My Dad and I at Busch Gardens, 2012.
In 4th grade, I made the switch from being a soccer player to a softball player. This was a really big deal for me, and a tough decision for a nine year old living in Medfield, Massachusetts. The sport you played was basically your entire identity in elementary school, or at least to Tom-boy Jess who was raised by a semi-professional rugby player and New England Patriots mega fan. I played soccer every season; even indoor in the winter. For some reason, I wanted to switch it up. I was very scared, because I didn’t know the game well, and wasn’t sure if I’d like it as much. I remember expressing to my dad my fears about it, and he’d say “Oh c’mon, tough cookie! You’ll love it.” Tough Cookie was my nickname.
After my parents died, I didn’t feel like a tough cookie. The PTSD and trauma response to a sudden death is unlike anything you could ever imagine. Not only is your subconscious working against you, making you feel as if you’re in great danger at every moment, but you are also fighting with everything in front of you. In order to protect ourselves, our brain starts to find solutions that are either very helpful or extremely harmful. In the beginning, I had this craving for structure, and didn’t know how else to form it other than quit anything that, essentially, brought me comfort. Lame, right? I told my friends I would quit going out, and make all of these seemingly “disciplined” changes to my diet and exercise routine because I felt as though I was protecting myself. It is important, however, to recognize whether you are putting up a boundary, or limiting yourself from feeling okay again. Instead of going to an extreme, whether you plan to black out every night or join a convent, try to start somewhere in the middle.
Boundaries are important. They should change throughout your life as your priorities change. For example: during the first few months after my parents’ deaths, my social battery was chronically low. I would get tired of being around my peers extremely easily. There could’ve been many reasons for this, such as feeling overstimulated, feeling the need to give my brain a break, or getting frustrated that no one around me understood how I was feeling. I never knew how privileged it was to have parents until they were taken from me. I can’t blame those who don’t understand, because I didn’t either. With this, boundaries had to be put up with some of my peers, and with myself. I allowed myself to start saying no (little known fact about me - I’m a peacemaker). I’m not a people pleaser to the extent that I change my perspective and opinions based on who I’m talking to, but I’m allergic to high maintenance people, so I try my absolute best to not be one of those. I’m a team player. Sorry, forgot this wasn’t Linkedin. I don’t need to impress you!
My dad called me into the living room one day after school. I asked him when softball started, and he replied, “let me call your coach and ask” and pretended to pick up the phone and call someone. He answers the phone and mocks, “Hello, John Hill. Softball coach. How can I help you?” I was SO. EXCITED. We immediately went outside and played catch. Before I got a glove of my own, he had me use his from when he played in high school. I thought it was so cool. No one was cooler than my dad. I wanted nothing more than to make him proud.
You’d think that when your dad is the coach of your softball team, you’d get to play every position you want, and get dibs on it. Not on my dad’s team. I had to work for it. We would play catch every day. I’d do drills with him. We went to the batting cage. I’m pretty sure he even built a mini batting cage in my backyard. This man was no joke, because he was a team player himself. I ended up pitching for the team, but that was because all we would do is pitch to each other for hours on end. I deserved it, and it wasn’t just because my dad was the coach. I earned it because he taught me what hard work was. And I was a great pitcher (for a nine year old). I’d strike out a lot of kids, and every time I’d do it, I would fist bump my dad. We’d look at each other at the end of every strikeout, and in the least obnoxious way possible, fist bump in the air towards each other.
A team player. Much like in sports, players get injured. I have PTSD to an extent, and have high respect for those who suffer from it every day. They are fighters. It involves thinking as if your brain is injured. I know that’s difficult to say, but if you know anyone who has experienced PTSD or have experience with it yourself, you know that your mental capabilities change slightly. I didn’t realize this, and surely didn’t pinpoint it. I would get so frustrated with myself, and call myself lazy. I thought to myself, why can’t I take in information as quickly as before? Why do I have the attention span of a bug? (A very cute, tiny, hilarious, adorable bug that is). Why am I staring into someone's eyes for fifty minutes as they talk at me and I can’t tell you one word they said? Oh that’s just because I’m on a date with an Econ major? (Kidding).
Seriously though, I felt as if I was floating in space. My friends, family, bosses, etc. would sometimes get frustrated at my lack of attentiveness. They wouldn’t tell me, but I could feel it. I get frustrated with it, too! Trauma can make you feel slightly injured. When a football player tears their ACL, they’re out for the season. But, they still cheer from the sidelines. I had to learn how to cheer from the sidelines. I had to figure out how to bench myself. This meant I didn’t give into peer pressure, and I allowed myself to only go out when I felt like it. If someone didn’t understand, I could make them extremely uncomfortable when I explained to them why I was tapping out (more on this later - i.e people getting uncomfortable). My friends were completely understanding of it. If there was a moment when I chose to go out and became tired before everyone else, I would go home alone. Some of you may be reading this going “well… DUH,” but this truly was an obstacle for low-maintenance, peace maker Jess! You have to learn to give yourself that grace.
After a few seasons, I grew tired of softball. I had a talent for it, and I loved that it was something my dad and I could do together. I was absolutely horrified to tell him I wanted to quit. My biggest fear was letting him down. I was surprised when his reaction was something along the lines of “Ok honey, sounds good! What do you want to do instead?” He was absolutely indifferent about it, and I realized that it didn’t matter what sport I played, or how talented I was. He was proud of my hard work and commitment. He wasn’t obsessed with softball because he experienced any person gain from my success, all he wanted was to see me happy as I worked towards something. So, my dad ended up becoming obsessed with swimming when I was a swimmer, and eventually, became obsessed with theatre. Now, he did not love watching theatre. He loved that I did it, and found an appreciation for it when he took me to 20 college auditions and watched as I prepared day and night for them.
What I realized was that in order to make my parents proud, I didn’t need to do anything in particular. All they wanted to know was that I was striving to make myself better. What I didn’t realize, however, was how hard it is to become the coach of your own softball team.
Back to starting to feel “okay” again. Like I said, I was experiencing a lot of brain burnout and I was very, well, dazed and confused. Queue drive-up scene. What I didn’t realize, and probably wouldn’t have realized if my therapist hadn’t brought this idea to me, is that when you’re experiencing grief, your brain has taken on a full-time job. What feels “half-assed” to you is taking 100% of your brain power. In my case, and in many full-time griever’s experiences, you have lost one of your motivators. Maybe your only motivator. For me, making my parents proud was one of the best feelings in the world. Every time there would be any mini-win, I would immediately call my dad, who would answer in half a ring. Every fist bump moment, he was on the sidelines. He was my greatest supporter. He would then call my mom who was either in a meeting, or speaking at a conference with Michelle Obama (yes, she was like that), and she’d text me “Go Jess!” from wherever she was. That’s who my parents were, and without them, I felt like a lost puppy. So, I figured out quickly that the person I have to make proud of is me. I have to make Jess proud. I have to answer in half a ring, and I have to text myself “Go Jess!”
That’s difficult to do, especially as an artist. It’s easy to criticize yourself in this career. One thing that helps me get through is the idea that since everyone else will criticize you, try to keep your self loathing to a minimum. I’m still working on that, and I’m sure my friends and family reading this are laughing, because they know I’m very hard on myself. This also means that if I can’t do something, I have to tell myself that I still can one day. Give yourself grace, but never limit yourself. Every day will feel different, so don’t think that you’ll never take one step forward again after 3 (or 30, or 300) steps back. The true discipline is trying. Sorry, Yoda. At times, trying is all we got. And there should be reward in trying (and trying again, and again, and again, until you get somewhere). So, how do you feel comfortable again? Start with becoming your own cheerleader. There are so many days I wish I could turn to my dad and fist bump him after every tiny win, or express my fears to him about starting something new, only for him to show up at my door ready to be my coach (because he absolutely would). Now I (and you) have to learn to cheer from the sidelines of our own game. Keep striving, tough cookie.
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