Weeks after I was still thinking: what if she realizes who I really am and can’t be friends with me?

At night I do what I want and in the morning I try to pick up the pieces.

Intellectually I know I’m not to blame but part of me still hates myself for letting it happen. Shame. Blame. I should write a song.

I had a gut feeling that what we were doing was bad. We all panicked to put our clothes back on and leave the room.

Rumours were going around the school about the number of gay women on the team. Despite making it to Nationals that season, we were then dropped as a program citing "budget cuts."

Come to think of it, clutching J's hand and thinking about something as trivial as the gender of our unborn baby is the last memory I have of being blissfully unaware and joyous in my pregnant body.

I guess what it comes down to is that I didn’t feel good enough, smart enough, funny enough, educated enough, old enough, mature (HA!) enough, accomplished enough to be his equal. And I was ashamed to admit this—to myself or to anyone.

As I got older, and met people who knew her from high school, I was fully convinced that they would think that I was mentally ill because my sister had been.

I've drunk and smoked away so much of my ability that I've surrendered to shame. I don't know if I'll ever get it back. Certainly, the time is lost forever. 

Now I let the shame carry me to morn light. 

One text message from a friend asked me what I had in store for the following nights, I wrote back: I think I'm quitting acting or drinking, quite possibly both.