I'm a Good Story

Often when I get really depressed I turn to Nick Drake. (Not unheard of.) His music is like this to me: When I was 15, I drank a two-litre bottle of Alabama Slammer and then puked up the contents of my stomach, including bile, until I had nothing left to puke. So I dry heaved instead. I knew I had to drink water in order to feel better but I could barely get it down. So I took tiny sips. I could feel the water in my stomach, knew it was helping in it’s own special way but I didn’t feel any better.  It’s the exact same thing with me, my depression, and Nick Drake’s music. It doesn’t make me feel any better but I know it’s helping in its own special way.

The funny thing is, I haven’t wanted to listen to much Nick Drake lately. This is strange for me considering he’s a staple in my music collection and has been since I first discovered him. It’s made me wonder, am I happy?

If you’re afraid to fail, then you’re probably going to fail – Kobe Bryant

I’m going to be upfront here: I’ve been feeling like shit lately. I’ve been working hard, consistently, but it never feels like I’m doing enough. I have big dreams but they’re really taking a long time to transpire. So in turn, I feel like a failure.

When things move along at snail speed it’s easy for this big dreamer to get discouraged, take several days off to indulge in her vices and wind up curled up in bed next to her dog in the fetal position at 7:30PM for three consecutive nights.

Recently on the way to yoga, I came across a rusty, dismembered, discarded typewriter on the side of the road. It felt like the perfect metaphor for how I’ve been feeling. This beautiful piece of equipment once had so much purpose. Now it’s useless and worthless, destined for the trash.

Yeah, I’ve been feeling like shit. So I decided to call a few key people in my life to help me climb out this K hole of depression. 

My fascination with modeling started with my mother. She modeled in her teens and early 20s, before getting knocked up with my sister. Framed photos of her print campaigns were hung around my parents' home so I grew up surrounded by my mother’s timeless beauty. There was no hiding from it.

I have always been completely obsessed with the idea of making a living off of your looks. When I was 12, I nagged my parents to take me to a modeling agency with shitty headshots my dad had taken, to see if I had potential. They told me I did, but I had to sign up for a $700 course, which would teach me about the industry. Not being stupid, I put that dream to bed.

The lifestyle still fascinates me: these modern-day gods and goddesses who are physically superior to the rest of us, getting paid to travel and do glamorous things. I guess I’ve always wanted to know firsthand if models live a more charmed life than the rest of us.

A few months ago, I met a man in a dark doorway at night. He'd popped out from nowhere and asked if he could give me his card. When men talk to me at night, I usually ignore them and quickly move along. But this man was different. He had an inviting energy. He had a purpose.

The man told me he was a personal trainer and that he had a gym at the back of his store, which was right next to the Lion’s Den. He told me he was trained in martial arts and could teach me self-defense. I asked him how long he had been doing it for and he said 12 years.

I told him I was a writer and was always looking for stories. He said he had lots to share. Then he introduced himself. His name was Hugh.

As we stood there, people got out of fancy cars on their way to the French restaurant next door, and waved at Hugh. I realized that standing in the doorway and handing out cards at night was how he did business. It obviously seemed to work.