Author: Amelia

About a month ago, my sister Megan and I went to Missouri for a family trip. We were on the plane going to Kansas City and the flight attendant came by to take drink orders. I was focused on not barfing/crying (I’m a terrible flyer), so I passed, knowing that whatever went down, had a 98% chance of coming right back up. Megan got a tomato juice (it’s a Brantley thing, for some reason when they fly they crave tomato juice…. gross). A few minutes later the flight attendant returned with the drinks. The gentleman sitting next to Megan took a sip of his cranberry juice and immediately said “WOW. That had a kick. I don’t think this is mine.” Since there was nothing good on the headrest TV, I turned my attention to the scene unfolding next to me. The flight attendant realized she had accidently given that guy a vodka/cranberry that someone else ordered, instead of the just cranberry juice he wanted. She apologized profusely, he laughed it off, they moved on. They did… I didn’t. I was pissed! I thought “Oh my GOD! If that had been me, I would have gone crazy on the woman!”. I mean, here I am, sitting on over 200 days of sobriety, and I mean not even a sip of alcohol or a puff of a cigarette since January 1st 2015 at 2:01am, and if that had all been ruined by some stranger’s (innocent) carelessness, I would have lost my damn mind. I spent the rest of that three hour flight quietly, yet passionately whispering not-so-nice things about that flight attendant to my sister, who listened while holding a barf bag and nursing her bruised hand from my squeezing too hard on take-off (seriously, I really shouldn’t fly, ever).

Well, I’d like to take this opportunity to apologize to the flight attendant for whom I’ve been harboring such disdain. Turns out that kind of mistake is pretty easy to make.

Last night, my favorite married couple in the entire universe came to town and we all went out to celebrate. It was a casual evening with the best of friends just hanging out at a local bar playing pool and laughing. When we got to the bar, my person, Lydia, not wanting me to feel left out, asked if they had any non-alcoholic beer.

I’ve tried non-alcoholic beer one other time, on St. Patty’s Day this year when I took my sister out and watched her down a bunch of real green beer. When I go out to bars now, I usually just get a seltzer water, or a Red Bull if I feel myself draining and it’s only 9pm (which happens a lot). The way I feel about non-alcoholic beer is how I feel about decaf coffee. I just don’t get it. If you aren’t intaking it for the buzz, why all the calories? (Maybe one of you weirdos holding up the line at Starbucks for a decaf frappuccino can explain it to me someday).

Neverless, last night was a special occassion and I was feeling a little left out of the drinking, so I decided a non-alcoholic beer may help me feel a little more “in”. St. Pauli’s non-alcoholic beer…. MMMmmmm…. skunk pee.

I’ve honestly been kind of frustrated with my sobriety lately. I started this challenge because I knew I needed to. I felt that deep down there was a lot of dark, twisty, beautiful, real stuff I needed to learn about myself and I had to go to extreme measures to figure it all out. As hard and heartbreaking as the first few months of this year were, it was incredible, and lately, I’ve really felt myself come into my own as this adult woman that I never knew before. It’s a great feeling. I haven’t blogged a lot lately because I’ve been saying more and more, “I think I kinda figured it all out”. I’ve started to think that the only reason I’m not drinking now is because I promised myself and all you amazing people reading this blog and supporting me, that I wouldn’t. I’ve been wondering if that’s a good enough reason to keep this up. In the last couple weeks, my sobriety hasn’t felt fulfilling, it’s become somewhat of a burden.

Being in that head-space and wanting to celebrate with friends last night, made saying no to alcohol, the hardest it’s ever been. I think the Universe knew I was struggling and decided to work in the mysterious way it’s known for.

I was standing near a round community table in the middle of the bar, half listening to the conversation taking place next to me and thinking “woe as me”. I reached down for my skunk pee, took a sip, and immediately thought, “Oh. SHIT.” I looked at the glass bottle in my hand praying it was green and I’d see that skanky St. Pauli beer maiden grimacing back at me, but no. The bottle in my hand was brown and belonged to a gentleman named Sam Adams, 5.5% alcohol by volume. My eyes got big, I thought “don’t swallow”, but it was too late. I had taken a sip of alcohol and I was SO mad!

My first thought was , “Well, screw it. I’m going to drink now”. My second thought was, “maybe you should run this by mom and Megan first”. I sent an SOS group text to my “sponsors”, but their responses, which were “don’t do it” an “it was an accident, don’t panic”, weren’t holding any clout with the party goblin in my brain yelling “who cares!” and “you might as well now!”. I stepped outside to call my mom.

I’m obviously not afraid to admit that even at 28-years-old, sometimes, I just want my mommy. I’m also not afraid to admit that most of the time, she knows exactly what to say to calm me down. After a ten minute back and forth debate, we concluded that last night was definitely not the night to break my sobriety, but it was definitely something to write about.

I think what happened to me last night happens to everyone in different ways. You set a goal for yourself or have an expectation for how things should work out, and if there’s a bump in the road or it doesn’t unfold as planned, your first instinct is to throw in the towel. If you’re like me, and have a tendency to bolt at the first sign of imperfection, let me tell you, don’t. To quote my Mama (and Mama’s everywhere), everything is going to be ok.

I woke up this morning relieved that I didn’t let my “oops” dictate the end of my sobriety and I realized, that maybe I’m not done, maybe there is a litle bit more left for me to learn this year.

I’ve been coming to terms with a pretty bad habit. This is another one of those sobriety lessons I wasn’t really sure I could write about, mainly because I have a hard time fessing up to it. I’ve been able to talk about it with some of my closest confidants, and in talking about it, I decided to be brave and share.

I was with my sister yesterday (my closest of confidants), and this topic came up because I was re-capping a conversation I had with another person, in which the same topic came up. I oh-so casually mentioned that maybe it was time to write about it, and my brainiac sister simply responded, “you should, it’s something I think a lot of people can relate to”, and that blew my mind.

For the longest time, I thought I was the only person with this bad habit. I was so scared to admit to it because I was certain I would lose most of my friends and all of my acquaintances when they found out that I was secretly a horrible person with this nasty, rotting skelton in my closet.

So after I picked my brain up from my sister’s bedroom floor and collected my thoughts, I decided it was definitely time to own up to the fact that, I’m not always honest.

I think I can pretty much pin point when this bad habit developed. I was a kid who required a lot of attention. I’ve always just been more comfortable in the spotlight, even if that spotlight was just shining while I talked my parents’ ears off at the dinner table. I remember listening to someone else speak at the table, for as long as I could, all the while thinking, “I need something to top this”. If I didn’t have an experience that day to talk about, then I’d make one up. Now, I wouldn’t just pull something out of thin air. I would take a situation and just make it more exciting. For example, if I got into a fight with a friend at school, the story couldn’t end with “and we just ignored each other all day”, there needed to be more drama to captivate my audience, so the story ended with “we had a screaming match on the playground and she shoved me in the sandbox”. That way I wasn’t completely lying. I was exaggerating. My story was “inspired by true events”.

Seems innocent enough right? I think it would have been just that, an innocent phase, but life seemed to have a different, more chanllenging plan. (Doesn’t it always?)

When I was still pretty young, I was introduced to a new person who would become a main character in the story of my life. I was told this person would be a role model for me, someone who would protect me, and someone who cared about me. This person turned out to be the exact opposite of all those things. I spent a lot of my life trying to be good enough for this person and wanting so badly for them to accept me and love me the way they were supposed to. But, no matter what I did, good or bad, and no matter what I said, fact or fiction, this person wouldn’t budge. They had decided not to let me in, and there was nothing I could do to change their mind. Years of struggling culminated one night when this person finally said to me, “I don’t love you”.

I had felt a lack of love from them for years, but hearing them say it, did something to me.

When someone tells you they don’t love you because you aren’t good enough or because you don’t deserve it; those words sink into your bones, and they rest there, and every now and then, you feel them stir inside of you. They wake up long enough to whisper hurtful things into your ear and remind you of what it felt like to have your fifteen-year-old heart completely broken.

In an effort to surpress those memories and never get hurt again, I started catering to everyone around me. I became the person people wanted to be around. I put my own personality and needs to the side and focused on how to make a room full of people love me, even if those people were complete strangers. I developed a thick skin, a strong sense of humor, and loose morals, and I got the results I wanted. People loved me.

Problem was, I wasn’t really fond of myself, but drinking while lying quieted that pesky little voice telling me “you are better than this”.

Then the real fun began. I started waking up after a night of storytelling wondering “what the hell did I say last night” and “will it come back to bite me in the ass”. I started thinking of what I’d say if I were ever confronted by my web of lies. I spent more time living in “what-if’s” than I did facing my reality, which is what I really should’ve been doing all along.

And realizing that, changed me. Coming to terms with my reality, my past and present reality, killed my urge to exaggerate or lie or tell stories because my reality is incredible. I have a lot and I am a lot and knowing that is enough. I am enough.

I’ve been purposely putting myself in more “uncomfortable” situations, where I would normally end up drinking and telling someone that Hilary Clinton was my Godmother (true story, I said that once). While in these situations, sipping from a glass of bubble water (seltzer, whatever); I always take a second to look around and realize that I’m not uncomfortable at all because for the first time in my life, I am completely comfortable with who I am.

I came home from a party a few weeks ago, where I had a moment like I just described, and I was feeling really good about it. So good, that I sat down and had a heart-to-heart with my fifteen-year-old self. I told her not to waste anymore time trying to be something someone else can love because in the end, the greatest love you will ever feel is the love you have for yourself… and I am worthy of that love, honestly.

When I started this blog seven months ago, I told myself I would never write about what I now find myself writing about.

I decided this topic was just too personal and I would save it for my diary. Lucky for you people, I don’t keep a diary.

What’s the “it” I’m referring to? Well, it. Doing it. Getting frisky. Making whoopie. S-E-X.

Editor’s Note: I realize that a majority of my readers knew me when I was in diapers. If my talking about sex makes you uncomfortable, now is the time to hit the back button and return to your Facebook newsfeed for more appropriate entertainment.

I’m choosing to write about this particular subject now because, well, it’s come up a lot, and it’s come up a lot because there has been an undeniable and surprising change in this particular department for me.

It all started with a harmless and hysterical text message.

I was partaking in some witty text banter with one of my gal pals a few weeks ago. This lady has been around me a lot during my sobriety and knew me fairly well before my sobriety, and one of her favorite past times is busting my balls (no pun intended). We went through our usual back and forth, and then, somehow, my sex life entered the conversation. My clever friend summed up this particular topic perfectly by sending me a GIF of a tumbleweed rolling through the desert.

It’s funny because it’s true.

My sobriety has dramatically changed my sex life, and that really, really surprised me.

Now, to clarify (mainly because I’m 98% sure my mother did not take the editor’s advice above), I would consider my sexual history to be pretty average for a 20-something living in Los Angeles for the past nine years. I’ve fallen in love and made mistakes and tried different things, all on the journey to figuring out what I want for myself and a partner.

That being said, I couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe I have been doing something wrong. Why else would I be experiencing the longest dry spell I’ve ever had during my year of sobriety? That seemed like too much of a coincidence to ignore.

So, I put my one semester as a journalism major at UMASS, Amherst to use, and I did some investigating. I started asking my close friends some questions.

Editor’s Note: Thank you friends for humoring me and being so honest with me. I really appreciate all of the conversations I had and I promise to never pry into your personal business ever again.

I was hoping these friends would give me consistent answers. I was hoping to discover some direct relationship between alcohol and sex. I didn’t get what I was hoping for, but I got so much more. Not being able to develop a clear and proven correlation, I knew the answers I wanted weren’t going to come from my friends or anyone else for that matter. The answers I was looking for had to come from me.

I asked myself some pretty tough questions, and gave myself some even tougher answers.

“Why do you think you’re having less sex now that you are sober?”
– Well, I was using sex the way I was using alcohol. Not always, but definitely in the last year or two, since I got out of my last serious relationship.

“Can you clarify that?”
– Um, yeah. My dad told me once that, when I was baby, the only time I would really cry, I mean wail, was when I wanted to be held. That need translated into my adult life in different ways. I think I’ve always been afraid to be alone, and when my last relationship ended, I was the most alone I had ever been in my life. I was living alone for the first time ever, single for the first time in years, and I hated that feeling.

“So, how did you cope?”
– Not very well. I became more social. I surrounded myself with friends and guys as much as possible. And I started drinking a lot more.

“And what would happen when you drank?”
– It was a lot easier for me to send a guy that 2am “what are you doing?” text. I was more apt to say yes to the guy at the bar asking me if I “needed a ride home”. I made some choices that I probably wouldn’t have made sober.

“How did that effect you emotionally?”
– Honestly, it didn’t. I wouldn’t let it. That’s what I mean when I say I was using sex and alcohol the same way. I was using both of these things to numb myself from a reality I didn’t want to feel. I didn’t want to feel alone, so sex became a bandaid. Alcohol made it all easier. If I texted a guy or asked someone out while under the influence, I wasn’t afraid of being rejected. When the guy answered my text or said yes to my proposition, I wasn’t worried about the consequences of my actions because my inhibitions were lowered.

“And now? How has this year been so different?”
– In every way. I experienced sober intimacy this year for the first time, probably ever in my adult life, and it was terrifying, in the best way possible. There was a lot of anxiety that came with that, but also so many positives. I’m so aware of myself, my emotions, my sexuality now, and I think I’m starting to understand sex the way it’s meant to be understood. It’s not a crutch or a bandaid or a temporary fix. It’s something really, really awesome that I need to respect. Of course, it can be fun and exciting, and it should be, but it should never be reckless.

And, well, that’s what I was being, reckless.

I want to close this by stating that no matter how reckless I was or how many mornings I woke up thinking “Oh no, what’d I do last night” (don’t worry, Mom, there weren’t too many of those), I don’t regret a single thing.

I don’t believe in regret. I think everything happens for a reason. I think every intimate moment I’ve had, both under the influence and sober, has led me to the very place I find myself now; 12a.m. on day 201 of my sobriety, falling asleep alone, and feeling pretty good about it.

I am officially halfway through my year of sobriety (which means the year is half over, can you believe it?)

I was talking to someone the other day and told them that the last six months have been the worst six months I’ve ever experienced. I reflected on that later and decided that was a poor choice of words. The last 187.5 days haven’t been “the worst”, but they’ve been really, really hard.

I had no idea what I was getting into when I made this promise to myself (and the entire internet). I thought the hardest part would be resisting the urge to buy a bottle of wine on a hot summer day or saying no to a cute guy offering me a beer at a party.

Man, was I WAY off.

The hardest part has been getting to know myself. That sounds negative, and I’m not going to lie, for a while it was. I started focusing on what I didn’t have and what I couldn’t do and I felt really sorry for myself. I was miserable.

Then something shifted inside of me. I made a conscious choice to focus only on the good stuff. I started learning about meditation and what it means to focus on positive, higher vibrations. (It sounds totally hippy-dippy, I know, but it works). So, in the spirit of good vibrations, let’s re-cap all the good stuff from the last 187.5 days of my sobriety.

JANUARY: I was surprised at how easily I swung into my sobriety. I was happily overwhelmed by the amount of love and support I recieved from my friends and family and even people I hadn’t spoken to in years. (For the record, I’m still in awe of all of you and can’t thank you enough for your encouragement.) I took a lot of bubble baths in January. I started running. I finally went to Dunkin Donuts (the only one in LA). I pulled off a 500 person, $60k event at the hotel (my biggest event ever). I became a vegetarian. I went on a sober date. I watched all ten seasons of Friends. I decided it was time to live with someone again and made plans to move in with a roommate. I used a crockpot for the first time. I baked A LOT. I found creative ways to fill up my new found free time. I realized that I was no longer the girl texting “pre-game at my place” and was now the girl looking for a hiking buddy on the weekends.

FEBRUARY: I got laid off (which was actually a HUGE blessing in disguise). Me and Dusty started the “who wore it better” photo series. I spent time with my mom and Grammy. I started taking Warner to the puppy park more regularily. I read a lot. I let myself sleep in. I did the hard side of Runyon every day. I shot a scene that I had been wanting to put on film for a long time. I spent more time with my sister and her friends. I watched almost all the movies nominated for Oscars and actually knew what I was talking about at an Oscar party. I decided that my blog didn’t just have to be about not drinking, but that all of the lessons I was learning during this unique time in my life were totally sharable, and I became less afraid to share everything that was happening.

MARCH: I moved. I painted a room all by myself. I built an Ikea dresser. I fell for someone for the first time in a long time. I became addicted to frozen custard. I auditioned for the Actor’s Studio (and got a callback!). I swam in the ocean. I became best friends with a 4 year old mini-me. I had lunch with my senior prom date. I auditioned for three series regular roles on two different pilots. I tried non-alcoholic beer. I went to a “Macbeth” table read and got to work with some amazing actors. I stopped noticing that I wasn’t drinking in social situations. Being sober at a party or at a bar with friends started to feel normal.

APRIL: I celebrated my birthday. I watched all seven seasons of Gilmore Girls. I went to Cinderella at The Ahmanson to see my senior prom date star as Prince Charming. I served at church during Easter services. A film I was in won a college Emmy. I started a new acting class. I got new headshots, which led to so many more auditions. I got to be there when one of my favorite people got his big acting break. I finally came to terms with the fact that, as cheesy as it sounds, dreams do come true. Nothing is impossible if you are willing to go all in and really believe in yourself and what you want to accomplish.

MAY: I became addicted to night hikes. I celebrated Mother’s Day with my three favorite women. I let go of an old friend and understood that sometimes people out-grow friendships, and that’s ok. I went to Disneyland. I found peace in saying goodbye to my Grampy. May was the hardest, and lonliest month, but I came out of it so much better. I spent a lot of time looking inward for comfort and solace and finding those things for myself, in myself, was eye opening. I felt my independence for the first time.

JUNE: I learned about the Law of Attraction. I spent a lot of time with my best friend. I made s’mores. I went to a Dodger’s game. I celebrated my sister’s 30th birthday (with a quincineaera-themed party). I completed a 30-day butt squat challenge. I had the biggest audition of my career thus far. I picked up writing a screenplay my dad and I started last year. I took my 4 year old mini-me to the Sound of Music Sing-A-Long at the Hollywood Bowl and watched her eyes light up, seeing a movie on a big screen for the first time. I started meditating daily. I made a lot of spiritual discoveries in June. I feel like I’m getting a grasp on what I want my life to become. I started to visualize my life 6 months, a year, ten years from now with a new set of eyes and found new excitement and inspiration in what I saw.

Since we’re only a few days into July, there isn’t much to talk about yet, but I have a feeling it’s going to be another good month full of new discoveries and epiphanies. In fact, I think the next 187.5 days are going to be full of all that good stuff. From here on out…. positive vibes only, guys.

I’ve been staring at my keyboard all morning trying to figure out the best way to start this post.

My first draft was talking about all the home movies I have from my childhood because my Grampy had gotten a camera before one of his visits and didn’t put the thing down the entire time he was with us. There’s this great moment on one of the tapes. Grampy is standing at the top of the hill that our house sat on and he’s filming me and Megan walking up the hill from the school bus. Megan walks up first and Grampy asks her, “Where’s your sister?”. Megan points behind her and casually offers Grampy an oyster cracker from the bag she’s snacking on. A few minutes later I come waddling up the hill carrying not only my backpack, but Megan’s as well. Grampy thought this was hysterical and instead of rushing to help his six-year-old granddaughter carry one hundred pounds worth of school books, he kept rolling… and laughing. Grampy never really babied me the way other family members did. He knew a secret about me that I don’t even think I knew at the time. He knew I was a lot tougher than I let on.

I erased that opening. The words didn’t seem to do this post justice.

My second pass at it was all about leading a double life, in the best way possible. For as long as I can remember, our family vacations during the holidays and over the summer involved a trip to Missouri, where my mom is from. We’d spend weeks there at a time because there was always a lot of (very different) ground to cover. We’d usually start at my Grammy’s house. Grammy’s house was big and looked like a page out of a Martha Stewart magazine and it always smelled like something was cooking or baking. Most mornings I’d be woken up early to go shopping or on some sort of girly adventure. After a few days in the city, we’d pile in the car and make a two or three hour drive to Grampy’s house, in Osceola, Missouri. Population 400 (and I think that’s counting the people in the cemetary). Grampy lived on a dirt road in a cozy three bedroom home that was decorated with collectibles and memories. We’d sleep with the windows open in the summer since there was no A/C and I was always surprised by how silent everything was at night. I’d get woken up early in the morning to ride ATV’s or go fishing. Shoes weren’t a necesity, unless we were going to walk down the dirt road to the country store on the corner for an ice cream cone. That was real country living and I loved it. I loved my double life.

Backspace, backspace, backspace. The above still didn’t seem quite right.

How do I write about this? What am I supposed to say? Why did I think this was going to be easier than it’s been?

My Grampy died. He had been sick for a long time. He was placed into hospice care a few weeks ago and we were all told to prepare ourselves for what was coming and I thought I did. I thought I could handle this.

I knew Grampy wasn’t happy just lying in a bed. He was an active guy and always on the go. He also had an incredible amount of faith. All of us knew he was going to Heaven and he was looking forward to it. I know my Grampy is probably up there fishing with Jesus right now and he’s probably the happiest he’s ever been.

Then why is this still so hard?

He was my favorite person in the entire world. He was the funniest, sassiest, strongest, most gracious, person you’ll ever meet. He was my biggest fan. He sat through countless dance recitals, and concerts, and school plays. He never let me quit, even when I thought I wanted to. Just hearing him say “I believe in you”, kept me going for another day. I can’t wrap my head around the fact that I’m never going to hear him say that again. I dreamed about taking him to a movie premiere or watching my latest TV show with him. I guess there was still a lot I was hoping we could do together.

I do know that I’m lucky to have been able to share my faith with him because I find some peace in knowing that he will still see everything I accomplish in the future. I know he’s watching over me and everyone he loved. Heaven definitely gained an incredible angel this week.

Heaven also gained a comedian. I think everyone that knew Ralph Kleechultee has a favorite joke he told. As hard as it was to start this post, I think the only appropriate way to end it is innappropraitely, with the last joke Grampy Ralph told me.

A woman had a prize winning schnauzer. One day, the woman took her schnauzer to a competition in Kansas City and for the first time the dog lost. When the woman asked the judge why he said it was because there was too much fur in between the dogs toes. The woman went to the pharmacy to buy some Nair to remove the fur from her schnauzer’s toes. When she was checking out, the pharmacist told her, “you know when you use this, you can’t wear stockings for a week”. “Oh it’s not for my legs”, the woman replied. “Well then you can’t use deodorant for a week”, the pharamcist informed her. “No. It’s for my schnauzer”, said the woman. “Well then you can’t ride a bike for a week”, replied the pharmacist.

Yup. That was my Grampy’s sense of humor. I guess no one needs to wonder where I get it from now….

Rest in peace, Grampy. I know I’ll laugh with you again someday.

I went off the grid for a while.

I’ve spent the last few weeks feeling really sorry for myself and having more breakdowns than Meredith Grey on all eleven seasons of Grey’s Anatomy, combined. I hurt a few people I really care about. I drove away people who just wanted to help. I’m really not proud of who I’ve been lately.

I know what triggered all of this, but to be completely honest, I’m almost too embarrassed to admit what that is. I will say, it’s a pretty classic case of “Amelia didn’t get what she wanted”. I’ve talked a lot about my “bratty” years in this blog, and I’ve laughed about all of them like that’s all in the past. Well, turns out, I still have a bit of growing up to do.

I went off  the grid because I had maxed out on regretful words and actions. If I had attempted to blog anything in the last few weeks, most of you would have read it and assumed my blog had been hacked by an emo thirteen year old who just got high for the first time and can’t stop listening to Coldplay.

Well, since I’m blogging again, that must mean everything is all better, right? Eh. Not really. The same issues I had a month ago are still very present. My heart still hurts sometimes and I know I’m not out of the woods just yet.

That being said, something happened this past week that changed my perspective drastically.

Last Wedensday I had a girl’s night with my best friend, Abbie. This girl is my lifeline. She and I have been through it all together and she knows me inside and out, probably better than I know myself at this point. To sum it up, she’s my go-to person.

A side note: On the car ride up to Abbie’s house, I called my mom to tell her I was quitting acting. I had reached the end of my rope and I just couldn’t keep going with it. It was the first time I ever made that statement and meant it.

After fighting tears and traffic on the 405 (who takes the 405 at 530pm…. this girl), I dragged my mostly lifeless body into Abbie’s house, forcing a smile, and trying my hardest not to burden another friend with another meltdown.

Abbie, of course, instantly saw right through whatever show I was half-ass-attempting to put on, and, to be blunt, shit got real. I let go. I said things out loud that I had been keeping to myself for weeks. I talked it out and Abbie responded with nothing but unconditional love.

Towards the end of the night, something came up that I had heard Abbie talk about before, but this time, I couldn’t brush it off. Abbie mentioned, in a passing comment, the Law of Attraction. I normally roll my eyes at the “hippie-dippy”, spirtual, universe stuff. Instead, I asked Abbie to explain it. She told me to go home and watch “The Secret” and I did. (How many of you just rolled your eyes at that hippie-dippy sentence?).

Ok, the film itself is totally cheesy. Most of the people sound like they’re reading cue cards that were written by a wannabe Joel Ostein, and the people improvising their “inspirational messages” are really just talking about how great their lives are, and by the end of it, you’re visualizing hitting all of them with a school bus.

That being said, watching this fine piece of filmmaking did something to me. I wish I could explain this better than I’m about to, so bear with me. The Secret made me realize I had lost something I used to do as a kid.

Whenever my family and I were in the car together, if no one was paying attention to me (and I was ok with that), mini-me played this kinda weird “game”, if you will. I would put my hand on the window of the car and I would stare at it for a long time. As I was staring at my hand, I’d get excited by the fact that it was my hand and I would think about how cool it was to be alive and I would imagine all the things I was going to do with my life and I would just get so excited, I mean extreme butterflies in my stomach type-excited.

As I grew up, I stopped doing that. I would still be ecstatic about life when something good happened, but I stopped allowing my thoughts to make those good things happen.

Our thoughts are powerful. Our thoughts create our feelings, and we attract what we feel. That’s the basic foundation of the Law of Attraction. I highly recommend anyone reading this do a little more research on what I’m talking about (maybe even suffer through the one hour and forty minute cheesefest that is “The Secret”).

The past month or so has been so shitty because I was feeeling that way. All of my thoughts were full of anxiety and negativity, so I was attracting even more anxiety and negativity into my life. Has my situation changed overnight? No. Like I said before, most of the same “issues” are still there, but I’m not allowing those things to take over my thoughts. Instead, I’m visualizing what my future has in store for me and what I want in life and I’m believing that it will all come into fruition. I’m staring at my hand and getting those same childhood butterflies in my stomach.

Call me a hippie-dippy, but I think I’m onto something here.

A follow-up to my side note: I’m not quitting acting. Come on, guys, that’d just be crazy. 

Fun fact: My senior year of high school I applied to the University of San Francisco as a theology major. I seriously considered going into ministry. Then I found out that if I did this I would spend my freshman year living in an all girls dorm supervised by a priest and I went with plan b (ZooMass Amherst, where I was a double major in tequilla and bad life choices).

There’s still a small part of me that wants to go in that direction. I daydream occasionally about being a pastor or a worship leader. I’ve just never been able to get fully on board with organized religion and at the end of the day, I know that isn’t my calling.

However, whilst daydreaming, I’ve thought about the messages I would give. If I could preach one message, what would that message be?

It would be this….

Growing up, I was never bored. I grew up on a quiet, dead end street. The house my family lived in sat on top of a big hill and was surrounded by other houses, all with kids my age living in them. We didn’t have iPhones or the internet, or even cable. We had swing sets, a skip-it, and a lot of imagination. And when all those things failed to entertain me, I had two really creative parents. My parents loved to surprise my sister and me. My mom or dad would wake us up in the morning saying “I have a surprise for you today” and those words would immediately send butterflies rushing into my stomach. I’d leap out of bed, pick out the perfect outfit, and rush downstairs for more clues on what this “surprise” could be.

I remember one time in particular. I’m not sure how old I was, but I was young. I woke up and went downstairs and was greeted by my mother saying “I have a suprise for you today”. The usual butterflies danced in my belly as I hurried through breakfast and ran upstairs to pick out the right sweater/leggings-tucked-into-my-socks combo for such an occasion. One hour and four “I have nothing to wear” temper tantrums later (I was a bit of a drama queen back then), my sister and I piled into the car, excited for the day.

The drive was long and I was growing impatient. I kept asking “How much longer?” and “When are we going to be there?”, and the more I whined, the less fun the entire experience became.

I believe that when we are created, God does something similar to what my mother did that day. He whispers “I have a surprise for you” into all of our hearts. Most people refer to this “surprise” as our “calling” or “purpose”, and most of us have no idea what that is until God reveals it to us. However, we spend a lot of time trying to guess what that surprise might be and when it will be unveiled.

I remember being in the car, and in between my moans and groans, I started to guess where we were going. The more wrong answers I guessed, the more frustrated I became, and the more annoyed my sister was. Megan (my sister) was fine with not knowing where we were going and was smart enough to know we’d get there eventually and all would be revealed, so she just sat back and enjoyed the ride (as best she could with her obnoxious little sister squealing every 2 minutes).

So, are you a Megan, or an Amelia? Are you able to sit in the passenger seat of your life, calmly, trusting that what God has in store for you is great and will be shown to you when the time is right? Or, do you wiggle and squirm and try to guess where you’re going or scream “when are we going to be there”?

I personally strive to be more like Megan every day (in a lot of ways, but this one in particular). That kind of patience and trust is essential to living a happy life. It goes back to what I’ve posted about in the last two entries, dealing with anixety and the “I can’t wait” mindset. I know, it’s easier said than done, but if we can just let go of this need to control everything that happens to us or for us, we can all live in one of my favorite cliches, “it’s not about the destination, but the journey”.

The best thing I learned from moments like this in my childhood is that the outcome of these surprises was always a hundred times better than what I could have ever imagined or guessed. That particular day, I spent the very long car ride guessing we were going to McDonald’s or the mall or the playground. We ended up at an apple orchard and spent all day picking apples, riding in the hay wagons, and eating apple doughnuts. It was a better adventure than I could have anticipated.

And that’s exactly what God has in store for us. We can’t even begin to imagine what He has planned for our lives. Jeremiah 29:11 says “‘ For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.'” And in Luke 18:27, Jesus says, “What is impossible with man is possible with God”. Put these two verses together and you’ve got a God that can do anything for you and plans to do just that.

The title of my blog is becoming a bit ironic.

I’ve talked about this before but when I started all of this, one of the main reasons was because I felt like I was missing out on pieces of my life. I started to realize I was drinking to avoid the tough stuff or brush off moments that were uncomfortable or difficult. I was drinking to have “fun” and drank too much in an attempt to keep that “fun” going. At the beginning of the year, when I decided to go 365 days without drinking, a big part of my reasoning was that I wanted to feel more and experience every ounce of life.

Lately, I’ve found myself doing the exact opposite.

In a drastic attempt to remain present, I’ve found myself counting down the days till the year is over and saying things like “I can’t wait to drink again”. I hate that saying “I can’t wait”. Saying things like that takes me compeltely out of my current state. I stop seeing today for what it is and start resenting my present circumstances because they don’t seem as good or as exciting as something that could happen down the road.

I should clarify. There’s nothing wrong with being excited or expectant for the future. That’s what keeps dreams and goals alive. It’s knowing that someday, those dreams will come true.  But, there’s a reason why expressions like “it’s not about the destiantion, but the journey”, are so popular.

So, in an effort to remain PRESENTly sober, I vow to stop using the phrase “I can’t wait”. I’m going to stop thinking about what I might do on my first day after sobreity. I’m going to stop worrying about how I might feel if I don’t have the success I hope for after all this is over. I’m just going to stop. And I’m going to breathe. And I’m going to trust that this is all part of God’s plan and I’m going to start enjoying every step that I take for the next 241 days.

At this point you shouldn’t believe a word I say. I promised a blog-post three(ish) weeks ago and have yet to deliver. It’s coming eventually. Promise… kinda.

To be honest, I haven’t felt like writing much lately. That’s an odd feeling for me. I usually always feel like doing something creative with my free time and my go-to is almost always writing. I’ve been working on a big writing project for over a year now, but have had little desire to even go near it for a few weeks. At first, I blamed writer’s block. Then I decided it was “okay” to be “lazy” for a little bit. And then after almost a month of said “laziness”, I realized, the problem was much bigger.

The topic of this post might make you a little uncomfortable. I’m uncomfortable writing it. You can bet I’ve read and erased and re-written most of it at least four times by now.

I want to talk about depression and anxiety. More specifically, my struggle.

Most of my close friends and pretty much all of my family knows I’ve struggled with anxiety for about as long as any of us can remember. As a kid, I was a pretty big “scaredy-cat”, which translated into being a “worry-wart” as I grew up, and eventually, the sugar-coated terms for my irriational fears and dramatic outbursts became clinical diagnoses. I was told I had an anxiety disorder and this disorder meant that my brain wasn’t producing normal levels of seratonin, which made me irritable and constantly worried. I was prescribed a low dosage of citalopram, which is considered an antidepressant in the family of SSRIs (selective seratonin reuptake inhibitors).

Initially, being put on an antidepressant was kind of embarrassing. I wondered a few times, what was wrong with me? Why couldn’t my brain work like everyone else’s brains? Then I learned that what I was going through was far from uncommon. In fact, as I was being diagnosed and treated, so were three other people in my family. (Side note: Science is still trying to link genetics to this disorder).

That still didn’t stop me for getting really, really mad at myself. I would look in the mirror and see a beautiful, young girl with the world wrapped around her finger. I had a lot of things to be grateful for, yet for some reason all those good things never seemed to outweigh the bad probabilities floating around in my imagination. It was frustrating to know that despite all the wonderful things around me, I needed a pill to help me see it all.

That’s the tricky thing about this type of disorder. Your thinking is still logical. You know most of your fears are ridiculous and when you’re in the middle of a panic attack, gasping for air, you know you’re not going to die and it’ll be over soon.

The best way I can describe it is, you know how a lot of people say to “trust your gut”? Well, I can’t.

My proverbial “gut” is stuffed full of fear and worry and worst-case-scenarios. It’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing. My gut reads too far into meaningless comments. My gut tells me I have to flip my light switch four times or something bad will happen. My gut tells me I will never find success or love. My gut is a bitch.

Luckily, the prognosis, if treated correctly, is pretty good for all of us suffering from depression or an anxiety disorder. Medicine and therapy are extremely effective in clearing out the weeds and giving someone suffering a new perspective on things.

So now is where I state “and she lived happily ever after”, right? Wrong.

Back in October of last year, I decided I didn’t want to take a pill anymore. This decision stemmed from a message I had heard a month earlier, while at church. The person giving this message was a Christian doctor who had spent their entire life studying the brain. This doctor gave a convincing speech about how all of our brains function the same and if we just work really hard to change our thinking then we can all live normal and healthy lives. This person went on to claim that taking antidepressants was a cop out and not something God would approve of. They concluded by stating “if you’re on antidepressants, it’s not your fault, you didn’t know, but talk to a doctor about getting off of them”. I immediately felt shame. I looked at my friends sitting next to me, totally on-board and fired up by this doctor’s message and I felt like a black sheep. A very confused, black sheep.

I ultimately decided to take this doctor’s challenge and come off of the drug I had been taking for nine years. I did it with my doctor’s help and for a while, I felt okay. I thought, “What’s the worst that can happen?”

Fast forward to 6 months later and I’m pulling my car into a gas station parking lot because I’m crying so hard, I can’t see the road in front of me. What was I crying about? I’m not going to post that, but I will say, as I was banging my fists on my steering wheel, my good friend Mr. Logic was saying, “you haven’t felt like this since high school”. As soon as I could speak again, I called my mom and we came up with a game plan to get me back on track, which means back on an anti-depressant.

I started my first dose of a new anti-depressant today, and this time around, I’m not embarrassed. I needed help. I couldn’t keep living the way I was living. My ability to decipher between anxiety and reality was becoming foggy. My irritablity was through the roof. I was acting like a jerk to complete strangers, and weighing those closest to me down with my unreasonable doubts and fears.

I’m lucky to have the support system that I have. My friends and family have been SO patient with me and have really stuck by me. I realize that some people may not be as lucky as I am, but for anyone reading this that may be going through a similar struggle, I guess the most important thing to tell you is, it’s ok. I know, a lot of times it doesn’t feel that way, but it’s the truth. If you think you might need help, please don’t be afraid to ask for it. The relief you’ll feel once you find a solution is SO worth it!

I should end this by saying that I think the message I recieved in church a few months ago was wrong. I don’t think God is against this kind of help. I think God is all for people living their best lives and if we need a little help getting there, God will deliver, even in the form of an antidepressant.

I had an experience last week that I’ve been brainstorming a blog for. I’m really excited about throwing those thoughts into the internet abyss. Look for that in a few days (and yes, I really mean a few days, I have some more free time this week to do the fun blogging stuff). The only reason I’m not writing about that thing now is because this past week was….

MY BIRTHDAY! (and in Amelialand, that trumps all other things).

To understand just how different my sober birthday was… let’s recap the last 7 years of not-so-sober birthdays.

21: I celebrated this milestone in Los Angeles at a gay bar. I told the bartenders I had never drank before so that all of my birthday cake shots and lemon-drop martinis would be free. In reality, I could have shot gunned a beer better than 4 out of 5 of those bartenders.

22-24: I had to wrack my brain to remember what I did on these birthdays (and by “wrack my brain”, I mean go on Facebook and scroll through my tagged photos section). I was slightly disappointed in my young sense of adventure. It appears that the only solid birthday I had out of those three was #22 when I went to Disneyland. The others were just blah. I can guarantee they all involved an April 2nd hangover though.

25: Mom thought her youngest daughter turning a quarter-of-a-century old was milestone enough to fly to LA and spoil me for a few days. We got blow outs and drank wine with my friends. I’d like to say I was on my best behavior due to my mother’s accountability, but I was turning a quarter of a century old! I needed to let loose one last time! 30 was fast approaching! More wine! This all sounds ridiculous 3 years later…. I’m aware.

26: My best friend (who lives in New York) flew to LA for this one. If you know me and you know her and you know the two of us together, I don’t have to, nor should I, go into detail. But, assuming some of you don’t know, I’ll try to sum it up in as vague a way as possible to protect the innocent. This birthday involved, midnight shots, leather leggings, nail art, tattoos, fancy dinner, a giant gathering of friends (who all decided that year not to bring a present, but just buy me a drink from the bar), and an after party that is well, fuzzy, but from what I’ve heard, it involved some poor life choices. The birthday festivities ended the next morning with a 10am run to Al Gelato for a pint of rigatoni. Messiest birthday to date (and hopefully ever).

27: I made this birthday last a week, mainly because I was leading a double life at the time and had two different groups of friends to celebrate with. My actual birthday was spent getting tattooed and drinking Jameson. The next day was a fancy-shmancy dinner at The Magic Castle. And it all concluded with a fun, “flashback to my childhood”-themed party at a roller rink, complete with an embarrassing Happy Birthday song and the chicken dance.

As you can draw from the data provided, all of these celebrations have one thing in common. Alcohol (and lots of it). So, understandably, I was nervous to celebrate this year.

28: I spent the morning with my 4-year-old bestie. We decorated Easter eggs and baked cookies and went on a nature walk. After that, I went shopping and treated myself to a new (slightly overpriced) lipstick. I celebrated that night with my most favorite people in Los Angeles. We had an epic dinner and went out for drinks after (I got hyped up on some Red Bull). And to cap off a perfect celebration, I went to breakfast the next morning, hangover-free.

I’ve had a lot of great, memorable(ish) birthdays in LA. I’ve been blessed with some incredible friends in this city that make me feel special every day and even more so on my birthday.

I’m not going to lie, there were a few moments I wanted a drink, especially while we were out that night, but the pro’s column always out-weighs the con’s when it comes to my sobriety.

I remember every moment this year and I feel so good knowing I had that much fun without drinking. My birthday just re-affirmed why I decided to do all of this in the first place.

Also, my friends really loved their bar tabs at the end of my birthday night. I’ve become the perfect cheap date. (Adding that to the “pro’s” column now).