, and full. Happiness should expand and breathe and thrive. Love will be glimpsed, lost, and sometimes overwhelming.

I don't have to be happy to be truly alive.

~~~

Recorded 10/28/10

An Inexplicable Controversy Hopefully Resolved

For some reason, people don't understand my fascination (okay, obsession) with Hanson. This is what I wrote in Miss Fix It after the concert last night. Hopefully it will provide some illumination:

BEST.

NIGHT.

OF MY LIFE.

This suddenly sounds like a teenager's diary, but seriously, Hanson is INCREDIBLE live. It is actually ridiculous how much I am a screaming fan girl. When Zac walked out the first time, I fell off of my chair and cried a little. And then I hyperventilated for about ten minutes. Emilee spent most of the night laughing at me. But she also convinced me to buy a shirt, and though it cost more than the ticket to the concert, it was worth every penny. I am going to wear it to school tomorrow, and possible every day for the rest of my life. I just might be buried in it.

Somehow I love Hanson more now that I ever have before; that concert solidified their place at the top of my "favorite artists" list for eternity.

I'll make this quick since I'm falling asleep.

Let's talk about why I love Hanson so much that I cried a little when its members became real people to me-- music is this magical, transcendent phenomenon that has the power to create a soul-to-soul connection on an intangible plane. Hanson's music not only touches my soul, it fills it, stretches it past capacity, and even creates more music within me. Hanson inspires me to the core of my being, and there is nothing quite so beautiful.

I felt it slide back into place during one of the first songs. I still don't know what it is, but it's back where it belongs. Tonight, I firmly believe, was a much-needed gift from heaven-- beauty and excitement and inspiration. It was a new experience to go along with my new hair, new place, new attitude towards life. This concert meant so much more than a great night out. It was the final piece in my growing up puzzle. It was the first step on the road I've always wanted to take but could never find.

Now let the healing begin.

~~~

Recorded 9/30/10

Epic like The Fellowship of the Bard, The Two Bards, The Return of the Bard

Sometimes in the stillness between thoughts, I am overcome with bitter sadness. It's heavy and ugly and mean. It suffocates the light right out of me. Between breath and heartbeat, I am enshrouded in impossible melancholy.

And then it's gone.

The earth turns, a breeze picks up, and I am left with traces of this great evil, shadowy fingerprints around my heart, all over my mind.

I think I realized today, in the wake of darkness, what I had in Romeo and Juliet. Its preciousness shone clearly, and I wept "for such a feeling loss."

I have always wanted to be a part of something wonderful, something immense, something immortal. I think Romeo and Juliet was my chance-- the lives that were shaped and the souls that poured in and the sunset behind us each night and the friendships forged and the slow change in the seasons and the hundreds of people whose paths crossed with ours. There won't be anything like it for a long time, if ever again.

I should have savored every second of it.

But here I am, suddenly alone in my room, struggling against residual despair and longing to be back among such glorious people, creating something worth remembering.

We held on to it, back when we could feel the end looming over us. The depth of the love and the warmth of that party at Anne's house staved off the encroaching darkness for a little while. We were a family for a few perfect hours.

I really wish we had taken a cast photo.

Everyone is asking me what my next project is, what I'm doing now, or when they can come see my next show. The nature of theatre is much more life-like than film; a show grows and progresses, then fades and essentially dies. By the natural progression of things, I must let this project die and move on.

I think I will always be haunted by Romeo and Juliet, much as one never forgets the potency of a first true love. Years from now, when I happen upon the script in a move, when I go to my daughter's high school production, or receive an unexpected phone call from Kat or Benji or Meg, I will feel the amber glow of this summer chase away the shadows.

I will smile sadly.

And I will be thankful then, as I am now, to have been right in the thick of something wonderful, something immense, something immortal.

USIP RandJ - picture slideshow

~~~

Recorded 9/13/10

Jeff Winger?! What Are YOU Doing Here?

I was reading someone's Facebook status today, and it read something like, "We choose our own happiness" and so on. This gave me pause.In my patriarchal blessing, it says that I have a naturally cheerful disposition. this is a statement with which I have struggled because sometimesI'm just sad. It's completely overwhelming, it's out of my control, and it just happens. So this is what I think:

I think that to some degree, because of our agency, we can decide upon happiness. This is not a blanket statement- depression and sadness and anger are a pat of being human. We should not deny our emotions, negative or otherwise. I believe that when all is said and done, we can look back on our day or our year or our life and then we can decide whether we will be happy, whether we are proud of the decisions we've made and whether we can move forward with hope and optimism.

I have chosen to pursue happiness, which well may be

the same thing.

Maybe wanting to be happy coupled with righteous desires and a pure bit of faith is all we need.

Maybe it's more like a habit, a skill developed in trying times.

Maybe it's even less definable than that.

Maybe, and I think this is true, we have glimpses of happiness here and won't really know it until the eternities.

I think I got off track. Choosing happiness is a selective thing, as it were. That's all I had to say on the matter.

Change of tack!

But I do want to talk about the utter ridiculousness of my school, before I forget again.

Sometimes, not for the quality of the education but for the administrative process, I feel like I attend Greendale Community College, Joel McHale-style.

This feeling was affirmed by the first week of school run-around, the presence of the Human Being,

and the millions of fliers the school printed out to announce its impending paperlessness (see Community Season 1, episode 10: "Environmental Science"). Also, I seem to be the only person in my Math 950 class who didn't flunk out of the third grade.

I never know how to end these things.

~~~

Recorded 8/26/10

Perspective

Surer footing. That's what this summer has changed the most; somewhere among the washed-out parking lot jam sessions, picnic lunches, and late night conversations, I think I have finally felt that indescribable sense of self awareness that gives purpose and meaning to life.

When my mom died almost two years ago, I fell apart. No, that's not quite right. It's like I split in half. Or was pared down, the most complex parts of me sloughed off, dissolved away. I was left with a poor imitation of the thing I'd lost. I became, out of necessity, some form of a mother to my friends, my siblings, my dad, myself. And that was fine. Sarah-lucy says that's where I needed to be. I think, though, that I've grown out of that. I don't know whether it's because I've begun to heal... I have a hard time believing that I don't need a mother anymore. Whatever the reason, whatever the origin of this growth, I am ready to move on.

I need to live on my own. I need to be in an environment where I don't feel responsible for the emotional well-being of everyone around me. Now that I've grown accustomed to sweet independence (not just a lack of curfew, but the true, rich, blessed freedom that comes from a sure center), I have to hold on to that, cultivate it. Therein lies the way to restoration, to reparation.

I feel better.

I'm still an emotional wasteland who misses her mom, but I feel closer now to the person I want to be (someone loving and trusted and delightfully complex and confident and brimming with potential) than I have felt in years.

~~~

Recorded 8/21/10

Kenmore Be Said?

The refrigerator in the garage is an interesting place to store sentiment, and yet, that's what I found when I went looking for a water bottle the other day. With its stainless steel double doors flung wide, I could see what hid behind its unassuming facade. This fridge is a relic, a talisman, a symbol of the life I used to lead. But its station in the garage, along with its formerly forbidden contents, illustrate the difference, highlight the expanse between past and present.

The cold air that rushed into the stifling summer heat could not distract from the garish white interior, stripped of its former gloriously unorganized usefulness. Too-large cases of off brand soda could not, try as they might, fill the emptiness.

My mother would disapprove of the steak in the wrong side of the meat/cheese drawer. She would disapprove of the sugary drinks and the excess bottles of milk. Yet there they were in her meticulously clean refrigerator- new habits, new tastes, new life nestled uncomfortably in one of the remaining standards of The House, or the dream it represented.

I closed the doors abruptly. Were it not for the water bottle clutched in my hand, I would have forgotten why I trekked out there in the first place.

The garage is a bit of a sanctuary now, in my mind. At its heart, sealed in a metal box, the juxtaposition of everything I lost and all that I'm learning to love (or live with).


~~~

Recorded 7/7/10

My Kindness Shall Not Depart From Thee

Things aren't perfect. I haven't suddenly realized that when I thought I was wrong, I was wrong. I still feel lost and unsure and like I need to make some decisions again, come into my own again. But I have felt God's love for me today. I have heard the Spirit's sweetest, most precious assurances that I have not been forgotten, that the Lord loves me because I am His, that He will continue to love me and to care for me wherever my life takes me. I don't feel empowered as I once did. But I feel loved, and it is enough. I know that I have an incomprehensible, difficult journey ahead of me. But today, at least, I know the Lord will never leave me to suffer alone.

Maybe it's time to grow up. Maybe I need to start letting go of my childish fears and longings. Maybe I'm starting down a path that will change me, make me stronger and better and older. Maybe this week the Lord let me feel so utterly alone so I would remember that I don't have to be lonely anymore.

This illness, these disorders, or whatever it is- it's something I've been hiding behind. I've been using it to rationalize my behavior to myself. I can't accept that anymore. I have to come to terms with my mind and my thought process, with my particular line of reasoning. This low that I'm experiencing will not be the last. I have to learn to live within the realms of my emotional capacity. I do not, however, have to let these moments (hiccups, stumbles, temporary regression) define me. The Lord has given me this life. It is a precious, brief gift. I can't waste it in misery. The atonement makes my happiness possible. I pray that I may find joy in these brief, shining moments. I pray that I may remember the warmth of His eternal embrace and perfect love.

So what am I going to do about it? I feel like the answer to that question is the answer to all of my problems. It's there, lurking somewhere beneath the surface of my hopes and dreams, and if I can persuade it to show itself, I'll know how to make this sorrow mean something more, become something better.

"The son of God hath descended below all things. Art thou greater than He?"

Borne on the air by a choir angelic
Your words fly to me and adhere to my failing heart

And in that moment, I'm in thy loving arms
Filled so completely
With
What it is to be
A child of God.

~~~

Recorded 6/27/10

Twenty-One Going On Three

An inexplicable sadness washed over me this morning as I cruised State Street on my way home from rehearsal. You see, there was this awkward moment after I said goodbye to Meg when we ended up walking the same way to our cars. For some reason, I was unable to find anything intelligent to say. I ended up babbling about Sub Zero ice cream and the summer heat.

Meg is so grown up, so mature, so personable, so very much a woman. I, on the other hand, am awkward and juvenile. I still love Disney movies with all my heart; my favorite band is Hanson; I tend to watch movies over and over again; I live in a state of immediacy, concerned with my immediate future and feelings; I find it hard to express myself, and therefore spend much of my time being frustrated. All things I associate with childishness. By the next light, my mind had drawn a vivid parallel to a small child imagining that she is a mother, cradling her baby doll, smothering it with sticky-faced kisses, placing it gently in her own bed and insisting that it sleep. Then, satisfied, she toddles off to her plastic kitchen to place pizzaappleburgercorn in the oven for "some bites".

I have been playing at adulthood. I have created this life for this version of myself who yearns to live abroad and to really make her mark, but I live at home, safe in my bed with my teddy bear and my Harry Potter books on tape. The whole situation was punctuated, perhaps, by how deeply I was touched by Toy Story 3 and how out of place I felt at Jenn's bridal shower; my thoughts neatly illustrated by the day's events.

I really honestly feel like I've been living a lie. The sadness and the horror and the loneliness of such an epiphany seized me, and my confidence died. Today I grieve for myself, for the person I was, the person I thought I had become. I am alone and uncertain, stripped of my identity. Square one. It's time to set out to find me again.

What I don't understand is why I feel this way. Why should one failed conversation mean that this collection of personality traits and habits and interests I've carefully cultivated is irrelevant? How can one insignificant moment shatter my reality so thoroughly? Why should I doubt myself and my progress over the years? I was finally sure. Do I question my confidence, or do I scrap it and start all over?

I'm really glad that tomorrow is Sunday. I always seem to feel better, securely anchored after a good church session. I'm grateful that I always have something to fall back on, somewhere to start afresh when I need to.

I used to feel that looking for synonyms in a thesaurus was like lying, that my writing wasn't honest if I had to consult one to find an appropriate word. I've come to realize, however, that the thesaurus is an opportunity for growth. I use words that feel good, words with which I can really connect and relate. The thesaurus enables me to speak my mind, maybe a little more eloquently than I otherwise would have been able to.

"Soul n. 1. [Essential nature] spiritual being, heart, substance, individuality, disposition, cause, personality, force, essence, genius, principle, ego, psyche, life. 2. [the more lofty human qualities] courage, love, honor, duty, idealism, art, poetry, sense of beauty 3. [a person] human being, person, being."

"Hope n. 1. [reliance on future] faith, expectation, confidence."

"Experience v. undergo, feel, live through; see ENDURE."

~~~

Recorded 6/26/10