How to Prepare for your Graduation Speech Like An Actor: A 15-Point Guide


Around this time of year, the ol’ blarg here sees an uptick in traffic vis-a-vis this one post in particular: Tips for Writing a Graduation Speech. No great mystery, that. It’s graduation season. There are speeches to be given, and for a lot of these poor souls, it may be the first real speech they’ve ever given. Woe to them, but even more than that, woe upon their audiences.

I wrote that post five (help!) years ago when I was in full English-teacher mode, and I stand by those tips for the writing. If you’re gonna give good speech, you’ve gotta start with good words. But there’s more to a speech than just good words, and that’s what I want to talk about today, since I have rediscovered myself as a drama-teacher-slash-acting-coach. And that’s your delivery.

Your stilted, stiff, boring-AF delivery.

You know it, I know it. You go to YouTube and you watch your average graduation speech (or, god help you, you paid attention to the end-of-year speeches last year and now it’s your turn), and it’s entirely interchangeable with any other given graduation speech. The words could be entirely different but the delivery sounds exactly the same, because these poor bastards don’t know the first thing about giving a speech to an audience.

Well, that’s not going to be you, my soon-to-be-putting-high-school-in-the-rearview-mirror friend. You’re going to give a speech that, even if it doesn’t shake them to the very core of their cold, dark souls, at the very least it’s not gonna bore them to tears while they’re listening to it. Because you’re going to prepare for this speech like an actor, and I’m gonna tell you how to do exactly that.

Ready? Me either. Let’s dive in.

  1. Who are You? No, seriously, who are you? Read the speech you’ve written. Out loud. Does it sound like you speaking? If not, it’s probably because you’re trying to make your speech sound like every other graduation speech out there. Which means you sound phony and cliched. Which means you have a problem.
  2. But, for real though, Who are You? If you’re a quiet, dry humor type, it’s no good giving a speech full of puns and goofy jokes, or worse, a deathly-serious seize-the-day type diatribe. Your friends and family in the audience know you, and they’ll recognize that you’re putting on airs if you go down that road. But even those who don’t know you can smell a phony a mile away. Check yourself and re-write the speech if it’s not your style.
  3. Breathe. The mind and the body are connected, for better or worse. The one can’t get by without the other, and your brain needs oxygen to function at full steam. So before you begin, do your brain a favor and focus on your breathing.
  4. I’m not joking. Stop and breathe. You skipped the last step because you thought it was a waste of time, right? I know you did. You didn’t train as an actor, and this “just breathe” stuff is a bunch of hippie-dippie baloney. But I’m saying it again because it bloody well matters. Stop what you’re doing, stop rushing from one line to the next. Take a deep breath. Deep, down to the bottom of your lungs. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Close your eyes if it helps. Don’t think about the next thing you have to say. Think about taking a deep breath. Then take it, and focus only on that breath while it’s coming in and going out.
  5. You still aren’t breathing, dammit. Stop playing around. I know this sounds like hot nonsense, and if that’s your mindset, it will be hot nonsense. Stop thinking about what you’re about to say and just breathe. Count to ten if it helps (focusing on numbers, or anything really, is a great way to block out other things — like anxiety and doubt). Do it. Just breathe, before you do anything else.
  6. Relax. A few steps ago, I talked about the mind-body connection. You fed your brain when you took those deep breaths. (If you didn’t take those deep breaths, back up a few steps and TRY AGAIN.) It’s time to hack the system from the other side. Before you take the stage, relax the body. Lots of us hold tension in the shoulders. Tense and relax them. Likewise the muscles of the neck and jaw. Tense and relax. Scan the body, from toes to the top of the head. Wherever you find tension, tune in and relax it. Tension in the body takes up real estate in your brain, and you want as much brain power as you can get.
  7. Rehearse to exhaustion. There’s no substitute for repetition. You have to know your speech backwards and forwards. I’m not saying don’t use notecards — by all means, use notecards to keep yourself on track. But you should know your speech well enough to cover 90% of it without even looking at your notes. If you don’t know it, and I mean know it the way you know how to brush your teeth or wipe your butt — which is to say, well enough to do it in your sleep, or if your hair is on fire — you’re gonna blank on it when you’re at that podium with a thousand or more sets of eyeballs trained on you. Archilocus said that “People don’t rise to the level of their expectations; they fall to the level of their training.” Be well-trained.
  8. Make breathing and relaxing a part of your rehearsal. If breathing and relaxation are normal, regular events for your body, then the body will respond to the effects of those exercises much more quickly. Kind of like turning out the lights and brushing your teeth and bathing in the blood of your enemies cues the body that it’s time to go to sleep for the night, if you practice relaxation, you can relax the body with just a few seconds of focus. Like having a chill-pill on demand. Neat trick — but it takes work on the front end.
  9. Don’t speak like a robot… I don’t know why, but when the uninitiated get up to speak in front of a crowd, it’s like they forget how people actually talk. They feel like they have to emulate MLK or JFK or some-other-K and they fall into this voice. You know the one. The one that’s loud, so that’s great, but that also has all the emotion stripped out of it in favor of a forced affect that “sounds emphatic”. That odd cadence that isn’t quite Shatner-esque but that isn’t far off, the forced anti-melody that starts high and finishes low on every sentence. That plodding pace from start to finish. Know what that does to people? It puts them to sleep.
  10. Speak like a human. Ever actually listen to people speak? Not, like, to understand what they’re saying, just to listen to the music of their voices? Try it sometime. Listen to the patterns, to the ups-and-downs, to the way they use just their voices to add emphasis. Then emulate what you’ve learned. Okay, not in the sense of I-want-to-sound-like-this-person-when-I-speak, but rather in the sense of speaking conversationally. To help with that …
  11. Don’t speak to the “crowd”… I’m not gonna say that one of these steps is more important than the rest, but if one thing was the most important in the list, it might be this. There’s a tendency to think you’re speaking to a crowd. That’s true, but the fact is, you don’t know the crowd, so you can’t speak to the crowd. And for that matter, when people speak to crowds, they tend to put on a manufactured voice. (See above.) Don’t do that crap. Don’t try to speak to everybody. Instead...
  12. Speak to one person. A friend, a parent, a mentor, a younger sibling. Speak truthfully and honestly, as if you were speaking only to that one person you know very well, and your speech will ring true. Genuine. Not fake.
  13. It’s okay to pause. For one thing, real people pause in conversation and — flash back a few steps — we’re going for conversational, here. (Unless you happen to actually be the next coming of MLK, which you aren’t.) Pausing creates what I call for actors “think-time.” Which is exactly what it sounds like. Time for you to think about what’s coming next. Also time for the audience to think about what you just said. Time for us to enjoy a moment of silence for once. As a speaker, it’s not your job to bombard our ears with words until we capitulate, it’s your job to communicate a message to us. We understand messages better when we have time to think.
  14. Hold your place. Here’s an actor’s trick I love. I teach it for cold readings (wherein actors have to use a script but are expected also to show emotion and listen to their partners) and it’s even easier for you since you’ll be standing at a podium. As you speak, mark the next thing you need to say with your finger. This works if you have the whole speech printed out or if you just use bullet points. When you’re comfortable, or when you’re pausing, or while the audience is laughing (at the joke you just told, hopefully), mark the beginning of your next sentence or your next point. Seriously. Just plop your finger down on the page. The podium is hiding your hands anyway. That way when you’re ready for that next idea, you don’t have to look for it on the page — it’s right there ready to go.
  15. Not to be repetitive, but — don’t forget to relax and breathe. Everybody gets stage fright. Everybody freaks out a little bit. Or a lot. But the actor’s tools are the breath and the body, and if you can master those things, you can master and tame the panic when it tries to take over. Just breathe, and keep breathing.

I promise, I’m not gonna do another graduation-speech related post around here, ever, because with this one I think I’ve tapped the topic out. That being said, I think if you take these tips to heart, your speech will be better than most of the speeches being given at most of the schools around most of the country in the coming weeks, and there’s something to be said for that. And as always — if these tips help you out, I’d love to hear about it.

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Terrible Reviews: Endgame (Or, Why Fat Thor is All Of Us)


I always see myself in movies. I can’t help it — I’m always comparing myself to the characters, having the internal monologues of “I’d never do that” or “if it were me I’d…” which is part of the fun of the movies, and literature generally, innit? We get to live vicariously through the figures on the screen.

Which is why instead of doing a full-on review of Avengers: Endgame, I instead want to look at two things I absolutely loved about the movie.

Here’s your obligatory *MILD SPOILERS AHEAD* warning, but y’know, the movie has been out for two weeks, so avoiding spoilers is your lookout at this point.

Let’s start with the big one (pun intended): Fat Thor.

For my money, Thor has been the best thing about the MCU since the first Avengers movie. The best thing, by like, a lot. And since Ragnarok, the gap is only getting wider. Chris Hemsworth’s take on the character is so charming, so goofy, and so heartfelt that it’s hard not to love him. Also, he’s, y’know, the freaking god of thunder, so there’s that.

chris hemsworth GIF

And … actually, I need a detour here. Because what I really love about the Marvel universe — and what is giving its films such staying power, and what’s making its films resonate even with people (like me!) who not only aren’t comic book fans, but who might actually turn up their noses at the notion of being comic book fans — is that they really work hard at fleshing out their characters. Making sure that the movies are more than just beat-’em-up formulaic tripe of hero is the best at everything, hero gets his butt kicked by baddie, hero goes off to train and recruit buddies, hero kicks baddie’s butt, hero is the best at everything again but even better now. No, for a Marvel movie, if a hero wants to be successful in the end, they’re going to have to grow for it, learn for it, change for it.

The example springing to mind right now is in Spiderman: Homecoming where young Peter, just laid low by a failure to save the day, gets chastised by mentor-figure-doubling-as-surrogate-dad Tony Stark. Stark is taking his high-tech Spiderman kit back from Peter because he’s not ready for it. Peter protests that he’s nothing without the suit. Then, this from Tony: “If you’re nothing without the suit, you don’t deserve it.” Peter has to return to his un-souped-up heroing, takes a step back to work on his personal life, ends up saving the day by the skin of his teeth without the suit. He learns. He grows. And he becomes what we knew he was all along.

So — back to Thor. Thor has been laid low by the most recent slate of movies. Ragnarok saw the destruction of his home world and the loss of his hammer. Infinity War began with the death of his brother (and most of the rest of Asgard) and sent him on a quest to retrieve a weapon mighty enough to defeat Thanos — and he still fails. Loss after loss after loss. Thor, by the end of Infinity War, is way past due for a win.

Luckily, the Marvel gods know a good story arc when they see one, and in the opening of Endgame, Thor gets to make good on what he failed to do at the end of Infinity War: he lops Thanos’s head off with his fancy new thunderstick. (Mid-sentence, if I remember properly, for extra effect.)

But when the Marvel gods giveth, the Marvel gods also taketh away. Decapitating the biggest of bads feels good — damned good — for about five seconds, but it’s not actually a win. The stones are lost, Thanos’s evil 50% population downsizing can’t be reversed, everything is awful. Thor’s friends are still ashes, and Thanos wasn’t a threat to anybody anymore. The victory is entirely hollow. Still, it’s early in the film — lots of time for that character arc to swing upward. And that’s what we expect — the hero gets laid low, and he pops back up onto his feet and keeps fighting.

Except, no, that’s not what we get. Instead, our favorite thunder god goes into hiding like a spooked turtle retreating into its shell. Five years pass, and when we next see Thor, not only is he not bouncing back like a good superhero should (Cap is heading up support groups, Black Widow is running a global security system, Iron Man has embraced his family side and moved on), he’s wallowing in his despair. He’s put on weight, he’s stopped shaving, he’s wasting his days sucking down brewskis and playing video games with online trolls.

Man of the Year, right here. Pass the beer.

Now, here’s where the controversy comes in (because for goodness’s sake we can’t have a thing without spinning up a jolly good controversy about it) because apparently a lot of people are upset about Fat Thor. It’s fat-shaming, they cry, it’s an overweight character played for laughs, they moan, it’s cheap and hurtful, they warble.

Bollocks, I say. Yes, Fat Thor is played for laughs, but everything in the MCU is up for becoming a punchline — why should one of the most beloved butts of the brickiest brick jokes suddenly be immune? Just because he put on some pounds? Nonsense. Fat Thor is funny because Chris Hemsworth is a funny guy, and because we expect Thor to be chiseled and slinging lightning and hammers around, not pudgy and parked in a Barcalounger shouting at noobs on Call of Duty.

In my not-so-humble opinion as a somewhat overweight guy myself, I’m going to say that Fat Thor’s portrayal is absolutely not fat-shaming — in fact it’s just the opposite. For one thing, there’s no training montage, no blast of lightning that burns the fat away and gives us Chiseled Thor anew. No, Fat Thor goes through the entire movie as Fat Thor, squeezes into the jumpsuit as Fat Thor, saves the world as Fat Thor. Sure, we laugh at him along the way, but we also love him for who he is, as we always have.

Also — I’m gonna go ahead and say the controversial thing — when people get upset, sad, depressed even — sometimes? They let themselves go. It happens. And again, I’m saying this to you as a guy who has packed on a solid twenty-five pounds over the past several months myself. For some people, that’s a natural response to stress. It’s not shaming to point that out — it’s also not shaming, I’d argue, for that guy’s buddies to rib him a little bit about it. But (and here’s the heroic thing) Thor lets himself be talked out of his funk … sort of. He suits up and goes to work even though he’s not really feeling it, because he knows his buddies need him.

And that brings me to the second thing I love about the movie — really an offshoot of the first. Which is that Thor — Fat Thor, by this point, but still God-of-Thunder-Thor — struggles not against a foe, but against doubt. Because of his recent spate of failures, Thor — literally capable of almost anything Thor — falls into inaction, packs on the pounds and hides from the world, because of his own feelings of inadequacy.

Thor suffers from Impostor Syndrome. And a healthy dose of anxiety and probably depression to boot.

He has a panic attack, for goodness’s sake. The God of Thunder is literally struck helpless by the imagined gremlins running amok inside his brain.

thor i cant GIF

So while I absolutely adored Thor before, I double-dang-diggity-love him now, because, like I was saying way back at the beginning of this post that’s quickly getting away from me (WordPress for some reason removed the word count from the editor and it leaves me absolutely rudderless), in Endgame, Thor’s suffering is my suffering. And — as I always tell my students — the world is large. If you’re feeling it (or thinking it or wondering it), other people are feeling it, too.

Luckily Marvel has an answer for us — for the problem of one of the most powerful beings in the universe struck helpless by the feeling that he isn’t as much of a superhero as he thought. (And, by extension, for that existential doubt worrying away in all our hearts that we aren’t gonna be able to do the things we want to do, or that we need to do. Cuz, y’know. Thor is us.) And the answer is delivered by, who else, but his mother.

Frigga (Norse mythology has the best friggin’ names, I don’t care what anybody says): Everyone fails at who they’re supposed to be, Thor. The measure of a person — of a hero — is how well they succeed at being what they are.

And I can’t get over that. I’ve been hearing it in my head ever since. It’s the perfectest advice you could give to somebody suffering the way Thor is suffering.

Thor goes on from there to help save the universe. He’s still fat, of course. He saves the universe as he is, not as the idealized version of what he’s supposed to be.

This is why I am loving Marvel movies, still, so many years down the line, and even though there are, admittedly, way too many of them. Because their heroes are us — just, y’know, with better abs and magic hammers and stuff.

Until now. Now they’re just us.

thor GIF

All images are obviously the property of Marvel, except for the fact that Thor belongs to all of us.


Search Term Bingo Mini Episode


Somebody searched “Everything’s not awesome I finally get Radiohead” and landed on my site.

What a rude awakening for that poor soul. Probably just looking for lyrics or something and falls into my pit of drivel and despair. Still — that’s okay, buddy. Plenty of room in the pit of despair for everybody.

I couldn’t quite remember where “the pit of despair” came from in the depths of the ol’ brainpan, so I googled it. Of course — it was The Princess Bride!

Don’t even think about it.

And if you don’t know The Princess Bride, what are you even doing with your life?

Interestingly enough, though, when I googled “the pit of despair”, The Princess Bride was only the second thing to come up on the search results. The first was this:

In black and white because it’s creepier that way.

This Pit of Despair was designed and named by Harry Harlow, a man whose name you don’t need to remember except that it actually sounds like a billionaire villain, who studied things like the effects of maternal separation using this device, whose purpose, per Wikipedia, was “to produce anĀ animal model of clinical depression.”

So, thanks Google! I certainly needed the images of monkeys suffering in cages first thing this morning — but I guess that’s what I get for googling the pit of despair.


The Blank Stage, The Blank Page


It’s as inevitable as the sunset when you work in the theater — for every show that opens, the show must close. As the curtain goes up, so must it eventually come down. And as the stage was once a hurly-burly mass of activity and energy and joy, so it must revert to a hollow, silent room.

We’ve just finished the run of our spring musical, and if you hadn’t noticed, I’m feeling a little empty. I’m a lot relieved and a lot satisfied and a heck of a lot tired, but with all of that comes a little bit empty. You give so much of your life and your time and your thoughts to this one endeavor until finally, over one whirlwind weekend, it’s over.

But that doesn’t sum it up entirely. Theater is this ephemeral thing, fleeting and fragile and magical and then, suddenly, gone. It’s not like most other art forms. You write a book, or a poem, or a story, and the words are there basically forever. Whether they’re scrawled on the page or stored in the digital guts of a computer, the words — the fruit of your effort — remain. Write and record a great song? You can play it back as many times as you want, record as many versions as you want. Draw? Paint? Sculpt? Those things persist. But with the theater, you’re building a moment, a moment in time that must by its nature pass and leave no trace. The only evidence that the thing was ever there is in memory (and in the admittedly massive cleanup afterward).

I’ve had students coming up to me all week saying they’re so sad the show is over, that they don’t know what to do with themselves now. Some of that is in jest — with all the extra time, what can’t you do with yourself now — but a lot of it is genuine. Logging all these extra hours with these people, in this place, working together on this project … it’s the quintessential example of a whole being greater than the sum of its parts. So when it’s done, and the final bows have been taken, it’s no great shock that, for these kids especially, it’s a bit like losing a loved one. Even on the shows that are kind of a train wreck (and I’ve been involved in a few of those, let there be no doubt), the cast and crew become a family, develop a bond that’s a bit unlike anything else. And this show, to state it with humility, was far from a train wreck.

A colleague of mine when I was coaching soccer put it in perspective for me as we were bemoaning our near miss at the playoffs that year. The squad was all understandably disappointed, bordering on depression. And so was I. And he said,

“Sometimes you have great years, and sometimes you have not-so-great years. Every once in a great while you get the chance to catch lightning in a bottle, and those are the really great years. But what matters to the guys isn’t so much the win-loss record. It’s what they go through as a team. Are we teaching them the right things, win or lose? Are we making them better men? That’s what matters. And we’re teaching these guys the right things, coach.”

I left that job — and that coaching position — sooner than I would have liked for the sake of that team, in pursuit of another, deeper dream of mine — teaching theater. But I saw those guys again a few weeks ago, under some truly unfortunate circumstances.

One of our players from that season had died, passed away while on vacation. He was 22. And while the sadness and the hurt of that moment was still seeping in, I was greeted by his teammates — or, as they had taken to calling themselves, his brothers. In my grief, my players — my students — they comforted me. They reassured me that life goes on, that we have to live right and be strong for each other in the absence of those that have passed away.

My team of boys had grown into a crew of men, showing me exactly what we’d been trying to teach them back then. We did catch lightning in a bottle, then — I just didn’t know it at the time.

This show was one of those lightning-in-a-bottle experiences, but I think it became that — in part, at least — because of the culture we’re building at my school. We’re teaching the right things, forming the right kinds of relationships, showing these young people how to chase after what matters and how to be good brothers and sisters to one another in the process. And that’s what really matters, regardless of how good the show was or how many tickets we sold.

(Of course, it helps that the show was also excellent.)

So now, the blank stage, and the emotional vacuum that swirls in its wake. I’ve been telling my students that it’s okay — perfectly normal, in fact — to feel a bit sad. The set has come down, the costumes have gone home, the props are all back in storage. The stage is empty, and it’s not wrong to feel empty with it.

But I’m also pointing out to them how full of potential an empty theater is. All that space, just waiting to be claimed. All that energy, waiting to be tapped. The blank stage is just like the blank page — a world of possibility unsullied by past mistakes or fears of the future.

It’s there, an empty vessel, waiting to be filled.

Just like our hearts.


The Pill Problem, Revisited


I’ve been on antidepressants for months now. At the time, shortly after I was prescribed Lexapro, I wrote about the experience, and especially about the odd and slightly disconcerting feeling of not being able to tell if my general good feeling was a genuine good feeling or whether it was the result of the pills. And while that problem hasn’t gone away, I can say it hasn’t really bothered me in the intervening months. (Of course, that, too, falls into the “is it for real or is it the pills” trap, but that’s sort of the point of all this, so…)

I’m going today for an appointment with my doctor because my prescription’s out, and since we’re dealing with mental illness here, it ain’t the kind of thing they want to give you just for calling on the phone. No, they want to see you face-to-face, ask you questions, make sure you’re not contemplating purchasing guns or rope or Herbalife or converting to Scientology or some such crazy crap. Not that I’m afraid or nervous about speaking to them about what’s going on with me. I haven’t had any of the terrible feelings that sent me to the doctor in the first place at all in the time since then. Which is awesome. Life is good.

And because life is good, I’m bullish on thinking that things in general are good. So when I told my wife that my pills were almost out and I had to schedule an appointment and that I was keen to start tapering off the meds toward a goal of getting off them entirely, she gave me the skeptical eyes. And the skeptical eyes from my wife are usually a sign that I need to pump the brakes and think a little harder about what I’m charging into.

“You’re talking about mental illness,” she told me, “and that’s not a thing you just stop taking medication for.”

Which is absolutely right, of course. Intellectually, I know this. Because mental illness is about chemicals, and more importantly, chemical imbalances, and as a result, medication for mental illness is about rectifying chemical imbalance by creating new balance. Taking meds out of the equation, then, is like taking your thumb off the scales — it throws things out of whack again.

But I was doing the classic “crazy person” thing (and I know that crazy is a term that shouldn’t be bandied about when talking about the mentally ill, I use it here only as shorthand) of thinking, “well, I’m fine, so I don’t need those pills anymore.” Like a true red-blooded ‘Murican, my thinking was:

  1. I have this malady.
  2. I took these pills.
  3. Malady appears to have passed.
  4. No need to keep taking the pills.

Because that’s how medication tends to work in any other arena. Got a headache? Take a few Tylenol and lay down for a bit. You don’t take Tylenol for the rest of your life. Just came through surgery? Here, take these pills for the pain until the pills run out.

You get sick or injured or otherwise out of whack, you go to the doctor, they straighten you out, end of story. Close the book on that chapter.

Which is very much how my brain wants to view this issue.

Because that’s the insidious nature of pills that mess with brain chemistry: you can’t really feel them working. You feel “better”, but you don’t know why. Put another way: you have a headache, you take Tylenol, the pain tends to evaporate within a few hours. You have a cut on your arm, you put some ointment and a bandage on it, and a few days later, the cut is gone. Empirical signs of the efficacy of your treatment. With anti-depressants you don’t have that, because the symptoms fade out gradually, like an 80s rock ballad that just repeats the chorus again and again until you change the station. There’s no healed cut to behold, no relief of throbbing pain to point to, just general dread and unease that don’t seem to be hanging over every little thing so much anymore. But could that really be the result of the meds you’re taking? Seems hard to believe. And were things really that bad before? Probably not. Do I really need these pills, then? I should be fine without them.

Image by rawpixel from Pixabay

The medication doesn’t make you feel differently, it makes you perceive differently, and when you alter your perception, you alter everything, including your ability to perceive that your perception has been altered.

In short, as is so often the case, I think my wife may be right, and I may be a bit overzealous about getting off the pills.

Here’s the heart of the struggle, though: I don’t want to need the pills. I sort of have this image of myself that’s, while certainly far from perfect, generally pretty solid. Reliable. Not broken, not malfunctioning, outside perhaps of a relatively benign proclivity for swearing and a running addiction. I shouldn’t, in other words, be the sort of person who has to gulp down a cocktail of pills, tablets, and capsules just to get through the day. I very specifically do not want to be that kind of person. Maybe it’s the tree-hugger I try to pretend doesn’t exist, or the anti-healthcare-monolith conspiracy theorist thinking I can’t quite put out of my head. But I don’t want to need these pills. I want to be normal without them. I should be normal without them.

But then I think about what normal was for the months before I admitted something was amiss and went to the doctor, and here I go into a spin cycle again. Because I don’t want to be that either — going to tears while heading to work in the morning, fighting just to get out of bed in the morning, drifting away from the activities that I once enjoyed (and have been enjoying again since!).

And the choice between becoming that again or popping a tiny little pill every night? That’s not a choice at all. “Wants” and “shoulds” are generally useless — we have to deal with the world we’re presented with, not the world we wish we lived in.

So I’m heading to the doctor in a few hours. I’m going to ask about scaling back on my dosage, because I want to see if I can be okay with less pills before I try to jump back to having no pills at all. But if they think I need to stay where I am, I guess I need to be okay with that, too.

To do otherwise would be, well, crazy.


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