This was hard to write, but I had to get it out there.

I tried starting this blog post two nights ago, but have been struggling with the writing process... Not because I've had writers' block, but simply because it's something I don't like that I have to write about.

I've been really, ridiculously blessed in the past few months. Since January, my life has changed in so many ways, each and every single one of them for the better. A new job, new friendships, shifts in my clarity of purpose and where I see myself going with my life? It's incredible. I can't tell you how many times I've had to stop myself lately to just take in the good things that have finally come my way.

That "finally" up there. That's where this post is coming from and why it's so hard to get out.

A local young teenager, who was openly gay and involved with numerous school activities, took his own life on Tuesday night. I didn't know Jesse, but he was friends with many people I've worked with in local theater. I don't know any of the specifics leading up to his decision - he's the only one who truly does - and I don't need to. His story, at least what I know of it, is not much different from many other tragedies that so many people are forced to deal with. 

The sadness, the what-if's, the questions... they're exhausting and only lead to more sadness and confusion. While I could wax rhapsodic on the horrible topic, I really need to get my story out, in hopes that it might offer some help to someone who may be struggling themselves. 

When I was 10 years old, my entire grade school class turned against me and my best friend, quite literally overnight. It was an early spring day, one of those first nice ones of the season, and we were enjoying our first outdoor recess of the year. I was never the athletic type (some things never change) and the previous winter, the girl who had been my best friend discovered that she loved soccer. I wasn't resentful toward her for it, but, being a kid, I was a little hurt. Thankfully, one of our other friends at the time stepped up - we're actually still friends today. Anyway. That day at recess, my entire class was running around on the soccer field and my best friend and I just weren't feeling it. We were just sort of wandering around in the tiny patch of woods at the edge of the field - y'know, standard kid stuff. And then, out of nowhere, some girls ran up and threw a shower of those seed "helicopters" that fall from pin oaks all over us... while singing the Wedding March. Haha, stupid childish fooling around. Right?

The following school day is a blur of choking back tears and telling people to just shut up and leave me alone, but I remember going home that night and asking my mother what a lesbian was, because some of the kids in school had decided to start calling us that. I was a naive 10, not the kind of 10-year-old that runs around with an iPhone today. I had never heard such a word and had never imagined kissing a boy yet, much less, a girl.

This tormenting went on through the rest of my elementary school years, and, at times, carried into high school. I filled diary after diary with "I hate my life" and "No one loves me" and wished for a different life for myself. I'm thankful that I went through what I had to, though.

Looking back on those years is really hard for me, but I've been able to realize some very important things because of them. I realized, most importantly, that what I had been so hurt about was not the fact that my classmates were spreading rumors that I was into women. What hurt was that, just because I ran with a different crowd and was into things like comedy, history and Girl Scouts, instead of sports and boys, my classmates pegged me with what they thought was the worst insult they could come up with. I knew that I was straight but trying to argue that to pre-teens when you haven't so much as held hands with a boy yet is a damn near impossible task. 

Eighth grade brought a new challenge to me because for the first time since fourth grade, my best friend and I were in different homerooms and had to take some classes separately. Plus, I still had never kissed a boy (I wouldn't until I was nearly 17), my parents were strict as ever and I had managed to hit a pretty consistent low after spending now four years dealing with the same old crap. When I think back on going through all of this, it's usually fourth grade and that day at recess that comes to mind as the lowest point, but truthfully, my lowest lows were definitely eighth grade. 

And then, by some stroke of grace, I discovered things. My passions. And people who liked the same things I did.

One of the perks of being an eighth grader at my elementary school was getting first pick of elective classes - 15 or so special-interest courses that let you learn new things while flaunting your seniority over the rest of the school. Most people rushed to fill the dance and kindergarten-helper sections, but I meandered my way over to things like crafts and newspaper writing. We had one crappy old Macintosh computer in our classroom, and the four of us (who actually chose to do MORE writing than required in our standard classes) slaved over our little paper. The stories that I wrote that semester weren't Pulitzer-worthy, by ANY means (I'm just about positive one was about my dog), but I had finally found something that gave me a sense of fulfillment. 

Outside of school, I was just starting to get into theater. I was in one show a year in sixth and seventh grades and when eighth grade started, the first theater group I worked with really hit its stride. That spring, I started forging friendships with some of the "adult" cast members and while our relationships have changed over the years, those are the people who helped make me into the outgoing person I am today.

Even with the people and outlets I had finally begun to find for myself, I still had to go to school. And school was a terribly lonely place. Feeling alone is not something I would wish on my worst enemy. For someone as naturally extroverted as myself, it was particularly jarring. I'm not always the best at articulating my deep feelings (see: Liz Lemon: "I am terrible at expressing my feelings, but it's not because I don't have them. It's just because I'm used to being let down."), so not having people around me I felt comfortable with was extremely difficult. Being an actress and all, I was awfully good at putting on a front for my classmates, but really, a huge portion of my junior high years were spent somewhere in my mind. 

I don't know what you, reading this, have gone through. I genuinely hope that you have never had to feel alone. If you do right now, and you need someone, anyone, please know that I am here, in whatever capacity you need. It's okay to feel weak or useless or stretched too thin. It's not okay to feel like you are the only one feeling like that, or like you have no one to go to for a bit of relief. There is always someone. 

I also hope that you have something you can call your own. When I was writing and acting back then, I didn't truly realize what I was doing for myself. Truth be told, I was saving my own life, one rehearsal at a time. My memories of those years are not what most people have - birthday parties with classmates, boy/girl parties and what have you - mine are conversations and experiences and moments of feelings that mean more to me than I'll ever be able to explain.

I guess what I'm trying to say here, for whoever is reading this... is that life is what you make of it. It would have been so easy, so many times over, for me to just give up. I'm not going to bore you any more with anecdotes of how shitty some of high school was for me (I often forget about those times because the second half was so good), but keep in mind that everything I detailed here was not an isolated event. I'm weird, I'm into strange things, I get it. But I've finally grown very comfortable with who I am and what I have to offer and that is why I am sharing this.

For as confident as I am today, I still have moments of severe weakness. That's never going to go away - I don't expect it to - but it's scary when it happens. Those pin oak helicopters are covering my yard as I type this, and looking at them makes me inwardly cringe. A simple sentence can trigger my mood and force me to fall onto my bed in a fit of tears. But for every one of those terrible nights? There are 10 really awesome evenings. The number of kids in my grade school class pales in comparison to the army of sorts that's formed around me. The worst mood one night is followed by an absolutely beautiful morning. The people who are around you for all the mundane crap of your life suddenly become surprising and funny and smart and you can't imagine your life without them in it. 

Life is beautiful and I am so, so thankful that I found my way through it. I hope, so sincerely, that you never ever lose the will to find those beautiful moments for yourself.

A very serious, open, honest look into my faith life. Just... I'm happy. Finally.

I know that over the last year or so, I have made decisions that have hurt people around me. I know that friendships have changed or ended, and that those situations were almost entirely due to me. I knew that while all of it was going on and, quite honestly, I do not regret one decision.

For the first time in my life, I can confidently say that I am happy.

I'm not talking about the wonderful, euphoric feeling that accompanied every praise band concert and party and night out. Those memories are so beautiful and I know that I would not have gotten through the last eight years without them.

The happiness that I am experiencing right now, though, is deeper and more grounded than that.

There's also sadness blended with the happiness, which I've found to be important and a blessing. My life has not been easy so far. I was ridiculed in grade school, unpopular in high school and then had my world turned upside down in college. I've had financial issues, my extended family has all but fallen apart and I've watched so many people around me face pain and suffering.

And, even with all of that against me... I've been able to keep going. I can't take that fact lightly because, quite frankly, it would have been so easy, so many times, for me to have called it quits and given up. Instead, I allowed myself to grow comfortable. I was coasting along in my faith and not giving any room for myself to struggle and admit weakness. It's so much easier to do that.

The last six or so months have been a different sort of struggle, however. Things in my day-to-day life have all but fallen into place. I have a reliable job with coworkers I like. I spend the rest of my time with a theater group and youth group full of really awesome, talented people. There are so many things to keep me busy and happy. But, truthfully, I've been so genuinely unhappy underneath the surface.

Until a very important friend had a conversion experience. And I saw in him the exact pain I've been carrying. And I was able to have conversations with him that I've never been able to have with other people. And, because of him, I became more aware of my own faith journey and how poorly neglected it had become. I was letting my faith sit on a back burner because, in my head, it had gotten me to where I needed to be - a comfy job and cool people around me. And I didn't realize it until this weekend, but doing that was slowly eating away at me.

The changes I've made in my life over the past year were all the necessary steps I had to take to get to where I am tonight. I had been going through the motions those last few months that I was in the praise band and that was wrecking me, which I haven't been able to realize until now. It's why I had to quit. It's why I had to give everything I had in me to the theater kids. If I hadn't, they wouldn't have opened up to me and, in turn, I wouldn't have been able to learn all this about myself.

I'm still not entirely sure what my true purpose is in the great scheme of things. I've always gravitated toward written word and have been encouraged again and again to write my story so that maybe, someone else who is struggling will be able to relate and find someone to guide them through everything. If there's one thing I know for sure, it's that I can't do this alone. Hopefully, this blog will allow me to begin to accomplish something like that.

Thunderstorms and theater and NYC, because I can't blog on just one topic.

I was always the token kid who sobbed through thunderstorms. I was at a Girl Scout overnighter an hour away and actually made my mom come pick me up because I could hear it storming. I left sleepovers all the time if it stormed. The hottest summer night saw me burrowed under piles of blankets at the very first crack of thunder.

That fear has since translated into straight fascination, thankfully.

I'm still deathly afraid of them, however. I think all of the things you do in life, the things that you really love, should scare you a little. The adrenaline that comes with just a little bit of uneasiness makes things come off as so much more rewarding, right? It's why I kept coming back to theater. Those first auditions I went through were terrible and quite honestly, I wouldn't have cast myself if I was the one in that position. But, god, the rush of opening night, especially the first few... nothing will ever compare to that feeling.

Not going all scientific on this blog (LOL IT'S FUNNY BECAUSE I KNOW LITERALLY NOTHING ABOUT SCIENCE THINGS), but I know that there's a gene or whatever in our brains that makes us thrill-seekers, to varying extents. I'm not big on roller coasters or thrill rides, but I love that rush that I talked about in a previous post, the one that comes right before a perfomance begins. Like I said in that post, more than half of that is straight-up fear that I am going to fall flat on my face as soon as the show starts. Eh, it's happened before.

This whole feeling also ties into my doing everything I can to avoid settling here in Erie. It'd be the easy thing to do. I have a comfortable job, my living situation isn't bad and I have a great support system of friends and the theater community. But... NYC looming in my future is deliciously terrifying. Sure, I know a lot of people in the city and know the basics I'll need to for day-to-day life. I'm also lucky enough to have a job that will allow me to move, instead of just winging it when I get out there. Regardless, the anxiety dreams I have over things that I won't even need to worry about for a year and a half are out of control.

I love them.

I love the thunderstorm that is currently rattling my windows. I love having something to worry about. I love the relief when the storm passes and the world is shiny and new.

A long post in which I talk about big, important issues? Okay, then...

I am Catholic. I am also a pro-life feminist who fully supports every agenda in LGBT equality.

I've had to bite my tongue so many times in the past several years, especially this last week.

Facebook, Twitter and Tumblr have been full of opposing opinions and through them all, one thread has remained frighteningly clear -- the amount of closed-mindedness from both sides of the gay marriage issue is absolutely insane.

Let's tackle that first line in this post, piece by piece, shall we?

I almost wish I had been keeping track of how many posts I've seen in the past few days that have put down the entire notion of Catholicism (and Christianity - and even religion/the concept of god as a whole, but I'm going to focus on my belief system here). It's a truly comical number, especially coming from people who claim to be open and accepting. I have been brought up to know that believing in something bigger than yourself does not make you naive.

I have struggled with my faith more in the past several years than I had ever expected to as a kid. Sure, I grew up in a tight-knit family (that wasn't perfect, by any means) and my mom always ensured that I went to mass every Sunday. That's great and all but doesn't mean that I think I have had an easy path. I have fought with myself and the teachings that I studied in college. I have truly hated and resented the rules and politics of the church. Through that struggle, I could have taken two paths. I could have said "Eh, screw it," and walked away from everything. I've come VERY close to doing that, many times -- one time, in fact, while I was in the midst of a four-day retreat. Yeah, not the best time to have life-altering revelations about yourself.

For whatever reason that I truly cannot explain, something inside me has kept me going and, time after time, life proves to me that I am doing this life thing right. FOR MYSELF. I genuinely have no idea if what I have put my faith in is the "right" thing to believe in. I don't like the idea of one concept of god and a bigger reality being the only possible explanation. There's more than one way to approach every possible situation in life, so why should that be any different in whatever is out there that is bigger than us? What I've found as my comfort and my source of hope has worked for me, though, and I'm happy with that.

Let me again emphasize that what I believe in - rather traditional ideas of Catholicism - is what I have found for myself. Me. Not my friends. Not my country. I got into a pretty heated thing on Twitter over the fact that while America was founded with the idea of religious freedom in mind (my point in the argument), the ideas that our founding fathers had were generally pretty Christian (other person's point). Right. The people who founded our country did have some religious backgrounds. But they gave the people who live here the freedom to find what they believe in for themselves, with the security of no persecution.

I guess this is where my stance on the abortion issue can come in. This is something that I rarely talk about, even though I have been pretty active in the local and national pro-life scene. I do not think abortion itself is a religious issue. My small amount of work in journalism has given me good practice in being able to separate not only myself from issues, but also layers within issues. When I look at the research that has been done on BOTH sides of the topic (see that magic word? Yeah. It means that I'm not closed-minded and actually care about what everyone has to say. Some people really need to try that out sometimes), one thing always jumps out at me. I can't ignore it. That is a baby in there. It's a little tiny human person, that has the potential for so much.

I know that I put a lot of faith in people - more than is often due - but when you are truly an optimist, it's what you do. It's not a religious truth for me and it's not something to be debated politically. It's a person that should not have to die. I understand medical complications that some women face and pregnancy due to terrible circumstances. I get that. I have seen firsthand the heartbreaking decisions that women have had to go through.

But I believe women are a lot stronger than we receive credit for. The feminist umbrella that I identify myself as falling under rests in that. Women are wicked strong. We have to put up with insane emotional struggles while attempting to look like we have it all together and still somehow be sexy and funny and smart. For as much progress as we have made for our rights, we are still seen as the weaker, submissive gender.

Throw the "Exactly, that's why I'm pro-choice and it's my body, I can do what I want with it, that'll show them" argument at me. I've heard it more times than you can believe. But like I said... I believe in the goodness of people, first and foremost. I also have experienced, so many times, the weird simple fact that life works out. I would say that it works itself out, but, y'know, Catholic upbringing, there's something bigger than us, yadda yadda. I'm not saying it's easier to just go through with a pregnancy, at all. But struggles are a necessary part of life. They give you opportunities to grow as a person and in your faith and maybe someday, people will realize why they have gone through the things they have.

I really don't want this to become my "Why I'm pro-life" blog post, and I've already gone on for too long. But that whole issue has been bubbling just below the surface and it does have some part to play in this entirely ridiculous debate that has taken over the internet this week.

So, changing gears...

GAY PEOPLE ARE JUST REGULAR PEOPLE. There is nothing weird or wrong with their genetic makeup. I genuinely do not understand how there are still people in today's world who think otherwise.

That being said. What the HELL is the church's problem with gay families? My favorite argument to combat this is that is truly impossible for a gay couple to have a child they do not want. You show me one gay couple that is attempting to adopt a child and facing loophole after loophole, and I will show you twenty straight parents who resent their children and the changes they brought to their lives. There is not one child in a gay household who is not wanted there.

The issue that has come up in the past few days is bigger than that, though. It also goes back to some of the other points I've already attempted to make.

The USA is not a Catholic country. And marriage is not a Catholic concept. Yes, in Jesus' time, there was a shift in what marriage meant to people who were a part of the church, but people had been joining together for centuries before that, in every possible culture. Why are so many people using the Catholic church's view on gay marriage as the be-all and end-all for the debate? You don't have to get married in the Catholic church if you don't want to, so don't try and make every possible couple get married in one. Trying to sweep every pairing under the church's umbrella and weed out the non-nuclear families is insane.

That's why we are so lucky to be Americans. We live somewhere that ensures that, no matter what we believe, we can believe it. Why are so many Catholics so butthurt, then, that our politicians are attempting to ensure that equality for all sexual orientations? In nearly any other country in the world, we could be shot, simply for walking into church. It's a freedom that I know we take for granted and there is absolutely no reason why we should attempt to take any amount of freedom from ANYONE else.

The people asking for marriage equality are not asking the Catholic church for anything. They are asking the government to recognize their unions with the same respect that straight couples get. I understand that, in many cases, it can be argued that the people against gay marriage are simply expressing their same right to their own opinions... but it's bigger than that. The basic rights of a person to have their love recognized by their community should not be up for debate. It's fine to not agree, personally, with something. But a right like love should not be thwarted by religion.

Look, I get that I am not your perfect Catholic person and that because of the way our society looks at things, that's what people see and think about me first. But I am doing the best I can for myself, while being aware of the people around me and their needs. It's how I'm able to sleep at night and that's really all I can wish for myself.

I also don't know if this post means anything to anyone besides me, or if it is just a genuine mess of words that you may have skimmed or angrily read. I don't care. Everyone has been expressing their right to freedom of speech in the past few days, and it was time for me to do the same.

This isn't a creepy blog post about Steve Martin (except it totally is)

When I was a super headstrong 8 or 9 year old, I remember spending the better part of a summer afternoon trying to reason with my dad. The battle this time? Could I please, PRETTY PLEASE be allowed to walk the three blocks up to the local playground without adult supervision? All of my friends were doing it and besides, I knew the last thing my dad wanted to do was stop cheering on the Indians to accompany me. He wasn't having it, though. In an attempt to distract me from my argument, he yelled "LOOK OUT! I'M GETTING... HAPPY FEET!!!" and proceeded to stomp around the kitchen like a lunatic. Unfortunately, his impression worked and I forgot that going to the playground alone was a pressing issue.

King Tut and Grandmother's Song were as much a part of the soundtrack of my childhood as any other "normal" music. Of course, I grew up listening to 50s standards and early Whitney Houston, so I'm not one to base normal off of, but go with me here. There was also a phase for about five or 15 years where my dad would not open a door without pretending to run into it, nose-first, the way Steve does in Roxanne.

My childhood Christmases were magical escapes from the rigid rules of my ordinary life. My half brothers would come roaring into town, bringing with each of them an unyielding love of comedy that was only rivaled by my father's. They would let me watch shows like The Simpsons with them and, if we were lucky enough that my mom worked, I'd be allowed to stay up for that week's Saturday Night Live cold open and monologue. I was too young to really understand the jokes, but I saw how captivated and happy my dad and brothers were, and it made me happy. The three of them took great joy in annoying my mom with impromptu (and constant) performances of classic routines like Who's On First? and What the Hell is That?

When I was an even more headstrong 15 year old, my parents left me alone for an entire weekend for the first time. It was tradition -- for their anniversary, they would go to Buffalo and Niagara Falls for a weekend every summer, but this was the first time I didn't have to stay over at my aunt and uncle's. That Sunday morning, I found Father of the Bride on TV. My dad called me from their hotel room to see how I was doing... and he quickly realized we were both watching Steve Martin have a breakdown over hot dog buns. We spent a half hour on the phone together, laughing and eventually crying over the movie.

It was around then that I started discovering comedy for myself. I wasn't terribly popular in high school, so my Saturday evenings were typically spent watching the two-hour block of British comedies that the local PBS affiliate aired, followed by, once again, sneaking around to stay up late enough for at least the SNL monologues (whoa, look out, we got a real wild child on our hands). I was also lucky enough to find a best friend who was as, if not more, into comedy as I was becoming. The geeks of Freaks and Geeks getting together to listen to worn comedy albums? Yeah, that sort of thing.

When I was 19, my dad turned my world upside down. I had been coasting along, as naive and happy as I could manage, and was enjoying college and the beginnings of adulthood. Then, I was forced to grow up, FAR faster than anyone had anticipated. A few days after everything happened with my dad, my best friend checked up on me. I'd seen a huge outpouring of love and support from all sorts of people in my life, which meant the world, but she was the only person to really understood what it would take to help me keep going. She didn't force me to dwell on the new issues that had become my norm and instead we laughed over some cheesy old jokes.

The past six years have not been easy on me. I've had to deal with family issues that I would not wish on my worst enemies and, while I've had some incredible experiences and finally feel comfortable with myself, I also hit some really terrible lows. Luckily, I've been able to get through this mess with one simple thing -- laughter. A lovely side-effect from that drastic change was bouts of insomnia which, at the very least, allowed me to regularly stay up to watch SNL. The first episode that was new after that awful night was Tina Fey's season 33 hosting gig, that included an infamous Steve Martin cameo.

That brief appearance sparked something in me. I had been a bit wary of how to proceed with my relationship with my dad around that time, but being able to laugh at someone he idolized was freeing -- plus, for the first time, I was old enough to really understand his humor.

I've spent the past four or so years becoming an absolute comedy sponge. My sense of humor has very closely followed my dad's -- if it involves a former or current SNL cast member, Monty Python or George Carlin, I'm in. Thanks to Netflix and Pandora, I've seen/heard everything ever done by those three; it took over eight months, but I've watched every episode of SNL.

Above and beyond all that (brilliant) comedy, Steve Martin has remained in a special category of his own. Somewhere along my course of buying every DVD I could get my hands on (did you know that Walmart has 5-movie collections for $5?!), I finally discovered for myself the beauty that is Steve Martin, the author and Steve Martin, the musician.

It was nearly exactly two years ago when the news broke that Steve Martin and the Steep Canyon Rangers would be doing a concert in Chautauqua. The night before I ordered my ticket, my dad called me -- at this point, I hadn't actually seen him in about three years at this time -- and told me that when he was younger, all he wanted to do was see Steve Martin play banjo because he had heard he was really good. That did me in.

I've rehashed the story of seeing Steve Martin, in person, numerous times, but as far as the condensed version goes... I spent the entire day creeping outside the amphitheater and honestly was happy enough  just eavesdropping on sound check (Steve yelled that us people watching should have paid big money for the candid show we got to see). A few (sunburnt) hours before the doors were set to open, a regular at Chautauqua approached me because he liked my shoes (???). After a quick conversation, he guided me to a handicapped entrance that he promised would not disappoint me. I protested at first -- like I said, just seeing soundcheck was more than enough for me and I would have been thrilled with any seat in the theater. After briefly telling the other people waiting at that entrance about my ~history~ with Steve, however, they all agreed to give me the front of the line. I didn't quite realize at the time that this meant I was literally the FIRST person to walk into the amphitheater... and my ticket wound up being for the front row. On July 1, 2011, I was front row, dead center, for Steve Martin and the Steep Canyon Rangers. The entire concert was incredible and hilarious, but there were a few moments that remain clear as day for me.

At one point, the Rangers left the stage, leaving Steve and his banjo. He took off his picks and explained how there are two styles of banjo-playing -- the happy twangy mess that most people associate with the instrument, and a more melancholy sound that he prefers. The song he played was instrumental and haunting... and I quietly cried through the entire thing. In those few moments, it felt like all the weight I had been carrying since everything happened with my dad was lifted up and away as the breeze moved through the amphitheater. I've never felt so free in my life.

I had heard that Steve and the Rangers had been performing King Tut as a second encore at about half of their concerts on that tour, and obviously was hoping like mad that they would choose to there. The second I heard that ridiculous Egyptian intro, I burst into really stupid, ugly tears. I noticed most of the guys onstage (including Steve, which is kind of embarrassing, but whatever) give me a Look... I guess that's not the typical reaction to a stupid song about Pharaoh? Seeing that song performed live -- stupid dance moves included -- made the night as close to perfect for me as it could have gotten. The only thing that would have possibly made it better would have been if my dad had been able to be there with me.

I realize that I have your cliche "daddy issues." It's a dumb phrase that I've hated my entire life and never realized I could apply to myself until quite recently. I also, thankfully, realize that all these ~feelings~ I'm attempting to unload aren't me trying to fill some void my father left with Steve Martin. That's crazy and stalker-ish and what 99% of the people I hate on Tumblr do with their various favorite people. What I will say, however, is that through his work, Steve Martin has given me so many ways to cope with the shit that life throws my way. Thanks to his crazy genius, I can escape in a movie, book or music, whenever I need to -- and I can know for sure that the quality of that work is going to be really, really good.

My dad wouldn't have raised me as a fan if that wasn't the case.