Jump. Just Fucking Jump.

I think the breaking point of when I knew I needed a change came in September when I left a John Mulaney show in tears, crying to my husband that I didn’t even know why I existed. I figure that’s a euphemistic way of saying I spent the rest of the night curled into a ball under his arms, throwing suicide on the table like it was a plate of lukewarm leftovers that I would love to eat. If I got that hungry.

It was that night when I realized I needed to either jump and feel myself soar, or I would be left inching myself out to the edge, forced to watch myself plummet. For the previous few months, I had slipped into a spiral of a depression I hadn’t known before. I had become a vague outline of myself. Like someone I would stand next to in an elevator, her name on the tip of my tongue, but not caring enough to ask. Then we got off on separate floors.

My husband got us front row tickets to a John Mulaney show in Louisville. We both really enjoyed his comedy, and this was a valiant and so very thoughtful attempt to give me a night—just ONE night—that didn’t end with me sobbing.

I love stand-up comedy. I love listening. I love watching. I love famous, mainstream comedians. I love local, niche comedians. Most of all, I love performing. For as long as I can remember, I envisioned myself up on a stage, making people laugh, making people forget about the shitty parts of life. I had dreams of moving to a big city. Los Angeles, New York, Chicago. I'd make it big. 

I did stand-up for a bit, and told myself I would get back into it. I kept performing improv here and there, but nothing consistent. I wanted to start writing sketch comedy. Louisville has never been the city for that. But somehow, I ended up there. "Tomorrow. I’ll start writing something tomorrow."

The day of the show, I peeled myself out of bed, which had become increasingly harder to do each week. But I had decided that this would be my day to turn things around. I’m allowed to have one day that I don’t feel like I’m being swallowed whole. This was the day.

Aside from my love of all things comedy, I’m also notoriously known for my abnormally small bladder. You’d think I’m trying to pass a kidney stone on a daily basis if you kept tabs on my bathroom trips. Which I would be very interested in perusing, if anyone happens to have kept a ledger.

John was in the middle of his show, and I had been throwing my head back laughing the entire time. We even made eye contact several times, which is hard not to do when I could’ve literally reached up on stage and tied his shoelaces. He knew I was enjoying the show. I knew I was enjoying the show. Happiness had made its way back to my doorstep. This was the day.

Panic struck as I realized I guzzled not only my 22 oz. beer, but half of my husband’s during the show. I got up in what I thought was a super discreet and stealthy way, doing that awkward, courteous half-bend as I shimmied past my neighbors. As I made it to the aisle of the theatre, I heard, “DON’T YOU GET UP AND WALK AWAY WHILE I’M TALKING ABOUT MY WIFE.”

It took me a second to register that John Mulaney had just called me out in front of a crowd of 2,500. Not because I had analyzed what he said, but because I saw more than 4,000 eyes looking at me, pointing at me, and laughing at me. As he continued to ridicule me down the aisle, (“yeah, go on and get outta here,” “someone in the back make sure that door closes behind her”), I felt my chest constrict. I forgot where I was. I forgot that I needed to pee. As soon as I crossed the threshold into the lobby, I burst into tears. And as hot salt ran down my cheeks, that question that hung in the corner of my thoughts for the past few months pushed its way through and jumped the queue of all rational emotions and logic and self-awareness: “why do I even exist?”

I spent the rest of the show emotionally paralyzed, standing in the shadows of the back of the theatre. I don’t remember the last 30 minutes of the show. I do remember watching my husband, who had my phone and my wallet, stay in his seat until the theatre cleared, whipping his head around and scanning the space for any sign of me.

I even made the mistake of looking at John Mulaney’s Instagram post of Louisville, and scrolled through the dozens of comments, “so mad that girl never came back!” “that one girl never returned!” and even a sick burn from a 14-year old who, in my opinion, has no fucking business being at a John Mulaney show: “sadly that one girl never went back to her seat but she was hiding in the back for the rest of the show.” Well, @shaddie_shad_shad, I wish nothing but the best for you in your presumably mediocre high school football career, and I hope that someone starts a rumor about you having chlamydia, but mainly I also hope that you contract chlamydia.

A year ago, I would have brushed this off. A year ago, I would have laughed and spouted something tawdry and crass back to John Mulaney, making me the hero of the night. Giving me anonymous notoriety—“that girl who shot back at John Mulaney,” “the girl who got heckled and held her own.”

But that girl got off on a different floor.  

This whole time, I’m thinking to myself, what the fuck happened to me?

For the past couple of years, I lived a life that I didn’t entirely love, but one that I accepted. One that was a little bit better than ‘good enough.’ One where I felt comfortable, but didn’t feel exhilarated. One where I stood on the edge of a plateau and made camp, instead of climbing, and undoubtedly falling a few times, to reach the peak. I had a wonderful boyfriend turned fiancé, who became my husband, I had great friends, I had a cushy job in corporate America in my hometown, the friendly town of Louisville, KY. On the surface, I had everything. But sometimes the façade of having everything doesn’t let you off at the penthouse, and you end up riding it all the way back down to the ground floor.

I think this was the turning point because I’m no stranger to depression. But I am a stranger to giving up. I am a stranger to saying “I can’t and I won’t.” I am a stranger to complacency and lying down and not putting up a fight. I am a stranger to “tomorrow—I’ll start tomorrow.”

So I decided to jump.

And I’m feeling myself soar.

I’ve thought a lot about perspective and perception and change recently. But I’ve also thought a lot about fear. Fear is what held me back from jumping before. Fear was synonymous with comfort for me. Fear was ‘good enough.’ But eventually, fear of staying stagnant eclipsed the fear of never fulfilling the crazy dreams I’d imagined for my future.

I jumped, and I am fucking flying.

I fell in love with Chicago six years ago, and always dreamed of coming back. There were always excuses, and always empty promises and proposed timelines; “we’ll move once we get married,” “we’ll move after tax season,” “we’ll move, at some point.”

The timing couldn’t have been more terrible. Uprooting our life and relocating to a new city during the holidays. Gambling that I would love my job, still in corporate America—a job that serendipitously fell into my lap by nothing short of divine intervention. Asking my CPA husband to roll the dice before tax season that his firm would let him work remotely. Crossing our fingers that we could sell our house with such short notice.

In three weeks, we found an apartment in Chicago that we’re in love with. I love my new job, and I’m finally at a place where I’m seen as an expert in my field and my team couldn’t be more supportive.  My husband has a home office set up in our living room, where he can work in his sweatpants and watch Netflix during his lunch break. We received a full-price offer on our house after the very first viewing, and we plan to close any day now. I signed up for my first official improv course at a renowned theatre, and I’m pissed that it doesn’t start for another month. I am writing again. I am finally. Fucking. Writing. Again. And do you have any idea how much better sex is when you’re not worried about crying or having an emotional catastrophe every 10 minutes?

None of this would have happened if I hadn't jumped. I had no clue what would happen, but I jumped. I don’t know where you are in your life. I don’t know if you’re spreading your wings or if they’re clipped. But just know that you are not the only one, and there’s not just one option.

I don’t recognize that girl who stood in the back of the Louisville Palace during a John Mulaney show. Her name is on the tip of my tongue, but I’m too focused on getting off on my own floor to ask. I don’t know whether I should thank John Mulaney, or hope that someone starts a rumor about him having chlamydia.

I am no longer an outline of who I want to be. I am in the process of creating who I want to be. Happiness made its way back to my doorstep. This is my day.