Do Better.

Dear Reader,

I am tired.

More tired than I’ve been in a while.

This afternoon, as I was cleaning my mother’s kitchen, I had a thought. And one that was highly unusual for me– What if I just give up? My friends and family would miss me, sure, but they’d heal. They’d get over it and move on. Wouldn’t that be easy? To just let go and move on to another plane? To release myself from worry and pain and fear? To stop the overwhelming anxiety coming at me from multiple directions. But it was a fleeting thought. And I’m going to tell you about how I got there, some lessons I’ve learned, and the next steps. Because sharing our struggles is important in the era of curated shows of our “best lives.”

Yesterday, I stitched a video on TikTok. It was a clip of Mary Poppins actor Emily Blunt making a comment about the enormous body size of a waitress who served her at a Chili’s in Thibodeaux, Louisiana. I didn’t know it at the time, because I’ve never heard of the movie Looper, but the clip is more than a decade old. It resurfaced on social media, and I happened to see it on my For You Page. She’s on a British chat show telling a relatively cute story about a Southern woman recognizing her and the funny exchange they had. The first things she says about her is that she is absolutely enormous and that she must get freebie meals from Chilis. Now, there is nothing wrong with being enormous. I, myself, am an enormous human. It wasn’t the adjective itself, it was how it was used. The tone was casually and unnecessarily cruel. Her facial expressions, her clear intention to belittle. and the audience reaction turned a word into something infinitely more sinister. Since I posted, and the video went live, it has been viewed over 240k times, has more than 4700 likes, and more than 800 comments. The video was picked up by both Glamour magazine and YahooNews! and I’ve been contacted by several news outlets, talk shows, and a newspaper asking for further comment.

But I’m not going to comment any further. Not on TikTok. And certainly not in the media who want to make me the main attraction in a circus.

Because this wasn’t about attention. Or going viral. Or 15 minutes of fame. This was about kindness. And the growing need for us to be more conscious of our intentions when we use words.

While many of the comments I received on the video are variations of “Atta Girl” and genuine responses from people who feel compelled to share an equally vile story of a thing that happened to them, many of them are unconscionably cruel responses about everything from my own body size to my choice of wardrobe to the pace at which I express myself. I have been called a pig. I have been told that I am a “skinny shamer.” I have been called stupid because, clearly, I think I know Emily Blunt and cannot tell the difference between the actor and her roles. I have been called dumb for not realizing that the British people, on whole, are blunt and unevolved world citizens who don’t understand that fat shaming is no longer acceptable in civilized society. And this morning? I received my first death threat, followed by a message telling me I “should really just go kill myself” rather than continue my “pitiful existence.”

None of these people actually know me.

Not a single one.

They don’t know that I, too, am a classically trained actor. And that I know the difference between an actor and their roles.

They don’t know that from June of 1999 until August of 2000, I lived in Great Britain, getting that conservatory theatre degree. And I learned that the British people are a lovely, welcoming, hilarious, and wonderful bunch. Did I experience fat bias there? Sure. But NOTHING like what I experience here in the United States.

And if they actually listened to what I had to say, they would understand that this is about body neutrality and not a hot take on fatphobia, all by itself. There is ZERO reason to comment to on ANYONE’S body, whether it’s fat or thin, tall or short, healthy or health challenged, black or white or whatever.

Not one of them knew that last night, I came out of Olive Garden after having a wonderful, laughter-filled birthday dinner with my beautiful nieces. And when I got into my car and turned on my phone, I had a panic attack from the hundreds of notifications, missed calls, and multiple voicemail messages that were waiting for me. Friends from high school and college were DMing me saying “Oh my God, is this you?? You’re on my FYP!” I had to pull over to the side of the road and call my best friend, shaking and in tears, because it was such an awful, overwhelming, experience. I wound up uninstalling TikTok from my phone after it drained my battery, and more importantly, my spirit. I have a small following on the app of less than 4000 people. If you scroll through my videos, you get a lot of content about my adorable cats, forays into which West Wing character I’m most like, silly lip synching, and much older content about my incredibly difficult, almost 3-year struggle to have Medicaid pay for gastric bypass surgery, which I’m still waiting on. I’m frankly more interested in watching videos of Travis Kelce worship at the altar of Taylor Swift and countdowns ‘til Christmas than people watching my own stuff. My videos are for me.

And the reason I made this particular video was because I’m sick and fucking tired of the human race doing PRECISELY what they did in the aftermath of a three-minute video filmed in the front seat of my Subaru. Making snap judgements based on faulty information and deeply ingrained bias. It’s exhausting to be part of a demographic of people who are consistently marginalized, stigmatized, and bullied on the basis of what, exactly? Taking up more space? Not being easy on the eyes? Fatphobia, fat shaming, fat discrimination, and fat hatred are very real things that I have experienced for as long as I can recall. In classrooms. On stages. In restaurants. And don’t even get me started on airplanes. I’ve stayed silent in awful situations for fear that the spotlight would be turned on me. I’ve spent 40 years squeezing my beautifully imperfect, ENORMOUS body into teensy spaces, willing myself into invisiblity because others don’t approve of my body. It’s CRIMINAL. And what does that say about the evolution of our race? If there is life outside of our existence on Earth, what the hell would they think of us? We are absolutely BRUTAL in our interactions with other people. And for what? A laugh? To make us feel stronger? Better? More vindicated? It’s a sad state of affairs and the truth is– we know better. We’re taught better. And every time we make a choice to neglect the chance to DO better, it makes us just a little less great.

So where do I go from here? Glad you asked. Cause I asked myself the same question and, ready or not, here it comes.

I’m not going anywhere. A few weeks ago, I made the conscious decision to choose happiness. To be conscious of kindness. To make the most of every crisp October morning and dinner date with my nieces. I choose to sing at the top of my lungs in a movie theater with my bestie and to take pictures with my friends, even when I wince at the double chin in the reflection that I’ve been taught to loathe for not being pretty. I choose to say no without shame when I don’t have the energy or inclination to do something. I choose not to be ashamed of the health setbacks I’ve experienced. I’m no less valuable because my hips and back are shot and my belly is big. I choose to smile at people and give as many non-body centric compliments as I possibly can. And I choose to fucking say something when I witness cruelty, bullying, and barbarity because I’ve been the target of it myself and it has made me afraid to speak up in the past. No more.

When I told Emily Blunt to do better, it wasn’t really about just her. It was about all of us.

We need to do better.

And Now…the Hard Work Begins

One of the themes I’ve been focusing on lately in therapy is my unhealthy
inclination towards people pleasing. My doctor and I identified the issue fairly early on in our sessions.  It’s pretty par for the course for children of substance abusers (gotta deflect that gaslighty rage any way you can, you know?) and even more common for fat women over the age of 35 (the 90s were ALL about averting the body shame by being the charming, jolly girl who never complained about A N Y T H I N G.) But a chain of events over the past twelve months have put me into a mental health tailspin that I’ve never experienced before and it’s my current mission to never experience it again. While that’s unlikely, I’m certainly going to give it the old college try.

So, let’s talk about People Pleasing for a moment.

What is it? Why do people do it? And why is it self-serving, rather than selfless, at least in my case.

According to Paula Cookson, who wrote an amazing book called The Liberated Self, a People Pleaser is a person who has an emotional need to please others often at the expense of their own needs or desires.  It is most often characterized by an inability to say no, even when tasks, favors, or jobs are detrimental to the pleaser’s physical, mental, emotional, and/or financial health. The behavior is the same with healthy boundaries—there usually aren’t any. Sounds like a dumb way to be, right? Why would anyone want to do that to themself?

There’s no single answer to that question. But in my case? It’s an unresolved trauma.

You see, when you learn from a relatively young age that you’re not as loveable as say, an ice-cold Miller Lite, you start to create escape routes.  You form an uncanny ability to read people’s moods and try to head off a storm that’s gathering above your head by changing YOUR behavior to suit someone else’s. You learn to eat food you don’t like because it’ll cause a ruckus if you don’t. Then, you pacify yourself later with food you DO like by sneaking it because you’re sad, angry, and hungry after pushing a dreaded meal around on your plate.  You learn to be the best at everything you do because nothing less is good enough. You start to believe comments made about your body and its undesirability are true because you never hear otherwise.  You expect less because you’re programmed to believe you deserve less. That you are less than. The behavior is self-serving because it puts a band aid over a hemorrhaging artery. It’s supposed to be a temporary fix.

As you grow and develop, these behaviors learned in childhood become your norm and the emotional need to feel that other people are pleased with you becomes a need. You pick up the check at a restaurant when you can’t afford to because your friend might not like you as much if you don’t. You drive forty miles out of your way to pick up an actor who doesn’t have a mode of transportation because you like them, even though they don’t bother to offer gas money, and you make zero dollars a year because you don’t work. You take the blame when something fails, even if it’s not truly your fault, just to try and ease the tension around you. You say yes to, and get excited about, other people’s passion projects because, surely, they’ll care about you and your passions as much as you care about them and theirs, right?

Right?

But here’s where it all gets dangerous…

When you start putting other people’s needs before your own, it’s the behavior that becomes the norm. It’s expected. And it leads you headlong into unhealthy and manipulative relationships. After a while, it becomes so deeply ingrained you don’t even notice it’s what you’re doing. I’ve often asked the people in my life, “Do I have a sign on my back that says, ‘Kick me?’ Why does this always happen?” 
The answer is yes. And I put it there.

It’s a traumatized Bat Signal.
People know I won’t say no.
They know I won’t put up a fight.
I become a means to an end rather than a valued person.
And it’s because I’ve felt so inadequate for so long that it’s the first vibe I give off.

But I’m tired of that.
I don’t deserve it.
I’m worth more than that scared (and scarred) little blonde baby was ever allowed to believe.

And now the hard work begins.

Whittling Away at the Hollow

Yesterday, we went to the baseball game.
If you saw pictures of the day on social media, it looked pretty great!
The sun was shining, the game was exciting – all the things you hope for at the end of June in Baltimore. Especially when you’re a passionate Orioles fan like me.

Unfortunately – the experience was more like a game of “find the hidden differences” between the photos and actual reality.
Kind of like ALL life on social media if I’m being entirely truthful.
Most people aim to present the most attractive, fun-loving, exciting, and happy versions of ourselves online, because somewhere it is writ that so long as we give the appearance of our best selves, that’s who we are. No one wants to see a picture of your hurt feelings or your wounded pride. I’m sure there’s a scientific explanation behind it—but hell if I know what it is.

Anyway.

Cutting to the chase, I didn’t fit in the seat.
I don’t know if you understand how hard it is for me to admit that.
Hint: It’s fairly soul crushing.
Let me say it again, just to be crystal clear.
My hips and backside did not fit in the seat that was purchased for me. The smallish armrests were cutting so tight that my right side is bruised (admittedly, this is not hard to do – I am, after all, a peach.)  My feet were pushed into the seats in front of me, causing the guy in the seat I touched to turn around and curse at me. I apologized. He didn’t care. I get it. I wouldn’t want someone’s shoes touching me either.

And here I was, a red-faced, sweating, mortified, superfat, middle aged woman – struggling.
To sit in a seat.
Not to run a marathon.
Not to end poverty or the Russian civil war.
Not even anything 95% of people see as difficult or noteworthy.
I was simply struggling to enjoy a day in my life – over a seat.
I had already been thrown for a loop when we got to Camden Yards 2 ½ hours early and the nearest handicapped parking space was over a half mile away from the front gate. But this development?
It’s “worst nightmare” material for a fat person.

It ranks right up there with hits such as:
“Don’t make eye contact in the airport so you don’t see people silently praying they don’t have to sit next to you.”
“Will the carnival ride safety thingmabob close over me,”
And the ever-popular Summertime standard,
“What are the odds I’m about to break this plastic patio furniture?”

By this point, dear reader, I’m sure you’re curious as to why I’m sharing this painful and embarrassing experience. I assure you I don’t want your sympathy. (Candidly, the sympathy makes it worse, like having a sore spot in your mouth that you can’t stop touching it with your tongue.)   
What I am hoping for is the opportunity to share something about physical disability and its impact on my overall mental health.

Because they go hand in hand for me, those two things.

No matter how hard I try to separate them or say one doesn’t have anything to do with the other.
For some folks, that’s true. For me, it’s not.
As my physical health has declined, so has my mental health.
And it has extraordinarily little to do with a number on a scale.  The last time I weighed less than 200 pounds was, I dunno, 1990?
Yes, I have become progressively heavier over time.

But it wasn’t until the heaviness stopped me that the floor fell out from under me.

Losing the ability to use my body effectively has been one of the hardest battles I’ve ever fought. And I’ve been fighting it for FIFTEEN YEARS, when I first hurt my back. In 2008, I thought nothing could be as bad as the shooting, stabbing, burning pain that ran down my legs. In 2019, I thought that nothing could be as bad as the numbness and tingling that set in or the general loss of balance that made it difficult for me to walk? (Remember that whole summer I fell down on sidewalks and ripped the shit out of my knees and elbows?) Fast forward to today, and it’s difficult for me to stand without swaying. If you’ve stood next to me for a period longer than five minutes, you’ve seen it. That slightly intoxicated- looking step back and the frantic glance for something to hold onto? Or when we’ve hugged, and you thought you were going to have to catch me because I’m pitching forward?

It’s nerve damage.
It may be irreversible.
And it’s because every doctor I’ve seen says the same things.

Lose 100 pounds, then we’ll talk.
Or,
If I operate now, your lower belly will just rip out all the progress.
Or,
This may or may not improve if you lose weight, but it couldn’t hurt to do that first.
And finally, my favorite – the ever-so-gaslighty,
You’re clearly intelligent, Erin, you don’t need me to tell you what the problem is. Let’s talk about you going keto and getting some of this unnecessary weight off and then we can plan for the future, hm?

So, you try.

But.

You cannot move well when you’re in near-constant, level 8+ pain.
So, you stop moving.
And then you stop saying yes to invitations.
And you isolate yourself.
And you get depressed.
And suddenly, you’re 44, you can barely walk a mile without crying from pain, you don’t fit in the goddamned seat, and you were raised in a time period where asking for help, accommodations, or acceptance while fat wasn’t just discouraged, it was programmed into your brain that it was not an option.
And then you decided to wage the goddamned battle of your life to have gastric bypass.

Because you remember.

You remember what it was like when you COULD do things.
When you could walk the length of the Ocean City Boardwalk and back – TWICE- for the sheer fun of it.
When you Varsity lettered 5 times in high school. 
When you knew what it felt like to go down the first hill of a roller coaster on a hot night in July.
When you could stand on stage in a spotlight and not be worried you’re going to fall over because your equilibrium is terribly poor.

And you figured out how to ask for the help you need.
And the help you deserve.
And the help you should’ve been given all along.
**

In conversations, people often ask me, “So, Erin, what’s next for you? Any big projects on the horizon?”
Yup.  I reply.  This one is really personal.  A play in two acts.  It’s called “My Life.”

And we’re currently at intermission. 

The Great Ozempic Saga

The Great Ozempic Saga Continues:

Healthcare, Fatness, and Other Dramas.

By Erin Riley

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If you don’t want to read about my diabetes and bariatric journeys, scroll on by, superfly.

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At the beginning of 2023, my primary care doctor was really very pleased with my blood work. Total cholesterol at 122, B12 and D are normal for the first time in like, a decade. Iron is up. And my A1C was sitting at 7.2. Which isn’t greaaaaat, per say, but below 7 is the goal, so there’s progress. Ever the perfectionists, Dr. Joe and I decided we were going to put me on Ozempic to try and lower that Hemoglobin and make it my bitch. He prescribed it. I started taking it once a week. BOOM. Daily fasting sugar came down about 15 points and I dropped 20 pounds in a month (WHICH WAS NOT THE GOAL. I REPEAT. NOT. THE. GOAL. I won’t say it wasn’t a bonus, but it was not the prescribed plan.)

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I finish my first injector pen, I go for my follow up, we do some in- office blood work and things look freaking great. I haven’t had so much energy in months. We decide to keep me on the half dose because it’s doing the damned thing. Wonderful right?

Yeah… not so much.

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After 2 1/2 weeks of fighting with CVS, fighting with Medicaid, EIGHT phone calls equaling 4 1/2 hours of my life, my doctor finally gets the damned drug RE-approved and the pharmacy processes it.

ONLY FOR IT TO BE OUT OF STOCK!

And why? Why is it out of stock? Because the Kardashians have named it “the new Hollywood Weight Loss Drug.”

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But.

Before you think I’m about to bash people for trying to lose weight with medical intervention. Let’s Pause.

Cause I’m not.

Who I AM going to bash, however, is the inherently fatphobic, entirely greedy, and wholly over/under-regulated American Healthcare System and its evil twin Big Pharma.

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Let me start with a disclaimer. IT IS OKAY TO BE A FAT PERSON. You are valuable. You are beautiful. You are loved. And you can certainly be healthy regardless of size. I have been a fat person for 40 years. I’ve hated myself for it. And I’ve done more than my fair share of penance to the medical fields who have taken care of me over the years. I’ve also learned to love myself as I am physically, however, my fatness is now a clinical issue affecting the quality of my life. So, don’t come at me. You don’t want to meet my Sagittarius rising…

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The American public has been force-fed diet culture since the beginning of time and in main-stream media since as early as the 1940s. Specifically targeting women (although men aren’t immune, that’s for sure…) with slogans like “A Moment on the Lips, Forever on the Hips” and “Nothing Tastes as Good as Thin Feels” have been causing disordered eating and chronic depression and anxiety for literal generations. And why? The propagandists would have you believe it’s out of concern for human health, concern for the drain fat people are on the health care system, etc. But let’s grow up here for a second a face facts. It’s about MONEY. $$$ Did you know that the Global Weight Loss Industry made 470 BILLION dollars in 2021? Here’s the resource on that: https://www.businesswire.com/…/Global-Weight-Management…

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The facts are pretty simple.

Fatness is blamed for the American Health Crisis

Fatness is stereotyped as lazy, disgusting, ugly, and unintelligent

Fat is equated with evil in mainstream media

BUT

Obesity (I hate that word) is classified as a chronic disease

Fatness doesn’t always have to do with lifestyle, it is often genetic

Calorie deficit and exercise rarely work for people who are genetically coded towards fatness.

AND

Health Insurance considers Bariatric Medicine, in many cases, COSMETIC

Health Insurance refuses to cover drugs like Ozempic, Wegovy, Mounjaro, etc., because fat people should just be able to starve their bodies into submission

2 out of every 3 fat folks surveyed stated “their doctors don’t listen to their problems and immediately point to their fatness as the issue.”

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We have become so programmed to hate fatness and fat people, that life-improving and, in some cases, live-saving measures are being denied on the basis that fat folks should “just try harder” or just “do better.” Speaking a person who started her first round of pediatrician-prescribed Weight Watchers at 7, I’M NOT SURE HOW MUCH HARDER I’M SUPPOSED TO TRY.

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So, I wait. I wait for the fucking Ozempic to become available. And I WELL-WISH the HELL out of the people who are using it for WHATEVER they need it for. Diabetes. Weight Loss. Whatever. I just want us all to have a damned shot. And that isn’t too much to ask. It’s just kindness. It’s just taking care of humans. It’s putting actual health and healthy practices over discrimination, greed, and hatred.

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Also. How about we make more of the damned stuff. And regulate it so it doesn’t cost $12938471239 for people who don’t have health insurance.

It’s NOT that hard.

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P.S. Hold your fat friends, trans friends, queer friends, BIPOC friends, and drag friends close. It’s exhausting when they keep coming for us.

https://www.usnews.com/…/body-positivity-weight-bias…

I’m Still Here

This year my goals need only be small and achievable.  

If a thing isn’t for me, let it go.

If I have to start over, I start over.  It’s still a step forward.

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I will say yes

and show up more than I hide from people who love me.

I will take more pictures of myself doing things…

Especially things featuring My People

I will remember to feed,

hydrate,

and move my body,

because I deserve that.

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I’ll set myself free by deciding I’m good enough for myself.  

43 Years Worth of Wednesdays

It’s remarkable –-

When you realize you have so many more memories

Then exist in the photographs of your life–.

Your documented proof

Is lacking. 

Why?

You didn’t deserve love?

As you were?

As you are?

Were.

Are.

It has to come from within

The unyielding belief that we deserve to be considered

Remembered.

Captured, if just for a moment. 

Necessary

But unfathomable

How do you even start?

The Crown – by Dr. K. Tony Korol-Evans

Dear Reader – this brilliant story of a far-traveling crown was written by Tony Korol-Evans, Ph.D, who is the dramaturg for The Company of Women’s Richard III at The Maryland Renaissance Festival. This is posted with her permission.

Photo of Emily Karol by Kevin Hedgecock (c) 2022

This is the story of a king and a tyrant brought together across centuries by chance. While many look to the contemporary American Renaissance festivals as a places of pure fantasy, they can be much more than that. Sometimes echoes from the past imprint themselves in the present. This time, it is a crown that weaves together the threads of time.

Planning for the next season’s Renaissance festival begins almost as soon as the closing cannon sounds. Before 2019 was over, Carolyn Spedden, the Artistic Director of the Maryland Renaissance Festival (MDRF), had chosen the play for their 2020 Company of Women. The Company had debuted with Julius Caesar in 2019, and Ms. Spedden chose Richard III as the play to follow. Erin Riley, who had directed Julius Caesar during the Company’s inaugural season, was tapped again to direct Richard III, and Emily Karol, a long-time festival performer, veteran actor in the Maryland theatre scene, and teaching artist was precast to play the titular role. Though the season opening was still almost 10 months away, Ms. Riley, a well-known director throughout Maryland and the Associate Artistic Director at Strand Theater Company in Baltimore, began the planning process. One of the first items to find was the proper crown of a King that fit the head of slender, feminine Ms. Karol. After ascertaining that no crown that fit the bill currently existed in MDRF’s costume selection, Ms. Riley began an online search for an appropriate piece. She knew it when she saw it and ordered the crown. Ms. Riley was thrilled when she finally received the crown in the mail, and carefully replaced it in the box in anticipation of its use in a few more months.

Of course, as everyone knows, March 2020 changed everything. Performance venues — along with the rest of the world it seemed — closed down due to the coronavirus known as COVID-19. Even though MDRF is open weekends in August through October, like many other festivals throughout the country, its gates remained closed throughout the fall of 2020. Among so many other losses, an entire season of work for actors, merchants, craftspeople, food and drink vendors, staff, and the owners of MDRF was lost to the pandemic. It was August of 2021 when MDRF finally opened its gates again. Due to the continued uncertainty of the pandemic, Ms. Spedden chose a shorter rehearsal period and and did not produce a full hour-long period play, instead focusing on shorter more quickly rehearsed pieces such as the festival’s STREETspeare project in which scenes from Shakespeare, his contemporaries, and even classical writers and Restoration playwrights are featured. Because of lingering concerns about the pandemic, these scenes often took place on smaller stages, balconies, and well-defined spaces in the village of Revel Grove, as opposed to simply “popping up” in the lanes and pathways. Some of the smaller and shorter scenes did take place in the paths, but longer scenes, were performed on MDRF stages, including a scene from Henry VI, Pt. 3, in which Ms. Karol portrayed Richard, Duke of Gloucester. This piece – performed on the MDRF Globe Stage – set the scene for the upcoming performance of Richard III in 2022.

The Cast of Henry VI, Part III – Photo by Julia Williams (c) 2021

Back to the crown. As preparations began for a 2022 festival that looked more like it had prior to the pandemic, Ms. Riley began again to plan for Richard III. As case numbers from COVID-19 finally began to fall, the future was beginning to seem bright.

And then, in the midst of the still ongoing pandemic and political division here in the United States, a war began as a Vladimir Putin-led Russia invaded Ukraine. Thousands of miles from MDRF, people fled in fear from a military incursion into a sovereign country’s territory. Amidst this backdrop, Ms. Riley was revisiting Dr. John Sadowsky’s excellent cut of Richard III. She decided – for no reason in particular other than inspiration – to open the box with the crown in it. Ms. Riley carefully removed the crown, a shining gold with large gems, kingly, yet not overly ornate. And it was only upon this re-examination that she noted the origin of the golden circlet – Ukraine. The irony was not lost on her, that as a war waged there, thousands of miles away, as images of smoke and people fleeing and pain replayed over and over on the television, she held in her hands this beautiful creation by a member of Ukraine’s artisan community.

Photo of Emily Karol holding the Crown by Kevin Hedgecock (c) 2022

Whether that artisan, Olena Grin, is still in Ukraine or is even alive is unknown. What is known is that this crown sits atop Ms. Karol’s head this fall as she portrays one of the most infamous villains in literary history. Richard III is one of Shakespeare’s most well-developed characters, a tyrant whose monologues give not just snapshots but full portraits of the thoughts behind his actions. Whether Ms. Karol is holding the crown with a determined longing or wearing it with a regal depravity, it serves its purpose to mark ambition desired and ambition gained for much of the play. However, in the end, it stands for ambition lost as Richard falls to an Earl of Richmond-led force with significantly fewer troops. As Ukraine battles Russia – a country with more money, firepower, and troops – this crown reminds us that villainy does not always win. It illustrates that tyrants who rule with an iron fist are often felled by those with less resources but more courage. And it prompts us to seek the
beauty that can spring forth from otherwise unseemly circumstances.
This is the story of a king and a tyrant – more than five centuries removed from each other – whose actions coalesce in the history of a crown.

“Heavy is the Head” – Emily Karol as King Richard III – Photo by Keith Heffner (c) 2022

Shakespeare’s Richard III plays at The Maryland Renaissance Festival in Crownsville, MD on weekends through October 23, 2022. The production then moves to Baltimore’s Strand Theater Company for one weekend only November 10-13th. http://www.rennfest.com for tickets to the festival. http://www.strand-theater.org/tickets for the November event.

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Tony Korol-Evans as Queen Margaret – Photo by Kevin Hedgecock.

Dr. K. Tony Korol-Evans holds her Interdisciplinary Ph.D in Theatre & Drama with specialties in English Renaissance Drama, paratheatricals, and theatre for social change from Northwestern University’s prestigious graduate school. She has practiced performance art as an actor, director, writer, intimacy coordinator, and dramaturg all over the United States. She is the author of Renaissance Festivals: Merrying the Past and the Present and is considered a foremost expert in the enactment of living history. She, along with her husband Mark, is the creator of the highly popular A Klasse Act, which features the live shows Cakes & Ale and Casks & Flasks – which bring the authentic food and drink of the Renaissance Period to life. By day, Tony has been working in the anti-gender-based violence field for over three decades. In addition to testifying in Maryland’s General Assembly and writing performance pieces about the aftermath of sexual assault, Dr. Korol-Evans has held numerous positions working with and for survivors. She lives on the beautiful shore of Virginia with her husband and is a devoted mom, busia (grandma), sister, and activist. You can find her book here: https://www.amazon.com/Renaissance-Festivals-Merrying-Past-Present-ebook/dp/B003VPWXVA

Precipice

The world is very heavy.
Just the air weighs a thousand pounds.
Children are hungry.
Children are dying.
The witch hunt has begun once again.
As it always does.

As. It. Always. Does.

Go ahead. Come for us.
We’re here. We’re tired, but we’re angrier than you could possibly fathom.
And that makes us dangerous.
That makes us desperate.
That makes us strong.
As it always does.

As. It. Always. Does.
Remember – god is a woman.

I sat tonight, dipping onion kulcha into raita
Savoring my sense of smell which is coming back.
Lucky.
And I thought about consolations.

We must get some kind of prize for living through this
Yes?
And maybe.
Just maybe.
It’s the art.

The art that was at the front line when everything went to hell.

75 years from now.
People will study us.
They will shake their heads
same
as we did
at those who came before
But they’ll look at the response.
At the fight
At the words
And realize that we are the rebels
That we didn’t sit back.
When it mattered most.

The art will prevail.
As it always does.

As. It, Always does.

It’s Just Logistics

I haven’t written in a while. There are reasons for the silence.

Many reasons. 

A tremendous number of reasons.

**

Unresolved grief.

Fear.

Guilt.

Anger.

Overwhelm.

The fact that I have been losing and gaining the same 20 pounds over and over and over again. 

The need for an overhaul on my anti-anxiety and anti-depression medications. 

And the incredibly difficult and entirely individual work it’s going to take to achieve my goals and turn the corner to a new, physically and mentally healthier chapter in my life. 

There are more reasons, if I’m being honest, but these are enough.  You get the picture. 

It’s a lot. I’ve had trouble knowing where to start (priorities, Erin) and – even worse – I do this thing where I keep putting stuff off or reinventing the wheel based on ludicrous scenarios.  For example:

“Erin, it’s me, your weird brain – I cannot possibly leave the house to take a walk today because there’s laundry in the basket and the pantry cabinets need to be cleaned.”

What?  Why?  Why now? Why is the location of cans of soup emergent when I should be choosing other priorities? Why does my brain do this?  I’ll tell you why.

Unintentional Sabotage. 

This is a thing, folks.  And it’s very, very real. 

I’ve always been susceptible to procrastination and avoidance. 

Someone’s going to chew me out for something that is 100% my fault, but I just don’t want to deal?  Avoidance!

I have 10000 things to do but really just want to watch Bridgerton and eat marshmallows out of a bag?  Procrastination! 

I am literally the villain who is tying myself to the train tracks in this scenario. 

And that makes things both incredibly easy and uncompromisingly difficult to deal with. 

It means you know what you have to do to succeed.

It means you want to achieve your goals and do what’s best for you.

But it also means you know your weaknesses and every trick in the book to do yourself dirty.

It means you struggle with feeling worthy enough to do right by yourself. 

It’s a struggle.  It’s a war.  And you have to fight it one battle at a time.  If you try to do too much on too many fronts, you’ll have zero chance of victory.  It’s just logistics. 

All of this is to say, dear reader; I’m still here. 

I’m still kicking. 

I’ve broken up with Lexapro in favor of Prozac.

I’m doing some sort of activity that doesn’t allow sitting for 30 minutes every day.

I’m striving, daily, to learn to validate myself rather than seek validation from others. 

And I’ve told Sad Erin™ to hit the road. 

Hopeful Erin™ has moved back into this body and has every intention of being here to stay. 

Stay tuned.  Shit’s about to get real. 

Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

I’m a day late. But more on that later…

January 17, 2022

Weight: 344.8 (+2.2lbs)

Fasting Blood Sugar: 146

Blood Pressure: 117/87, pre-medication.

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Goals for this Upcoming Week: We’re going to keep working on waking up earlier. Some days are great, others need help! Finish the English Channel Marathon! (You read that right! I finished my first Conqueror Marathon on 1/14, started a new one the same day, and as of today, I have 7 miles left!!!!) Incorporate more flexibility and mobility training into each day. And finish three big items on my personal To-Do list.

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A few things I learned this week:

First and Foremost. I absolutely MUST treat my recreational binge eating and food addiction as the Eating Disorder it is and not as “bad behavior that deserves scorn/punishment/guilt.” This is a mental illness and a distinctly patterned one. It happens late at night and it’s usually hundreds of empty calories consumed while watching Beat Bobby Flay and scrolling through TikTok because I’m in a pain and can’t sleep.

Even though the scale says I gained back 2.2 pounds (and I know exactly why that happened) I also finished my first 26.2 mile walking marathon with The Conqueror App. Confession Time – I gave myself 8 weeks to do this marathon. WHO DOES THAT? EIGHT. WEEKS. I wound up doing it in 15 days. At first, I hooked my fitbit up to the app and it started recording all of my movement. I didn’t want that to be the case. I wanted the walked mileage to be intentional to the marathon. As a result, I disconnected the fitbit and started entering my miles manually. I’m shocked that it took me two weeks and a day. I’m proud of myself. And already onto the next one. My activity between the first week and second week of January DOUBLED. That’s a trend I want to stick with as much as I humanly can!

Moderation, as good as it is for the normal human, is incredibly difficult for me. People always say things like “Just have a little bit.” “You can have it, but stick to the serving size.” “Don’t deprive yourself.” Okay. I get it. If you are a person who has willpower and can do something like measure yourself a 1/4 of Ben and Jerrys and only eat that – I BOW BEFORE YOU. That’s not me. If it sits in my pantry, I think about it. A lot. Like a drug addict thinks about their next hit. Because that’s what sugar and processed carbs are for me. They’re like a drug. So it’s important for me to skip adding things to my cart like rice krispy treats. I won’t eat one. I’ll eat four. And I’ll hate myself for it. I’d rather not hate myself.

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And here’s a moment of coming clean.

I almost didn’t post this blog. The inclination for me let it slip by and pick up next week was strong. Why?

Because my initial reaction to that 2.2 pound weight gain was “Oop. Fail.” You were doing so well. And then you eased off the gas.

AND EVERYONE WILL KNOW AND TSK AT YOU.

It’s a lie. Some of you may mentally tsk at me, but overall, you’ve supported me. The biggest TSKer is me. Myself. My own worst critic. My self-loathing has been the one thing that has stayed consistent about me over 35 odd years. I didn’t want to post because I didn’t want the crestfallen feeling of letting myself down. Oddly enough, I got over that moment VERY quickly. Record time.

I’m ready to stay the course. If I fall off the wagon again, there will always be a hand to pull me back up and a place for me to sit. The most difficult part is allowing myself the grace to believe I deserve to take up that space.

But I’m worth it.