Block, Bitches

One thing about facebook is you get some of the best and worst friend suggestions. Today was one of those days. I got a friend suggestion of someone who can never safely be in my life again. I just wanted to send facebook a memo, "You fucked up, facebook!"

Seeing this person made me ill. I don't get upset anymore, just ill. They did a lot of terrible things to me. Time and time again, I assured myself they were unsafe because they were back on the drugs. Maybe they were unsafe because they didn't get the proper help for their other psych related issues. I also told myself maybe they had changed. Although in the past year the reports I have heard have suggested otherwise.

The last time this person sent me a text, I was watching Live PD with a friend. I saw it and screamed, "MUTHERFUCKER!!"

Needless to say I tried to throw my phone. My friend instead suggested blocking this person's number. Let's just say, when the number was blocked, his dog ran over to me and jumped on my lap. When there is a cute dog sitting on your lap, you can't be angry. It's a sin. Plain and simple.

A few minutes later, I was playing fetch with a terrier like nothing ever happened.

I thought of that and blocked this idiot again. It felt good. My friend is in another state and so is his dog. But I already feel better. There are birds chirping outside my window, I just had a late lunch, and am getting ready to do an assignment for graduate school. I am also getting ready to reapply my lipstick, a new shade matter of fact.

Like nothing ever happened.

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One News Network and Other Adventures

During a Friday jaunt in midtown I ran into America One. I had never heard of them before, but the newscaster looked like a white college frat boy rapist. Yes, the one you wouldn't leave your drink unattended with.

He was interviewing people about whether or not teachers should be armed. The answer to that is no, teachers should not be armed. He asked me and I told him what I thought. Arming teachers meant more issues with weapons whether they were being discharged in the middle of class or a troubled student finding them and taking their own life. It's a whole new set of complications. I said this not knowing who I was speaking to and the entitled white man behind the mic condescendingly said, "Thank you!" That's when he yanked the mic away from my face.

What had I done? My opinion had been an informed one. I hadn't insulted him or the two Trumkins from Maryland who want to arm every teacher. It's a different opinion.

Then I googled it. YUP! I was talking to some real Trump lovers. To me this was crazy and funny in a way that things could only happen in New York. I wanted to say to this future Ted Bundy, "Sir, you are in the liberal hub of the East Coast. I am also pan. If you don't know what that means look it up. And FYI shit for brains, this is my backyard, sucka!"

It always amazes me how conservatives whine about liberals being closed minded. Yet when you disagree with them they are always the first to shut down. I will be the first to listen to anyone with a differing opinion. Will I agree? Not necessarily, but I will listen.

Personally, I feel we need gun control in this country. Too many children are dying in school where they should be safe. Too many people minding their own business are being picked off by nutcases who obtained firearms. Why are people owning enough weapons to start their own militia? And for the love of Jesus, why is the NRA not sympathetic to the loss of these families. We are not taking your guns, we are just making sure people who shouldn't have them don't have them. I am entitled to be safe as are all hard working, law abiding people.

My life has also been touched by mental illness as I have blogged about in the past. While my previous partner is no longer a part of my life, the split was horrendous because he believed he did not need to be medicated. After the split, I found out there was a firearms charge on his record he neglected to tell me about. Because it was dropped to a misdemeanor (he cut a deal apparently) he can still legally obtain a firearm.

While my previous partner had a good heart and a kind soul, in the midst of a psychotic episode he was capable of anything. The fact that he and others like him can obtain weapons and there are people willing to sell without asking questions because they are self-righteous gun nuts makes me very nervous.

Before you tell me my ex is just a nut, he's a vet. A lot of vets don't think they need medicated for PTSD and one shot up a clinic a few weeks ago. Many vets come back and are never the same, and these same folks who don't feel they need medicated also have service weapons handy. While unfortunately many also kill themselves rather than innocent people, it's also a hard reality that the United States government was their arms dealer.

I am a friend to vets, but I am also aware of what life is like with someone who has a mental illness with psychotic features. I am aware of what a good day is like before something sets them off, and all of a sudden they believe with all their heart that Subway is a terrorist organization. And then the rant comes that Isis is in fact operating out of the chain eatery and they can no longer go there. While it seems funny to write about, it's beyond awful to see someone's mind swallow them up. But it's also potentially deadly when they are able to obtain a weapon.

When the Las Vegas shooting occurred, I remember someone asking me what would possess someone to do that. I explained psych illness. They said the man had no record of being mentally ill. I explained a lot of mentally ill people at times don't think they are sick. This same person explained he didn't know how someone could do that, or someone who would think of that.

That's when I remembered the time my former partner believed he saw snipers in the windows of our neighborhood, and told me he wished he was armed so he could take them out. These were people doing office tasks for the record as this was New York City. Just let that sink in.

There is the argument that arming teachers will stop shooters, and it might. But again, how are these unstable individuals getting guns? Also, what if a teacher fires a gun and accidentally shoots off their own hand? What if this same teacher kills themselves cleaning the gun? I grew up around guns and clearly these idiots proposing this know nothing about keeping them.

The fact this white boy potential date rapist didn't want to talk to me today says plenty. It says that the issues with guns will continue to be a problem if the closed minded right can't continue to have a dialogue. It says children will continue to die.

Ultimately, while I am glad I got away from my previous partner. In my heart I know while I could walk away from him, until he is medicated he cannot walk away from himself. And those who can't walk away from themselves sometimes walk towards weapons. Saying arming teachers will stop this is like saying hitting a misbehaving child will stop them. It only makes it worse, and arming teachers will only make this worse.

So to the ass weed from One News Network, I hope I made your day shitty. I really do. I got a kick out of the stupid look on your face. It was priceless.

LOSER!!!!

About 2 years ago at this time, I ended a relationship with a mentally ill partner. It was a challenging decision, as my ex had been with me during one of the darkest episodes of my life. Yet when you are with someone who refuses to be medicated despite psychotic breaks that put you in not only emotional but physical danger, the choice is painful yet clear.

I was also in a legal battle with my then landlord. Rather than cure the issues with my apartment, he instead chose to torment me with the legal system when I called the city on him. Yes, I wasn't paying rent. But it was because my work property had been destroyed due to bed bugs and mold he refused to treat. Because of this, I could not book jobs. The property I did have was infected and being treated, so it was unavailable. As for the times I could work, I couldn't be present because of court dates and lawyer visits. My landlord was in court once a week himself for safety violations and he was no stranger to the housing court judges of New York City.

I was forced to move in a hurry after my landlord attempted to burn my apartment down while I was at a court date. He knew I was going to be away and sent his brother in his place. As this was all happening, my then ex was committed because his psychotic symptoms got to the point where he could not be in public. Apparently he had other legal issues he hid from me, but as these were being taken care of, his other behaviors could not be hidden. While I was grateful he was finally in a place where he was properly medicated, it didn't stop his friends and family from tormenting and threatening me.

A week after my move, I tested positive for cervical cancer. It was an awful time, especially as my mom was in town that weekend to help me move. I hoped I was sick and could just die. When I went to the doctor, he told me I wore my immune system down so badly from stress that it couldn't fight off infection. I had to stay well, eat healthy, and keep my stress level down.

Fortunately I have been healthy since, but it was one of those things that made me wonder what was next. Was an asteroid going to hit me and end this misery?

To top it off, my hair had basically fallen out. I styled it so people couldn't see my bald spots. Bed bug bites covered my arms. Sometimes my bites popped open and blood went everywhere. I looked horrid, and I had also lost an ungodly amount of weight. Ironically, this is when I started working with someone who became quite a mentor to me.

One evening, I was down on myself. I was trying to master my Donald J. Tramp routine and sent him a video. It wasn't coming together. Donny was on the wrong side. The jokes were all over. The notes were obvious. I broke down and started crying. I couldn't do anything right.

I told him I was a loser and not even to bother with me. This was useless. No one would ever hire me.  He immediately told me he was insulted because he was spending a lot of time guiding me, and he didnt guide losers so this made him a loser.

So the fact I was a "huge loser" became our running joke.

Slowly as I started to put the past behind me and laughed at myself, life got better. I mastered my routine with Donny. A year after my ordeal he was the spokespuppet of Stand Together Against Trump in Cleveland and was credentialed press at The Las Vegas Debates. We also showcased at APAP.

I also became a model for a clothing line and The Lady and President Tramp has run several times Off-Broadway. Last week, I found out it was chosen as a part of SOLOCOM, a festival through The People's Improv Theatre.

This week I began a workshop with The Onion I was invited to. I have read it for years and even submitted writer's packets always to get the rejection of a girl who passes the note to a hot guy only to have it end up in the trash. Now I am part of the Diverse as Fuck Festival. My teacher, a senior writer for The Onion, looked at me as we were giving introductions and said, "You had Donald J. Tramp in your packet."

Oh yeah!

This past year I not only began working as a spokesmodel for Sirenaz Crop Tops. This past week I was asked to take more photos. I also released a body positive, burlesque inspired comedy book. I look better than the death on a Ritz Cracker I did previously.

I am back to acting class and I love my teacher. In college, I got a BFA and therefore overdosed on acting class. I fell in love with comedy and creating my own work, plus there is no money in stage unless you get on Broadway. And I didn't have the money to move to Hollywood. However, I forgot how much I loved my acting classes and teachers, and how safe I was. The old habits are still there like a thorn, but I am slowly nipping them in the bud.

I also just recently got admitted into a graduate program that is right for me and my life. While I still have no idea how I am going to pay for it, I applied on my own like a big girl and got in. The department head was an NEA Fellow. This particular program would allow me to perform, tour, and pursue a graduate degree.

LAstly, my weekends are booked as I am operating a full body puppet in a haunted house. It's three nights a week. My coworkers are hysterical. Mostly young folks, they inspire me each time I dawn this full body suit and learn this new form of puppetry. When I was younger I wanted to master all forms but got down on myself and didn't have the confidence.

Now I do.

I was talking to my mentor Saturday and spoke about everything happening to me. He said, "Grad school, acting class, puppet job, Onion workshop, festival......LOSER!!!"

And then we both laughed.

Yes, sometimes as I look at all that's going on I don't know how I am going to juggle it. Especially since I have a calendar coming out, too.

Either way, better get to my Onion homework or else I will be a real LOSER.....

Instead of a fake LOSER

LOSERLOSERLOSER

Gosh I hope this mood lasts.....

It won't. But eh, you need the rain to appreciate the sun.

April Unwrapped

Hunting For Witches

It was my sophomore year of high school. I still remember my sister Skipper squealing about Billy Jessup. Apparently he was the number one crush of the eighth grade. I didn’t get the appeal. The kid looked like Howdy Duty with a bad attitude. I am not into awkwardly placed red hair and freckles, but my sister was in love with this bad ass Mortimer Snerd.

That year, she did a project with him in a science class. Skipper was always a top student, and won the award for best GPA. Billy, on the other hand, had recently been disciplined by the middle school principal for cutting school and heading to the mall. Fortunately, Skipper had not picked him as a partner, but rather the teacher felt the need for the kids to mix by assigning boy/girl pairs.

Billy’s parents rewarded his bad behavior by getting him the latest in video game technology for his bedroom television. It was a parenting move I didn’t understand. If I would have cut school, I would have been met with the cold, sharp end of my father’s belt buckle. Yes, we were a spanking house. No, we didn’t cut school. And no, we didn’t have TVs in our rooms.

While the project started with Skipper having a crush on Billy, the attraction faded when she was handed most if not all the work. Billy simply stuck his name on it and that was the end. Of course, I was sent to retrieve my sister from his academic misadventure. When I entered the palace called the Jessup home, my sister was helping Mrs. Jessup wash the dishes. Billy was no where to be found.

Mrs. Jessup seemed like a nice enough woman. Tired and beleaguered, it seemed like she was a walking, talking doormat. William, as she referred to him, was playing his videogames. Okay. Meanwhile, Skipper, always the helper, was embarrassed for Mrs. Jessup so she was pitching in. After all, Skipper was so abused because she was required to do chores. Meanwhile, this one and only brat was worshipped for living and breathing. I had just gotten grief for my C on my latest math test. Put me on that program please.

Weeks after the project, young Billy was arrested for shoplifting.  While he was a marginal hockey player at best, he was passionate. Instead of military school or even grounding him, his parents splurged and got him a private coach who had previously worked with The Pittsburgh Penguins. Positive reinforcement is a wonderful thing, but this was simply just rewarding bad behavior. As a matter of fact, my father had the best response when he heard about the Jessup’s approach to their son’s recent arrest: “If that isn’t setting him up to be a guest of the state of Pennsylvania I don’t know what is.”

The following year Billy went to high school. He played JV hockey, and he didn’t make much noise in my memory, that is, until he came to school with a black eye, cast and crutches on one day. Hobbling down the hall, everyone demanded to know what happened. Billy had a story to tell. Over the weekend, he had gotten into a huge fight with varsity hockey captains Mike Stelnik and Rob Thompson. Apparently, he had not moved their pads and they jumped him after practice. When they left him cold and bleeding, injured, they drove away. Billy made his way home and his mother was forced to take him to the hospital. Nothing was broken but his ankle was sprained, his arm was sprained, his ribs were bruised and his eye had actually swollen shut.

I was shocked. Rob Thompson was a big mouth who dyed his hair peroxide blonde and had a jerk father who sported his trophy wife at the hockey games. But Rob wasn’t a bully. If anything, he was a friend to a lot of people and was likely to give you a high five on a bad day. Mike Stelnik was just nuts. He made a career of being ejected from games and always had a black eye or broken finger, but yet still made his name as a wing on the ice. His family went to my mass, and his sister had severe spinal bifida. Stelnik’s dad owned a contracting business, and talked about making an obscene amount of money. His mom had black hair with a skunk stripe and kept her Halloween decorations up until Christmas, and her Christmas decorations up until the 4^th of July. These kids were a great many things, but not bullies.

Nonetheless, the consequences came down very quickly. Thompson and Stelnik both got a visit by the police, and because the incident happened on school ground they were even talking about expelling them at a separate hearing. In between, because the school pressed charges, there was also an appointment with the magistrate.

Of course peer justice was also enacted on these two. While both fancied themselves swinging ladies men, their dreams were crushed when their girlfriends of the week dumped them. The words of Misty Trainor, head majorette and former flame of Thompson, “I watched a video about domestic violence. You beat Billy up. You are going to beat me up too.”

The football team took this as an opportunity to do some punishment of their own. While those guys liked Thompson and Stelnik, the football players often felt the hockey players were their smaller, flashier, richer, yet less tough cousins. (Hockey was a club sport). Josh Nichols, football captain, made it his business to bump into these two insisting he could do what they did to Billy in one shot. While he was a gentle giant, Nichols didn’t have much mental activity. Yet like the rest of us, he had joined the witch hunt.

Even the hockey coaches were having Stelnik and Thompson run and do extra workouts. These guys were being punished in a way that made the gas chamber look good.

Meanwhile, Billy Jessup was fairing quite well. Every girl in the freshmen class carried his books. Skipper took a turn, even though she claimed she was “over him.” His teachers were lenient with his grades. The hockey coach promised him a starting position if he recovered in time for next year. And his dad, auspiciously away on business in Thailand, came home early. Even his grandparents, who apparently had a lot of money, purchased him a horse. It seemed this injury was the best thing to happen to Billy.

As Stelnik and Thompson saw their lives going to complete ruin, they stopped me in the hall. “You got to help us Brucker. You got to tell people we are innocent.” Thompson begged.

“Why, because you didn’t do it? Please.” I said.

“We didn’t do it. We were away at a hockey tournament in Canada with our traveling team. I even got ejected from the game.” Stelnik offered. “Here is my latest broken finger. How could I have punched him with the broken finger if I wasn’t in the country?”

Now I was puzzled. “I was with him. It’s our travelling team. And we don’t even know who the kid is. I mean, we saw him once maybe. But how could we beat him up if we weren’t here and don’t even know him?” Thompson asked.

“Then why is he saying you did?” I demanded. “He’s injured.”

“Hell if we know. But the cops aren’t pressing charges because we proved we were out of the country. That’s why we aren’t suspended or expelled. He’s lying.” Stelnik explained. “Besides, why would I bully someone? My sister’s disabled.”

I looked at the both of them. Their eyes were big and fearful. They were telling the truth. They didn’t do this. I had known these guys for years. Sure, they teased. They made fun. But they weren’t vicious and violent without provoking.

“Then who did it?” I asked.

“My uncle’s a detective. He thinks this kid might be being abused.” Thompson offered.

“I have been to his house. This kid gets rewards for messing up. That’s not the case.” I said. And then the next words still echo in my mind as I assured them. “But I believe you.”

The next twist to the story would shock the living hell out of everyone.

After questioning and the police not pressing charges, it turned out Billy Jessup had not been beaten up by Thompson and Stelnik. He made the story up. And a family member hadn’t hit him either. Billy Jessup had beaten himself up. The truth came out after the stories of Thompson and Stelnik checked out, and his began to fall apart.
By beating himself up he got sympathy from his teachers, his father to come home from Thailand, a horse from his distant grandparents, the promise of a starting spot on the hockey team, and attention from women. Stelnik and Thompson were vindicated. And when asked if they would beat Billy Jessup up for real they replied, “Why? He did a better job of it than we ever could?”

Billy went from being temporarily popular to persona non grata very quickly. He dropped out of school the following year, and after another shoplifting arrest was placed in night school. Billy was then arrested for heroin possession, and after rehab his parents got him a brand new convertible to increase his self-esteem. This epic fail ended in Billy using those wheels, leaving their house, and buying drugs in a bad neighborhood where he overdosed on a bad batch and died.

In between, people who talked to him claimed he was super crazy. Talking about people following him and his food being poisoned. He also claimed he could speak troll. This could have been more nonsense to get attention, or it could have been something more. Either way, he was dead at 18. When my sister went to his wake, she said that while it was sad, he also looked like he was finally at peace.

As this was all happening, I was taking a college psych class and learning about mental illness in adolescents. Apparently it begins around the age of 15, the time Billy began shoplifting and skipping class. They also act out by self injuring, and more often than not self-medicating with drugs.

That spring, Skipper graduated first in the class and gave a speech to a round of applause. Directly after, Billy’s parents accepted his diploma. They looked sad, tired, and defeated. Their well intended over indulgence had failed. If anything, their son didn’t need a new video game or car, but professional help. And a hug while they were at it. Instead, they chose to ignore the problem hoping presents and treats would make it go away.
While the applause celebrated the deceased, the real tragedy was that every adult in his life had failed to see a young man who was in trouble. As we begin to understand more about how mental illness manifests, we also forget the people lost because so many missed a young person who was severely sick.
We also forget that we cannot always believe everything we hear. And yes, lying is a symptom of mental illness. Stelnik went on to play minor league hockey and now coaches in Vermont. Thompson brought the small private college he played for to the championships and now works for JP Morgan in Chicago. Both are still very loud but lovable and have extremely hot wives. They eventually got over the slander and moved on. Billy didn't. While his lies, often a symptom of mental illness, caused a lot of damage, in the end these two were right, he beat himself up more than they ever could. Billy beat himself to death. As I write this, I will say at the time I was disgusted, but now I feel remorse and regret for a person who fell through the cracks because of the stigma and misunderstanding surrounding mental illness.
I hope tonight Billy is safe wherever he is, happy and not being harmed by his own hand or another. I hope he is experiencing love and understanding outside of fancy presents and over indulgence. I hope he has found rest from the demons that so plagued him. RIP Dear Heart.

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Open Letter To Michelle Carter

Dear Michelle,

I read your story. I read about your conviction. I wish I could say I was sorry you were found guilty but I am not. Actually, I am relieved you will be punished to some degree because I find you repulsive and disgusting on so many levels. Worthless is more of what I was shooting for. Conrad Roy III was a person who had his whole future ahead of him and you manipulated and coaxed him to throw it away. Shame on you. What gives you the power to do that?

Looking at you, I wonder what kind of power you had over the poor boy anyway. You are marginal looking at best. Your eyes have this dead, soulless look. When you walk by you don't strike me as someone who has one bit of remorse, other than that this might interfere with your life and quest to be popular. Your eyebrows are hideous. Oh, and you look like you escaped from the TV series Girls, but they probably cut you because you weren't the least bit interesting. Just another whiny white troubled teenager with problems.

I will be the first to defend free speech. You cannot make someone do something unless a gun is put to their head. Then again, even in that instance one can choose to die. No one can make you feel any way. I get that. But this young man wanted to kill himself. It was no secret he was struggling with suicidal depression. You didn't call 911. You told him to get back in the car. Night after night he talked about wanting to die. You didn't tell an adult about Conrad's plans. Instead, you told him to stop talking about it and take action.

There is no word to describe your egoism, hubris and outright evil.

You listened with glee as he died.

I get that at times he wasn't the best company. People with psych issues who are not properly medicated never are. But if you called 911 maybe he could have finally gotten the help he needed. Maybe Roy's family would have taken it seriously. Maybe Conrad would have gotten the meds he needed along with the therapy.

MAYBE IF YOU DECIDED YOU WEREN'T THE BOATMAN ON THE RIVER STYX WHO TOOK MATTERS INTO HER OWN HANDS YOU TRIFLING BITCH!

Oh and you even told him how much carbon monoxide would kill him. With friends like you along with a severe mental illness, Conrad Roy III had no need for enemies.

FYI, I know how it is to be in a relationship with someone who's mentally ill. I get how painful it is when they won't get help let alone be medicated. I can tell you first hand how incredibly draining the experience is, managing their symptoms on your own and defending your partner to a world that can't let alone won't understand.

I have been in instances where my former partner was not only a danger to himself but me. His breaks with reality were getting worse. To add to the cocktail, he self medicated with drugs and alcohol. Instead of coaxing him to relapse or take his own life, I walked away. It wasn't an easy decision, but it was between him and my peace of mind. If Conrad got to be too much you should have walked away.

Let me tell you, I am no fan of my former partner. Mentally ill people do things that aren't kind. They lie. They steal. They cause chaos and conflict. Unfortunately their sickness is one where they not only bring down themselves but others. While my ex cannot safely be a part of my life, if I found out he was about to kill himself I would still call 911.

It's not because I love him or cherish him. But he is a father. A brother. An uncle. A friend. While he might not be in my life, his life is still worth something. And my hope still is, even as he is homeless and back on drugs, that he gets the help he needs and is properly medicated someday.

On a more personal note, a friend of mine helped me get the nerve to write again after a rough time in my life. He battled bipolar disorder and ultimately took his own life. I am about to release a second book, and my friend is not here with me which makes me sick. You talked Conrad Roy III into taking his own life, and if I could take a time machine I would have talked my friend out of taking his.

My friend meant a great deal and helped a lot of people. Yet he could not help himself. His sister's, years later, are not over the loss of someone who was a baby brother and uncle. Conrad Roy III's family will never be over his loss. They will not forget about it. And now the world will not forget about him either.

Was your sentence fair? On an ethical level yes. On a free speech level, that is still murky. Ironically you wanted to be popular. Well now you are the most hated woman on the internet. We all hate you. Trust me, no one likes you. No one.

There will be plenty of parties in prison where you will be going that you will not be invited to. You're the most hated woman in America. At least they had the nerve to murder people for real there. You were so pathetic you had to do it over the phone. Conrad Roy was sick and desperate, and in you he met evil.

I would tell you to kill yourself because you are worthless. Yet that would be stooping to your level. And if you wanted to kill yourself I would talk you out of it. Not because it would make me feel important or that the world would be lesser without you, but because it is the right thing to do.

It's because I am a semi-decent human being who does the right thing. A lot of us are out there. Hopefully your sentence, however long or short that is, will transform you into one too.

Love
April


The Lady and President Tramp
Wednesday June 21, 7pm
The Duplex
61 Christopher Street

Another Night (Aretha Franklin)

A little over a year ago I ended a relationship with someone I was working on building a life with. It ended suddenly, horrifically actually. It’s hard to talk about what happened, because the words even after all this time can barely form. However, it was due in a large part to my former partner being mentally ill.

After living with a mentally ill partner, you look at life very differently. For starters you get sick when people equate mental illness to cancer. People with cancer don’t lie. People with cancer seldom refuse to comply with treatment. You don’t see untreated cancer patients in prison or on the street. Cancer patients don’t self-medicate with drugs and alcohol. There is not a fucking stigma against cancer. 

People know cancer isn’t a choice, but they feel you are making a choice to be mentally ill. And when a celeb who’s spoken about cancer comes on the screen everyone is all misty eyed. When it’s someone who spoke about combating mental illness, ohh look at the crazy bitch or bastard.

If you have ever dealt with someone who’s mentally ill, you know they lie and act out in ways that are insulting, baffling, and outright immature. When things ended, my ex did a lot of that. I told myself he was sick a million times a day. I had to. It kept me from going crazy. It kept me from breaking something. It kept me from being sucked back into his shit which was what he wanted. Eventually I ran out of fucks to give and moved on with myself.

A year later, I was out of my unsafe living situation and away from my unstable former partner. Instead, I found myself marching with STAT, Donald J. Tramp as spokespuppet, heading the largest Anti-Trump protest at the RNC that year. We were number 8 on twitter, trending that day. People asked me if I was scared. I remember thinking, “I had bed bugs eating me alive, couldn’t breathe, and had an unstable Iraq War vet boyfriend looking for Isis in the windows. All and all, this is perhaps the safest situation I have been a part of in a while.”

In 2015, my birthday was spent scheduling free legal help at my local neighborhood legal. It was also picking up the pieces after my ex’s devastating departure. This past year it was spent at Hofstra, protesting/street performing outside the debates with Donald J. Tramp. I didn’t need a party. Being a part of American history was a better present than I could have ever dreamed of.

One year prior to the debates, my ex’s sister had called to threaten me. A year later, I was credentialed press in Las Vegas with puppet journalist Donald J. Tramp. I was in the spin room when Donald Trump uttered “bad hombres” and “nasty, nasty woman.” I watched it all unfold, and for as much as his idiot sister or any other woman he manipulated could and would say, they weren’t there with me. Nor would they ever be.

This time last year, I was rebuilding my life after a devastating defeat. Now I am getting ready to return to Restaurant Row with a one woman show. I just showcased at APAP. I am a correspondent for a blog. I am getting ready to teach a ventriloquism class.

The lessons were hard. One was that love isn’t enough. Love wasn’t enough to make my ex get help. Love wasn’t enough to make my ex stop lying. Love wasn’t enough to justify the fact his rages coupled with black outs were getting worse and worse, and that it was getting to the point where my safety was in jeopardy. In my heart, I know he was kind and giving. I know he would have never intentionally hurt me. But people who are mentally ill flip and kill people all the time, especially if they have mood swings and aren’t medicated. My ex claimed meds failed him and refused a medication regimen.

When my sister got married this summer, her priest alluded to the fact that a married couple lives for each other. The truth is, that’s codependency. You don’t live for anyone. The other person is a part of your life not your whole life. All relationships come to an end whether one partner leaves or dies or whatever. And guess what, you have to move on.

You also realize that a person is just a person. They have their faults. They will fuck up. They will disappoint you. And at the end of the day, good and bad, my ex was just a guy. Yeah, I cried when he left but then they handed me eviction papers. I had to pick my ass up off the ground and go to court to fight my landlord who was turning off my water because I called the city on him. My ex wasn’t there to support me. My family was far away. Really and truly, I was on my own.

No man was there to support me and none was going to materialize. At times like this, you see whether or not you are really and truly a feminist. Most women yell and scream about it, but when the time comes to step up to the plate they don’t. I had to step up to the plate. I had to deal with their demeaning bully boy male lawyers. I didn’t have time to cry.

As I was deciding to get the on with it all, it became easier to get rid of all the shit of his I accumulated. It became easier to block him on social media. It became easier to block his number. It became easier to block his sisters and female friends who are all horrific harpies who enable him. It became easier to date other guys. It became easier to grow into my new life It became easier to be define by my own self-worth, not that of a relationship.

The week my sister got married one of her friends was sad that she was the last one who was single in the group. Feeling the feelings weddings bring up, she asked me if I was upset my sister was getting married and I wasn’t. The answer was a huge NO. I love my brother in law like the baby brother I never had, and think he’s perfect for my sister. But I know how it feels to be with someone who’s toxic and bad for me. I know it’s better to be alone then to be with that, and it’s alright to be alone.

I know a relationship does not define me, and am reminded that good friends are better than a partner any day. I have two wonderful housemates, one obsessed with UFOs and the other a happier Van Gough who are characters that were there for me last year when I had a cancer scare. (Yes, what wasn’t happening). I have an awesome job where I get paid to make people happy, and an even more awesome boss who puts me front and center whenever I can. I have an awesome mentor in Las Vegas, and his people are awesome. I have an awesome friend who’s a mentalist that awesomely predicted the Super Bowl. I have an awesome friend who was my puppet wrangler and has been front and center through all my madness. I have an awesome family.

So this Valentine’s Day, I wont be getting flowers or candy and that’s alright. My life is full of people who love and support me, and someone people don’t even have one person who loves and supports them……and those people are in committed relationships!

Bottom line, if you are in a rough time, you can rock your way out. If the Pats can win the Super Bowl, you can climb out of your pit of despair. And being alone is better than being with someone who’s unhealthy for you. At the end of the day you can have all the love in the world but you really gotta love yourself. Just saying kids. This is as deep as this bitch gets for now. 

Come see The Lady and President Tramp

February 20, 2017 7PM

Dont Tell Mama

343 W. 46 Street

Some Jingle Jangle Morning (Mary Lou Lord)

The other day, I got a call from a friend I have kind of become close to in this past year. We knew of each other, but only recently started to hang out more. This past year he went through a terrible divorce with an ex wife who is a real bitch for lack of a better word. The woman fights dirtier than Mike Tyson did in the Holyfield fight. She'll go for the ear.

She did a cheap shot when it came to the house they shared. She an underhanded play when it came to getting custody of his son, lying to the court about how he had a drinking problem which he doesn't. She's an asshole who wants to win at all costs, even if it means using her kid to do so. Not to mention she intentionally quit her job so he would have to pay her alimony. YUCK!

So he was forced out of his house, and moved into an apartment. He misses seeing his little boy terribly every day. I wanted to name their divorce saga Beauty and the Bitch, because this troll has successfully poisoned all of their mutual friends against him, too. Not to mention she has done things to put his career as a musician (he plays concert piano) in crisis several times.


He called me in a daze late Saturday to talk. He was getting used to an empty apartment. He felt lonely. He felt empty. He felt weird. He felt pissed his ex wife had a new boyfriend. No, he didn't miss her. He was pissed this woman was bringing a man he never met around his kid. And his ex wife moved her new boyfriend in. This stranger had taken his place. Yet he was also glad to be rid of the troll he was married to for 15 years.

 It is the pallet of feelings that goes with change.

While my situation is different than his and I don't understand, I identify. You can read my previous blogs to know what I mean. Either way, it felt good to be a listening ear. Change is weird. Change is scary.

Change.

I think in a way that's what attracted me to my current living situation. My landlord, who is very different from my buddy, grew up in NYC when it was really NYC. His stories are colorful. He managed a strip club. As a kid, he and his friends went with the hookers in the neighborhood who would give them free rides. He also had women throwing their underwear in his car. Apparently he was a hit when he was young.

Then he met his ex wife. Yes, she pursued him. Got him gifts. When he tried to break up with her, she hung out with his mom. Then finally after 10 years, 2 kids, and a bunch of changes in her psych meds he left. Now she tries to poison his kids against him. The woman plays ugly too. He wants his teenage  kids to go to college, do something with themselves. She tries to undermines his efforts. She sucks as a human.

When I moved in, it was his family home and he was in between jobs. He was figuring out how to be a single parent to teen boys. He was leaving early to make sure they got to school each morning, because their mother could have cared less. Sure, he's obsessed with UFOs and believes the conspiracy that Michelle Obama is a man, but he's a good dude. Either way, he is looking for work now, and trying to figure out what to do.

Change.

Heck, things have changed for me. A year ago I was talking about getting married. My living situation was much different. And it also looked like I was moving to Europe because I was getting press there, and a few managers even expressed interest.

I had the whole pallet of feelings as shit hit the fan. We always do. Not only was my then boyfriend ripped away by the throws of mental illness and the consequences of the choices of someone who doesn't follow through with treatment, but my heart was ripped out of my chest. My living situation, one that I had been in happily for nearly a decade, went belly up. Thinking about the loss of my last apartment makes me angry but also makes my stomach turn. Europe also went belly up because no one could successfully get me a Visa, and if I was going I was going as a headliner.

A year later, things are very different. Some good, some bad.

My new living situation is safer and cheaper, but the 7 train is a fucktard at times.

As for my ex, I have mostly forgiven him for some of the damage he's done, but the mixed feelings are still there. I get angry, but then I have to tell myself he's sick literally one hundred times. Then I remember his kindnesses, and even his sister said despite his troubles he was the kindest person she knew. Suddenly there is a part of me that misses him, not even to have him back as a lover but just a friend. That's when I remember he can't be trusted and isn't a safe person.

I also get angry about the idiots that weighed in on my living situation and break up. They are out of my life like the human cancers they were.

Obviously I didn't go to Europe, but I am steadily becoming a regular headliner in the states. I am working with wonderful people. My career is not where I want it yet, but it is getting there. Not to mention that while my bank account might not know about how famous I am in some circles, I enjoy comedy more than I have in years. I love getting onstage again.

Sure, the cancer scare sucked but it woke me up and now I am eating better than ever.

Losing everything and applying for aid made me have those difficult money conversations, especially those about the future. Now I'm not scared and want to learn more about how to manage my money.

As I was drinking coffee in an East Village diner hearing two girls bullshit before my 7:45 AM delivery, it felt surreal because that had been my stomping ground in college. I was a Manhattite always and forever. My mom even called me Manhattan Barbie. Alas, nothing is forever.

Thank God nothing is forever. Had shit not hit the fan I wouldn't have gone to the RNC to be a part of history. I wouldn't be working with the cool people I am now. I wouldn't be having fun each time I get onstage. I talk to people about getting paid, and am not a nice girl when it comes to dough. I am more fearless about telling people to get fucked. I am vocal when I have a concern about something whether it's my manager or landlord. I don't wait until my back is against the wall when I can no longer run from the monster.

When the smoke clears, that is when you can truly appreciate the miracle.

Ms. Fairweather

Lately things have been interesting. I have a lot of things on the burner, one being my impending DVD taping at the Metropolitan Room and then a headlining theatre gig in Long Island amongst other things. These are two things I have always dreamed of doing since I graced the stage. Yeah, it took me some time to do it. But the truth is, sometimes things don't happen in my time. Things cannot happen before their time. Does it make me happy? No, but it's the nature of the beast.

When life gets full, things get a little stressful. Sunday I was having a meltdown. Yes, an April being April moment. A cry my eyes out and pull my hair kind of day. It's ugly when it happens. I am the type of person that will worry you to the ground. Seriously, I will. Anyway, I ended up calling an old friend whom I will call Cassidy. The day before I had been having the same kind of meltdown and Cassidy kind of talked me off the ledge, kinda. Still, she can be kind of a know it all. She's one of those people who tells you how to drive the bus but doesn't have a license. When I say she kinda talked me off the ledge she said some things that made me believe life was worth living but made me think a leap might be a better idea tomorrow when the weather was better for suicide. Well I wasn't suicidal but one of those "feel like I am gonna die oh shit" meltdowns.

To let you know she kept asking me about my financial situation and if I had my rent paid. In my mind of course I am already evicted and on the sidewalk. Nevermind I have two weeks to make the money materialize. She kept asking if I would starve. No bitch. I am having some money and career angst and feel overwhelmed but I am not starvin like Marvin. After that she tells me she lost her job and is living on unemployment. And you have the nerve to ask if I have my shit together. I told her my fear is always being homeless. Cassidy said, "I have been in that spot many times and don't feel sorry for you." Didn't ask you to.

The next day we spoke again because she knew an old friend of mine. Anyway, she proceeds to tear down a  lot of the things I am doing with my life. She mentions xyz, things I am looking forward to, might not happen. No shit Sherlock. I think of this daily. If I wanted that anti-reassurance and to feel deep pains in the pit of my stomach I have several family members I could call that would tell me the same thing. Then she proceeded to tell me how to proceed with a certain thing. As I was listening to her I was thinking, "You have no idea what you are talking about, bitch." I began telling her about something and she hung up on me. WTF!?!?! Either I was crazy when she was my friend or she was crazier than I remembered. Perhaps she had gotten crazier over time. Still, it left me feeling hurt. I needed a friend to tell me it was okay. Instead, she left me feeling like I wanted to jump in the damn Hudson. The only thing stopping me was it was cold. Oh and I am not suicidal. I just had my brain sucked out.

I wondered what happened to my old friend. Cassidy was hippy dippy but positive. Once upon a time she had really been there for me through some tough shit. Granted, she has always been on the edge of indigent. Still, Cassidy went to the crystal store and stuff. The whole encounter left me drained. She had been crazy in the past but she was never negative.

I felt crappy and went to see some friends. Instead of making me feel all doomy and gloomy they listened and told me it was going to be okay. They told me it would pass. They asked why I didn't call them instead. I laughed and started to feel better about everything. I called a woman who's like my mom and she lovingly suggested my nut ball friend might have totally lost her mind and might have deep seeded psych issues. And she too suggested no longer calling Cassidy.

Second Mother also suggested that now I was getting to see Cassidy the way a lot of other people did. Cassidy has been kicked out of everywhere she has lived. Additionally, she has gotten herself in other jams. On top of that, her know it all has come out at the wrong time and people have flown off the handle at her.

Later I went and hung out with a buddy breaking up with her girlfriend. Yes, it's a lesbian breakup. She joked, "My ex girlfriend is like winter. She won't go away." I told her everything and this friend not only made me feel better, but she made me feel excited about everything I was doing. Bonus, she said these were good things and good problems I had. Yeah, I am scared and don't know what is next but I am also excited.

We went to a bar to see a friend perform Marilyn Monroe, and our friend killed it. I also made some new friends and danced the night away. I heard all my favorite 80s songs, which was God's way of telling me it was going to be alright. In between being around good people, laughing until my sides hurt, and dancing the night away, I felt better. Oh and a creepy guy kept pursuing me which kinda made me feel pretty in a sick way. LOL.

This morning I went kickboxing. I woke up early but it was awesome. My running buddy aka The Mexican was there in full force. We trained hard and then went to Dunkin Donuts and talked about karate, street fighting, and ways to kill people. We ended up striking a convo with a former hockey player turned lawyer about the best way to cripple someone in  a street fight.

Then I hit an open mic and tried out a new tag a friend had given me for a joke. Not only was I excited for my new tag, but the new tag killed.

A musician friend joked, "Yeah, if you call her, you will jump. Better not let her work for the suicide hotline."

Translated, I have a lot of love around me. I only need people to bring me up, not drag me down. Spring cleaning means cleaning out my closet and cleaning out my refrigerator. But it also means cleaning out negative people from my life.


Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
www.aprilbrucker.com

Come see me for my DVD taping
April 22nd at 7pm
Metropolitan Room
34 w. 22nd st

Crazy.....

I hate the word crazy. Not because it is an adjective. I like adjectives as a writer. It's because of the way the word boxes people in. It's because of the stigma it carries. It's because it puts a bad spin on something that might not be a person's fault.

Sunday would have been my friend Joe's 34th birthday. To give you some background, Joe was an artist and celebrity personal shopper. Always having a box of cigarettes and a Starbucks, he joked that now that he quit slamming crystal meth he might stop smoking. He never succeeded in his goal. Nonetheless, he was extremely gifted and walking down the street with him could be an adventure. When there was a film shooting he would know the people working in wardrobe and we would stop and talk. Joe kind of taught me how to be a better networker. I was twenty five when we were friends. While I had escaped the demon of an abusive fiance that terrorized while we were together and after we broke up, Joe knew I was floating around. He got me to write again, and pushed me to ultimately write my book. Joe was also bipolar I, the hardest to medicate. After relapsing and some other events that I will not detail, Joe took his own life. Yes, he was "crazy." Yes he "took pills." But I don't remember a friend who was in a straight jacket. I remember a kind soul who encouraged me with my comedy and to write again. I know he made a choice and I respect it. It's the scarlet letter the word carries, that's all.

Fast forward to last night. Being an artist I always have colorful friends. One friend in particular suffers with severe bipolar. When he is good to go he is a talented director, makeup artist, and stylist. He has even done my hair on a few occasions. On the other hand, when he is off his meds he hallucinates and believes people are following him. Shit show is the understatement of the year. Anyway, he was having a manic fit and had meds. As we were over our other friends house he was wandering back and fourth and just couldn't keep still. We told him it was okay, we are kind of used to him like this. Plus he is kind of entertaining when he is manic. On the train ride home he started to break and asked my friend Smithie and I if we would take him to the hospital. We agreed.

When we got to the emergency psych center they took him in. He had been there two weeks ago under duress so the security dog remembered him. To give you an idea, my buddy loves his dog Amelia a lot and they admitted him and he couldn't walk her so he went ape shit on the guard. Well yes, the guard remembered him. Smithie and I kind of made jokes the entire time because the evening was so weird. First Mo is having a manic fit. Then there is a full moon. After that some weirdo street performer broke out his sax and just played in our ears. Now we were at a psych hospital. Mo was admitted and gave Smithie some instructions on how to care for his dog. And then we were off.

Smithie said when he went into see Mo for the instructions on how to care for his dog everything was white. The bed was attached to the wall. There were chairs but not really. There were guards everywhere. You couldnt bring even a pen to write with back. Everything was super safe. At the same time, we were both proud of our friend for having the insight to admit himself into the hospital. It was also amazing how gentle and nonjudging some of these staffers were. I was also relieved to know we were leaving our friend in good hands. For as much as Mo can wear on my last nerve sometimes, I also felt tremendous compassion for him and how he literally has to struggle with the bipolar demon. Then I thought of Joe.

I know suicide carries a stigma. I know people have a long way to go before they even begin to understand mental illness. I had a lover once who was bipolar who also struggled with addiction. I had to let him go after a short time because he wasn't going to take his meds and had no intention of staying clean. But the thing was, Mo, Joe, and Holden didn't use drugs because it made them feel good. They used drugs because at the end of the run they knew how they would feel. Bipolar people never know how they are going to feel. I heard from Holden not too long ago. He swears he is clean but his behavior indicates otherwise. Maybe my actions last night were a little codependent. But not many people understand how truly sick people with mental illness are sometimes. People think depression, they need to get some sunshine. Snap out of it. Stop doing this for attention. If only the solution were that easy.

We don't joke about cancer or AIDS but it's okay to joke about bipolar, schizophrenia, drug addiction and eating disorders. Cancer and AIDS kill people but so do the untreated affects of those diseases. We say someone with mental illness is being selfish by not getting treatment, when meanwhile they have a disease that tells them they are not ill. We think they take their meds they will feel alright when all they feel is flat, unattached, and different. I don't know what the solution is. Maybe more compassion. Maybe more education.

Or maybe it is to take the word crazy out of our collective vocab as a way to label people who are bearing a cross that we still struggle to understand.

Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
www.aprilbrucker.com

Javon Belcher-How and Why?

Everyone is talking about the Javon Belcher tragedy and it is a tragedy indeed. His girlfriend is dead, he is dead, and his daughter is left without a father. It was a murder/suicide. Javon Belcher was a bright student at the University of Maine and was a part of an organization that fought against violence. In addition, he majored in child development which means he had an idea of what this would do to his young daughter. Belcher went on to play football alongside the likes of Brady Quinn in the pros.

The question is, why?

The answer, this was a young man struggling with mental illness. In our country mental illness has a  stigma against it. We judge the mentally ill. We say someone is "schizo"or "nuts." We use crazy in the punchline of jokes. We laugh at celebrities like Katt Williams when they have public meltdowns as a result of stress and poor mental health. In a way we don't take mental illness seriously. It's not cancer. Plus when we speak of cancer, cancer victims have no fault. Yet someone suffering in the silent prison of bi-polar did this to themselves, not genetics.

As an added bonus, many times people with mental illness do not believe that they are sick. In part it is because as a society we tell them to stop being so depressed and to start doing a happy dance. Also, there are those who don't take their medication because either it makes them feel different, not better, and at the urging of those around them who say, "Toughen up." Often this comes with serious consequences.

Belcher in many ways seems to be someone suffering from a mood disorder from what I read. He had violent mood swings, often associated with bipolar disorder. In addition, on occasion from what I understand he had elevated moods and was either happy go lucky or depressed and was using lots of alcohol to cure his pain. Javon Belcher had no where to turn. No one to talk to. Javon Belcher had a tough childhood raised by a single mother in Long Island and had overcome that to become a star college player and a promising pro player. He had a beautiful girlfriend and a young child. Why couldn't he just do a happy dance? It's because that is not the way mental illness works.

Why didn't Javon Belcher reach out? I believe it was shame and the stigma attached. He was a hero to so many and a tough guy on the grid iron. Seeking counseling for depression did not fit into the profile that others created for him, and moreso himself. Javon probably was living in hell. Unlike cancer or any physical illness, you sometimes can't put a finger on your symptoms or where they are coming from because you don't even know.

We laugh at mental illness but it is no joke. My friend Joe, a talented artist, took his own life last summer because he couldn't stand life with drug addiction and bi-polar depression any longer. Joe got me to write again and it rips my heart out that he is not here to enjoy my book with me. A former boyfriend of mine who I call Holden Caulfield, who I really loved, suffered bi-polar depression and refused to take his meds. He is a nomadic drug addict now that people laugh at and it hurts me greatly.

We see how untreated mental illness can be dangerous on a larger level. We saw it during the massacre at a movie theater in Colorado. That young man was receiving help but unfortunately the shrink too overpaid and too busy, didnt get the package with the laid out plans.

Bottom line, the issue is not guns. It is mental illness. It is the stigma we put on it in this country. It is the fact that insurance companies do not cover drug/alcohol/mental health counseling. It is the fact we feel it is a punchline to a joke. But then something like this happens and we ask why?

Answer: We need to learn to understand that mental illness is a chemical imbalance,not a character defect. People suffering need and deserve compassion and love. Like anyone else, they need accessible, appropriate, and affordable treatment. They also need the medication they deserve, and those around them need to understand that this is not a choice. If they want a functional person that person needs to take their meds and as a society we need to remove the judgment pronto.

I pray Javon Belcher and his girlfriend have found peace in the hereafter. I pray that we do not blame this on guns but rather use this as a time to become compassionate and knowledgeable.

Love
April E. Brucker
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
www.buybooksontheweb.com
877-Buy-Book
Amazon.com


Come to my book signing
December 27,2012 @ 7pm
Bethel Park Library
5100 W.Library Ave
Bethel Park, PA 15102

Finding Holden Caulfield

Lately I have felt a little heartbroken. Actually a lot. To make a long story short someone who I cared for called me not once but twice this week. When I met him we were two people who had a lot in common. We both were two broken toys who had somehow found each other in this vast world. He had been kicked out of places, married, had kids, and through all sorts of things. I had almost been married to a nightmare. That breakup almost killed me. Nothing says broken heart like getting a different mailing address so the man who was once your one and only can't find you.

Enter Holden Caulfield. He fits his name to a T. He was my confidant when I was dating Dimsdale, an aged icon. Okay Dimsdale is not the aged icon's real name and Holden is not my former lover's real name either. Both work and both apply though. Holden was there when my ex fiance made an amends to me before Thanksgiving. He saw how upset I was, he was there the night I melted down. Holden and I became especially close during the two day time span when my house was robbed. He never left my side. Things got complicated. Many of my male friends accused him of having other motives. I know he didn't. I know Holden would have never hurt me.

Unfortunately, he made some mistakes and was forced to leave NYC. He wanted to give me the world and told me he loved me. I believed him and still do. He says he misses his kids. Neither of which are in his life because he is an alcoholic, a drug addict, and has bi-polar disorder and is non-compliant with his medication. That is the reason he is several grand in the hole when it comes to child support and is in some other trouble I will not go into.

The last time we spoke he was very sick, far detached from reality. I don't know what is worse. Is it the fact some people believe his behavior is funny? No, he is destroying his life, makes his family worry, and misses his kids who by the way he is not allowed to see because of his active addiction. Is it the fact that he is so flippant about the fact he is destroying his life? Yes, there were photos of him on his facebook page, him drinking in each and every one. It wouldn't be so bad if he weren't an alcoholic. Maybe it's the fact I have seen him sober and know how sad he is about all of this. Perhaps it is because I got to know him, and know that under all that was a good person with a good heart who would never hurt anyone.

There are people around me who call him names like fuck up. Maybe he is. But on the other hand, they don't understand how very sick he is. Part of me wants to go help him, save him. Then I remember our phone call where he informed me, "I am having so much fun that not even a whole fellowship of people could save me."

When people use words like fuck up that makes me wince. Truth be told, I have buried friends because of drugs. There was Roger who died as a result of long term drug use, a kindred spirit who I quote all too frequently. There was Joe, who would smack me in the head when I was going wrong but ultimately couldn't save himself, who got me writing again. Lest we not forget John and Julissa who were murdered. Of course then there was Jorge, who's laugh I still hear sometimes. Those funerals are hard. That is why a week ago I made the decision to block Holden on facebook. It's not because I don't care. It's because I too care. Seeing someone who you love and care about destroy and kill themselves is like having your heart ripped out and kicked across the floor.

I also know it's not because he won't get it. It's because he can't get it. It's not that he doesn't love or want to take care of his kids, it's that he can't love or take care of himself. I know he really loves me and would give me the world if he could. I know what he said was real. I know he wasn't like a lot of those other guys who just wanted to use whatever lines they could in order to use me for their satisfaction. I had not experienced that in forever. While in part it made me want to run, the other part of me was blown away by something so pure and real.

Then again, wasn't Salinger's character pure, real, and innocent. Didn't Holden Caulfied want to stand by the cliffs to catch the children before they fell, losing their innocence and descending into the dark abyss of the adult world? Didnt he want to go out West and live as a deaf mute? So far my man is fitting the T.

That is why it is so hard not to pick up the phone when he calls. That is why it is hard to just turn a blind eye. Because I know his heart. Some of it was the fact that he had pictures of himself with random women, drinking and kissing them. Part of me felt jealous. On the other hand, even when he was with one woman who he was using for a place to stay, he still used her computer to message me on several occasions when she wasn't looking. Even though there are many a woman in those photos, he still put me on speaker phone calling me one of his "famous friends" from NYC and talking about all the TV shows I had been on. I suppose they are Sally Hayes.

He on the other hand, is my Holden Caulfield. I know he is true. Unfortunately, mental illness and addiction are ugly. People call it a "need for an attitude adjustment" or a "character flaw." I know it isn't. I know he is lonely, lost, unhappy, and above all things sick. I know that if he could fix himself he would.

Even though she dated Stratlatter, and even though she was out with the Joe Yales she probably smiled when his name crossed her lips. She probably knew that if the world were simple she could be with the man who loved her. But the world isn't that simple. I know he will drag me down before I ever fix him. I know that unless he decides to get help and change he is headed nowhere good. I suppose I just have to ask God to watch him, guide him, and protect him from other people but most of all himself.

Now I know how Jane Gallagher felt.

Love April