Time

Time slowed when my mom died, slowed more when I was hit by the car, but stopped utterly the day I left N., my director. I had been trying to keep up with my group-and-I couldn't. I just couldn't. No matter how hard I tried, no matter what tricks I was doing, no matter what- I just couldn't keep up. The last day I saw N., I was in my private session with him. It had been rocky for a while, and my resentment was building....You see-it is the worst thing in the world when you're just trying to function, and you are literally being accused of not having willpower or some sort of control over yourself. In this case it was acting. N. was almost backhanded in his faith in my intelligence and ability. I wasn't terrible, you see. I was actually never as bad as my stories suggest. It was one of the true weirdnesses of the past few years-when I could remember before so well, and the after was just strange. N. could be cruel. There I said it. He was not a nice man. Manipulative,charming,brilliant. But not kind-although he had moments. On this particular day, I had my private session, which I usually had, followed by Banana Republic, and then back again-either for a rehearsal or group class. I was essentially spending all my time either at the doctors, physical therapy, or with him. I couldn't remember my lines. I didn't understand my character, I didn't bring work to him. In retrospect, I was protecting my own sense of self. You see, these things were about as unlike me as you could get. That day, I walked in, and he started screaming at me. And? It clicked in-somehow, someway, I didn't need to do this in order to work as an actor. I didn't need someone who clearly didn't understand or care about what was going on with me. I never made a secret of my injuries, except perhaps downplay them, because I wanted to work with him, however when he cast me as a dancer-I had to come clean. And yet? I still danced in every rehearsal. And as he screamed at me, I stood up, picked up my purse, and calmly said-"I'm done. We're finished. Thank you for everything, but I'm done." He thought I was kidding. I knew I wasn't, and would never be there again. Six years. In those six years, I never made a single friend. I thought of the actors being so close to me, so close, finding my secrets out, me finding out theirs. But that day, I left. And I never talked to anyone ever again. That day probably was the one that broke me. I had always had such faith in my ability. But I knew I couldn't stay. It's been two years. I have not set foot on a stage since. But every day, I write. I look at my plays. I go and watch people. I do all the things I've always done to be an actor. And now-time is moving again. I feel the clock ticking, but not in a bad way. In a "what next" kind've way. Because I am lucky enough to be ok. I can think, I can read, I can write, I can go out with my friends-and yesterday? I accidentally memorized a passage by just reading it. Here's what people who are whole don't realize. That every little movement forward, every new thing that can be done, any new person that you can let in your life? Walking outside with a cup of coffee along the waterfront? For some people that's victory. For me-that's victory. And I appreciate it. I made the decision that day to get well. And? Today, I realized, I've not had physical therapy for two months. And I don't care. For years, my life revolved around treatment. Then just maintaining. Now? It's just about seeking happiness. Nothing will ever make up for the time I lost, but I will not let keep me from seizing the time I have.

The play's the thing.

Here is the worst thing that can befall an actor. They stop wanting to act. It's like writer's block, but...most people think that it is a sign of "growing up". Or giving up. And? It may very well be true in some cases. In my case,when my mother died-I was already struggling..Not acting itself-but-there is nothing else like it in the world. It's literally using your feelings to do what painters do with paint. Actors are the ones that make you feel, that channel a deep stirring in the voyeur watching. It's intimate. The actor shares his or her point of view through emotion, and most audience members don't even realize. The good ones do, anyway. An actor who is shut down emotionally isn't doing their best work-and I know it and I know it and hate myself if I'm doing that. But, here's the thing. I have been onstage since I was eleven, in NYC since I was 16. It literally-is my life. I  still can't use a computer properly. Nothing to be particularly proud of-but, theater people don't sit at desks. We live amongst the world, watching and being voyeurs ourselves, just so we can do anything, anything to create a character that can create a world in a little black box. .For years,since I hit my head-I haven't been able to answer the simple question of "what do you do?" I felt like a fraud. I couldn't even call myself an actor to people I didn't know-despite working for six years with a company. I did bad work. I know it. but I worked really hard-because the only way to get yourself back after a head injury? is to know you need to persevere, even if you fall on your face. I lost my lines in a performance. A full house. I ran off after faking it, and wailed into the stairwell. I was so out of it-it didn't occur to me people could probably hear it. I knew it was bad when my director didn't say a word. Not a thing. But if I hadn't done that? I never would have made the strides I did. Such a lesson in character building.....But the next night, back I went. Because I knew I would never leave the house again if I didn't go up. I hate being called "brave" for living my life-just living my normal life. I'm not. It has been my love affair my whole life-it's been the line to everything I hold dear, it helps me understand the world. I need it like I need air. And that's why I need to go back.

Independence

I like to think I'm independent. This is something I value, something I treasure. One of the perks of being an adult. I remember being a child, and simply vowing I would do whatever I wanted. As I grew up, I realized, perhaps, Independence is different than doing whatever I wanted. I remember, in my very early twenties, perhaps even my late teens-I held a check from my first catering company, Glorious Food. This check was probably the first money I'd ever held. I was a relatively spoiled girl, but things were given to me. Not money. But as I held this check-which even today is enough-I realized, I am able to be on my own. Escape my house. Be who I wanted to be-which happened to be an actress. I was out with a Spanish man who had two daughters the other day-gorgeous little girls, three and seven. I laughed and told him I was from a family of girls. We were talking politics, and he was trying to figure out if he was Republican. Somehow-I realized he was Catholic. He knew I was Irish, but was so surprised when I told him I was actually Episcopalian. So-I told him the story. My mother had very definite ideas about raising girls. Being Catholic was not part of her plan-because she felt Cartholicism was a very hard religion on women and girls. She made a point of discussing it with me in depth, at 7?. It still has an effect on me-my sprituality, my sense of self. She eventually chose a beautiful Episcopalian Church in Rhinebeck. Father Gerry and his wife were an ex priest and nun, who fell in love and left teir respective orders to marry. Around the same time, I got kicked out of second grade. Apparently-I was staging non-violent protests against my teacher because all the other straight A's were hung on the special wall. Mine weren't. After a conversation with the teacher, my mother determined that the teacher favored the boys, didn't call on the girls who did raise their hands. I still remember my mom pushing my desk down the hall to my new classroom, where I loved the teacher and made my first best friend.(After Meg.) So-you see-since I never felt less than because I was a girl, I felt like there were no limits. I am so glad I ignored the idea that I'm a girl who can't. I am once again independent-and that is the best feeling ever. Ever.

Dr. Altman

Today, I sat in a doctor's office. Alone. I have always made a point of going alone, from the time I was really young. It never mattered. Then-one day, my neurologist said something. "Where's your family?". I had to think-I was so used to going alone. It never bothered me. But it bothered him so much-I developed a complex. That I was not capable of living alone-living my own life. I was hurt, yes, but? I wonder now if all the noise of my doctors made me doubt myself-if somehow I wasn't living up to their perceptions of me. I went through a period of time after that feeling terrible-because,in all truth, my family-my father and sisters-never did figure out how to handle me sick. Now? My dad has started asking. He wants to compare physical therapy notes, and doctor visits. I don't. I humor him-but this was my struggle. Mine alone. I appreciate the friendships I have, and the kindnesses that got me through. But I never wanted to be a burden, never wanted to be less than. So-today-I laughed when the doctor diagnosed allergies. After all, EVERYONE has allergies. And that's all I want to be now. An ordinary girl. Who happens to be dreaming in NYC.

The World Trade Center and I

I have developed a very complicated relationship with my memories, what I should hold onto, and what I should try to forget. But I am learning that it's not your choice what you remember and what is burned into your brain. I have things that I talk easily about, and things I don't. And sometimes even I am shocked by what I choose to share and what I keep hidden just below the surface. Tomorrow is the 10th anniversary of 9/11, and my feelings are surfacing now. I was too busy trying to bury all my emotions by staying as buy as possible, but now that I have had my enforced rest period, and started to heal-I can face my past. I feel strong. And perhaps that saying that what does not kill you makes you stronger is true. I myself have always maintained that none of us get out alive. I shouldn't think a joke that grim is funny, but I do. And this summer, I have been spending a lot of time with a very nice man down at the water near the WTC, as a matter of fact, my train goes into the WTC station, and for years, I rode the train through the wreckage to get into NYC from Jersey City on the WTC PATH. It was very eerie, to be gliding silently through an area where it looked like a bomb had destroyed an entire piece of NY. It was like a mini war zone in the middle of a bustling city. And it stayed like that for a very long time. To me, I just became numb. I stopped noticing,except for the cleanup efforts, which seemed like a lovely progression to wholeness. The area where I meet The Doctor is a fountain that resembles a red foiled balloon sculpture. I spent the entire summer going to this fountain without reading the inscription. And when I did? I realized it was a fountain dedicated to me. Or-rather-anyone who survived the Disaster. I read it, and got chills, and continued my conversation as if I hadn't noticed anything.....My father always wants to know what it was like-to be down there amidst the rubble. He wants to know what I did. To be honest? I always felt like....I  did nothing. Because the war zone was so big, and I was so-helpless. I remember that day-so clearly. It was the beginning of catering season, and for me, that meant crazy days and nights, being at the beck and call of Glorious Food, my company. The Season was taken very seriously, and you snapped to, and showed up when needed, or else. I was asleep after a long night, with Megan, my sister, asleep in her room. All of a sudden, I heard a rumble of noise, the rumble of many people. Meg's phone rang-her friend Liz was stranded in Chicago, and wanted to know what was going on. I looked outside my little garden apartment-and saw a sea of teary, shocked people. I heard some talk of the WTC,which you could see from my apartment, and ran, in my pajamas, to the place where you could see across the water. I saw the fire and the hole in the first building, and got to the place where I could see in time to see the plane hit the second tower. It seemed like slow motion. Screaming started.The woman next to me screamed and collapsed-her husband was in the second tower on the 109th floor. People consoled her. I watched as the towers began their collapse. Somehow, my friend ,Amanda Jones,who was in California, called, and I gave her a play by play of the collapse. She told me I was lying. I kept my mouth shut. She'd find out soon enough.I noticed a young man-very frightened who was speaking only French. I brought him water and invited him inside to wait. He was so frightened he forgot his English. Vincent was his name. He spent a couple hours calming down and telling Meg and I about France. Meg went outside to cry. She knew a lot of Windows on the World people. She came in with a glass that wasn't ours of water. Oddly enough, my first phone call wasn't to my parents, on 34th St.. It was to Glorious Food, where the booker asked me if I knew what happened to RR. I knew R. I was in love with R. We had been dating, very quietly. My heart literally stopped. She told me he was down at the WTC being our resident hero. I kept quiet, with my heart stopping, and managed to get through the conversation. I then checked in with all my catering jobs, at this point realizing that-this was more about making sure people were safe, than about call times. I finally called my parents, and told them I was fine. Which I was.. After these first few calls, all cell service basically stopped. I got one call through to R-I only said a couple words-"Are you Alive?" -yes, he said, yes. Was I ok? good. Then the signal cut out. There was only news on, bad news, reporters and journalists trying to cover something, knowing it was a breaking story, but  not what happened. I noticed on the news that the rescue effort in Jersey City looked awfully familiar-it was my workout route along the water. Meg got in the shower. I put on a bright pink hoodie. and practical sneakers-you see, if by any chance I did get down there to help, I needed to be identifiable easily. My hoodie was very bright and warm. I couldn't watch a rescue in my yard and not help. While Meg was in the shower-I left a note saying I was going to volunteer, and not to worry. I put it on my bed, so she wouldn't notice it at first. And then I walked to the waterfront. It was chaos-but I could see how to organize it. So many people wanting to help...so many people in the way. I started pretending I was unloading a catering truck, and people listened. "Put this here, That goes over there." On and on-for several hours. A lady in a headset came up to me and asked how I knew to do this-I said-I cater, I organize large groups of people. She gave me a walkie. I was now a Red Cross Coordinater, and no one knew my name. I kept going. I knew I was going to end up over on  the city side. Finally-at about eleven, we started talking about The Other Side. We needed to start moving our operation to NYC. I had been doing the organizing of the supplies for hours. I knew where everything was. I told her I'd go over. She was hesitant. I said-please. Let me help. I know the area. The men on our side, they said-she can do it, she can handle it. So-I started to load stuff into a Coast Guard cutter to see how we could do things. I got off the boat. I was told to send things to Stuyvesant. R's school. I just told everyone where to put things as I heard it through my walkie. It was now night..And raining, and smoky,and sooty, and-a really scary place. Firefighters and cops everywhere, but for a place so big?  It seemed empty. And I remember being at the front of the cutter with one or two other volunteers- I stood at the bow, and marveled. The whole area was lit. And to me?, it seemed like a well lit disaster movie. It was horrifying and exhilirating at the same time. I was excited. I was going to help. I got off the cutter and looked around. I couldn't figure out why I couldn't get my bearings. Then I realized-the Towers really were gone. And they were my North Star, the way I found my way around downtown. I was with a group of traveling nurses-I was there to show them around and orient them and set up triages. We knew talking in the cutter that we would be treating rescue workers, not people in the buildings. We didn't focus on that. I remember only one in detail-a funny, beautiful brunette. It's one of the things that bothers me. I remember what the people down there looked  like, but no names. I only know these nurses were from Vegas and traveled to disaster sites-all on their own. I ended up seeing where the suppplies which had poured in had started to be stored-basically I remember socks.Thousands of socks. It had started raining. My feet were wet, something I didn't consider a big deal. All of a sudden, a firefighter told me I needed new socks, and he picked me up and carried me to the bombed out restaurant/hotel I couldn't even recognize, although it was familiar. It was where the socks were. I was beyond mortified. I mean-I was supposed to be helping the firemen! They needed me! And then I looked at him, and let him rescue me. He needed to help someone, he needed a living body to say thank you. He knelt down and changed my socks for me. I didn't cry. I said thank you. I was sitting next to another firefighter,even younger than me. He told me he had been trapped and didn't know he'd ever get out. I touched his arm, and said-"You called your mother right? Maybe your girlfriend?". Just-what can you say? I realized there was not anything I could DO. But I stayed. With the nurses, I set up a triage. I remember an embarrassed firefighter finding me, and showing me the supplies we might need,"for the ladies." including tampons. And bandaids. Tampons were needed. Bandaids....I felt like a bandaid would accomplish nothing. I was already horrified by my earlier thoughts that I could be of any use. I gave the brunette nurse a tour. We added to our supplies for our triage. I wasn't wearing a mask,and could feel the splinters and smoke in my lungs,it was an odd prickly feeling. We didn't have respirators, but we certainly had policeman and fireman in line for us to tend. The nurses quickly showed me how to wash eyes, and do basic things. I talked to the policemen as I washed. They wanted to talk. I felt that maybe I was helping just a little, by talking. Over the next few days-men would come looking for the blonde girl in the yellow hoodie. I was good about names then. I was a Red Cross coordinater, but if you look at any Salvation Army paperwork, a handwritten sheet, there's my name and signature. Because if I died-I wanted my name on something so my family would know where I'd been. We had no cells, no phones. No sleep. The first time I had to go into the pit to help-to communicate-a nice man took my hand, and led me to the part of a balcony so I could look down and see with someone before I could go down.  We stared in silence. I didn't cry. finally, I said, ok, I'm ready. And I went down into the rubble. The smell was a horrifying mix of death and chemical smoke. I threw up when I realized what it was, then I kept going. I just did what was needed. I had never even seen a body. The thing that bothered me the most  were the single shoes. What happened to the other shoes? Because it was thousands of single shoes.....In the bombed out hotel with no face, there was a restaurant. And all the responders knew about it because of wandering around. It was taken over and turned into a place to rest, sleep, and eat. I remember on the third day, there was a young, burly construction worker in tears. He was so tired from looking from his missing cousin, a firefighter....I took him to the restaurant, and made him a bed, just like he was a kid, and stayed until he was asleep. At a table watching me over his paper cup of coffee, was a DEA guy. He looked shattered. I sat down, and we talked. He was so funny...told me all about the life. Told me he hated restaurants cause they were too fancy. Made me laugh so hard with some of his grimmest stories about other cases, not the WTC. Then he told me what he found in the rubble. And started sobbing. He was worried he was going to give me nightmares. I was thinking-you will not be responsible for that, because I will already have my own. I touched his hand. Behind me, the construction worker woke up and bounced around like a puppy....he felt like he could go find his cousin now, and he knew where I was. I hugged him, and got him coffee. I never saw him again. And these are just a few hours.... I left when I started crying and couldn't stop. The guys didn't need to be there being upset by my tears. It was very late at night, and no one was around,except one patrolman. I went to hand in my hard hat.There just weren't enough supplies.Socks,yes.Respirators,no. He looked at me, saluted, and told me to keep my hat. Give it to my grandkids,tell them Grandma did good. It was-a very big moment in that silence after that. I looked at him,and said good bye. I walked over to the cutters,asked for a ride home. I have never felt so much guilt leaving somewhere. I have that hard hat, still dusty, with a smudgy "Jessa" smeared across it. It lives in my closet. As if I could forget.

Now what?

Last night-I was out with a new guy. A very sweet, talented man. We went to my local beer garden and I had ginger ale. I still am not comfortable drinking, much. Although I do socially, to make myself feel a little more normal, a little less like the alien I sometimes feel like. I am still afraid sometimes-that my life is over. But that feeling passes much more quickly, and I am able to move on. I feel like I wear my past on my face, and it shocks me to see a smooth skinned woman in the mirror. I look in that mirror objectively, and-I look... Almost calm, almost serene. I no longer look like a war victim. My life is calm now, slightly on the boring side. I regret sometimes the time lost. Until I realize-it wasn't lost. I lived. Maybe not the way I wanted, maybe not the way I expected-but I lived. I acted, I wrote, I was in this world. I feel joy now. Because I see a future spreading before me. These are the things I talk about now.And the people who are around me now? Must understand where I've been, in order to see the woman I am. And as this man kissed me? I realized? My future is now. And I must seize it.

June 23

Today-I won't say I went into hibernation. But I went to get coffee, did my workout, and tried really hard to forget that it's the day my mom died. And my younger sister's birthday. I always felt she needed to make sure we were grown, but-it was a shock to have her leave us on Amanda's birthday. Meg and I had discussed and hoped and prayed that wouldn't happen but it did. I remember that whole night so vividly... We had been told for weeks that it was going to be any minute. I don't remember leaving the hospital often-I couldn't get my dad to eat or sleep. And he never REALLY accepted that my mom was dying. His hope was touching and frustrating at the same time. God-he loved her so much. I will be lucky if anyone loves me even a quarter of how much he loved her. That night-we all stayed in her room-watching her breathe. It was shallow and scared me. I went for a lot of walks. I know that I was given a few minutes alone-but truthfully? I just sat. What do you say when it's over and you love someone so much words don't even exist. I had spent months frantically going over my wedding plans, my baby plans, my husband plans-asking for advice-trying to fit the lifetime we should have had into that one little sad hospital room.She desrved better. I deserved better. I should have had a whole life where my mother didn't suffer and I could go to her with boy troubles and have my hair stroked and been told someone somewhere would love me as hard as dad loved her. I deserved to have her around when I have a baby,get married, need her. That night was agonizing. I walked the halls, didn't talk. I was left alone by the nurses,except to ask if mom needed anything. "No", I said. "No". I didn't want to be a bother. And yes- I was with my family but we were all separate in our grief. My father told me later Meg shocked him with her stoicism, or was it detachment? I went to the waiting room. But then came back. It didn't feel real.Finally-it happened. I don't remember much except I had fallen asleep in a chair. All of a sudden-their was a commotion. We were ordered out of the room. They tried to save her. I pulled a doctor off her and cried-"let her be! She's a DNR.". Yes- I pulled a doctor off my mother and made him stop. The doctors crowded around me in the corridor-asking questions. You see- I looked so composed. I looked down the hallway and saw Dr. Campbell running. I realized he was looking at me. He shooed all the residents away. And in my mother's room-doctor after doctor shook our hands, silently, acknowledging us. I found out later we were famous for never leaving mom alone. I made phone call after phone call to relatives. I called my grandmother, my mother's mother. The denial on the other end was too much for me, so I got off the phone and kept dialing. All the time wondering how I could? Finally-we all got into a cab together. All of us-the family. And as I leaned back in the seat-I had a sudden vision of her trailing our cab, dancing in the sky, and she had no more pain. And I felt peace.