Allison Mack's Official Site

7 Stages.

1. SHOCK & DENIAL-

I am not feeling well. My body feels sore, my muscles ache, and I am tired, lethargic. Not surprising considering the fact that I have been a passenger on every mode of transportation possible within the last eight weeks (including a helicopter), making four round trips from the west coast to the east coast and sleeping in at least six different beds, a new one every three nights. My self diagnosis is your standard fall-to-winter flu. But then my skin starts to tingle and burn, and not in the normal fever way, but rather in an “oh-crap-that-really-feels-like-I-am-on-fire” kind of way. I wake up in NYC with blisters all over my right arm and my chest. I note the bizarre event, but I have things to do!

“I must be detoxing,” I tell myself. “After all, I have been eating really poorly.”

My diet is my go-to scape goat. If anything is wrong in my life, it must be because I indulged last night. This is the standard form of punishment and blame I have used since I went on my first diet at age fourteen. Since then it has been a rather convenient way to explain anything irregular. “I have a headache = sugar detox; I’m so tired = too much wheat; I can’t sing = the brick of brie”

. . . and on and on . . .

I casually ignore the abnormal blisters all over the right side of my body, stick on a long sleeved shirt, and I am on my way. Scarf on neck, mascara on eye lashes, gloss on lips, and I am out the door. My audition cannot be put off simply because my body has decided to revolt.

I skip a doctor’s visit in favour of a delicious dinner just to affirm the fact that it is nothing serious: a delicious vegan feast on the upper west side with a side of denial. Yum.

2. PAIN & GUILT-

I wake up the next morning in such excruciating pain I can barely breathe. Seriously? Blisters like third degree burns to get my own attention. How did I make this happen? What did I do to deserve this?!

I send a picture to my doctor and it turns out I have shingles. What the hell is that? Everything I read says it happens to people in their latter years, I’m 29! Seriously? I have actually come down with a virus that has a vaccination for people over the age of 50.

3. ANGER & BARGAINING-

WTF!?!?!!?!?!? My whole body is burning off! I can’t move! I can’t breathe! I can’t cry! I can’t laugh!! This SUUUUUCKS!!! I am not willing to accept the fact that I am in pain. I do not want to see that I am a human being with limitations. My body is forcing me to find humility!!! NOOOOOOO!

I am not okay with my body. I don’t understand this mutiny. I want to do what I have always done: punish myself until I submit. I certainly refuse to do anything nice for myself. This body of mine will pay for what it is doing!

After years of constant neglect and vicious attacks of blame and dissatisfaction my body is fighting back. It has endured every diet imaginable, kick boxing, running, calorie counting and binging. This vehicle for life has been run through the gamut and has apparently decided it is done. “You’re not the boss of me!”

Then comes the bargaining. “I’ll give you a full night’s rest . . . is that what you want? Is that what this will take? Fine . . . if I stay in bed all day today, when I wake up tomorrow you will be totally better, right? Let’s just make that happen. Okay?”

4. “DEPRESSION”, REFLECTION, LONELINESS-

Wow. All I can say is wow. All my creative convincing and “dictator”-esque commands have been for not. The evolution of the blisters has grown, worsened in fact. My arm and chest are covered in little pods of bubbling flesh. The body still revolts.

I haven’t showered in three days. I am sitting in my room, in the dark, playing Elliot Smith’s “Between the Bars.” Elliot laments “The potential you’ll be that you’ll never see, the promises you’ll never make,” and I feel like he “gets me”. I partner my dark emotional music with the reading of an article in the Globe and Mail about “Rape as a Weapon”. I see nothing good in the world. Only death, violence and destruction. It feels like the only thing that soothes my pain is knowing there are others worse off than me. I know this is terrible, but in the moment, it is the best form of nurture I have. I am grasping at straws.

I feel no one understands. I feel so existentially isolated. I am a little lost girl covered in shingles with nowhere to go. All those years acting out the melodrama of life are paying off. I am living in my own soap opera. I have never felt so sorry for myself.

I reject myself. I look in the mirror and have nothing nice to say. The sad thing is this behaviour is not isolated to shingles. I started doing this the year I got my curves. My body became my enemy, the thing that thwarted my dreams and desires. At fourteen, my body started to expand to make room for the woman I was becoming. But that’s not how I saw it. In my mind my body was misbehaving, betraying my desires. And so it began. The discipline.

I am literally exploding. I can’t take the self imposed rejection for one more day. It is like the war I am fighting inside has come to a boiling point. A civil war and the battle ground? My skin. I finally have found the guts to stand against the oppressor that is me.

5. THE UPWARD TURN-

I go outside! Hallelujiah! I go outside into a beautiful fall day!

In that moment, the enemy becomes the vessel for joy. I feel the air on my skin and the warmth of the sun reminds me I am alive. The deprivation of UV rays and fresh air helps jog my memories and all the places I have seen and adventures I have had come rushing back. This “friend” and I have shared quite a ride thus far. I look at my hands, my legs, my blisters. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and I feel the privilege of having a healthy, strong, and beautiful body. I look at myself, swollen, unkempt, and healing. I am grateful. For the first time in over ten years I am grateful for this friend.

With this new appreciation I take my tired, worn, brave, abused body back inside for a bath and some pampering. I shave my legs, wash my hair, and soak my sores. It is divine.

When I get out of the tub my new favorite song is playing on my iTunes (Madeleine Peyroux’s “Back in Your Own Backyard.”) and I start dancing. Oh YES! I am back. Can only dance with one arm, and with very small moves, kind of like a half drawn Charlie Brown character, but I am dancing. I am coming back to life! Hooray!!

6. RECONSTRUCTION & WORKING THROUGH-

I put on a fresh, light, cotton t-shirt and rub aloe down my arm. I can’t remember the last time I actually looked at my skin in this way. I can’t remember the last time I stood in my bathroom and spent time focused on being sweet to myself. Rejection is so well practiced that accepting feels awkward. Like a drugged baby giraffe drunk and trying to walk.

I decide everything will change.

I throw away the boxing gloves sitting in my closet from my tae bo days. I toss the “fat burn” herbs into the garbage and I take down the pictures of women with six packs and size negative zero dresses that I have posted on my “dream board”.

Yes, everything will change.

7. ACCEPTANCE & HOPE-

The beginning of the end starts the next day. I go for a coffee. My blisters turning to scabs. My eyes glaze over the counter and I spot a beauty magazine sitting there. The hater comes back to haunt. Wow, how quickly I forget. As I reach into my bag to grab my wallet my sleeve catches the sores on my arm. I moved too quickly and this snaps me back to reality. Like a shock collar on a dog, it seems I need the constant reminder. This pattern runs so deep, not sure if the scars on my skin are going to be enough for me to stay grateful.

My dearest, closest friend that has carried me through China’s foothills, across the Brooklyn Bridge, and down elegant red carpets. My body that has both doubled in size to make room for wine and cheese and shrunken down to support what I thought I had to be. My body gracefully works with me, always offering more and more opportunities to have the richest experience possible.

Maybe now I can work with her.

Posted in Blog | 58 Comments | December 16, 2011

From Tiger Beatdown (via bibliofeminista)

But we’ve been doing it for a while now, the feminism thing, and the theories are already out there and readily accessible. They even feel unquestionable, some of the time: Authoritative statements about our lives, like those uttered by Freud or the medical profession. To say that they just don’t feel right, that they don’t describe you or who you are or how your life has gone thus far, feels wrong and heretical; it might get you accused of false consciousness or bad feminism or internalizing the oppressor. Instead of starting where we are and trying to theorize it, all too often, we take the theories and try to cram our lives into them, and ignore or cut off the parts that don’t fit. What we end up with is a vision of ourselves that often feels purer and more Feminist-Approved than who we really are; it feels nice and strong and Good and, most crucially, safe. However, we’ve also barred off all of those messy, complicated, unlikable parts of ourselves, and forbidden ourselves to examine or learn from them. Which is a bad move, given that the messy and complicated and unlikable and as-yet-untheorized, the unspoken and the unspeakable, is where we’re supposed to start….inspire that sort of courage: To point you to the parts of your life or yourself that you can’t quite look at directly, or that you haven’t quite figured out, and to tell you that they’re where you need to go next. They’re where you’re going to learn the most. And if there’s nothing in your ideology to explain them, well, then: Make some new ideology.

Posted in Blog | 2 Comments | December 13, 2011

Warrior Heart and Buddha Soul

I recently had two friends over for breakfast. Nothing fancy, just your normal eggs, toast and tomato with a simple fruit salad, beautiful chai tea, and Edith Piaf playing on the computer. One of my guests looked up and said, “It’s always such a cultural experience being with you Allison.” the other quickly followed with “Yeah, it’s like going to Camp Allison….like an explosion of life.” I loved this! I love that this is how my friends perceive me from the outside looking in. It almost makes up for the fact that from the inside looking out, I feel a little crazy, like the Tasmanian devil spinning in circles around myself in an attempt to do all that I can. Constantly running on this fear that I might miss an opportunity, or an experience, something life changing and astounding might happen while I am not looking.

I am insatiable. Greedy, in a way. I live with voracity and intensity . . . voracitensity. If I were a color it would be florescent. I am working on subtlety, but it is not yet my strong suit. I live in big, bold, brush strokes.

In the days that followed that brunch, I started to think about where this desire comes from. I mean, why am I so hyper aware of the fact that every moment counts for something?

Then I remembered my mom.

When I was six years old my mom was diagnosed with cancer. For a year she went through hell. Chemo chemicals and radiation coursed through her veins as she fought for survival with every fiber of her being. The chemicals killed the cancer, along with most of her physical strength. In the first months there was a general air of fear and unease. No one took the time to explain to my brother and I what was going on. One day my mom was gone and then she didn’t come home again for a week. No one said anything about chemo, or what it would do to her. I can’t recall what was said. I just remember she was gone.

More treatments. Months passed. And one memory I have forever burned in my brain.

It was the middle of the afternoon, I can’t remember why, but I found myself alone in the house. I wanted my mom. I wanted to crawl into her bed and feel her warm back on my cold nose. I wanted to feel better. My parents’ room was always filled with light. Light and fresh air. My mom and dad could not stand stale air, so no matter how chilly it was outside we had our windows open. No heavy drapes in our house just natural light pouring through a delicate sheet of tightly woven lace dancing in and out of the window frames.

I had woken up in a sweat due to a nasty dream I was having. The cool air on my moist pajamas was giving me chills. I pulled my damp body out of my twin bed and raced down the hall to her. Flinging her door open, I assumed my mom’s room would be as it always was, drenched with light and fresh air; all I wanted was a breath of fresh air. But what I found was the opposite: drapes replaced the curtains and the windows were closed, locked. I could barely see the bed, but was able to make out a lump I assumed was her body. The lime green plastic mixing bowl my family reserved for throw up was next to her bed and as I walked closer I could hear her wheezing. Her breathing was brutal, it sounded almost impossible. The room smelled like old vitamins and throw up. I turned around, walked outside, and shut the door.

The war she was fighting was tortuous. This had become painfully clear. I still didn’t understand what this “cancer” thing was, or why my poor mom was the one having to battle through it, but I knew there was nothing my little hands could do to take away the pain she felt. All I could do was watch and wait.

In the days that followed I saw her turn to an ash gray color and lose all the weight that used to pad her body. They were killing her. It was killing her. Something was killing her.

But then, she got better. With the same quiet potency the cancer had used in its approach, my feisty, tender, sweet mom began to crawl her way back to us.

Amazing. They could rob her of her hair, her curves, and the rose in her cheeks. They could cripple the body that had carried two children, played tennis in the sunshine, and even, for a time, quiet her laughter. But her love for life was beyond anything they could touch. It was invincible. My mother became a warrior for love. She took the challenge head on and came out with a powerful heart and mind. Her tenacity earned her a place in the world that would not be taken away. She survived.

Her unwavering determination became my example. I didn’t know what to do or where to go, but she remained strong. She continued to wear her Este Lauder “Pleasures” perfume and her soft sweaters. She kept life as normal as possible while her white blood cells fought to outrun the poison flushing through her veins.

It isn’t until you see the end of something that you understand its true essence. The value of all things becomes apparent when it seems as though it will run out. I had the painful privilege of witnessing my mom dangle her toes over the edge of her life, and luckily she survived. So many don’t, so many strong, brave, powerful people don’t get the chance to take this lesson into the next chapter of life, which makes it all the more important that I do. I’m inspired by those who fight and win, and live with deep gratitude and respect for those who fight and lose. We can take nothing for granted.

My mom set the example for passion and determination. Through her battle with cancer, she taught me what it is to love life. From extreme violence came ultimate beauty. She still reads a quote from Anne Frank that I keep in my pocket for days when I feel like the best decision would be to hide away.

“As long as this exists, this sunshine and this cloudless sky, and as long as I can enjoy it, how can I be sad?”

I took her advice to heart and made a vow to fill my life with all I could. At six, I was determined and I still am. I always hit the ground running.

To a fault, I’ll admit. I saturate myself in what I love and I would rather have too much motivation than none at all. I struggle to ground myself in one place for more than a few days and sometimes I plan so many activities that I am racing just to get to the next appointment rather than enjoying the reason they were scheduled in the first place.

There is a balance to strike, my four-year-old nephew is teaching me that. Last summer he came for a visit and I got to have him to myself for one day. I made a plan. I packed our day full of outings and ideas. But as quickly as I made the plans, my nephew changed them. His spontaneity and fascination with the world around brought my plans to a screeching halt. We ended up staying in a one block radius around my apartment. No big outings, just a simple afternoon in Brooklyn.

As we headed home, skipping the cracks in the sidewalk and talking about Luke Skywalker, my nephew looked up at me and proclaimed, “This is the best part of my day ever.” The part with no agenda, no activities, just walking and talking. Amazing.

I needed a child’s perspective to remind me of the immature confusion that led me here to begin with. Valuing existence doesn’t mean over booking. It doesn’t mean more stuff, more content. It just means more me, more attention to the moments making up my life.

Thanks to my Ma. Thanks to my nephew. To the warrior heart and the Buddha soul. My greatest teachers.

Posted in Blog, My Thoughts | 59 Comments | December 2, 2011

This is what I’m talking about…

Posted in Blog | 9 Comments | November 30, 2011

One of my Shakespeare teachers sent this to us this summer. It is beautiful. Take a listen and enjoy…..

http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/218/act-v?act=0

Posted in Blog | 1 Comment | November 29, 2011

Road Trip!

Took myself on a little trek to Massachusetts today. I rode all the way there and back with the top on my convertible down. It was such a wonderful day. My radio is funky, so I sang musicals to myself the whole way. I am such a dork.

I was drawn to Mass after finding an awesome vintage steam trunk from the 30′s for sale on craig’s list (God I love that site). Seriously, how cool is this?

It is my newest art project! Stay tuned for the transformation.

I also met this super neat lady, Petria.

She’s a stylist with vintage cat-eyed glasses, fantastic style, and an awesome blog.

I walked into her store with my metallic sweater, wind blown hair, and knee high riding boots. She said, “Oh no, you are way to stylish to be from around here.”

I felt so cool.

Driving home with my trunk in my trunk I was floor by the sunset. Pink marshmallows smeared across flattened tangerine skin.

I didn’t have a camera due to the fact that I left my Iphone in the back of a taxi and have yet to replace it so instead you get this stock photo I found online!

You get the idea, yes?