See, the thing is, I hail from Riverville, MA, where nobody ever really leaves, and the closest I'd ever gotten to any decree of fame at that point was the recognition I oftentimes found myself obtaining for being the resident drama-queen and chatty Kathy in my third class, gee did I keep Mrs. Chandler's hand busy in drawing my name up on the board, because I just couldn't seem to pipe down. My mother, Madison, a stay-at-home housewife, saw my unruly ways and flair for theatrics as a common source of frustration, while on the other hand my father, Paul, who's devoted the better portion of his career as a modern American literature professor for Riverville College, always seemed to appreciate my vivacious and spirited fashion, ceaselessly encouraging me to be exactly as I am, zestful temperament and all. And so that's the moral fiber I've since carried with me throughout my life.
My dad and I always maintained the kind of close relationship that from all outside appearances might've insinuated the theory that we were safekeeping a certain undefined secret. On the other hand, my mother I never felt I could connect with or quite understood me and seemingly put her best foot forward in making me feel like I was some kind of basement-dwelling misfit with no real sense of direction for the better part of my upbringing. And here she was, an unemployed, self-proclaimed Betty who ultimately had to rely on a man to care for her, and whose sole major focal point of everyday was watching Days of our Lives and secretly smoking Pall Malls in the kitchen while she gossiped with our next door neighbor, Kathy, about anybody's business that wasn't exclusively theirs. I can't cite that I particularly blame her, though, as I always sensed that she was generally lonely and bored, and I constantly felt like she was resentful of the attention I garnered as being "daddy's little girl" and only girl, the way I understood it.
My first big play I ever starred in was my fifth grade's rendition of The Wizard of Oz as Dorothy Gale. How typical, yeah? I rocked the crap outta the glittering ruby slippers I assembled myself and my parents couldn't have persuaded me to take them off for the several weeks to follow I wore them to school even if they tried, but I can almost be sure my mother entertained the idea of feeding them to the neighbor's dog once or twice, I could see the twinge in her eyes every time she laid eyes on them. Theater became an immense focus in my life all the way into high school, where I especially flourished socially. I starred in most of Riverville High's productions, such as Juliet in Romeo and Juliet and Blanche Dubious in A Streetcar Named Desire, just to name a few. These were welcomed distractions, specifically because the tension at home was reaching uncharted territories. It was evident to me that my mom and dad were never particularly affectionate throughout my childhood, but the void between them seemingly grew until it became apparent they didn't even like - let alone could tolerate - one another any longer. I've never been one to wear the true depth of my emotions on my sleeve, instead opting to mask my insecurities and heartache with a blithe and carefree outer exterior to translate the impression that everything's always "a-okay". I have a hard time talking about feelings, mine or anyone else's, for that matter. So, when I signed up for volunteer work in order to gain college credits and overall boost the morale in my applications, it was just a wee bit ironic they would've assigned me to grief counseling, when my comprehensive go-to quick fix for all things anguish is to down a shot of Jose, rub some dirt in it, and bare a smile.
I have to say, the work I did with Boston Grief undoubtedly gave me some perspective on my own life's state of affairs. Here I was quietly sulking behind closed doors - in the privacy of my own self-imposed isolation within my increasingly cold household - over the revelation that my family was effortlessly coming undone at the seams, when I was being faced with the mourning loved ones of those who had passed over into whatever realm may or may not lie beyond death. It was heartbreaking to witness, and admittedly I had a difficult time adjusting to fulfilling this entirely new role for me - in this completely untapped domain within myself - as their unforeseen salvation. Talk about pressure, right? It was right around this time when I met - or rather, became re-acquainted - with Jesse Fitz, who the only thing I could recall about was that we'd been in the same class every grade charting all the way back to kindergarten and had barely ever spoken so much as a full sentence to one another. His parents had just passed away after a fatal car accident and when he more or less lost his grip on reality, or maybe simply chose to detach himself from it altogether, his aunt and uncle forced him into the program to better cope with his misplaced anger stemming from what I can only assume was deep-rooted sorrow.
Boy, did this kid have a way with words, and each and every single one of them pissed me off beyond human comprehension. I gathered pretty easily that he couldn't have been bothered, but for chrissake, i had a job to do and the last thing I needed was some gloom-struck punk blatantly insulting every reluctant effort I made to help him. Like I already told you, dealing with all of this "woe is me" claptrap isn't my schtick, like, at all. But even yet, somewhere between him doling out some COMPLETELY out of line comment that I was a "self-absorbed sauce-box" and me slapping him deadpan across the face for it, we eventually came to find even ground. We were somehow able to push our respective emotional burdens to the side and, much to my surprise, developed an unwavering friendship, even despite having come from two different worlds closely circulating in the same stratosphere. I taught him how to shake some of his angst, he taught me to shed my relentless 'happy-go-lucky party girl' image. We gained a mutual respect for one another; we healed each other.
I suppose I could've gone to Riverville College free of tuition and subsequently saved my family an overabundance of money, but the thought of dwelling amidst these small-towners for the rest of my days posed as an all-consuming nightmare, so cue a naive 18-year-old me - fresh out of high school and presumably ready for the world - packing my bags for a new venture to The Big Apple. Fortunately, my dad's older sister, Anna, lived in Queens with her husband, so I was able to stay with them as I double-majored in Theatre and Psychology at NYU as opposed to living on campus. The prospect of dating was seldom a concern for me, but I suppose I entertained the thought once or twice, and let a few Johnnies take me out for what was largely just a free meal and some tolerable company for an evening. I was far too consumed with my studies and then if you tossed in trying to navigate the freakin' subway system of New York City, it was safe to assume I had my hands full enough as is. Not to mention the fact that I was more or less working day in and day out in order to perfect my technique on stage, because although the competition at Riverville High had been few and far between, I was suddenly being matched against students who'd been training for stardom virtually their entire lives.
Most of the roles I portrayed for NYU's productions were extras or secondary characters, at best. I tried not to let it get me discouraged, however, so when I finally graduated I wasted no time before putting a resume together and attending every audition on this damned island, including broadway. Suffice to say, I'm still waiting for my big break, but I have starred in a TRESemmé commercial and a recurring role on The Young and the Restless - by my mother's reaction, you would've thought I was starring in The Hunger Games series (by modern day's standards, my mother actually has no idea what that even means, but you get the point). Living on my own, I've managed to keep bread on the table - or at least a takeout menu on the fridge - by working as a receptionist for a therapist's office during the day and waiting tables a few nights a week.
That is, until now. Not even a mere two weeks ago, I got a phone call from the hospital in Riverville, where my mom had been submitted to after our neighbor found her unconscious on the living room floor. They found a tumor in her cerebrum and with nobody to care for her - of course, my father had the decency to go on pretending everything was okay up until I was in college and then proceeded to move out of the house - I've decided it's best to move back home. So here I am, nearly twenty-seven years old and back where I started; sucked back into the never-ceasing vortex that is Riverville, Massachusetts.”