And the Oscar Goes to...

I am one hell of an actor. The mask has got to come off! I've got the entire world convinced that I am some amazing success story. Brave, strong, courageous...it's all crap. If there is no need for a show, I'm filled to the brim with rage. If I'm compromised in any way, and I spend a great deal of time self medicating to stop feeling, I get to the point where I can no longer contain all the feelings. I explode.

It's day to day, minute to minute, really, the grieving process. One moment I'm a tower then the next I'm a pathetic loser with nothing to offer anyone, even myself. “Pity party.” Yep, those words inspire my incredible acting skills. Depression, PTSD be damned. I should be the happy-go-lucky Jenn I've always been. The problem is I'm far from lucky and happy was removed with the brain tumor.

Do something that makes me happy, I'm told. Okay, I want to clap. Hear that? No, you don't because I can't. I want to walk without having to concentrate on each step. Nope, that's asking for a fall. Writing has always been a great outlet for me since I was a kid. Now, it's more cathartic and painful than it is creative expression. Music...I pick up my guitar and play, just like yesterday...it's all been ripped away.

Concentrate on what I can do, I'm told. I'm really good at being angry. Does that count? Seriously, what has defined me; my humor, my optimism, my talent seems to have left me. Except for acting. I put on the face and become what is expected. I become fake, leaving the real me to rage and self loath, boiling until the next explosion.

Lights. Camera. Action...