Atop my feebly made bed, ensconced in the pillows, is a stuffed teddy bear. His name is Monte. He is a grungy, rogue warrior polar bear in fatigues. He is a ruthless killer with a dark past. Next to him sits a stuffed Ewok, Paploo. He is often a boisterous and can be a bit of a trouble-maker. But Paploo is frequently depressed because his cousin, the beautiful Princess Kneesaa, has been missing for quite some time.

I know what you’re thinking. How could someone as fancy as Princess Kneesaa be related to a hoodlum like Paploo? But I swear. It’s true. Google that shit.

When Paploo gets bored, he likes to taunt my cat, Lucy. She’s a fiery redhead. Please don’t try googling “fiery redhead.” I speak from experience and the results are NSFW. Unless you are in the business of making backseat pornos. Then it’s just “research.” When Lucy gets bored, she prefers to taunt Monte. Monte always wins, though. He is a ruthless killer after all. His weapon of choice is his brut force and gnarly snarl. I have come home many nights to find tufts of white and red hair scattered throughout my apartment, accompanied by Dexter style splatters and trails of blood.

In order to keep the peace, I set out Han Solo’s bust to serve as chaperone. He’s got a blaster in one hand and a smirk on his face that makes the ladies go weak in the knees. If only _he_ had knees to get around, maybe he would be more effective at his job. I haven’t confronted him, yet, but I think Han may have an alcohol problem. My wine often disappears and shortly thereafter, Han shows up in miniature hats made of French bread. And yes, Han’s drink of choice is wine. Obviously. But if Han isn’t drinking my wine, there is one other option.

The Gummi Bears are drinking it. It _does_ look an awful lot like their magical, bounce inducing Gummibeary juice. And, occasionally, in the wee small hours of the morning, I hear faint voices sloppily singing about high adventure that’s beyond compare. I also hear them plotting against their arch nemesis, the McDucks, specifically Scrooge. You probably thought it was that Duke Igthorn guy, didn’t you? That was exactly what they wanted you to think. Disney forbade them from talking about the rivalry in fear that a public feud would hurt the wholesome Disney image.

As you can tell, living close to Disneyland has certainly increased the amount of anthropomorphic creatures that drop by to visit me. Although, now that I mention that, I am sensing a pattern, here. All of the creatures that visit are washed up, former Disney reality stars. The Gummi Bears, The McDucks, Chip and Dale and their Rescue Rangers. I get the feeling that Disney evicted them from the property years ago in favor of new, shiny, pretty, young cartoons and these guys are roaming around Orange County looking for food and a place to stay. I'm happy to help them out. The thought of these magical little animals roaming the dangerous streets of Anaheim makes me physically ill. But don't get the wrong idea. I don't let just any anthropomorphic creature into my bed. Just bears, ducks and chipmunks. A girl has to have standards.

but I've redone things a bit around here and I'm on my way back...

…Right. Now.

It’s been one hellish day. One long, horrifying nightmare of a day.

Tonight, I think I am going to get stupid drunk in hopes of forgetting how close I currently am to curling up into the fetal position underneath my desk, humming some random tune while I rock back and forth with my hands covering my ears.

No. I am not exaggerating. Scary, isn’t it?

I am still at work, with two hours left in the work day, hoping that taking the time to blog will provide me with enough of a respite to step back into my responsibilities with a renewed sense of spirit and optimism. This is doubtful, but I do live in hope.

When I first started blogging, I promised I would never, ever blog about work. Mostly because this is a public blog and I’d hate to become one of those stupid idiots who blogged too much about work while at work and got the boot. Today is going to be an exception. Brace yourselves. There may be a lot of vulgar language in this blog. I am not apologetic of this fact.

For those of you who don’t know, I work in the media. It is a job I love and adore with every ounce of my being, even on the worst of days. A few months ago, our company started laying off employees as a result of the economic crisis. 3 weeks ago, there was yet another round of lay offs. Thankfully, I’ve managed to keep my job, but… I’ve also managed to pick up a few other people’s responsibilities as well. Responsibilities not originally part of my job description. I don’t complain about that because, well, at least I have a job and the responsibilities I have recently acquired belonged to people who are not so fortunate.

My office is, as I so lovingly put it, a clusterfuck right now. A big, fat clusterfuck. Too much work, not enough people, and absolutely no structure. The logical, organized, practical Capricorn in me needs structure in the workplace. Without it, I start to loose my sanity, which is exactly what is happening to me right now. I’m pretty sure that my sanity has been slowly slipping away for a few weeks now, but I didn’t realize it until this morning when I walked in the doors of my office and watched it completely disappear while I sat there, helpless. My hands tied behind my back. Looking back, I should have seen it when I woke up today.

I struggled to get out of my bed this morning and function like the normal human being I aspire to be. One half of me loathed the idea of having to move from my place of fractured slumber. The other half begged to be released from the flannel sheets that make me feel ever so slightly claustrophobic by the time morning comes. The claustrophobic half of me won as I pulled one foot from the covers and planted it firmly on the ground next to me before sitting up and pulling the other foot from warmth. I propped my elbows on my knees and tucked my eyes into my hands.

The feeling that overwhelmed in this moment was familiar. I know it well and it knows me. Perhaps better than anyone or anything. But I did what I have so very frequently done in the past when this feeling starts to creep into my chest, I shoved it back inside and treaded off to start my day. Reluctantly, I’ve been doing this for the last few weeks with increasing frequency. The feeling has even started to creep into my nights again. That’s usually the sign that things in my world are starting to veer off course.

The mornings have always been worse for me when life gets incredibly stressful. I can mask the nights with television and alcohol. But by the time my alarm clock alerts me of the impending day, both the television and alcohol have left only a residue of comfortable familiarity. The television is almost certainly stuck on Wings, some morning show, or when I’m lucky, an infomercial. The alcohol never seems to leave a hangover, but I can always taste the tequila, scotch or beer somewhere in the back of my throat, and the buzz has long worn off. Mornings are the worst for me.

Ordinarily, the anxiety starts to wash away from me when I step into the shower. It’s the act of cleansing that does it for me, I think. This is why the shower is always the first place I hit in the morning. Once I step in, I stick my head under the shower and let the scolding water run over every inch of me. Usually I face the shower head, with my hands on the wall, helping to prop up my still not fully functioning body. Occasionally, I stand with my back to the water and the let it massage my neck. This is the only ritual I have that keeps my mornings running smoothly. I may wake up on the wrong side of the bed, frustrated, angry, sad, or depressed, it doesn’t matter. After my shower, I feel worlds apart from the groggy, unpleasant, anxiety ridden Danielle that may have risen that day. I have washed away the negativity and left only the pleasant thoughts to remain. Usually.

This morning, standing under the scalding water, just as I do every day, the feeling crept back up and started to beat its way out of my chest. I cranked the heat up, hoping to burn away the feeling. But I couldn’t keep myself propped up anymore. My legs gave out on me and I collapsed onto the floor of the shower, my knees tucked into my chest. I should have known then that today was NOT going to go well. But I live in hope, remember? Perhaps I blinded myself with hope and scolding hot water.

I spent a good majority of my teens and early 20’s on anti-depressants and anti-anxiety meds to fight these feelings (Xanax, my dear friend, I do miss you right now). But I’ve learned to live without the drugs and put aside my anxiety and stress and get done the shit that needs to get done. Today, I have been fighting a near mental breakdown and working my tired little ass off to get shit done. It’s a damn good thing I love my job, even on days like today, otherwise I am certain my coworkers would be dragging me out from underneath my desk right now and shipping me off to some hospital for a psych eval.

It’s now only 45 minutes until the quitting bell rings and I can start drinking.

Hell, I could start drinking right now. Our office certainly has enough booze to keep us all drunk for a long time. Strike that, it could probably only keep us lushes drunk for a few days, but still…

I’m going to go and tidy up my desk before I head out for the day. It would be an understatement to say that’s it’s a huge mess right now. Hopefully, when I get into work tomorrow, my clean desk will set the tone for a good day. Although my desk is always clean every morning and that didn’t seem to help, today. But... hope, right?

I am hope.

This is David. He's an actor. I'll ignore his steady job and just call him an actor. He wanted new headshots. Nothing fancy. But seeing as this was originally supposed to be a photography blog, I figured I'd post them. These were his favorites, by the way. Not necessarily mine. I love him. And his wife. I did her headshots as well. I will post those later this week. Along with some family portraits with their 9 month old son. Adorable. Lots more photos to come.

I adore this family and feel incredibly honored that they wanted me to shot these family/maternity shots before baby Finn came into the world.

Finn was born on New Year's Eve. My Birthday. And his daddy's birthday. Strange? I think so.

The blond is my best friend. For over 12 years. Sure, there was that one rough patch a few years ago, but we came through it and are better for the struggles we went through. I love her.

The redhead is her sister. 12 years ago, she was the most obnoxious little sister imaginable. Or so we thought at the time. These two women used to fight. A lot. But they are magnificent mature women and I love them. Completely.

I shot these images as their Christmas gift to their parents. Momma cried. I loved it.

"Dream? Give me your hand."

At one point in my life, several years ago, my entire identity was defined by the dreamer in me, and it was during this phase of my life that I discovered the extraordinary writings of Neil Gaiman. The dreamer in me clung to his words so desperately, aching to read every sentence. And reread every sentence, just as I still do. He dreamt the world the way I had dreamt the world. Full of magic and impossibilities turned realities. With just a touch of darkness. What can I say? I like twisted whimsy and magic.

Somewhere along the timeline of my life, though, the dreamer in me began to die a sluggish and agonizing death. Maybe it was the pitiless reality of being an adult, although I doubt it. I became an adult much too early in my life and still maintained the facility to dream. Perhaps it was the inevitable increase in maturity that accompanies age. Perhaps I simply became disillusioned with life and gave up hope. Perhaps the practical Capricorn in me finally consumed the dreamer. Again, I doubt all of these things. When I look back on the last days I remember still being defined by my ability to dream, I was a single woman. Perhaps the real reason the dreamer disappeared in me was because I put her out to pasture in favor of my own domestic stability.

Shit. If only I had known the old gal would still be kicking and screaming out there all these years later.

When my finals concluded last week, I made a decision to spend my break getting reacquainted with the one man I will follow anywhere, good old Neil. Immediately upon opening my copy of Neverwhere, I was flooded by a few staggeringly intense emotions. Damn. Neil has a way of doing that to me. You know how a song can instantly transport you back to a certain place in time and bring back all of those old emotions? Yeah, Neil has that kind of power over me as well. He reminded me of a part of myself that I didn’t even realize I had missed so intensely. Ever since, I feel as though I have been in the comfort of my childhood home; I’ve been dreaming again.

Neil gets a portion of the credit for this, but so must the theatre and a woman named Sheila, who, as I type this, is texting me about the dinner we will be sharing this evening. Sheila recruited me, a few months ago, to be a part of her show, She Loves Me; a show she was directing as her master’s thesis project. It had been two years since I had been on a stage with all the lights blazing. My decision to leave the theatre a couple of years ago occurred simultaneously with putting the dreamer out to pasture. But it was my intense love for Sheila that brought me back onto the stage and the extended arms of the family members I had, for too long, ignored.

Theatre people possess an incredible amount of creativity, dedication and passion. I soaked up every ounce of their spirits and was reminded that I am, despite the period of time I fought it, a theatre person through and through. And damn if I ain’t proud of that. So I’ve decided I’m going to stick around the theatre for a little while longer, and see what kinds of dreams my rotting imagination can conjure up. I have volunteered to help with Sheila’s next show, but this time I’ll behind the scenes, serving as costumer. I have begun to feel like myself again and I have a feeling I’m going to enjoy getting reacquainted.

"It doesn't matter that you never find it. It's the dreams that keep you going.”

My dear Dream, welcome back. It’s been a long time.