Last Week # 31 | Snow Day

For the past few months, ever since I started my new job at the library, I’ve been working on this thing called “self-care.” Self-care is the completely insane idea that when you feel like you have no time to do anything, let alone all of the billion jillion things you need to get done in addition to the things you want to get done, you do even less. That’s right— instead of tackling your to-do list right away, you take a breath, watch a movie, drink a cup of tea, or write in a journal, and you feel better after. As you can probably see from the last few blog posts, this has been my main area of focus lately. I’ve been doing okay at it. But this week I was put to the test. 

This week was actually way more low-key than the previous ones. I didn’t have appointments, didn’t really have commitments. Just a whole lot of PMS and a few movies to see. This means that when there were opportunities to do more, and there were, it was a challenge to say no, because I technically had no reason for it. On Saturday it felt like I was playing hooky when I hung out at Peaks in the morning, as I didn’t have to work until 1:30. But on Sunday, when Eli and I laid in bed doing absolutely nothing but sleeping, eating soup, and watching Gilmore Girls, I didn’t feel guilty. And when, later that day, my sister came over to visit my apartment for the first time, and we also did nothing but make food and lounge around, I was glad I had kept my day clear for her. The thing I realized is: my time is my own. And as Newt Scamander said in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (one of the two movies I saw this week), “worrying means you suffer twice.” 

Damn, J.K. Rowling serving some wisdom to my court once AGAIN. Now, here I sit, Monday morning after  a pretty low-key week, and it feels like the universe is rewarding me for chilling the f*ck out, as it is what we Upstate New Yorkers would call “a f*cking blizzard” out there. The library is closed, which means my day has opened up even more, and I now have time to pack for my pretty exciting week, write, do yoga, and drink more tea. It’s really freaking hard for me not to feel guilty about taking time for myself. I don’t know why, but I think I was programmed to believe that if I wasn’t being productive every second, I wasn’t a good person. We’ve been over this, I think. But now I’m revising what the word productive even means, and realizing that it can mean writing, or napping, or just sweeping the floor and laying with a cat. Productivity is a word that was created to make hardworking people feel guilty for not doing even more. We do plenty. So if you can today, chill the fuck out, drink some tea, and take a nap. That's what I'm about to do. 

 -Fran

Last Week #26 | Channel It

 Last week, Eli was gone. For five days…plus an extra Delta day. But I had a plan. I was going to WERK. “Channel it. Into your work. Into work.” That was my plan, and then I burned out. 

At the beginning of the week I was like- I am a queen. By Wednesday I was like- I am dying. On that day, my “day off,” I tried to do too much. To be fair, I did it all, but by the end of the day my thumbs had checked things off the to-do list, but my poor brain hadn't caught up yet. I found myself wishing I had a Pensieve to empty my mind.

I discovered that it's extraordinarily hard to “channel it” when your outlet is gone. Usually I can channel anything into art. Deep sadness? Art. Anger? Art. Hunger? Art. This week though, my loneliness did not get turned into art, because my loneliness meant my overwhelmed-ness was compounded and I could barely do anything. I found it hard to channel my feelings into my work, because the channels were all blocked. Blocked by loneliness, blocked by anger, blocked by annoyance, blocked by stress. I didn't have my vent, so it built up and up and up until... I got a pounding headache. And then I was able to do even less. I watched The Mindy Project and packed books and tried to do the most I possibly could with each day. But the most you possibly can do isn't always the best idea. It's better to do the majority of what you can and leave some room for rest, so the next day you can do more, instead of burning out on day 1. I’m not really good at that. I’m good at burning myself out. 

Here's the thing about being on your own. Fortunately, there's no one there to tell you what to do. There's no one there to say, "you shouldn't watch The Mindy Project and do art on your lunch break!" (Good. Cause that was a dope idea.) There's no one there to say, "Don't get drunk in your kitchen and dance to Beyoncé.” (GOOD. BECAUSE THAT WAS A GREAT IDEA.) And unfortunately, there's no one there to tell you what to do. No one to tell you what to do when your head starts pounding and your heart follows suit and you don't know what to prioritize first because it all seems important so it's all too much. 

What worries me is, I did do a lot this week. I worked my typical 35 hour schedule (9:30-5 5 days a week), while also packing a significant portion of my room into boxes, bringing those boxes to a storage unit (and getting the storage unit OPEN on my own), starting and completing an art project in like 3 days, watching 26 episodes of The Mindy Project in 6 (Come on. That is an accomplishment!), having two school-related meetings, getting essays done, writing outlines, making videos and blog posts for myself, and sleeping. And I completed all that under the stress of only being able to talk to my significant other for ten minutes a day. (Usually at the end of the day, when I was so worn out and moody and sleepy I wasn’t really capable of being nice to myself, let alone him.) I did all that, and I couldn’t see it, so it therefore wasn’t enough for me. I felt like I had failed to take advantage of my week to WERK.

At the end of it all, when Eli finally got home, I was so worn out and strung out and wired and exhausted that I pretty much just crashed. We had a great reunion, don’t get me wrong, but I definitely fell asleep, hard, for a portion of it. Let me make this make sense to you— I do not ever fall asleep watching TV. That is blasphemous to me. This weekend, I did it two days in a row. Full on passed OUT in front of Bojack Horseman. Eli tried to act like he wasn’t disappointed, but I think he was a little bit. I mean, we had plans, and I snored and drooled all over them. But I guess that’s what I mean. I’m not very good to myself sometimes. I don’t forgive myself for falling asleep when I need to be doing other things. Actually, it doesn’t even get that far. I don’t even let myself fall asleep when I need to be doing other things. The reason Eli is so important to me, so important to my life, is not because I am some needy girl who can't do anything without her boyfriend. I can do it all on my own, but my brain likes to trick me into thinking that I've done nothing. He helps me see it. He is patient and kind and forgiving with me. And when we are together, we are a little better to ourselves, because all either of us wants is to be good to each other.

This week I thought a lot about a particular quote from a Conor Oberst song I’ve been listening to on repeat. "And if you don't collide with the traffic in your mind / I think you'll find your way out of this / I hope you find your way out of this." Every time I heard it, it stopped me in my tracks. Holy shit, I thought. How does he know about the traffic in my mind? How did he word it so perfectly? F***, has Conor Oberst bugged my brain? Anyway, I’m working on it, Conor. I’m working on being better to myself. I’m learning how from a really great human being. And I hope one day to find my way out of the maze of traffic in my mind.

 -Fran

Last Week #23 | Act Your Age

 Since I didn’t write a blog post last week, I am going to write a little about both two weeks ago, and this past week. Between last week and this week, a weekend existed. A glorious, perfect, amazing three day weekend. (For the first time in my life, I understand why Labor Day exists.) Eli and I went to my family’s lake house in the finger lakes, because I had only been there once all summer and decided this was probably my last chance, before school and work and creative business overtook me and my precious schedule. So we went, and spent time with my cousins, who were also there. 

During the first evening’s dinner, talking to my cousin who is precisely my age and also still in college, I was telling her everything I do with my time. (I’m a talker.) 

At the end of it, she looked astounded. 

"You're doing so much!" She said.

"What do you mean?" I replied.

"You're doing so many things that you're passionate about!"

I was confused. Wasn't that the point? Sure, you probably have to get a 9-5 to survive, preferably in something that you don't hate, but that doesn’t mean you should then spend the rest of your precious time bemoaning the fact that you don't have any time to do what you love. Use that precious little time to DO WHAT YOU LOVE. I get up early and do those things, or use that time to do things that are good for me. Then I go to work, and try to put myself into it. And then I come home, and I try to love others. My boyfriend, my friends, myself. I do some fun things, but mainly deliberately unproductive things. And that's it. That's all I do. That's all we can do. 

Since my birthday is nigh, I’ve been thinking a lot about age. And for some reason, that old adage keeps fluttering back into my head. “Act your age.” And I hate that adage. What even is age? As one of the books that always sat on my mother’s kitchen shelf read, “Age is just a number.” So I don’t get how I can act it. When you’re a young person, people tell you to do this a lot. And it confuses me. Because, how the hell do I act 21? Do I drink? And therefore perpetuate stereotypes about my generation? Or do I work really hard, just so they’ll say that I’m the exception? Is there a way to act your age without stereotyping yourself? I’m afraid I don’t know the answer. Right now I’m nearly 21, I have a full time job and I’m a part-time student. I’m a full time girlfriend and best friend and creator. And I’m also a full-time Fran. I might be young, I feel really old. I hate that just because I haven’t lived 47 years, I’m considered less. I wish that when people said “act your age” they didn’t mean, “Act the age I wish you still were.” It seems that many people are confused by young people if they don’t fit in to a box they can understand. So they say "act your age" but they mean, “Act a different way so I can make sense of you.” I’m 21, I have a full time job, I’m a student, I’m in love, and I’m creative and logical and practical and impractical and stupid and senseless and naive and wise beyond my years. 

I guess what I'm saying is, I don't want to be known for, and judged by, my age. I want to be known for my personality, or writing, or purple hair, or art, or how hard I work, or my heart. And maybe I am. This weekend, I babysat for a family I've been watching for years. (About 6, to be exact.) 

I was telling them about my job, and the mom said, "You're working full time and still doing school?!" She seemed taken aback, like she couldn't believe it. I sighed and moaned about how yes, I was crazy enough to be doing that (because to be honest it was almost 1 am and I was half asleep and freaking moody), but in the back of my head I was thinking, "Dude. Come on. I have a very delicate balance going on here. Don't make me question how in the hell I'm doing this. If I think about it too hard, it'll all come crumbling down."  But the next day, in talking to one of my good friends, she said, "It's because you're an organizational queen. That's how." Essentially telling me to never question or doubt myself. And that's what I mean. I want to be known for who I am, not for my age, not for how much I do. As one of my favorite astrologers once said, "You're a human being, not a human doing." I'm trying to remember that in this stressful time, this age of the rat race, this season of my life. 

-Fran

Last Week #22 | Ron Swanson Officiated Our Wedding

 Last week, Nick Offerman (AKA Ron Swanson from Parks & Recreation) officiated my and Eli's wedding. Before I get into the (absolutely incredible) details, first, let me just tell you why this is significant.

1. I often jokingly call the Parks & Recreation theme song my antidepressant, because for a few dark months in early 2014, it pretty much was. I had watched the show when it first aired, but lost track of it during high school. Post-high school, however, during a very depressing winter when I had nothing else to do, I revisited it and watched three seasons in about a month. From that point on, the show was my drug of choice.

2. When Eli and I first started talking, it was via text, and we were cripplingly awkward with each other, I think because neither of us had ever been this interested in and attracted to another person before. So we started giving each other compliments in the only nerdy way we could think of to tell each other we wanted to kiss each other’s faces. We started Ann Perkins complimenting each other. If you're unfamiliar, it looks a little something like this: 

3. One night, we both took quizzes to see which Parks & Recreation characters we were. I got Leslie, and he got Ben. Then, I took another quiz. “Which Parks & Rec character would be ‘Ya Boo’?” I got Ben, and I sent it to him with the smirk emoji. That was flirting to us.

4. When we finally said I love you, Eli said it the normal way, but I said, “I love you and I like you.” Not because I wanted to be like Ben and Leslie, (even though I definitely do), but because that was how I felt. Love and like were two different things in my mind, and I felt both. Later, Eli would put it perfectly: “I like you to the point of loving you without losing any of the liking you.” 

Basically, Parks & Recreation is super freaking important to our relationship, and to us as individuals. I take waffles seriously. And on Wednesday night, Ron Swanson officiated our wedding. We went to Nick Offerman & Megan Mullally's Summer of 69 Show (no apostrophe) and were just enjoying the beautiful weirdness that was the show when they asked for a volunteer couple from the audience. The next thing I knew Eli was raising his huge arms and we were being beckoned onstage by two of our favorite actors. The rest is kind of a blur, but I shook Nick Offerman's hand and he complimented my lavender hair and I hugged Megan Mullally and Nick kept talking about Eli's man bun and we played a compatibility game where we were challenged to answer questions in precisely the same way...and we pretty much crushed it. Not to brag, but we answered all but one question the same way, all while standing in the presence of two people we routinely watch on Netflix while cuddling. Then Nick Offerman stood between us and asked us one final question... "Do you, Eli, take Fran to be your lawfully wedded wife..." He then presented us with rings and that is how I got married onstage to my absolute favorite person by Ron freakin' Swanson.

The funny thing about this whole story is, I've recently been plagued by a question that this experience completely put to rest. The question is this-- when you're happy, can you experience as much true joy in new shows and music and art and life experiences as when you are not? Is there some inherent connection that you make with culture when you're lonely and sad that you don't make when you're satisfied? I was thinking about the connection I made to Parks & Recreation when I was depressed, and worrying that I'd never find such happiness in another show or movie again, because I'd already found it in a person. And I know, any logical, rational person would say-- but Fran, this is so much better! You've made a connection with a real, tangible human who can register your love and give love in return! But you don't understand. My connection with music and stories and television shows is what makes me, me. 

The notion that somehow those connections wouldn't be as strong in light of my finding Eli is completely terrifying to me. I think these fears can honestly be linked to an experience I had a few weeks ago. On a sleepy Monday morning recently, I was watching a terrible young adult reality show on YouTube to wake myself up, as you do, and everyone was lamenting the fact that summer is almost over. And for the first time in my life, I realized that the end of summer doesn't mean everything sucks again. Everything in my life will pretty much stay the same, no matter the season. But then of course I started worrying that normalcy is bad and regularity equals stagnation, lack of inspiration, boredom and indifference.

Now I realize that's so not true. Of course not. Now, I get the privilege of experiencing new shows and extraordinary life experiences with someone who loves them and me just as much. Last week I finally realized that just because I have a big girl job that doesn't mean I or my life is anything close to boring. Because I have someone in my life who is willing to seek out the weird and extraordinary with me. 

-Fran

Last Week #21 | We Have a Guest Room Now

On the day my sister left for college, I made a few mistakes.

Mistake #1 was putting on makeup. Ironically enough, I'd all but stopped wearing it until this point, because I like how I look without it, it's effort to put on, and I cry too much anyway. 

Mistake #2 was bringing up Gilmore Girls. Why, oh why, did I bring up Gilmore Girls?!

Mistake #3 was thinking that this wasn’t going to be a big deal. Because it freaking was. 

Let me rewind. My sister and I have a complex relationship, as I think most sisters do. We’ve kind of sort of gotten along our entire lives, but have never had that cliche sisterly bond some films tell you you should have. (I'm looking at you, Sisters.) But one thing we’ve always had in common was…Gilmore Girls. When we were younger, we used to bathe together, as most little kids do. We all have those embarrassing pictures of us with our siblings in the bath, hair spiked and bubbles all over everything. So we took showers together, and I can remember singing the theme song at the top of our lungs while she stood at the corner of the shower because I always turned the water way too hot. And granted, if we were young enough to still be taking showers together, chances are we were too young to be watching Gilmore Girls. But I was against censorship from a very young age, and therefore did not give a shit. And she followed my lead. 

We watched it when we spent the summers home alone together, our little brother forced to go to the babysitter. And we watched it, in full, from the very beginning, starting in November 2014 and lasting through to September 2015. We had never watched the show front to back like that before, and I gotta say, it’s one of my favorite memories with my sister. Through some of the hardest years, and hardest moments in our lives up to that point, we always had Gilmore Girls to come back to. I remember spending the day before Thanksgiving in my bed while a snowstorm raged outside, watching episode after episode. Both of us staying up way too late on a school night (for her) because we had to see what happened with Luke and Lorelei and that crazy cliffhanger. Debating who we preferred— Dean, Jess, Logan? (She’s team Jess, I’m team Rory.) My asking, "One more?" even when we had already been watching for four straight hours. Analyzing who was who… I told her she was Paris, because I’m mean, but she’s really Rory and I’m a definite Lorelei. Even though I'm the older sister, much like Rory, she's always been the one in charge here.

So when I went into her room on Thursday morning before leaving for work, I talked about the only thing I could manage— Gilmore Girls. “I’m not saying we should make a pact not to watch it apart…but I think we should wait and watch it together.” I hesitantly said about the new revival season coming to Netflix this fall. (Okay, that sounded like an ad. But I don't even care because everyone should watch this show and I’m not even sorry.) She nodded her head vigorously in response. I asked her when she’d be home, she said she’ll be here for Thanksgiving. And then something crazy started happening. She started to tear up. Now, let me give you some more backstory. I’ve seen my sister cry about real people and real emotion (we aren’t counting stress from school or Fault in Our Stars related tears) about three times. I can legitimately count them. 1) When I got in my car accident in September of 2013, my sister was still at home. My mom was supposed to drive her to school that morning, but didn’t when she got the phone call from me. So when I got home and was just sitting at the kitchen table sobbing, my sister came over, crying too, and hugged me. (That’s also one of the few times she’s ever voluntarily hugged me.) 2) When our childhood babysitter died, and we went to her funeral. I’m pretty sure she cried. 3) Thursday morning. 

I hugged her, and because we aren’t emotional with each other said, “Don’t cry or I’ll throw up on you.” And then, because I’m not a monster, “You’re going to be so fine. I’m not even worried about you, I’m worried about me worrying about you.” 

“I know I’m going to be fine, I don’t know why I’m crying.” Then she cried more, and I cried more, and then I said, “F**k you, I did really good makeup!” And then I realized that if I stuck around any longer it would only get worse, so I said, “I have to walk away from you now," and she nodded and I did. 

We didn't know why we were crying so much, and I still don't. And I know what you’re thinking, it’s fine, chill out, she didn’t die or anything… But I think it has something to do with this: her toothbrush is gone. Like for good. I keep thinking that I hear her in the morning, or will run into her in the bathroom when I'm getting ready for work and she's getting ready for the weight room. The most crippling realization for me has been-- every time she comes home now, it will be to visit. Even though she probably won't think of it that way for a while, each time she comes home it'll feel a little less like home to her. That's what's effing with me most right now. The spaces we inhabit mean nothing until we inhabit them. And after, they mean even less. They're just shells of memory. I think the hardest part for me is remembering the words to that theme song and realizing that this time, I can't follow where she leads. 

 -Fran

Last Week #20 | I Got Lost in the Woods and All I Got Were These Lame Cliches

Disclaimer: This blog post is about to be really really real. 

On Monday of this past week, I had my first day at a brand new job. Granted, it's just a different library job (it's not like I changed careers) but it was one hell of an adjustment nonetheless. I'm not going to sugar coat it. On days one and two, I was overwhelmed as hell. To put it in culturally relevant terms, I felt like Eilis at the beginning of Brooklyn. I walked out the doors at the end of my shifts the first two days, sat down in my car and promptly burst into tears, soaking Eli through with my worries and fears and doubts. 

This library is simply different. The vibe is different, and the job I'm working is just MORE. It's a definite step up in terms of hours and workload. There's a much more serious tone. Which is absolutely fine, professionalism is great, but at 20 and 7/8ths years old, it's a little overwhelming. I'm used to wearing whatever I want and not having to worry about what will happen if I get a tattoo one day. I'm used to making jokes and showing off what I like to call my "trash youth interior" while also still being professional and doing my job. So the first two days, when I was getting oriented and didn't really get to talk to anyone, I was drowning. And I find that really interesting, because I always thought I didn't like people. But on day 4, when I got to do more of what I'll be doing every day-- sitting behind the desk and interacting with patrons, I was happy. Which was mind blowing to me. I like people?! I thought. My whole life is a lie! 

Another challenging aspect of this week was filming. As you may know, I'm working on my second short film of the summer (but my 4th overall project). Once again, we had limited time to get it done-- basically Friday was all we had. So we ventured back out into the woods at around 6 pm, with storm clouds looming ominously over our heads. We got the shots, we got the shots, we had fun, blah blah blah. It started to get dark, and we still had a few shots left and increasingly limited time, so we powered through. But then, in the wake of the excitement of getting the shot, reality settled back over us-- in the forms of darkness, fog, and thunder. 

I won't say we got lost, because that would be an insult to Eli's navigating skills. But we did get a little... disoriented and eventually realized that instead of taking the long way back (which would lead us to the water bottles and other supplies we had left behind while the daylight still lingered), it was smarter to take a shortcut, because our ever-anxious director was freaking out a little bit. This turned out to be a very muddy, mucky, messy and sharp shortcut. I hated it. But afterwards, lying in the safety of my bed in borrowed sweatpants while my white shorts that I stupidly wore soaked in a bucket in the bathroom, I looked over the shots I got and I realized two significant things. 

1. It was worth it. Even though I knew that behind the shots where the camera movement was glorious were the oozing scratches on my legs now covered in Neosporin, they were so worth the blood, sweat, and tears.
2. And 2, and this relates to my post last week, I really love filmmaking. Because even though it is sometimes a perfect recipe for stress, anxiety, and occasional pain, everything else pales in comparison.

So I guess if I were to try to connect these two topics somehow, I'd say this. When I was hemming and hawing over whether or not to even apply for this new job, my brilliant and wise mentor Yvonne said something that stuck with me. She said, "There's really no such thing as wrong choice.  It's all just experience and whether it's awesome or not so awesome, we learn what we need to learn and adjust and go forward and look forward to the next things. Enjoy the in between-ness, if you can." When I was lost in the woods, I thought I had made the worst choice in the world. On day 1, I questioned whether I had made a mistake. But sitting here, on the morning of day 5, I'm realizing that she's right. It's all just experience. And for better or worse, we're going to get lost in the muddy woods sometimes, but hopefully in the end we can sit on our beds and realize it was worth it. 

That was so cliche, I think I need to take another shower. 

-Fran

Last Week #19 | Filmmaking, Why Do I Love You?

 There's nothing like having a week where you are literally able to accomplish nothing-- due to your body's complete inability to do anything-- to make you entirely rethink your approach to productivity. This week, only the basics happened. On Monday I got my blog/vlog posted. Then I lurched through the days to follow, dragged down by sickness and expectations of me. But I still got done what was absolutely necessary. Uploaded the thing. Emailed that person. 

And suddenly, being productive took on new meaning. It started to mean doing what made me happy. Going out for an hour to catch Pokemon, just so I wouldn't feel like crap for doing absolutely nothing at all the rest of the day. Eating dinner with friends. Reading. FaceTiming friends in California. I started to let my body tell me what it was capable of, and listen to it. Being dragged down to nothing makes you have an appreciation for mobility, energy. When I was at my worst, I sobbed on FaceTime to Eli about how I was afraid I wouldn't get better before my first day at work. 

But now, productivity is back to normal and I'm starting to feel like I need to catch up on all that I missed. Make up for the time I "wasted" while I was sick. And I don't know what to do about that. I'm afraid that I'm starting to slip back into old ways of being, where nothing is ever enough for me and I never feel fulfilled. And aside from Pinning article after article about self-care and being a morning person, I don't know how to tackle this. 

But what I'm really wondering going into this new week is-- How do you decide if you love something or hate something? I spent the latter half of this past week deep in the pre-production and filming process of my new short film. And it's always a strange feeling, because when I'm in it I really have no idea if I love or hate making short films. I'm so eaten up with stress and anxiety right now, but I know when the final product comes out I'll say that it was such a learning experience and I'm so glad I did it. So this is sort of a call-out post. Fran, which is it? I have no idea. I'm sure the people around me don't know either, because every other day I'm having a mental breakdown and crying and getting headaches and Eli has to calm me down and tell me it's all going to be fine and get done in the end.

Here's all I know now: 1) I love writing things, and watching the things I write come to life. 2) I'm a control freak, so I really do need to be in charge of those creative evolutions in order to feel fulfilled. 3) I'm really good at scheduling and organizing. 4) Scheduling and organizing stresses me the eff out. 5) Despite all of the ups and downs and headaches in between (and the fact that I can never make things run as smoothly as my brain would like), I love making films. And it sort of goes against my better nature, because I love when things are easy and simple and come together perfectly, which filmmaking absolutely is not. From my experience, filmmaking, as much as you may try to give it some order, is chaos. It is ugly and messy and dirty and time consuming and exasperating. But for some reason, I can't stop doing it. Maybe this is growth?

-Fran

Last Week #18 | This Blog Post Was Always Going to Be About Harry Potter

The following is a sample of a text conversation between myself and my boyfriend.
Me, last night at midnight: "lol when your weekly vlog is 1:48 long. hahahaha." 
Eli: "Haha...that's ok, it's been a tired week." 

And a tired week it was. The week began with a screening of OVERDUE, and ended with my final day at the Minoa library. Then on Friday, on my first real day off in a long time, I started to get sick.  Coincidentally, my family left for vacation on Friday, and I was planning on joining them at some point during this week. But in a stunning turn of events, the few days I had to myself this weekend were spent sicker than I've been in a long time. I don't really get sick. I get headaches sometimes, my periods are pretty bad, but other than that I'm healthy. So to have the first fever I've had since probably 2013, on the first days of my "vacation," and be completely alone to boot, sucked. I spent a lot of time crying, a lot of time sweating, a lot of time shaking with cold, and a lot of time watching Portlandia. (I may have watched 3 seasons in two days...maybe.)

I cried for a few reasons. 1) Because Eli and I had plans to do a lot of cool things on Saturday-- like go to the local market and see new bakeries-- and I couldn't do any of it. Suffice to say I was seriously bummed. 2) Because one of the reasons I even stayed home to begin with was so I could go get the new Harry Potter book (technically it's a script book...) at midnight. But as I was sweating and dizzy from a fever, I couldn't really do that. 3) Because, and I found this out later, I was PMS-ing.

Sounds like a fun weekend, right? Just a perfect storm of misery. Anyway, even though I still don't feel 100% sitting here on Monday, yesterday I was able to drag myself out of bed for long enough to go pick up my reserved copy of The Cursed Child, go to Peaks, eat some waffles, and start reading.

In the bookstore, I found myself thinking about all of the past Frans. The 2007 Fran, at the midnight release party of what she and everyone else believed to be the last story she'd ever get from the Harry Potter universe. The 2013 Fran, sitting on the couch miserable with undiagnosed back pain, but overjoyed having just learned that that hadn't been the end-- we were getting a TRILOGY of new movies based on the companion books! I also thought about what 2007 Fran would think of her life now. Would she be happy with where she is? Reading, writing, learning, and creating more things than she ever would have imagined. Sitting in a coffee shop owned by her best friends, at which her super hot boyfriend works. (I imagine she would be.)

On the drive from the bookstore to Peaks yesterday, I cried. But I didn't cry because of the new Harry Potter book. I cried because I remembered how sad past Fran was, and how (generally) happy current Fran is. I cried because I realized that something I'd always suspected had been proven beyond a shadow of a doubt. Through everything, Harry Potter has been there. And through everything, he always will be. I'm not going to lie, before I got my hands on this book I wasn't even that excited for it. I was afraid it wouldn't be good, and worse still, that I just didn't care about Harry Potter like I used to. In the darkest corner of my mind, I was terrified that somewhere along the line I had outgrown it. But on Sunday afternoon, after a weekend of tears and anxiety, reading this book felt like going home again. All those times when I was younger, where I picked up a Harry Potter book whenever I was sad, those weren't isolated incidents reserved for childhood. While this new book may be a tad different, it still feels the same way it always did. It feels like going home.

-Fran

Last Week #17 | The Overgrowth

 I know, I know. I've already written a blog post on growing recently, but it seems to be the most prevalent thing in my life right now. This week I was faced with the very harsh reality of outgrowing things. Not only did I have to face facts— I haven’t bought summer shorts in about 2 years and, well, most of my things just didn’t fit right anymore. But also, a lot of other things in my life aren’t fitting right anymore. My childhood bedroom, for example. The idea of forced family vacations. My anxiety, although I haven't quite figured out how to shed that one. Lastly, and most surprisingly, my job at the Minoa library.

In order for you to understand how huge that last one is, I have to give you a bit of backstory. I started at the library in January of 2014, just a few months after getting in a car accident that left me hopelessly depressed on our living room couch, not wanting to go anywhere, do anything, or see anyone. I got the job as a means of shutting up the people in my family wondering what the hell I was doing-- why I wasn't actively pursuing school, why I was still "letting" the accident effect me. If I have a job, I thought, they'll shut the hell up. Since then, the library has become something of a security blanket for me. Throughout all the ups and downs of choosing to do or not to do school, it's been there as my backup. I'm working, I said. But somewhere along the line the library became the stable job I did in the off hours of the rest of my life. I started going places, meeting people, and doing things. 

In my time at the library I: 

Wrote, filmed, acted in, and released a short film. 

Wrote, filmed, edited, and acted in a web series about the library, with the help of the most amazing cast and crew.

Met amazing new friends who are the creative squad I've always dreamed of.

Figured out who I am, and how to show that to people.

Officially started classes at a college that defies all my expectations of how nightmarish college is-- a place that appreciates and accommodates the type of student I am, and enables me to learn in whatever way works best for me.

Met a boy, and began my first real relationship.

I'm so sad to leave this library because, as I tried to convey in my web series, so much life has happened there. I was depressed, I was happy, I made friends, I had existential crises and mental breakdowns, I was sweetly and disgustingly in love. But for better or worse, I've outgrown it. It's a security blanket that I know I need to leave in order for anything to change, for anything to move forward in my life. And since I don't want to be the kind of person who just complains about things being bad and never makes the hard decision to change anything, I'm leaving. I start my new job at a bigger library on August 8th, and I'm utterly terrified, but hopeful that it will permit me to move forward.

But outgrowth doesn’t have to mean terrible things. It can be good. Outgrowing your fear, for example. That hasn’t quite happened for me yet, but I’m watching the people I love do it. So instead of calling it "outgrowing" I want to call this period in my life "overgrowing." Meaning I've grown past the expectations, the situations, and the life I’ve lived for so long. I feel like so many of us are overgrowing the lives we are in right now. We’re overgrowing our current situations, like sprawling plants out of their pots. And that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. It doesn’t have to be taboo. We can all just be due for new pots- something we can grow into, something we can build a future on. I see and feel this overgrowth in many of my friends right now, and I’m hoping these next few months mark drastic change— where we demand the right sized pot and fresh soil from which to grow larger, stronger, and brighter.

 -Fran

Last Week #16 | Walk Through It

 In the aftermath of the last few weeks, this past week there was almost deafening silence. For four straight days, I had a sort of mental and physical reset. But as nice as that was, I was over it after about 24 hours. And I was even more over it when I realized that this one week was not going to be the end of it. There will likely be many more lonely days and awkward silences in the coming months, until everything changes for good like it needs to. In all honesty, I’ve come to hate those silences. I used to love them, because they served as a reprieve from the chaos in my head. Now, the chaos is much more manageable (or it’s the same and I’ve learned how to manage it better), but the silence invites even more of that chaos. I don’t know about you, but when I get in a quiet room with only myself and my thoughts, I tend to worry. 

This whole week, I’ve had to keep telling myself to stop living in the future. I caught myself going months and months ahead, envisioning what life will be like, envisioning the ways in which it will be disastrous and won’t work out. I kept having to pull myself back and say, “No. Live right here. Deal with that when you get there.” Which is a huge change for me, as ordinarily I would say, “I’m just thinking ahead. Preparing myself.” But that is a complete lie. I’m thinking ahead alright— and worrying. And that does absolutely nothing except instill a self-fulfilling prophecy of negativity and anxiety. This week I had to tell myself: If I’m going to think ahead, it needs to be positive. If I’m going to plan ahead, it needs to be in a way that benefits me, rather than convinces me things won’t work out. 

But try as I might, I returned, a little bit, to a past version of myself this week. I worried what people thought of me, I felt lonely, I binge-watched TV, I was blonde for a quick second, I fretted about my future and how it could possibly work out, and I started thinking up ways to get to a midnight release of a Harry Potter book while I am on vacation. By Friday I had worked myself into an anxious frenzy which culminated in a very loud conversation with Eli. I had started to convince myself that I was the past me, and that things were going to work out for me the way they always had for me before the magical year of 2015— terribly. I felt needy and lonely and I started to envision ways in which he would let me down or abandon me. I sort of pounced on things that weren't there...because I was afraid. And it's understandable...things are scary right now. Change is scary. But I don't have to indulge it, I don't have to let it win, and it doesn't have to change my behavior or keep me from doing things. Something I've always struggled with is that I often let physically uncomfortable sensations control me. I avoid confrontation, bees, strangely textured foods-- anything that makes me feel less than perfect. But fear is one of those sensations, and I can't let it keep me from moving forward in my life. My challenge is and will be to not indulge my fear.

There’s a moment in my vlog this week where Eli says, “We’re going to have to walk through all of this.” I think that’s a good one-sentence summary of my life right now. Things are changing, growing, and evolving. I'm now faced with the task of walking through all of it-- the change, the loneliness, the fear, the guilt, the happiness, and the anxiety. As much as my fear tries to convince me of this-- it isn’t actually 2013. I know what I want to do with my life, I have a general notion of where I'm headed, and I have the most loyal friends by my side. This new chapter is going to be a trek. But we’re going to walk through all of it together.

 -Fran

Last Week #14 | Growing Pains

 Last week, as you may know from my mini blog post on Saturday, was rough. Before the weekend was over I drafted this really idiotic blog post in which I avoided the hard stuff and literally at one point said, "It's too much to talk about, so once again I'm going to skirt around the issue." I talked about how change is hard and scary but in the end I make the right choices for me and I need to trust myself more. And that's nice and all, but it's bullshit. I decided a few weeks back that I wasn't going to do that on this blog anymore. And the more I looked at that draft, the more I felt like it was a cop out, and even though writing this realer one is hard, it's more worth it. Because to tell you the truth, I'm uncomfortable and I'm vulnerable and I'm sad and I don't want to explore that sadness. (Who does?!) 

But if I don't, what does that say about me? Furthermore, if I don't explore it, will I regret it? Will I have missed something? An opportunity of some sort? A few weeks ago my mentor and I discussed the idea of dwelling a little more, of lingering in the moments as they happen even if they are difficult or vulnerable or awkward. Although that conversation was in reference to my weekly videos, it applies to this as well, so that’s what I’m going to do here. 

On Monday a very wise three year old said something that didn't quite hit me until this morning, when I was editing my weekly vlog. He said, "we have to have a house." This was the final statement in a very silly conversation we had, which went a little something like this:

Silas: "What if we smushed the house into jelly?!"

Eli: “Oh no! If we smushed it into jelly?!”

Silas: “Yeah! Then we could play in it!”

Eli: "Well then we wouldn't have a house anymore. Where would you sleep?"

Silas: "...in the JELLY!" 

Eli: “I guess that’s true you’d have to…cause that was your house, huh?…You'd get sick of the jelly."

And that, a seven sentence exchange between a 19 year old and a 3 year old, is the best way I have to describe my current situation without getting into all of the gory details. I, for lack of a better term, smushed my house into jelly. And now I'm sleeping in it. And I'm sick of it. 

Right now, I’m trying to navigate the vague and blurry differences between house and home. I guess I have a house, but that house is not my home. I was going to say I don't have a home, but that's not true. I have a home with every person who loves me, who looks out for me, even if they aren't necessarily part of my nuclear family. My house has always been a safe space for me. So much so that I have been afraid I'll never leave. But now, I guess that's not so much of an issue. I do want to leave, because every night I returned I felt something I've never felt before upon returning to my own "home": anxiety.

This week I spent my time at a million different places that aren't my house, but could be called home. Coffee shops, Eli's house, Kelsey's house, gardens and parks and restaurants and family camps. So many different places felt like home, but not all of them were easy to get in and out of. An island in the middle of a lake in the Adirondacks, for example, was no picnic. We had to kayak out there, pull our kayaks in, and climb up, dirtying our feet along the way. We had to scale the only rocks available, sharp jagged ones that I cut my knees on. That’s what young adulthood feels like to me right now. Skinned and bruised knees, difficulty at every sharp turn. I don’t know if that’s just something everyone goes through, if everyone needs to feel this pain in order to be motivated to leave home, or if it's just a particular brand of hell reserved especially for me. 

I usually like to end these posts on a positive note, with a line that makes everyone else feel okay about my not being okay. But that wouldn’t be very truthful of me today. I’m not feeling all that positive. I’m feeling the sharp jagged edges of a home outgrown digging into my skin. I’m feeling the growing pains, and I’m feeling the grief that goes along with it. But I’m grateful for the not-so-nuclear family I have around me, and the fact that they won’t let me give up. 

-Fran

Last Week #12 | Room to Grow

This week, I had the inexplicable yet powerful urge to clean out. Specifically, my bookshelves. My bookshelves have for a while been a source of pride for me, related to owning things. It was like, look at my shelves, look how full they are. A modern day version of Ariel's "look at this stuff, isn't it neat...wouldn't you say my collection's complete?" But recently when I've looked at them I haven't seen a complete collection but an outdated and no longer relevant one. The objects we own are often reflections of ourselves, and the things I had on my bookshelves no longer reflected who I am. So, I cleaned out.

 During the process, I found myself wanting to get rid of half of the books and stories I'd collected over the past three years. Finding myself a different person than I was then, and not necessarily wanting to erase that old version, but wanting to clear out the outdated remnants of her. I felt like I got a software update this week. I cleaned out those books that I no longer feel the need to hold on to. And while there were pieces I just couldn't let go of-- like my Harry Potter books, there are also pieces of me my body won't let me let go of-- like my anxiety.

 This week, for the first time in a long time, I got extremely anxious around people again. It was frustrating, disheartening, and ultimately uncomfortable, but I realized that it doesn't mean I'm the same person I was, just because I can't give away that part of myself as easily as I can give away a box of books. I've been seeing this theme lately-- that anxiety will always be with me, it may always affect me, maybe for the rest of my life. That is a distinct possibility I have always accepted. But there's a difference now. Just because it affects me doesn't mean it has to hold me back. I used to see each anxiety attack as a reason not to try. A reason to stop in my tracks, and take a turn away from the thing that gave me anxiety to begin with. Because that's what logical people do, right? When something hurts them, they stop doing it. But I've learned that courage is being afraid and doing it anyway. So I'm going to keep trying, even when it's hard. I'm going to move on and I'm going to do what scares me and I'm going to KEEP COMING BACK until those things doesn't give me anxiety anymore.

I looked at my shelves yesterday and didn't like how barren and empty they seemed. I felt like I had lost pieces of me. But this morning, I look at them and see that I've simply discarded the clutter, and given myself room to grow. Room to grow into myself. I made room for new this week. On my shelves, and in my life.

 -Fran

Last Week #11 | The Disconnect

 At the end of this week, following the glory of last, my boyfriend was called away on family business and I had to deal with being away from him after a weekend of being so close to him and my friends. Since I am not very good at coping and rather skilled at escapism, my sister and I decided to go to “the lake” (our family’s lake house in the Finger Lakes). This was our first trip as adult people, going on our own without our parents to a place we’d been a million times before. And it went surprisingly well. If you have a sister, you'll understand that the previous statement is really not an insult, but actually quite generous. 

What I learned from this weekend is this: the days are long when you're in control of them, and longer still when you aren't, and when you're without the people you love most. While my days were long and breezy, others' were not so much. I tried to do what I could to enjoy my time, and make theirs better where I could. 

And I succeeded. I laid out in the sun and flicked the ants of worry and anxiety and even sadness away. Though, my anxieties are persistent, so time after time they kept crawling back. But instead of focusing on them, I read. I wrote. I went for a walk and listened to my favorite music. I made my grandparents happy by visiting with them for an hour. I continued watching Seinfeld and dreamed. I didn't worry. 

As a young person, I hear a lot about how we are “always immersed in our screens” and how we “need to unplug more.” It’s kind of an incessant criticism. But the criticizers don’t ever stop to ask if we want it too. They might be surprised by the answer. This weekend, my sister and I both had the same goal— disconnecting. For her, it is because she is a senior in high school and being connected to the world through her phone means crazy amounts of stress pouring in at every turn— emails, reminders, tasks, more and more things she has to do at the so called “best time in her life.” For me, I wanted to escape for many of the same reasons. If I can’t connect to email, I can’t be reminded of all the things I’m not doing. Of all the time I’m wasting. And if I’m not connected, and instead have a glorious nature getaway in front of me, I also can’t focus on missing the person I love so much. I think we young people are always so connected to our "screens" nowadays for a multitude of complex reasons. Sure, we do engage socially there, but that’s not even the tip of the iceberg. They help us stay organized, keep on task, and it’s basically the nature of the job market nowadays. If you aren’t easily contactable, you aren’t getting the job. I think older generations fail to see that the screens we seem to love so much are also our worst enemies, and as difficult to extract ourselves from as X-Men-like wings on our backs. It's not that we don't want to put the "screens" down. It's that we can't rationalize disconnecting from so many opportunities, tasks, and emails that might get us somewhere in the world. 

Nevertheless, disconnecting was as good for me as it was for my sister, and just as necessary. To do nothing is an enormous task, especially for two "overachievers" such as ourselves. We talked about how when you wake up at 8 am with the whole day ahead of you, at 1 pm you are amazed at how seemingly little time has passed. I’m quite familiar with the feeling of— the day is already half over, and I haven’t done nearly as much as I planned! But this weekend, the feeling was more like: The day isn’t even half over, and we’ve already done all the nothing we could ever imagine with it! In my day to day life, the hours run screaming by me, ignorant and indifferent to my desperate attempts to catch them. So I don't know if the lake is magic or something, but this weekend I made time my bitch. 

 -Fran

Last Week #10 | It's Always Sunny in #frelidalphia

 A year ago, all of this would have seemed like a dream.  For instance, the fact that I spent the Thursday before Memorial Day in a car crossing state lines with my friends and boyfriend, for a weekend of relaxation? Impossible. You may not know this about me, but much of my anxiety is related to sleeping in new places. So vacations, sleepovers, and weekend trips are things I've come to avoid. But when Kelsey and Sam suggested we take a trip to Philadelphia to visit the infamous La Colombe and just have fun for a weekend, I couldn't turn it down. So I spent the last few months since we booked the trip practicing, preparing, meditating, doing yoga and trying to get myself to a good mental place before we left. 

And when the worst case scenario happened, I survived. I started to have an anxiety attack, late at night when it was time for bed, and I worked through it alone. And then we worked through it together. Things weren’t always perfect on this trip. We got on each other’s nerves, we made mistakes, but most importantly, we learned and grew in spite of it. My friendships and relationships with these people are stronger as a result. I’m glad I nearly had an anxiety attack. Because I'm, no-- we're, freaking better for it. 

On the second day we met up with friends from home, serendipitously in the city the same weekend as us. As we sat there in a strange place talking about the life we'd been living miles away from home, I thought about how nothing new is impossible if you have the right people by your side. Any place can feel like home with them. And it suddenly dawned on me how two of our friends made the seemingly impossible decision to pick up and move to the other side of the country. It’s because they had each other. In that moment I realized that I could do the same, with these people. Because I already had. I took a huge step this weekend. I chose to say "fuck you" to my anxiety and do something I wanted to do anyway. That's no small feat, and a lot of the credit should probably go to me, for being strong enough to do it. But a sizable portion of that credit should be given to my friends, for creating an environment in which I felt safe enough to take chances my anxiety ordinarily wouldn't let me take.

I’ve been thinking a lot about family lately. Who matters, and more specifically why they matter. It's different for everyone, but I think some people cling to the archaic, dictionary definition of family in the hopes of keeping the status quo. But that doesn’t always work. If people are meant to, they will drift away regardless of whether or not you dig your heels in and demand they stay. Family is however you define it. For me, it is a hybrid. It’s the people I live with, sure, but it’s also the people I want to live with. It’s my best friend, her boyfriend, my boyfriend. It’s my boyfriend’s family. It’s my mentors, my therapist, my teachers, the people who inspire me and help me to live my best life. It’s the people who care, basically. 

On this trip, I think I saw a flash of the future. I saw a version of us that I suspect could be the real us. A group of genuinely happy people, full of life and love to give. Talented people who are going places. I knew that about us before, but I saw it more clearly in the bright Philadelphia sunlight. 

For me, this meant letting things go. I’m always connected. To technology, to the world, to my worries and anxiety, to this clear cut version of myself I have in my head. I reply to emails within a few hours of when I receive them (if not minutes). I'm practical. I don't like concerts. I can't go on trips because I have anxiety. But this weekend, I simply didn’t do that. I quit cold turkey. I checked my email maybe once a day, but never replied. I watched the anxieties and worries passing through my head, but didn't buy in or subscribe to any of them. I was as impractical and silly as I am physically capable of being. I went to a concert that I actually loved, discovered why people love concerts, and realized that I would see that artist a million more times live. And I learned something that’s kind of life changing. Nothing matters as much as I think it does in the moment. Like, maybe the long weekend vibes got to me, but I just felt like nothing was all that pressing. I wasn't really missing anything by being off the grid. The grid could wait. I could take time to myself, because people don’t actually email me as much as I think they do. At 9:30 am on a Friday, I laid in my bed in Philadelphia listening to Phil Collins’ Drum Duet and writing, having left all my stress back home. 

You can watch my weekly vlog from this week right here. It's one of my favorites. I can tell this will be a vlog I watch when times are tough, to remind me that it will be okay, or at least... it's always sunny in #frelidalphia.

-Fran

Last Week #9 | Honesty

 I'm a planner. And when I say planner, I don't just mean I like to make plans. I sure do, but that's not the extent of it. I like to make plans, and then I like to white knuckle grip the calendar in anticipation of my plan going awry. I clutch desperately to my plan, even if it's abundantly clear it's not going to work. And to be honest that has always worked for me, because I've only ever had to answer to myself, and things always got done that way. But now, something I'm learning as I progress and grow in friendships and relationships and adulthood, is that the plan isn't set in stone, and clinging to it like it is doesn't help anything. If something doesn't work, it doesn't work, and we should just do ourselves a favor and let it go. 

 This is easier said than done. Case in point-- I wrote the first paragraph of this blog post at the beginning of last week, and I meant it. I went on to talk about how "Things felt easier this week. Plans felt like they just came together, fell together. Although I did feel myself getting worked up about "the plan" at times, I tried to keep it in check, and not give in to that anxious crutch."

 I even went on to describe each day in detail, and talk about how things just fell together on each one of them, despite my not making explicit plans for them. For my grand finale I finished with, "I rolled with the punches this week, and I think it's because I did my best to channel my inner Idina and LET IT GO.  To all you planners out there, I challenge you, nay I urge you to unhand the calendar a little bit this week. Not to your detriment-- you should still use it to remember when that dreaded dentist appointment is, but remember that things will still get done even if you don't stare at it and check things off every five seconds. It's as much of an addition as technology or chocolate. Break up with your calendar this week. Or at least...take a 'break.'"

 But then, Sunday rolled around. And for some mysterious reason that I couldn't, and still can't figure out, I couldn't get out of bed. I've had depression for a good portion of my life I'd say. I've felt depressed before, I've been in the depths of it, and thought I'd seen and felt it all. But this, this not being able to get out of bed, this not being able to find a reason to get up despite the dozens of things I have to look forward to- in the immediate and long term future- this was new to me. And until about the middle of the afternoon, I couldn't cope with it. But then, I accepted some help. I allowed my boyfriend to come over, and we watched Bob's Burgers and ate Panera and randomly went to Old Navy so I could get out for a bit. It wasn't my original plan for the day, and there were parts of it that were ugly, but at the end, it was beautiful. 

 I decided early last week that I was going to start really writing on this blog. I'm not going to shy away from things anymore, I told myself. I'm going to tell the truth. The hard, ugly, blurry truth. So when it came time to finalize this blog post, I couldn't rationalize using the original draft, because it felt hypocritical to leave out the ugly bits just to prove my point. So I wanted to tell you the truth in this blog post. And the truth is, I have a lot to learn, even about things I thought I knew everything about. There are some things I'd rather not know more about, like the unexplored depths of my own depression. But even though it might not be my plan to learn more about it, even though I'd rather not go there, I have to realize that fuck-- things don't always go according to plan. I may very well see more depths, even amidst these many peaks. I'm working on coming to terms with that today, last week, and every day in the future. 

 -Fran