I’ve been writing here much more than I have in a long time as an outlet. I’m still processing what happened two weekends ago, and I don’t have the ability to throw my emotions up on a stage and work them out. So I write them out here.
But I still feel an overwhelming powerlessness right now.
Richmond’s improv community is planning a benefit show for Thomas’ family. Needless to say, the costs of a funeral and burial are obscene, and the Georges weren’t expecting to have to pay them. So it’s a good thing that everyone’s doing – and if it means Richmond’s fragmented improv scene starts to come together a bit, that’s an added benefit.
But for me, it just amplifies how little I feel I can do. I mean, yeah, I donated a few bucks to the cause, but… there’s this big thing happening that all I can do is watch.
Yeah, there are some people involved who will try to find something for me to do (I’m grateful that they believe I’d add some value to it – and especially grateful to the one person who’s looking out for me in all of this)… but I’m not expecting it to happen. There are so many people coming together for this event from inside the improv community that they will have a hard enough time finding productive activities for all of them – so really, where would I fit?
So – sure, I would like to find some way to help, but… it goes back to a recurring theme in my life. I’m around them, but I’m not part of them (for those who may be coming in late, that’s my fault, nobody else’s). All I can do, I guess, is make sure I clear the night, once a date is set, and pick up a ticket. It’s less than I’d like, but I’m kind of used to that, too.
And that relates to the other item I need to mention. I finally finished that epic post-turned-page that I mentioned earlier.
Over the last week, I wrote over 4500 words about me.
Yes, the whole blog is about me, but this is different.
In the wake of Thomas’ death (and then finding out about Barry’s brush with suicide), the reminders of life’s fragility led me to the realization that nobody really knows me.
They know of me. They know the small windows I open up. But that’s kind of carefully controlled. I don’t talk about where I’ve been, how I got here, or who I was before this moment. I can talk a lot about a little bit of me, but I don’t even talk a little about the larger aspects of me. Until now.
So if you were ever the least bit curious about how I got to be the square peg in a world of round holes that I am today, make with the clickity-click.
And yes, this is the kind of risk I’ve been talking about. Until now, I very deliberately avoided opening myself up. This is another step in trying to take my life back instead of running from it. I’m putting it up as a page so it doesn’t disappear in the mists of Blog Time. It can be permalinked, and pointed to when people ask me who the hell I think I am…
You know what? I hope other people do the same thing. We all know of each other, but does anyone really know anyone else anymore?
If you like the idea, and you can wade through my lengthy meanderings, try doing your own life story. I’ll read it. Just point me in the right direction.