kelly p. bergin

Baby's Got A Brand New Ride

2012-02-10T03:01:00.000-05:00

The day has finally come.

I, Kelly "She Can Drive, Officer, I swear!" Bergin, am now the proud owner of a bitchin' 2007 Ford Focus.

Subwoofer included.

Eusebio, named after the dude who sold it to me for $500 less when I played the cancer card.

It took a long time to get here, folks.

Four whole months without wheels is tough. I refused to take the bus because I was afraid I'd screw up the token/card thing and my whole bag would spill out and everyone would see my lame 'good thoughts' journal because my life is an endless cycle of blushed faces.

I left the dealership last night with my title in hand (I think that's what this paper is, I don't know, there's so many, oh my God, I'm such a woman!). Pacific Auto Group, with their tagline of: "no credit because you maxed out an American Eagle card in college? no problems!" seemed to have served me well. I think I got a good deal because in only 36 months, Eusebio will be mine! Free and clear!

The excitement was palpable as I got into my car and turned the ignition. It was then that the problems began.

In an attempt to back out of the dealer ship, I dinged a Porsche for sale, worth way much more than Eusie. As I pretended to be on the verge of tears, the PAC owner backed it out for me and checked for damage, all the while mumbling about how chicas can't drive. I would have been insulted if he hadn't been so right.

I then drove to on the freeway for the very first time. The car began to shake and an awful noise echoed throughout Eusie. I immediately began to curse the gang at PAC for selling me a lemon when I realized I was driving on the shoulder, and the noise was actually coming from the tred marks on the side of the road. Shaken up but firmly in a lane, I headed to Target with Erin without incident. (Unless you count spending the rest of my car money on tea candles an incident.)

After a successful parking garage experience where I hit no man, woman or child, my confidence was bolstered. I relaxed at Sean and Erin's, jangling the keys in the face of everyone I came across.

And then...it was time to head back to the Castle, or what you non-castle dwellers call an 'apartment building'. Ilga, my roommate and owner of my new cat, Sophia, warned me the space was tight and that I ought to back in. Immediately my brain flashed back to two hours before and the screams of the good salespeople at PAC. Parking was never my strong spot.

I stalled for awhile but eventually, I arrived at my ancient building. I popped half a Xanax and proceeded to spend forty minutes backing into a spot.

I banged my mirror twice against a large foundation pole. Only minor damage was incurred, but I sure am glad I got car insurance, even if I did have to legally change my address to San Diego for a cheaper rate. (Thanks, Reuben!)

Now that I have this glorious hunk of metal, I intend to see...the world. Arizona! The OC! Walter White and Jesse in Albuquerque! Wherever the 4 President's heads are. Las VEGAAAAAS. Seattle, if my belief that it's a 12 hour drive is true. And maybe Portland, to find some vegan meatballs!

I'm quite excited about my new ride, even if it does stay in the garage, lest I break it more. Maybe in a few weeks I'll make it back to Trader Joe's for some more sea salt brownies, but it's enough knowing it's there, for my use. One day Eusie and I will see those Presidential Mountain things, and life will be grand.

Till then, this is Carpooling in California, signing off.

(Note: Allow me a moment to thank the men and women who selflessly drove me around (sometimes in exchange for free drinks and tuna salad sandwiches.) Rachel, whose 2009 Jetta makes my 2006 Ford Focus look like a Pinto. Matt, who drove me to bars in his Maddy-mobile without complaint or acceptance of cash. And Sean, who allowed me a seat in the back of his New Jersey-plated car. I would literally be nowhere without you all.)

A New Place

2012-02-03T04:35:00.001-05:00

It's 1 am and the floor is quiet. I am up, limited to the line that runs from the IV into my arm, but I am up, cleaning and pacing the floors and trying to enforce in me the exhaustion I need to sleep.

---

Matt dropped me off nearly twelve hours ago and I came prepared, because you must be. I can pack for the hospital in less than 10 minutes: computer, chargers, sweatshirt, boy boxers, deodorant, eyeliner, books.

That's all I really need.

---

The nurses here are different–they are skinnier but somehow rounder. Their eyes are bright and not haggard and I think they've all had some work done, which is so very Los Angeles.

(At least their roots match their hair, which is more than I can say.)

Earlier, the attending doctor in the emergency room clucked her tongue as she looked over my chart, and then looked at me and said "Well, I can tell you do a lot of living with bright eyes like that!" She said this without irony, and she was not rushed. It was an odd reminder that I am not in New York, that I am 3,000 miles away from the crowded, noisy NYU.

Later, her daughters arrived and I played with them. The older girl wore a uniform almost exactly like the one I wore as a child. Jumper, blouse, tights, Mary Janes.

---

Around 3, I got word that I'd be moved to a different hospital. I guess UCLA has several campuses, so they strapped me into an ambulance and drove me 4 miles west. The cute paramedic/driver promised me an ocean view, but all I see are bricks.

Levi, the other paramedic, sat with me in the back. He bragged about the celebrities that have been in his care, and I clamored for details, swearing that I was good at keeping secrets. Which, of course, I am not.

He shared a few, and after mass texting the details to twenty of my closest friends, I wish he had told me more.

We arrived at the Santa Monica Hospital (so close to the ocean) and the clean, bright halls gave me a headache.

But I have my own room here, with a bathroom bigger than my old bedroom in New York. The pillows are comfortable. The sheets are okay.

Plus, they have cable, and I found a Kardashian marathon, and that Mason Disick is pretty charming.

---

The thing about morphine is that only the first rush feels good. The nurse inserts the needle straight into your IV line and that first flush–that first flush!–feels like something new.

It feels like change. The warmth the drug brings spreads its way throughout the entire body. The toes, the tips of the fingertips are deluded, but it is momentary relief.

My head clouds and I lose hours but do not sleep. I wait for choices to be made, commands to be heeded, and the next push to come.

I'm restless and drugged, as my cells move and transform, as my body hums under the weight of activity. It's a night in the hospital, and it's without sleep.

---

Sometimes I wonder why I bother to blog. I've slowed down, updating Tumblr instead. Micro-blogging on Tumblr seemed like an easier way to be funny and light.

Three or four years of history sit on this website, and I'm not entirely happy about all of it. That on this site, my identity is so intertwined with this familiar cycle of sickness and wellness and all the "what does this mean?!" in between.

But there's value in looking back, if only for a moment. Maybe one day I'll like to see that I wrote about this, my first hospitalization in Los Angeles, so far from most of my friends and all of my family. (Save for Rachel, who is the Harry to my Marv, and who will visit tomorrow.)

It's not as hard as it seems right now, and it's because I have found friends and family in this city, and a three year old who draws me awesome pictures of 'ninja doctor houses'.

And that makes all the difference in the world.

Pros/cons of going to the hospital (yes, this is how my mind works)

2012-02-02T08:44:00.001-05:00

Pros:

1) Instant rehydration + possible hunger relief (I haven’t eaten/drank/talked since Monday)

2) Morphine! I UNDERSTAND YOU, HEROIN ADDICTS!

3) Attention (duh.)

4) Gifts (duh.)

Cons:

1) I always get admitted, due to my colorful medical history.

2) Being paired with an old roommate who yells at me for wearing V-neck t-shirts and booty boxers and calls me a slut, just like last time (see July, 2011)

3) Um, you never sleep in the hospital.

4) MY PARENTS AND SISTER LIVE IN NEW JERSEY WHICH IS SO FAR.

5) Every single thing about the hospital experience, including the fact I’d have to talk to the doctors, which I cannot do right now in my current state.

6) I never look good enough in the hospital to post an emo picture of myself on Tumblr.

7) MY FAVORITE SPORTS TEAM IN THE WORLD IS PLAYING IN THE SUPER BOWL IN 3 DAYS! I can’t even risk missing that. There’s just no way.

Decision to be made at 10 am if I fail to get a wink of sleep (it’s 6 now.)

on a bad time

2012-02-01T17:58:00.000-05:00

this pain is spread out across the movements that i make, as i shake from the hard edges of its existence, as i move my arms and feet in tandem, desperate to feel something else.

later i will punch the strong walls that built this castle i reside in, some 3,000 miles away from the comfort of my hospital, my NYU, where the doctors know what to do. where they recognize my face, and they smile, but not in a mean way.

i owe everyone money. i owe everyone something right now. i have bills to pay and things to do and promises i have meant to keep.

and all of that seems utterly meaningless right now, as i watch the seconds tick, as i tell you that i wish i was on east coast time, so that i would be closer to lightness that comes with evening sleep.

it's almost 3pm here in los angeles. the relentless sun fills my room. my black comforter is dotted with cat hair. i sip coffee from a straw. i make notes in my pad, and i sigh at the happiness of others.

i am looking at a box of brownies, and longing for a taste. i try and stop, as the shock of touch delivers a roar i can only hear inside my head.

it's like putting your ear to a conch shell and receiving soaring, wide-reaching pain instead of the ocean music.

i wish i could make this pain away, the ones who love me say. i wish i could too.

last week the doctor said, looking at my swollen knees and face and blood work (just a little hairy), that it seemed like i was headed for a lupus flare.

A Bad Time.

i scoffed and said i felt fine, that it would be alright.

but now the cat plays with my bottle of prednisone at the bottom of the bed as i watch television and rewind because i have not paid attention.

i'm a 9 on the pain scale. and i'm sweaty. and i'm tired. and the day seems endless, but i will wait for this time to pass, for the drugs to work, for the raw pain to end.

i will wait and hope for that, because i believe that time will come.

In Which I Die Alone Due To Awkwardness

2012-01-17T02:42:00.000-05:00

Me, at gas station trying to figure out how to screw the cap on: AGH, I HATE MYSELF!!
(Spots guy with dog)
Me: HEY, GUY WITH DOG!
Guy with Dog: Hey.
Me: Can you come over here and help me? I will hold your dog.
Guy: Okay.
Guy fixes car nozzle in twelve seconds
Me: Ha, I guess I'm not good with cars, I just moved from New York..
Guy: I love New York, my dog's named Brooklyn.
Me, thinking this is true love: Oh my god, that's so cute.
Guy: Where you headed now?
Me, thinking about to get murdered: Oh, um, to look at apartments.
Guy: Good luck, that's always hard...(launches into adorable story)
Me, flustered by his cuteness: Haha
Guy: Well...
Me, in one breath: Hahaokaybyehaveagooddaythankyou
Guy: Yes, you too. Enjoy your day.
Me: Enjoy your dog! Bye!
Guy: Errr...okay.

Dan's Favorite Things of 2011! (He's just like Oprah.)

2011-12-27T19:48:00.001-05:00

FAVORITE ALBUMS OF 2011

I totally helped Dan do this.

(I cannot believe he didn’t include the members-only fan clup EP that Hanson released.)

Honorable Mentions: The First Day of Spring, Noah and the Whale; The Whole Love, Wilco; Bon Iver, Bon Iver; Rome, Danger Mouse and Danielle Luppi; A Creature I Don’t Know, Laura Marling

10. Pickin’ Up The Pieces, Fitz + The Tantrums

9. So Beautiful Or So What, Paul Simon

8. Whokill, tUnE-yArDs

7. The Harrow + The Harvest, Gillian Welch

6. I Am Very Far, Okkervil River

5. Strange Mercy, St. Vincent

4. Let England Shake, PJ Harvey

3. Barton Hollow, The Civil Wars

2. Father, Son, Holy Ghost, Girls

1. Helplessness Blues, The Fleet Foxes (“We couldn’t get enough of these guys.”)

FAVORITE MOVIES OF 2011 (In Dan's Words)

Time for @UffishL’s + my 2nd annual top 10 films of 2011. (Actually not our 2nd list of 2011—our 2nd annual list. But I bet you knew that.)

Our strict criteria: We had to really really like the films. If we didn’t agree, @UffishL threatened me. Anyway, the list: Honorable mention: Martha Marcy May Marlene; Midnight in Paris; The Way; Weekend; Young Adult

10. Buck

9. The Trip

8. The Double Hour (La Doppia Ora)

7. Certified Copy

6. Hugo

5. Win Win

4. Higher Ground

3. The Artist

2. Project Nim.

And our favorite movie of 2011; 1. Tree of Life. (Editor's note: Kelly concurs!)

It had Sean Penn, Brad Pitt, dinosaurs—and the meaning of life!

FAVORITE BOOKS OF 2011 (In Dan's Words)

My #top10books is my fave list from 2011, so @julieklam + I have saved for last the list of books that captured our hearts, etc this year:

Honorable mention: 1861, by Adam Goodheart; Helvetica and the New York City Subway System, by Paul Shaw; State of Wonder, by Ann Patchett; The Tiger’s Wife, by Téa Obreht; Wonderstruck, by Brian Selznick

10. In the Garden of Beasts, by Erik Larson

9. Mr. Fox, by Helen Oyeyemi

8. The Wilder Years, by Wendy McClure

7. The Psychopath Test, by Jon Ronson

6. The Night Circus, by Erin Morgenstern

5. The Tragedy of Arthur, by Arthur Phillips

4. Starting From Happy, by Max Patty

3. Turn of Mind, by Alice LaPlante

2. Zone One, by Colson Whitehead

1. Say Her Name, by Francisco Goldman (Editor's note: KELLY CONCURS AGAIN! READ THIS NOW!)

In Which I Brag That I Can Read

2011-12-01T20:48:00.003-05:00

Inspired and a wee bit intimidated by Elliott Holt's 2011 reading list, I sat down today in avoidance of a deadline and set upon the arduous task of listing every single book I read in 2011.

At the start of the year, I hoped to read 70 books. A quick look at my Netflix queue might have you guess, correctly, that I failed. I truly believe the list would be a lot longer if I hadn't wasted four hours watching the Kardashian marriage, if "articles about Zac Hanson" counted as books, if I hadn't watched the entire run of Family Ties on Netflix, and if I hadn’t wasted all that time ~~reading Mormon mommy blogs~~ working.

I reread a lot of old books. Some I revisited out of nostalgia; some out of that itchy feeling that I couldn't remember exactly what had happened. I reread a few childhood favorites when I was in the hospital and recovering. (I ordered a Judy Blume set off Amazon when I was sad/drunk one night.) I made quite a few lifestyle changes this year; that should excuse the two self-help books on the list, both by Kris Carr, cancer pioneer.

I’m a firm believer that what we read shapes and changes us; that investing our time in literature and nonfiction not only makes us smarter, but better, too; that we very may well be what we read. (In that case, I’m an adult child who loves depressing memoirs!)

And with that said, I present everything I can remember reading in 2011. The items in bold are my favorite new reads that came out this year or last. The books are listed in no particular order, except the last few that are currently being read.

I command thee to go forth and read!

THE LIST

Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? Mindy Kaling
Henry IV, William Shakespeare
The Art of Fielding, Chad Harbach
Bossypants, Tina Fey
Blueprints for Building Better Girls, Elissa Schappell
A Good Man is Hard to Find, Flannery O'Connor (reread)
Hypocrite in a White Pouffy Dress, Susan Jane Gilman (reread)
Everything is Wrong With Me, Jason Mulgrew
Half a Life: A Memoir, Darin Strauss
Sisterhood Everlasting, Ann Brashares (Don’t judge. I had to see how it ended!)
Maine, J. Courtney Sullivan
The Long Goodbye, Meghan O'Rourke
State of Wonder, Ann Patchett
Bel Canto, Ann Patchett (reread)
Another Bullshit Night in Suck City, Nick Flynn
Gilead, Marilynne Robinson
The Imperfectionists, Tom Rachman
Truth & Beauty, Ann Patchett (reread)
Autobiography of a Face, Lucy Grealy (reread)
Say Her Name: A Novel, Francisco Goldman
An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination, Elizabeth McCracken

Love at First Bark, Julie Klam

Great House, Nicole Krauss
Just Kids, Patti Smith
A Visit from the Goon Squad, Jennifer Egan
The Family Fang, Kevin Wilson
This is Where I Leave You, Jonathan Tropper
Love and Obstacles, Aleksander Hemon
A Widow's Walk, Marian Fontana (reread)
Are You There Vodka, It's Me, Chelsea, Chelsea Handler (Okay, judge me.)
Summer Sisters, Judy Blume (reread)
Other People We Married, Emma Straub
The Ticking is the Bomb, Nick Flynn
Crazy Sexy Diet, Kris Carr
Crazy Sexy Cancer, Kris Carr
The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer, Siddhartha Mukherjee (Shit, I read a lot about cancer.)
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, JK Rowling (reread)
Adrienne Rich's Poetry and Prose, Adrienne Rich
Will You Please Be Quiet, Please?, Raymond Carver (reread)
Blue Nights, Joan Didion
The Year of Magical Thinking, Joan Didion
Sag Harbor, Colson Whitehead
The Summer Before, Ann M. Martin (I wasn’t kidding.)
Fudge-a-mania, Judy Blume
Superfudge, Judy Blume
Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret, Judy Blume (much better than Chelsea)
[sic]: A Memoir, Joshua Cody
The Two Kinds of Decay, Sarah Manguso (reread for the millionth time)
Complications, Atwul Gwande
Swamplandia, Karen Russell (in progress)
This is Not Your City, Caitlin Horrocks (in progress)
Zone One, Colson Whitehead (in progress)

In Which I Am Thankful

2011-11-23T00:45:00.001-05:00

Warning: this is another one of those awful end of the year blog posts. My apologies. There’s a new FAQ section up top that is potentially more entertaining than the following.

It’s 75 and sunny as I write this atop my roof, staring at mountains and the Los Angeles skyline. It is Thanksgiving weekend, but it feels like July. If I could say one thing about this year, I would say it feels like July. Time has stopped, the weather is hot, there is suntan lotion on my face: it must be July.

But the turkeys doth protest! It is November. The year is coming to a rapid close.

I am ashamed to note that I have been writing this blog for three years, three years worth of billable hours and insomniac ramblings. At the end of each year, I usually say something to sum up the year. "Well, this year sucked but then everything was okay."

An honest disclosure and then an "it's okay", just in case anyone thought I was ungrateful for my good fortune, or that I failed to realize it could all be so much worse.

I wrote that "everything was alright" even if I was unsure I believed it, because I was in denial, and denial is so very cozy.


Hi Denial! So nice to see you. Is that a drink in your hand?

I've been sick since I was ten months old. I actually don't know anything else. But until a few years ago, I had cried approximately three times about the isolating cycle of doctors, specialists, hospitals and extreme pain. I just didn't cry. It wasn't allowed. I didn't even cry to the shrink my parents sent me to at 16, when they discovered pot under my bed. (I still maintain the marijuana was not mine.)

Instead of crying, or showing normal emotion, I was a secretive mess of anger and sadness. Three cheers for healthy coping habits!

Sicker than I've ever been, I spent much of the past 18 months bitter I could not relate to the easy, loping gait of my healthy friends and peers. I was jealous of what seemed to be an easy existence. I envied the way they walked quickly and without feeling, how they lifted their legs and moved without pain.

I believed that stoicism equaled strength; that crying constituted weakness; that by divulging the secret that illness devastates, I would not be the Kelly everyone knew. I would not be funny, happy-go-lucky, strong.

It sunk me, this anger and depression. It affected my work, my relationship, my friendships. And my Duane Reade, who got a boost in Xanax sales.

I sought to anesthetize. I drank a lot. I said and did stupid, mean things that I am still struggling to understand and apologize for. I nearly ruined friendships that took years to build. I hurt the person closest to me. I was brutal to myself and I see now that I was brutal to others. (This post should actually be titled: “This year, I’m thankful I was forced into therapy.”)

In August, I moved out of my apartment in New York and came home to recover from July's hospitalization. I went on a trip to Colorado, a trip with fellow cancer survivors that quite literally changed my life. A trip that opened me up to the possibility of living a full life with illness, without denying its existence. And that changed everything.

Living your life twice is no easy feat. But I guess that's what I am trying to do. To remove myself from the past me--the Kelly who dealt with this illness in a shitty way, the Kelly who used it as an excuse for bad behavior, the Kelly who hid.

I am trying to live again so I am still myself, but a better version of me, someone who does not run headfirst toward self-destruction.

This year I found a good way to go down in flames and then I turned around and found out how to stay away. And I wouldn't have done that without you.

So as the year comes to a close, I have a lot to be thankful for. I’m thankful I live here in LA, a place I need to be. I’m grateful to Solo Survivors and Tracy Maxwell, who sent me on that trip down the Colorado River. I’m thankful for everyone who reads this blog and for the daily encouragement I get from you. The cards, emails, tweets, gift baskets--I am thankful for the love that sailed me through the sick this year. I’m also thankful for Friday Night Lights, just because of this:

Thank you to everyone who tried to be the change I desperately needed, who saw when I was flailing and calmed me. I hope to pay all this love forward.

Into the brightness we go.

Couch to BENGAY: In Which I Plead for Help

2011-11-16T20:47:00.001-05:00

I've been running* on and off since August, when I was beginning to recover from my last hospitalization.

I ran for awhile Monday and then I took Tuesday off because I had to ~~work~~ go eat Mexican food and drink margaritas. (They were only a dollar!)

But for the past two days, I haven't had the energy to continue with my routine.

I am aware that it is hard to get back into shape. And the non-denial part of my brain is aware that this may be harder for someone with my, um, colorful medical history.

HOWEVER, I'm extremely competitive and want to be as good or better than everyone else participating in this stupid 5K! Which I am admittedly only running because there's a pancake breakfast at the end.

I mean, I'm so competitive that I once threw a Monopoly board out my second-story window when I lost a game to my cousins. At age 8, I chucked a Ouija board at my sister's head when we failed to bring John Candy back from the dead. I'm basically like Sydney from this week's Parenthood.

In short, I DON'T HANDLE DEFEAT WELL.

And so when I lose a couple of days to, you know, LUPUS and swollen joints and possible kidney problems (more on that later), I get pissed. And whiny.

I need your help, fellow new runners. I need some inspiration. A video of a three-legged dog running a marathon, or a sweet running playlist. (My current one is all Paul Simon, which contributes to the tears streaming down my face, which I lie and say is sweat.)

So please, dear Internet. Gimme what ya got. Show me what runners are made of.

Thanks.

*My 'running' is really me talking/jogging while screaming WHY GOD WHY and SKINNINESS IS THE ONLY WAY TO WIN MOTHER'S LOVE! (JK Mom, love you.)

Things I Said While Watching Beauty and the Beast

2011-11-08T13:45:00.004-05:00

This was totally my favorite movie as a child. I am sure Walt Disney wasn't a misogynist!
Aw, look. Misogyny.
Gaston: not bad. I'd hit that.
Maurice definitely had Alzheimer's, right? Aw.
Do NOT go in the wood, dumbass!
Belle had a one hell of a case of Stockholm Syndrome.
Wait! The Beast is only supposed to be 21 years old!?
THAT is four years younger than me...
AND MUCH TOO YOUNG TO MARRY!
Man, Belle’s hair is better than mine. Them some chestnut locks!
Aw, Chip. I totally had a crush on Chip, A CARTOON TEACUP, as a child...
Which explains my current crush on our blender, Bob.
Oh God. It’s midnight on a Saturday. The wine store is closed!
So Belle just falls in love with him even though he kept her captive. Yeah, that's some Patty Hearst shit right there.
This is not as romantic as I once thought--
OMG, I LOVE THIS SONG!
This is the most beautiful movie ever.
You know, aside from the Beast’s mullet, and misogyny, and that really scary tower scene...
Oh God. I'm going to die alone.

Four Weeks, One Day: a Non-Poem

2011-11-03T13:19:00.000-04:00

Things have changed
so I suppose
I have changed them.
And maybe
I have changed too.
This year's theme might just be change.

The night gets cool here
and smells crisp,
like home.
I'm often without a coat,
because the days are so warm.
I was sunburned yesterday sitting outside,
writing at a cafe,
looking at celebrities.
Or their husbands.

There are a lot of beautiful people here,
but I do not resent the effort it takes to live here,
the way I did in New York.
And it does take effort!
Effort to truck across town,
to wait at a light for twenty minutes.
The traffic here is as bad as they say,
but the moments between moments
are savored.
Forced quiet
forced thought
forced optimism.

There have been bad days,
and last week I was so sick and delirious
I almost booked a flight home.
In the thick of the sick (ness),
I forget life on the outside.
Those days, it doesn't mean anything to me
to feel the burn of the sun marking your skin.
It is forgotten.

But I'm back outside now,
and breathing this different air.
This new air snaking through my body,
whistling and moving.
It feels like my body is
finally settling
into itself.
The house that creaks has history.

I am glad to be here.
Seeing,
hearing,
and feeling
in Los Angeles.

---
That being said, I miss the shit out of NY. Especially after watching this:

A Year in New York from Andrew Clancy on Vimeo.

Kelly California?

2011-10-26T03:59:00.008-04:00

Exactly three weeks ago, I arrived at LAX with sixty pounds of overweight baggage and two unnecessary fedoras.

The past three weeks have brought about such change that I could not possibly reflect on it now. The best way to begin writing about an expanse of time that you don’t quite understand yet is to make a list.

So for you, dear and loyal readers, I have drafted these two little lists as a way to pose the greatest question this blog has ever asked: have I gone California on you?

Ways In Which I Am Different In Los Angeles

1) I use a toothbrush made from old yogurt containers, because I am trying to be a better person and that means caring for Mother Earth and shopping at Trader Joe’s, a responsible supermarket.

2) I use toothpaste that tastes like utter shit just because it has no chemicals and that insane Crazy Sexy This Diet Is Going To Kill YOU chick advised us to do so. 2.0!

3) I run sometimes. Not every day—in fact, I haven’t since Friday but that’s totally because I’m sick and not lazy—but I do run now. And by run, I mean jog while holding my boobs up. The stuff of sports legends.

4) I signed up for a 5K. A 5K that promotes DARE and NO Drugs! and all this stuff and all I have to say is I’m glad the 5K doesn’t run a drug screen pre-run. (Kidding, everyone! I don't do drugs.)

5) I’m driving. Sure, it’s Rachel’s car and I have yet to get my own car but I’m driving and it’s with a non-expired license and I went to the DMV all by myself.

6) While at the DMV, I saw that Jake Gyllenhaal goes to the same DMV as me and I didn’t even screech or ask the cranky DMV lady to take a picture of me next to Jake….’s signed Prince of Persia poster.

Ways In Which I Am Exactly The Same In Los Angeles

1) I’m working at home, which unfortunately ingrains in me the same exact habits as office bee Kelly 1.0. In case you were wondering what these habits look like, find a YouTube video of a woman spilling coffee down her shirt and watch it on loop.

2) You know that toothpaste I told you guys about five seconds ago? Yeah, after using that non-toxic crap for three days, I made up an excuse about it not getting my teeth clean enough and threw that shit out. Kelly Two Point NO.

3) My unhealthy obsession with Hershey’s milk chocolate bars did not magically disappear when I crossed the country. In fact, it’s only gotten worse. I bought a family pack of the bars yesterday that is clearly meant for some family to make s'mores with while they camp and don’t die alone. In other words, they are not meant for me.

4) Despite my vow to become less sarcastic about life and run toward happiness, I am still as awful as ever. I joked that my running mixtape is my mother’s voice asking me if I’ve gained weight. I made fun of the fact that I often wear my too-tight gym shorts while I run to remind my body why we’re running. I even tweeted that my new CA license picture makes me resemble Rosie O’Donnell. I can’t escape the snark!

5) I mentioned above about how I’m different because I choose to shop at an environmentally friendly supermarket, but I really went to that Trader Joe’s because I read on Twitter that Jake Gyllenhaal shops there. I WILL MEET HIM.

6) I had to write out an inspirational quote and tape it over my TV today so I could get some work done/write this blog.

So--does Kelly 2.0 really live in Los Angeles, or is this just a ~~slightly more likely to get skin cancer~~ tanner version of Kelly 1.0?

Do tell.

In Which I Prepare For My First 5K

2011-10-17T01:54:00.000-04:00

So even though I've been juicing cucumbers like the 2.0 I am and staring in the mirror every morning saying: "God and a man probably love you", I hadn't actually been running much.

Enter Emily Posts. You guys know Emily, right? She's on Tumblr and is so sweet and nice and has these cute dogs and then...

she proposed that we all run a 5K in a few weeks. A bunch of people joined (you disgust me, you fitness types!) and Emily even told me about a 5K I could join here in LA.

(UGH LA! I hate you, what with your fit people and delicious burgers and HILLS!)

But I signed up. Even as it crashed my computer, which I took to believe is a sign from Steve ~~Gods~~ Jobs that OBVIOUSLY I SHOULD NOT DO THIS.

I paid the fee and I've been "running" ever sine.

Here's a breakdown of me "running".

Minute 1: "Oh, cool. I can do this. Yo, I can totally do this. BITCHES CAN'T STOP ME!"

Minute 5: "Why is...why...this hurts."

Minute 10: "LUPUS DON'T OWN ME. YOU WIN, KELLY! You are a hero! OMG WHERE IS THE EMERGENCY STOP BUTTON?"

Minute 15: (The hallucinations begin) "George Clooney is at the end of my treadmill. I can see Lake Como! And his arms are open, waiting for me!"

Minute 19: "One minute until I'm George's!"

Minute 19 and a half: "I may have a thing for old guys. File this for therapy later."

Minute 21: "George, I'm here!"

And then I collapse on the treadmill. If there's other fitness types in the gym, I skip the collapse. I immediately leave and lay down in the elevator that takes me up to my apartment.

8 more weeks, guys. Eight more until I run my first 5K and cure cancer.

They are both equally improbable.

Wish me luck.

Things I Said During DRIVE

2011-10-10T14:03:00.002-04:00

(For all of those who haven't seen DRIVE, I suggest you don't. Unless you like blood. And Ryan Gosling's arms.)

I heard this was bloody but I'm sure it's not--oh god...
Omg. No. No. NO.
I don’t get it!
Is it? What? Wait.
OMG IS THIS OVER YET?”
Look at Ryan Gosling’s arms.
I DON’T CARE IF YOU DON’T LIKE MEN. ANY ONE COULD APPRECIATE THEM!
AAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!
I wish I was watching Never Say Never.
He’s about to die. Wait...
WHAT! No! JUST NO.
Thank God. It’s over.
IT’S NOT OVER? THAT’S NOT THE END?
This is so bloody! Are there any Junior Mints left?
OKAY, that’s the end.
I’m buying the soundtrack.
And marrying Ryan Gosling...'s arms.
Oh. Sorry Kristie.

Wherein I attempt to make light of my cancer

2011-10-07T13:39:00.000-04:00

Note: I was diagnosed with cancer in 2008. As I approach my 'cancerveresary', I decided to bring this piece back from the dead, with some slight adjustments. Also, go see 50/50.

My cancer was so easy that I got embarrassed telling people I had cancer; depending on their sensitivity and sobriety levels, they immediately said something along the lines of OMG ARE YOU OKAY/ARE YOU GONNA DIE? The easiest way to deal with this was to say: Calm it, bitch, I ain't even gon' lose my hair. Now that I think about it though, it may have been an upside to lose my hair because a. I could wear a sweet blond wig and b. I could find out what my true hair color is! (Never dye your hair, kids, don't do it.)

The upsides of cancer aren't spoken about often, but they definitely exist. I was lucky to have cancer during my birthday season. (My birthday deserved a season. I had cancer.) And boy, did the extra gifts pour in. I received no empty Happy Birthday cards that year; even distant relatives stashed a $5 bill in there! And we all know that opening a card without cash in it is is one of the worst feelings in world. (Besides after actually finding out you have cancer and, like, death or something.)

And best of all, my parents sent me to St. Maarten for my birthday! With my boyfriend! I can imagine how that conversation would have went PC (pre-cancer).

Me: Can you pay for my ticket to St. Maarten so I can frolic in the surf and sand, miss four days of classes, and share a hotel room with my boyfriend?

Mom: Drops dead or slaps me in the face and screams HELL NO, STUPID ASS!

But during cancer season, it was determined I deserved a vacation. To relax. Rewind. Share a hotel room with a boy.

After St. Maarten and surgery, I had to undergo a treatment called radioactive iodine to rid my body of the cancer cells. I was sent to nuclear medicine to learn more about the treatment. The Russian doctor/nuclear bomber went on for over an hour and half (during which I really had to pee and could not focus) telling me how the radioactive iodine works, the side effects, the possible infertility and more depressing things that I quickly tuned out due to the fact that I could not understand much of what he was saying. His monologue was probably the worst part of the whole cancer experience. Dude had a thicker accent than Putin for Chrissake! How the hell am I supposed to focus on my defective reproductive organs if I'm picturing the guy in a Russian trappers' hat, staring longingly into Sarah Palin's window?

Because of the iodine dose I was given, I had to be in isolation and couldn't eat off of paper plates (I also had to flush the toilet six times when I peed). If I used plastic or paper utensils, Homeland security would detect radioactivity off of my plates in the garbage dump and arrest me for terrorism. And while that would bring me the fame and notoriety I've always dreamed of, I decided to play it safe and listen to Dr. Radioactive Russian's instructions.

After his spiel, I entered an iron-clad room to take the pill. Dr. RR was there, along with a radiation safety officer, who had a gun. (He should have shot me then.) The pill came out of a large silver box that was padlocked because of the drug's insane toxicity. Dr. Radioactive Russian handed me the pillow and a tape measure and then ran exactly fifteen feet away. The officer, Dr. RR, and another random guy in a lab coat all stared at me, creating a moment of intense suspense, as I swallowed down the horse pill. Then they all scattered like I had let one loose or something! (Come to think of it, if I had farted, it probably would have formed into a toxic cloud over Manhattan.)

After standing the necessary amount of feet from me, my mother proceeded to attempt to give me pneumonia by driving with all of the windows down from NY to central NJ. I don't know if it was the radioactive medicine coursing through my body or the NJ Turnpike, but I was convinced I smelled of toxic chemicals.

When I got home, I was ushered up to myisolation chamber, where my father had installed a flat screen TV and cable (love you, cancer). I had plenty of visitors, who had to sit far away from me or talk to me from the hallway. Everyone felt horrible that I was in isolation but secretly, I cherished the quiet. And since I couldn't get out of bed, my mom became my personal bitch. (I'm sorry---butler!)

I was gifted with DVD sets, books, and Wii games. I watched hours of mindless television without anyone bothering me to exercise or go outside or feel the disgusting chill of fresh air. It was almost as good as St. Maarten.

Three years post-diagnosis, I've faced serious medical issues and depression. And, worst of all, treatment-induced adult acne. Seriously, it's like ZITTY CITY on my face. I look like a prepubescent teenager who eats a pound of chocolate a day and plays Dungeons and Dragons. I've been to ten doctors, kept Clean and Clear in business during a recession, and switched my makeup, but it won't go away. Good thing I'm not that vain, or else this might really bother me.

Having cancer taught me a lot of things such as:

1. Be nicer, or people won't even care if you die.
2.Telling ugly men that you're radioactive is a good way to get them NOT to hit on you at a bar.
3. Prepare an awesome musical playlist for your funeral just in case you die and they play some gospel shit instead.
4. Be grateful for the disease, for it not only gets you an obscene amount of attention, but allows you to stop and realize the very fleeting nature of this life. For a minute. And then three years pass and you kind of forget. Ah, life.

And in one weeks' time...

2011-09-28T06:02:00.000-04:00

In six days, I'll pack up my room. I'll dump out the garbage bags that hold my stuff from my apartment in the East Village. I'll shove things into suitcases and I'll wonder how many pairs of underwear to bring.

How can I know how many pairs to bring when I don't know how long I'll stay? I'll need to go longer than the days of the week. But how much longer?What do the Good People® do in this situation?

With a week to go before I leave, I am focused on the very small picture, the one that fancy TVs have at the bottom of their screen. I'm focused on the E! channel and not CNN.

I'm wondering about the silly things, the tiny minutiae of daily life. I'm thinking about bathing suits and gym memberships. About car insurance and tire changes and whether I should get AAA. (Or if I should go to AA.) I'm asking Rachel--are there good laundromats in LA, like Kim's Laundromat in NY, who faithfully did my laundry every two weeks for $15? It only took them two hours to clean, wash and fold. Will I find a place? Will I do laundry on my own in Los Angeles?

What I really mean is this: will I be different in Los Angeles? What will be different in Los Angeles?

I'll drive. I'll drive in LA, and that's new. I'll buy a car and look for jobs and put on black pants that are too tight and I will go to interviews. I'll babysit. I'll go back to Skylight Books. I'll be happy when my friends are visiting, and I'll be sad when they leave. I'll sigh peacefully at the beach and sigh woefully in traffic.

In a week, I will live in Los Angeles.

--

After I wrote this, I looked through my old Flickr stream and what did I see but this--

November 2008. My first solo trip to California, a trip where Rachel and I pinky swore that we'd live here together one day. She was already there but I was in New York, home.

I came home on the red eye the Monday after Thanksgiving. I got out of my relationship and moved into Brooklyn and then the Lower East Side and then the East Village and there were other jobs, and boys, and fun ~~mistakes~~ but the entire time, I thought...

I just know I'll go to California one day.

I was right.

It just took some time to get here.

Sayonora, summer.

2011-09-23T00:07:00.000-04:00

I quit my job and left New York on August 1st, almost two full months ago. That's a simple fact, something I can grasp and understand and remember.

It was a strange summer. But when August came, I was at home and so was Gen. We decided to enjoy our August, our late-summer regression.

And we did. We floated between bars in Asbury Park and Belmar, making bad decisions, proving that although we have learned much since we were 20, sometimes it was okay to forget that for awhile. We were on the rebound, from jobs and school and relationships and emotion. "We literally have nothing to lose!" became our battle cry, before we swilled down cheap vodka and set off into the evening. One step forward, two steps back.

When the morning broke, I walked the dog and felt myself--my body, my brain, my heart--settle. My heart rate slowed. I threw out the Xanax. My thoughts became simple sentences, a break from the anxious meanderings that have so dominated the last three years.

I slept better than I have in years. I slept through July, August and September.

But with the quick passing of this month, I know that summer is over. That our lapse from real world responsibility is gradually coming to an end and with it, a change.

I'll leave here in 12 days and wonder what Los Angeles will bring. I'll look into the future with something new--optimism.

I have always been able to predict the bad, the shitty things. When I was young, I was sure I'd get cancer one day. (I did.) This year, I knew I wouldn't go a year without a hospitalization. (I was right.)

These things are no accident. There is a reason that I have been stubborn and there is a reason that I am finally changing.

Thoughts become things.

I've let myself wade through it all, an innocent passerby to my own life. But this summer, for all its regression and wine, taught me the value of playing an active role in your life.

And it feels like waking up.

In Which I Try To Become A Better Human Being, or: Camping.

2011-09-07T03:30:00.040-04:00

My name is Kelly, and I'm a dependent human being. (Hi, Kelly…)

It's common knowledge to all those close to me that I'm sort of...lazy. And tired. My family and friends (more commonly known as my minions) have been known to cook for me, to get me water when I ask for it, and to do my laundry ~~when I'm sick~~ all of the time. It's pathetic and embarrassing, but also so funny! For everyone to joke about! And um, really convenient for me.

So when I signed up to go camping in Colorado for a few days, I knew I was going alone, still weak from the past few ~~months~~ years. I was aware of the distinct possibility that I, Kelly "The City" Bergin, would have to to pack my own bags and actually paddle and camp and do all that stuff. By myself. Without cell phone service to even tweet about the horrors.

(I think most people would be nervous to be stranded in the desert with complete strangers, but I woke up in cold sweats dreaming about having to put together my own tent.)

But I survived. I think I may have even thrived, for a few seconds there. My nickname on the trip became 2.0, because I constantly noted how a new version of Kelly Bergin was emerging. Kelly, 2.0.

There's something to be said for actually stepping out of your comfort zone, instead of just dreaming about it. I talk a lot of shit about ways I am going to change—plans to eat better, go to sleep earlier, exercise, write…but I never actually do it. Instead, I end up eating Fruity Pebbles at 3 am and watching montages of ER's famed couple Carol and Doug on YouTube. (This is totally not happening right now.)

I came back from the trip renewed, motivated to actually make some tangible changes in my life. This was never more apparent than yesterday, when I stood in a place far more foreign to me than nature: the cookbook aisle.

I haven't actually opened Vegetarianism for Dummies yet, and I did just send a panicky text to Gen asking if I could still eat eggs, but I'm confident that my new diet and exercise plan will make me feel better. And although I’ve had this fleeting thought before, I’ve never actually believed that I could feel better. I've only ever known what it's like to be sick and dependent on others for help. Illness is so deeply entwined with my identity that I wonder who I might be without it. I might just be someone who does her own laundry and doesn't use the motto "one life!" as an excuse to drink and accidentally make out with men who have neck tattoos.

I've spent so long stubbornly avoiding change, because I believed that by changing to accommodate my illness, I would not be normal. And for years, that is all I wished to be.

I felt something new as I paddled (okay...floated) down the Colorado River. For the first time in a long time, I felt empowered to gain control and take responsibility for my own life. Peace, in the form of a one way ticket to Los Angeles and a vegetarian cookbook.

And that's all I really want.

Postscript:

Important Things I Learned From My Trip:

1) How to pronounce quionoa. Hint: it does NOT rhyme with granola. Lesson learned.

2) When attempting to moon an Amtrak train that runs parallel to the river, watch your ass on the rocks. I have a bruise on my tailbone the size of Colorado.

3) Colorado is pronounced how it's spelled, not COLORADAAAAA (that one's for you, Mom.)

4) I can go 4 days without Junior Mints, shattering my previous Mint-free record of six hours.

5) Usted is not pronounced YOUSTED.

6) Never ask how many feet sea level is if you want to be taken seriously as an intelligent adult. (Note: It's zero.)

Post-postscript:

Please consider checking out and donating to Solo Survivors. And thank you to everyone who made this trip possible— especially Tracy Maxwell and Alli Ward. Connecting with other cancer survivors was truly an amazing experience, and I remain in awe of those I met on the trip. Thank you.

Kelly Is Going Camping, or: The End.

2011-08-19T02:35:00.000-04:00

This is goodbye.

No. Not really...OMG. I just pictured news of my death breaking. You're all in your pods, like in Wall-E, and my face is projected on CNN over the bio-dome for you, my loving ~~minions~~ family, to see. Kelly Bergin, blogger and failed writer, dead at 97. Underneath, it says: "Her last blog post was entitled How To Get Laid And PAAAAAIIIIIIIID In Your Nineties."

Yeah, I'm not going out with grace. (Or self-awareness.)

Anyway, this isn't my goodbye post...though after my upcoming trip, it very well could be.

Let's step back. Two weeks ago I found out I was awarded a VERY generous travel scholarship to go on a canoeing and camping trip in Colorado. I applied on a whim, at the advice of a friend. It's for young cancer survivors, post treatment. They fly me out there next week and we camp and float down the Colorado River for three nights.

Yes. Me. Kelly "The City" Bergin (new nickname, roll with it) camping. Paddling. Assembling tents. PEEING IN THE WOODS.

I have included a picture of the last time I attempted to camp. It was three summers ago and I never figured out how to put together my tent. Eventually, I made up some sort of ailment and went in the car to listen to Hanson.

But this time, I'll be surrounded by people way sicker than me! I CAN'T FAKE SICKNESS, BECAUSE THEY HAVE IT TOO!

I just spoke with the generous woman who is putting the trip together. It was a semi-awkward conversation, due to the fact I have a lack of social skills and do not know when to shut up. As everything is a learning experience with me, I've included the following 'Don'ts' should you ever find yourself in this situation.

DO NOT:

Mention you're not a morning person and so the later the (free) flight, the better.
Ask if there's cell phone service on the river.
Wonder aloud if an iPad is a good thing to pack.
Mention you sleep cuddling your computer and then let it slip that you call your computer Computie.
Ask if the male to female camper ratio is in my favor. (Ch-yeaaaa!)
Ask if your nickname on the trip can be Kelly "Dead Weight" Bergin

(I would not be surprised if my application is being reevaluated this very second.)

Yesterday I dragged Kristie (who is also known by me and others as Big Red, Ginger, Bread, Krusty, Chauffeur, Woman Bring Me French Toast!) along to go shopping with me. We went to Wal-Mart, where I found a children's guitar and chased Red around the store, singing "Shop for me, my minion!" before she threatened to drive away without me or my stuff.

We then hauled off to the camping store to get the rest of my gear. I was only in Eastern Mountain Sports for five minutes before I had a panic attack. That store is more terrifying than a Tennesse Wal-Mart after midnight.

Everyone there looked so...fit. They didn't look like they ate Easy Mac at 2 am or strained a muscle lifting a five pound weight the night before. They were beautiful and strong and BETTER THAN ME. And I was laying on a camp hammock (on sale now, guys) while Krusty shopped for the rest of my stuff.

As I lay there, wondering why I thought I could paddle down a river for TWO WHOLE DAYS IN THE SUN, I saw a camping knife for sale! You know, for...I don't know what you use them for. For camping stuff.

However, I figured if I saw a bear coming, I'll just pull out the knife and kill myself before he can get me. Smart, right?

I leave on Wednesday and I'm pretty much settled and have everything I need, though I did just insomni-shop and buy myself a battery pack and underwater case for my iPhone. (I. Need. iPhoney.)

I also got some advice on Twitter, which urged me not to bring a bra on the trip. So it's safe to say I won't be making any friends nor cancer love connections on this adventure.

But part of me is hoping that this trip will trigger my outdoorsy, non-cynical side, as I eat organic meals, hike and listen to Kumbuya played on an acoustic guitar around a campfire. (Wow, I wrote that without gagging.) They even have a luau themed dinner for one night, but if I hear Jimmy Buffet, I'm breaking out Bon Iver.

I suppose I'll have to do my best and hope that when I move to California in 46 days, I will be ready to embark on a healthier lifestyle.

Or not.

See, this is how I prefer to camp. Beer in hand.

yesterday

2011-08-15T17:39:00.002-04:00

Last week my doctor convinced herself

that I had melanoma.

So she cut some tissue out of my skin

and stitched me up in a few places, panic flashing across her face.

(I was worried. Do I get to admit that?)

(Am I safe in parentheses?)

I waited two days for test results.

And on Friday, she called.

Caught early, pre-stage 1.

I’ll see a surgeon for more tissue excision

after I get home from Colorado in a few weeks.

It’s overwhelming, this carousel

of panicky doctors, always saying

There is something wrong with everything!

At night, I try not to wonder what it will be next.

There was no sun yesterday, so I was allowed out of my cave.

I don’t need much these days.

I don’t have much these days.

And yesterday it was fine—

Just a crappy waterproof camera, a blistering hangover, my sister

and this dangerous, unruly sea,

Nature’s brutal reminder that there is no use in fretting

about what we cannot control.

(I needed that.)

That Time My Uncle Thought I Had Three Months To Live

2011-08-08T01:57:00.000-04:00

My phone lit up three times as I sat in the theater next to Gen, taking in Friends With Benefits.

It was a message and a missed call from Katie: Call me ASAP. I left the theater, sure that someone had died. I had that sick feeling in my gut when you know you are about to hear bad news. (Or it could have been the bag of popcorn I ate. Or maybe the Junior Mints. Tuna sub? Beer? Probably the possible dead relative thing.)

"What's up?" I frantically screeched into the phone. Kate informed me that one of our uncles called her dad, freaking out that there was something wrong with my heart and that I had three months to live.

"I thought maybe you knew and didn't want to tell me," Katie said. I reassured her that I did not have three months to live. I had, indeed, gone to a cardiologist who noticed thickened heart valves and leakage in my valves, but it was fine. (For now. But can I have your heart?)

We laughed it off and hung up. I called my dad and told him to tell everyone I wasn't dying. And if I were, would I really be spending my last days seeing Friends With Benefits for the second time? (Well, maybe. It has a really good soundtrack and ~~Mila Kunis~~ Justin Timberlake is super hot!)

It got me thinking, though. If I had three months to live, what would I really do with my life?

What am I doing with my life now?

After I had cancer, I promised myself that I'd stick to my ONE LIFE! philosophy. But that philosophy was really just an excuse for irresponsible behavior. It could have applied to any young twentysomething in America. Oh, you woke up in Brooklyn in a strange apartment and you can't find your shoes? Oh well, ONE LIFE! Oh, you went to Paris with no money and now you’re in debt? ONE LIFE! You don't want to go to work because there's a Full House marathon on? That's okay, ONE LIFE!

One life. We really do only have one life. We really only may have three months, three seconds to live. I was reminded of this just last week, at a funeral for a woman so many of us loved. Shit, life is short, I thought.

I need to live better because some cannot. Some are already gone. I need to be kinder, and stronger, and more productive. Healthier. Because whether I have three or three hundred months to live, I am going to make them fucking awesome.

We owe it to ourselves. We owe it to others. After all, we only have ONE LIFE.

I am moving to Los Angeles.

2011-07-20T12:45:00.003-04:00

I am moving to Los Angeles for the fall. And the winter. And the spring. And maybe for a little longer. I don't know yet.

In two weeks my lease is up on my apartment in New York. I have spent the last 7 years living in New York. The Bronx, first. Then Brooklyn. Then Manhattan.

I love New York. It's my home. And that's what makes it okay to leave for a little while, because I know it's where I will be in five years. New York is where I will have children. New York is where I will die, most likely because I jaywalked into a UPS truck.

So why go to LA?

Because I have wanted to, for many years. Because right now my gut says go, and I have never felt so strongly that now is the time. Because if you feel like you need to go to LA, you should probably go to LA.

Still: why go to LA?

Because I'm tired of New York, of rushing everywhere. And I'm sick from the subway and the noise.

In Los Angeles I will be outside more. I will swim more. I will swim every day if I can.

I want to write my book at the beach. So after the summer, I am going to go to LA. (I'm either driving or flying. TBD!)

And why not this second?

Because I can't work/function full time right now. I'm going to freelance and work part time until I am better and then I'm going to go.

But you're sick. You can't be sick across the country!

There it is. The challenge. Can I be sick away from my family? Every single person I've talked to has brought this up. You can't do it, they say.

Fuck that, I say. I have let illness own my life for many years now. I stayed in New York City, even when I wanted to go far away for college. I didn't study abroad because everyone told me I couldn't. I didn't major in premed because everyone told me I'd get sick. I listened to everybody. I did. I listened to everyone.

And I am still fucking sick.

But don't worry, guys. I'll be careful in California. I'll wear sunscreen. I'll exercise more and eat better and I will live in Los Angeles. They even have doctors in Los Angeles! Best of all, they have medical marijuana in Los Angeles.

They have copywriting jobs in Los Angeles. They have better weather in Los Angeles. They have the sun and they have space, space for me.

And so I think that's what I am going to do. I think that after Labor Day, I am going to move to Los Angeles.*

*Unless I change my mind or am offered some sort of brilliant job in New York

Prednisone: What you done, girl?

2011-07-16T05:39:00.003-04:00

I've been on and off prednisone, a corticosteroid, at highly toxic doses for over two years now.

Long term use of prednisone is classified as six weeks or more. Not two years.

Here are a list of symptoms that my doctors have attributed to use of prednisone, including one glaring, obvious manifestation. (Do not say fat face. DO NOT SAY FAT FACE.)

Depression, mania, weakness and fatigue, blurred vision, abdominal pain, infections, acne, INSOMNIA (ding ding ding! We have a winner!), weight gain, crazy hunger, facial swelling and dizziness.* And diabetes, which is why I've been sticking myself with insulin every time I go on a high dose.

Prednisone works, so that's why it's been my go-to for the past few years. But it's made me slightly insane, and not in the good way that most drugs do.

Here's an example of a good drug: in college, I got stoned and saw Willy Wonka. I thought all the Munchkins were tiny George Lopezes. It was frightening and sort of like being stuck inside a TBS commercial loop, but still sort of of awesome.

Here's an example of a bad drug: This morning, I got up at 5 and fell out of bed. Then I tried to walk to the bathroom. I fell into the wall. Then I sat on the toilet, and fell face forward onto the floor. A variation of this has been happening all week. I asked my doctor and she was all "Yeah. Prednisone."

But! GOOD NEWS! I'm tapering down from 60 mg and soon I'll be free of the drug. (This is where my pessimistic self says yeah, until next time dummy.) Last night, I took my first dose of Thalomid, a drug used to treat leukemia. The side effects of Thalomid are not pretty, no. But it's better than prednisone, which my endocrinologist said, quite simply and without a hint of a smile, would kill me. I'm 25.

So, to wrap up, my medically challenged friends: prednisone is evil. The new drug: lesser evil. And remember: any sort of fat you might see on my body is the drug's fault and not from Twizzlers/beer/mac and cheese/funnel cake/fried chicken/soft pretzels/my feelings.

Stay off the drug if you can. Be happy you have good health. And donate money to autoimmune research so that no one--no one--ever has to suffer through prednisone's effects again.

*Note: this post has been slightly aided by Sarah Manguso's excellent memoir, The Two Kinds of Decay and various shit I Googled. ALSO BY MY LIFE.

Flashes of Wednesday

2011-07-13T05:17:00.010-04:00

In the morning my body is awake before my brain.

Sometimes my mouth acts first, shouting out language from nightmares I will not recall in five minutes time.

It is a side effect from prednisone, one of the many that haunt me.

I step out of bed and look in the mirror, at the bloat in my face. I wish it away. I am modest but my face is prettier without the bloat. Sometimes, I perversely imagine a man looking back at me in a car and thinking "What a pretty face she'd have without all that fat."

I fantasize banging balled-up fists onto the back of his leather seats, screaming that it is not my fault. That I hardly eat, I hardly eat at all. I've lost my appetite so many times that Glucose Control Boost shakes are my treat of choice these days. (Shudder.)

I'm beginning to wonder if the man in the rearview mirror may be the nightmare I so rarely remember. Perhaps there is a reason we are meant to forget our terrors.

Since I was discharged Sunday, I haven’t been able to walk down the steps unaided. I have slept on the couch with the dog and the central air conditioning.

I eat sourdough pretzels to coat the morphine swirling in my stomach. The crumbs catch and fall downward into my open shirt.

I swipe them away, angrily. I've showered but I am still a mess, with a puffy face and a crumb-filled shirt.

Summer is barreling forward, without a thought to my own affection for the season.

I've decided I won't cry out today, no matter the pain. I'll plant my feet firmly on the hardwood floors. I'll take a bicycle ride. I'll jump in the ocean. I'll hold Allie in my arms as we walk on the hot sand.

In time, the facial swelling will go down and in a year, I may be back here on this very couch. But it's entirely possible that I may be in a house I do not recognize. It is possible that this home--that this illness!-- will have disappeared.

In a year, my eyes may be brighter and my bones stronger. The prednisone may have left no damage.

But as I struggle for sleep, I think of what fears me. I realize that they are immeasurable, as thick as the love I have for my family, my dog, my friends, you.

I'll speak out loud before I drift off, after this episode of Arthur. When I am alone, I need to hear my voice before the unrecognizable screams, escaping from my diaphragm, wake me.

Hold my hand, my love. That is what I'll say, before I go. Hold it, dear, all the way from here.

The Patented Kelly Bergin Recovery Process

2011-07-11T19:36:00.005-04:00

The needles have been pulled, the wounds dressed, the hospital gown thrown in the corner. It is time to go home.

This is what happens next.

Step 1: Secure admission release. This first step involves copious amount of begging; it helps to pinch the inside of your thigh to produce some watery eyes. Waver your voice appropriately and repeat the following: "I haven't slept in days. Please, please let me go home." It helps to refrain from showering at this point; the stench alone will point to your release. No one likes a smelly Kelly.

Step 2: Lay down in your hospital bed as you watch various family members and friends gather up your stuff. For this phase, you'll want to switch into cranky mode. "MAKE SURE YOU PACK MY SWEET MASK, YO!" When this is forgotten, retaliate with one very swollen finger. (That mask made me feel like a goddamn superhero!)

Step 3: Take the last of your drugs from the nurse, knowing that you won't have access to Dr. K (Klonolopin) until you get home. Pass out for the car ride home. Note: this portion of the recovery will be very hazy and involves sending incoherent text messages. A choice one, from myself to my friend: "Call bike suit." I'm not sure what that means, and judging from his lack of response, I don't think he did either.

Step 4: Set up shop in your childhood bedroom.

Step 5: Demand fan and sourdough pretzels. Refuse showering, as each step you take is wobbly and the last thing you need is a head injury. (On Saturday, I fell face forward into the tub whilst on the john, proof of my lack of strength.)

Step 6: Flood your minions with demands. "Apple sauce! Snapple! Sugar Free Twizzlers!" The sky is the limit, kid. Take full advantage. This is a diabetic's dream. Forget the protein, go with sugar free everything.

Step 7: Sleep. Dr. K has arrived in its bottled glory. Take a copious amount. Even though you will wake up every twenty minutes and continue to send questionable text messages, revel in the pain-free existence that K-dawg has brought into your life.

Step 8: Awake at sunrise and debate briefly taking Shea for a walk. One step out of bed proves your strength is not up for it. Crawl back into bed and watch and weep through the series finale of Family Ties.

Step 9: Stare in the mirror at the constellation of bruises from the Heparin shots injected into your stomach. Debate the best way to take a picture of this to send. Quickly realize that no lens in the world has the ability to siphon away this belly fat.

Step 10: Engage in brutal fight with Mother, who insists your smell is overwhelming the house. Hold your ground. You have earned the right to stink, and dammit, you will.

Step 11: Submit to shower. Reread the 100+ tweets you sent while under the influence. Question sanity and ability to function in society. Crawl back onto the couch and once again, yield to the power of mindless sitcoms on Comedy Central. Repeat the following mantra: "Sitcom, sitcom, slow death."

Step 12: Make goals for tomorrow, to add structure to your life. Suggestions include the following:

a) Go outside; a possible dip in the ocean is always healing

b) Find a freelance writing job, as your current life/work style is possibly unsustainable. (Help, Twitter!)

c) Find an apartment, as you must move in two weeks

d) Eat protein and lower your blood sugar so that you stop fainting

I think we're getting there, guys.

This Is Your Brain On Drugs

2011-07-10T18:19:00.002-04:00

Today, I was released from NYU Langone's medical center.

I just wanted to post a quick medical update because I no longer have the manual dexterity to text everyone wants going on. Typing that sentence took four spell checks and a 10 minutes. And I pride myself on coming in 2nd in the 4th grade spelling. Fine, third place. Damn you, Charlie and Ashley.

I checked in on Wednesday with mouth sores and a fever and left with a sleep deprivation like I've never known. It's been five days and I haven't gotten more than a 30-40 minute clips of sleep at a time. I even downloaded white noise machines for my iPad and several extremely boring BBC shows. But still, nada. My blood sugar climbed past 400, my BP skyrocketed and I was legitimately afraid for my health, for the first time in a long while.

I failed some neurological exams, passed others, was given drug, drugs and more drugs. I convinced myself I had meningitis. I garbled my words. I thought today was Thursday. I fell face forward into a tub in my bathroom. I cried over the end of a Magic School Bus episode. RALPHIE and his tonsils!

I suppose this isn't really a medical update; that shit is rather boring and I''ll let you know what's going on when I do. Rather, this is a love letter, a thank you.

My energy level is the lowest it's been since my thyroid was found malignant but yet I feel stronger, more alive. And there it is: proof that when you are in a hellacious amount of pain, there is that spark of life and love and feeling that propels you forward, even when you cannot literally take a step outside of bed alone.

I was absolutely gobsmacked at the overwhelming of support I got, from friends I've known since grade school to people I've never even met in real life. I lost the mask that separates my online life from my real life. I am one.

So thank you:

To my badass boss, who biked over on his chopper to my hospital room at 10 last night. To my special friends, who called any hour I needed them to. For Meg and Gen and Taylor, who snuggled in contraband milkshakes and not nary a literary classic. For Twitter friends, who sent me emoticons and fancy lotions and kept my room from stinkin' like lupus and regret. Most of all thanks to my parents, siblings (Ginger!) aunts, uncles, cousins and f'nieces who love me and make this life truly worth living.

(I will edit the shit out this later but this is me, drugged up on Klonolopin and feeling nothing but love for everyone in my life.)

Thank you and i am sorry if I forgot you to mention you on this page. You all mean the world to me.

All my love,

Kelly

Hospital bloggin

2011-07-08T06:51:00.003-04:00

This post brought to you by Morphine, official sponsor of Kelly's delusions.

On Wednesday, after a week of debilitating mouth sores and fever, I threw myself into a cab and booked it to the ER. I'm no amateur so I made sure to pack the trinity of Loserdom: my Kindle, iPhone and iPad. Chargers nestled into my bag, I headed uptown in search of Morphine and a possible foreign exchange doctor whom I would make my husband. (The less English they speak, the more likely they are to laugh at my jokes. Plus I could convince them that rubbing my dogs--feet--is an American marital tradition.)

I spent 5 hours in the ER, tweeting my misery and informing dimwit interns not to send me to fast track because they will eventually admit me. I was correct. Eventually I was escorted to my room, where I realized that my following ad in the Times paid off. See below:

Are you an elderly woman, half deaf and surprisingly malicious? Do you havE an obsession with Nancy Grace? Are you enthralled with every possible reason Miss Casey Anthony was acquitted? Do you, like the defendant, enjoy screaming at your children and young and beautiful roommate, who reminds me of your younger vibrant self? Well then ma'am, do we have a room for you! Join roommate Kelly Bergin as we spend three days together in complete and utter misery. Never mind her uncontrollable fever, migraine and high blood sugar? She would just LOVE to hear Nancy Grace's rant on repeat 24/7!

After 18 hours with Esther,(the name I gave her) she requested a room change. I suppose she didn't think my dressing attire: underwear and a t shirt was appropriate. How was I to know her son would gape at me as if I was some sort of short-legged pariah? As she packed up her stuff, I turned and yelled "Later rooms!!

She was not pleased. (Note: I am usually sympathetic to the elderly. But I've been in this position more times than the average octogenarian. I'm all for rudeness, but save that for your personal family, for Chrissakes! Also: Sorry Red.)

After she left, I failed a routine neurological exam, assuring myself I had MS/Parkinson's. (See previous post) Tomorrow, they'll rule out a brain tumor or an absorbed twin, but for now I'm taking triple dose of Xanax to ensure mental stability. I'm also taking suggestions for the name of my absorbed twin. I think Kelly the II sounds nice.

Then they tested my blood sugar, which came in at a whopping 400. If I get diabetes, I'm...gonna find a fucking cure. Because Girlfriend do not live without milkshakes and white Zinfandel. Quality of life, people.

Tomorrow I hope to be discharged, unless they're sawing my brain in half or delivering Kelly the II.

Till then, dear well-wishers.

Kelly "Lupe! There It Is" Bergin

I've had a headache for thirteen years.

2011-07-06T02:14:00.005-04:00

I've had a headache for a month but I keep saying I've had a headache for thirteen years like Rainman, over and over. I've had a headache for thirteen years!

It's such a dramatic thing to say. Thirteen years ago I was 12 and livin' the dream. Summer of 98 could not be beat. I belonged to a swim club, my boyfriend was cute and I had a flat stomach. Plus, Hanson was popular! I mean, I should have held onto that time for as long as I could have.

I did not have a headache thirteen years ago.

But I do have a headache now. I've taken so many drugs for this headache but it persists. I haven't gone to the doctors because that's not my style. My style is totally just taking whatever drugs I have lying around and then tweeting about it.

My style sucks.

Anyway. This headache! This headache feels like my brain is trying to physically separate itself from my skull and its best route is to crawl out through my left temple. I also have all these weird sensations on the top of my scalp and last week I woke up and my arm wouldn't stop twitching

So yeah, probably Early Onset Parkinson's Disease or something, I don't know. I shouldn't Google shit at 2 am while reading Michael J. Fox's memoir that I bought on Amazon when I couldn't sleep last week.

(Guys: what's wrong with me!? Diagnose me in the comments or something.*)

It feels like I've had a headache for thirteen years but it's only been a month, which is a short span of time (relatively speaking). I'm almost glad my mouth is so bad because it sort of takes away from the pain of my headache. Although my mouth is so bad I may just go to the ER later...

I'm going to go to sleep now, I took an Ambien. At 2 am. I mean that's just dumb. I have work tomorrow.

Goodnight.

*Later we'll look back at say: This is where her blogging really slid downhill, but it's probably because of the brain tumor she didn't know she had.

Friday Night, A Kelly Bergin Tradition.

2011-06-24T21:30:00.001-04:00

8pm: I wake up from an ill-timed nap and prepare myself to go out.

8:30: I notice, from my bed, that my shower is still dripping. The last time it was used was 12 hours ago.

9: The shower is in full on stream mode, despite being off.

9:01: I tweet about this potential disaster.

9:02: I pour a vodka drink and put on Mad About You to pregame to.

9:03: A flood (WATER PUN!) of helpful tweets come in. I follow them.

9:05: I shut off the water. Or so I think. Really, I break my toilet.

9:05:30: I realize the shower is still dripping and the toilet is now broken.

9:06: I pour myself a second large vodka drink.

9:08: I call roommates in a panic, even though they are both out of town and are as useful as me.

9:10: I call my super to find out his number’s been disconnected.

9:12: The cable goes out. I fix it. I kiss Paul Reiser’s face on the LCD screen.

9:18: I tweet that I will bring a man home tonight. Not for love, but to fix my shower. I have hit rock bottom.

9:21: I resign myself to the drip, drip, drip of my sanity slowly dying. I sit down.

I DRINK.

It's Four in the Morning

2011-06-20T06:19:00.001-04:00

I wake up most nights, as if I am caught in the throes of a wicked nightmare, throttled forward into consciousness.

But I cannot remember if I have been dreaming.

When I wake up, my face is wet and like a child, my first thought is of my mother. I need you. I allow myself this thought for ten seconds before I move on. Where are you?

But I am grown now. This is mine alone.

I focus on the tangible, on what has woken me. So many days it's my jaw. Beaten by years of swelling, it is almost constantly inflamed. A dull ache that roars at 3:40 am, when I wake and shake in pain.

My feet, too. They hurt plainly, a common complaint. The banality of that soothes me. When the bones crack, I wonder if they are broken, if i injured them and then put that pain away. It is possible.

Time flies this early. I stretch, I move about. I rock back and forth, my leg as an anchor, my whole body shaking. I have rocked myself like this since I was a child. Slow, steady, why is my face still wet?

It's 5 now. Day breaks again. June feels relentless and I'd like some release. I want to wake clear. I need to get back on my feet.

I don't want to feel a thing.

InsomniPanic

2011-06-16T04:16:00.000-04:00

1) All my laundry is at Kim’s Laundromat and I have been wearing thongs out of desperation, which are clearly meant for Sexy and Attractive People® and not me. They are so supremely uncomfortable it makes me clear on the fact that as women, WE HATE EACH OTHER. We wear these things to impress men? Why? It’s a permanent wedgie!

2) I got an invitation to a wedding shower, which also makes it clear to me that women secretly hate each other. Why would we force each other to sit around, make small talk with elderly relatives, braid a bow out of ribbon and watch our friend slowly morph into the kind of person who squeals over a crock pot? Seriously. Gender roles!

3) There are no sheets on my bed because they are at Kim’s Laundromat and so I’ve been rolling myself like a joint in my comforter, which is in a duvet cover, so about half of the comforter smothers me and the other half makes my body cold. And every time I overheat or shiver, I realize that my domestic skills have plateaued and there’s no hope for the future, not now, not ever.

4) The air conditioning is making my nose bleed and now I’m convinced I’ve become one of those people who get nose bleeds and I’m pretty sure those people, who walk around with tissues stuck in their nostrils and blog about nose bleeds, die alone.

5) It’s 4:26 AM and I’m watching Family Ties. I was going to make a commitment to watch an entire series of a show this summer and also read a Huge and Important Literary Masterpiece. I was going to watch The Wire and read Infinite Jest but now I’m thinking that Family Ties and Judy Blue’s entire Fudge Series might be all I can handle. (Edit: Reading Amazon reviews, it says the publisher changed the books to reflect modern times. This is so depressing that I don’t know if I can make it through the night. Peter Hatcher listens to records, NOT FUCKING MP3s. I mean, why don’t you kill my childhood right now? Why don’t you tell me I was born with testicles and raised as a female or something? Seriously, publisher? YOU ARE EVIL.)

6) At work they talked about summer wear and what we can wear and everything I own is inappropriate so I have to wrap myself in an unmatching cardigan or walk around with a notebook covering my chest. It’s demoralizing. And today I was getting up and my bag got caught in my chair and I flew forward and my bag spilled and Junior Mints went everywhere and everyone saw. Also the Junior Mints exploded in my bag and now everything in my bag is glued together with mint and regret.

7) I still have no new friends at my new job and I think it has to do with #6 and also because I’ve been introduced to 100 people and I have no clue what anyone’s name is. “Kelly, this is Blah Blah. Blah Blah does this.” “Hi Kelly! Nice to meet you!” “You too…appropriately dressed female art director!!”

8) It’s approaching day break. So, please get the tune of “It’s Hammer Time” in your head and join me as I sing…

“IT’S XANAX TIME!”

Goodnight.

The Ukrainian

2011-06-02T12:58:00.000-04:00

The Ukrainian sat down at my table and said hello.

He was drinking a beer. So was I, alone--somewhere in the middle of London.

His English was broken and after I said ‘yeah’, instead of ‘yes’, he said my English was bad too.

“American English,” he said. “Very different.”

The Masters played on the TV above the bar and he turned to me, after a few awkward minutes in silence. He asked: “What do you think of Tiger Woods?”

An odd question, so long after the scandal broke. I told him Tiger was fine.

He didn’t ask about Charlie Sheen. For this, I was grateful. We went on about Obama and politics and the broken party system in America. I spouted off whatever I had heard someone else say on Twitter.

After ten minutes, I asked if he had children. He didn’t understand, so I used my hands. I lowered my hand, as if to indicate height. “Kids,” I said. He shook his head, misunderstanding my American English. “Son or daughter?”

I prodded like I had the right, even as he grimaced. After awhile, he answered.

“I have a son,” he said. “He lives in Canada.”

“Oh! Canada.” I pretended to know things about Canada. I pretended I’d been there. I repeated thoughts I’d had while watching the Winter Olympics last year.

The Ukrainian waited for me to shut up and then continued: “I have not seen him since he was very small. I do not speak to him.”

I asked if that made him sad. I was boldly looking for a story, some way to connect.

It had only been twelve minutes since he sat down.

“You know,” he started. “When you get old, you see this. Life is very simple; there are very simple things to be happy about. But life is very complicated too, and very beautiful and sad.”

I considered this, quietly.

He continued: “I don’t speak to him. He has a new father in Canada. He should only have one father. He does not know me.”

I nodded. I fidgeted with my phone and I took a sip of my beer.

He asked if I had children and I laughed. He asked if I was still a child. He guessed I was 20.

I said 25, and no. Not any children. Not yet, maybe never. “I’m not sure," I said. “I’m not sure about it.”

Our beers drained themselves. He asked if I wanted vodka. He told me he drinks a lot of vodka in the Ukraine.

I politely declined. I did not want to black out. I had to be safe. I was alone.

He told me, with a laugh, that I wasn’t very fun. He repeated it when I declined his cigarette offer. “You travel alone, you do not drink vodka and now you don’t smoke cigarettes! You are not very fun!”

I agreed.

Eventually, I had to use the bathroom. I said I’d be back, and he said he’d have a beer waiting for me.

Before I left the table, he said I’d make a terrible wife but at least I was sort of pretty.

I laughed in his face. I went upstairs and in the restroom, a young girl was sobbing at the sink. “Boy troubles?” I asked.

I was really looking for a story.

She nodded and went on about him. I went on about my own boy troubles and in the end, I handed her my card and told her to email me when she was visiting New York.

I went downstairs, 30 minutes later, and the Ukrainian was gone. He probably thought I had left for another bar, another place, ah, what a bad wife she’d be.

I sighed and drained the pint left for me on the table.

I walked back to my hotel, alone, still looking for something I wasn't quite sure of.

First Impressions Rock (!)

2011-05-27T12:00:00.002-04:00

Ways To Impress People + Make Friends At Your New Office: A List By Kelly Bergin

On day 1, trip headfirst into a conference room wall. Wait for reassuring laughter, and turn crimson as you are instead met with stunned silence.

On day 2, purchase a New England Clam Chowder in a bread bowl from the very smelly fish market in Chelsea Market. Bring it up to your desk, and when you think no one is looking, use a piece of the bread as a napkin. Quickly realize that your boss is watching in disgust.

On day 3, view a Hanson fan tribute video on YouTube (BECAUSE YOU LIKE THE SONG AND DON’T HAVE iTUNES), and get caught by boss again.

On day 4, make an ill-conceived joke about prostate cancer and turn red as a coworker mentions his father had it.

On day 5, dress inappropriately and walk around all day with a notepad covering your chest. You know, just in case anyone is watching.

I can’t believe no one’s asked me out for drinks yet.

My Italian Boyfriend

2011-05-17T00:39:00.000-04:00

On the fifth night of my trip (Kelly’s Solo Sojourn Through Europe: Trail of Tears Edition), I took a late train out of Paris du Nord back to King’s Cross Station in London.

It was an evening train during the holiday week in Europe, and it was plenty packed. I had all of my belongings with me, a week’s worth of clothes, computer and camera shoved into two bags. It crowded the seat because I’m short and can never reach the overhead compartment. Usually some gentleman offers to stow my stuff, but I was in France and did not speak French. I wanted to keep to myself. It had been my goal of the trip, my raison d'aller—keep to yourself, let it wash over you, write what you can.

An old lady stopped at my row and inwardly, I groaned. Three hour train ride with this old broad? She stared at me until I moved my bags closer to my chest, prepared to be uncomfortable for three hours. But I got lucky, because she noticed an empty seat upfront and quickly moved.

After she got up, I spread my bags out across the two seats and that’s when I noticed him. Blonde, curly-haired with pink cheeks. He was speaking with his parents in a language I didn’t understand. Soon I realized it to be Italian. Almost immediately, he noticed me and we locked eyes.

(If you are thinking that finally! Finally I made a love connection overseas, you are wrong.)

This happened often, this attraction. I was known for this ability, this weird tendency of infants and small children to gravitate towards me. I jokingly call myself The Baby Whisperer, and in a way it is true—children flock to me, and I am silly enough to relate to them.

This boy couldn’t have been more than two. We were on a French train, with different languages between the both of us. But I played along as he stared at me across the seat. I moved my sunglasses up and down on my face, a game of peek-a-boo. He laughed, clapped his hands together. Then he reached toward me, and his mother looked at me, surprised. I didn’t want to seem like some sort of weird, single, childless pariah, so I looked away and back into my book. The boy began to cry until I looked up again. Then he reached for me.

His uncle, a slight man in his twenties, possessed some English. He sat in front of us, across the aisle from me. He spoke briskly with the little boy’s parents and then said to me “We are so surprised. Frederico hates strangers, he won’t even go to me most times.” I laughed nervously and asked, hopefully: “Would you like me to hold him?”

The boy crawled toward me and settled against my chest. He lay there and we wordlessly played with my sunglasses and his snow globe. It felt like a long time passed, but it could not have been more than ten minutes until I gave him back to his parents. “What a sweet boy,” I said, helpless in my English. His uncle translated, and then again expressed his shock that the boy went to me, he never goes to strangers, he is so shy.

I smiled, sudden warmth flowing through me. “I just have a way with kids sometimes. He’s a beautiful boy,” I said.

I rested my head against my seat and closed my eyes, overcome at this feeling of peace. Finally, it seemed I was sedated against the heavy and constant flow of anxiety that had become so much of my trip, the inner monologue that hadn’t stopped since I landed. The warmth of a child on my chest, a boy who immediately loved me, had sated my anxiety at last.

Before we disembarked, I looked at Frederico once more, his chest sleepily rising and falling, his face pressed against his mother's. I reached for my bags, looked back once more and smiling, slipped out the door and into the black London night.

A Song For My Mother

2011-05-07T22:48:00.000-04:00

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

Love,
Your delinquent firstborn

Happy Birthday, Greg.

2011-05-06T15:13:00.001-04:00

It’s my baby brother’s birthday today. He’s 20 years old.

Twenty years ago, my sister and I woke up to find out we had a brother. We held hands and jumped up and down on the bed.

This kid and I have gotten into so much trouble over the years. When we were little, we wrestled for hours at a time, breaking many household items in the process. When he was trying out for basketball in 5th grade, I practiced with him daily and told him he couldn’t handle my ‘street ball’. To this day, if I sing the words ‘street ball, street ball’, he gets angry.

Greg is sensitive. He’s smarter than he knows. He’s also a pain in the ass know-it-all. He’s cocky. (Sample Greg line, as he stares into the mirror: “Damn, I get better looking every day.”) But he is a beautiful, beautiful boy, one I’ve loved watching mature into a sensitive young adult.

I love him and my sister equally and unconditionally. The three of us are a team. We will always, always be.

Happy birthday, Greg. Mets tickets on me.

The Uncared For

2011-05-04T15:42:00.001-04:00

I study the elderly, the drunk, the crestfallen as they sit on park benches, as they dance without pants on in Tompkins Square Park.

I look at them and wonder where they went wrong. I wonder at one point did their friends stop caring. I want to stare at them, search their clothing (or lack thereof) for a piece of information, for a pin or paper that says “In this year, my parents threw their hands in the air and said that they had had enough.” I understand that it is not easy to care for the mentally ill. I understand it is difficult to give your love fully and completely to an alcoholic. But it’s hard to give yourself to anyone, really, because you know that they have the power to twist that love into something else, something that can only hurt.

Was he happy once, this drunk dancing with no pants on? Did he love someone and only lose it after it was lost? Could I maybe lose it one day, too? The powers of human transformation haunt me.

I look at the man, his pants slid halfway down to his knees. I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry, whether to exploit him with my iPhone camera or to just leave well enough alone. As we watch, I take one shot and briskly walk away, my friends trailing me quietly. “You don’t see that much in Boston,” they say. I don’t respond. I turn back once more as I walk through crowd and head to the bar, where I can forget him, for just a little while.

An Idiot Abroad

2011-04-22T14:27:00.000-04:00

This was an experience. An experience too big to compress into a single blog post, so I shall present you with...vignettes? Yes! Oui! Vignettes-- snapshots of my week abroad.

There was a point, probably around day 3, that the loneliness I felt so acutely upon arrival abated. I walked outside for an hour or so, lost in a tangle of Parisian streets. I stopped and asked for directions, spitting out French I had Googled not long before. Je suis perdu! I am lost! Help! Really, I meant: take me in and teach me French. Bake me cookies. Tell me it's going to be okay. And promise you have a strong Wi-Fi connection.

I was pointed in the direction of the Seine river and so there I walked, my own dumb iTunes playlist on repeat. I listened to Harry Nilsson's "Everybody's Talkin'" for a spin too many. The words resonated, I felt stupidly like the song was meant to be playing at that moment. But it was just the shuffle of my iPod, just the luck of the draw.

Everybody's talkin at me. I don't hear a word they're saying. Just the echoes of my mind.

I looked up at the river in front of me. I looked at the streets I had just walked and then, finally, I felt it. That passion (and cheap airfare) that had inspired this trip in the first place. I was here. I had found myself in France.

How have I found myself in France?

I stopped and sat on a bench and I scrolled through the days on my calendar, tracing my finger over yesterday. How do I get back? What is French for how do I go back to yesterday and appreciate it then? I wanted to mess with the hours, fuck with time. Find a way to go back, and erase any second that I hadn't been there, living in the moment.

I couldn't, though. That time had passed because it had to pass. I had to feel it. Because loneliness is a part of traveling alone and it was hard, yes--but it was worth it.

I noted this and then I walked to a cafe, ate a chocolate brownie, drank four coffees and threw up. (Helpful hint: buy Lactaid before you go, because you'll never want to have to learn the French for anti-lactose medication.)

Another French vignette, you beg? Does vignette rhyme with baguette, because BOOM SEGUE, I ate a lot of food! French food!

Every time I went to buy or eat something in Paris, the conversation went like this:

Me: Bonjour!
Them: Bonjour.
Me, wildly hoping for a connection with another human being--and no, I wasn't lonely! You were!: Ce va?
Them: Ah, FRENCH FRENCH FRENCH FRENCH WORDS!
Me, panic-stricken and alone: Uhhhh....
Them: FRENCH!!!!!!!!
Me: Je ne pardon bleu cheese ma'pelle Dior!
Them, in disgust: American.

It was tough, this language barrier. Eventually I just pointed at stuff on the menu and made noises with my mouth. I tried to cough up the Rs, chew on them. I tried to sound French. But I was more like Helen Keller, if Helen Keller could see and had borderline questionable IQ. Or perhaps I was like a toddler just learning a new language. I shouted animals' names in French until finally, I was served a duck's head on a platter. It tasted good and I only made one quacking noise to myself.

Quack, quack.

And…that was France.

Next up: how I conquered London and strained US-Ukraine tensions in the process...

Fill in the blanks, EURO STYLE.

2011-04-08T11:01:00.000-04:00

My Solo Sojourn Through Europe: Kelly Tries Life On Her Own®: Fill in the Blanks Edition!

Here we go:

I will definitely...smoke a cigarette backwards.

I may, unfortunately...attempt to 'rock' a beret.

It's only obvious that I...ruin various pieces of white clothing with red wine.

I will most definitely...accidentally speak the only line of French I know, which is "Vous avez un grand bout", or, as the Americans say, "You have a big butt."

I must...learn the French word for "lonely" and just say it, over and over until someone puts me to bed.

I must...learn the French for "Buy me lots of wine" and just say it, over and over, and until someone buys me a lot of wine.

It's possible I will...fall into the Seine on the romantic sunset cruise I am taking...BY MYSELF.

Hopefully, I won't...perish, Holloway style.

I will want...to stay.

But most likely, I will...go home and never be the same.

-------------------------

Chip in, if you'd like. Or just wish me (and Europe) luck.

See ya in a week.

This is exactly what it is like

2011-04-04T07:03:00.000-04:00

All The Time, since forever

My mouth is dry when I wake up. Overnight, the saliva has dripped and hardened and changed, so that what was once a comfortable liquid in my mouth has become a pool on the pillow. When I wake up, my tongue touches my cheek and instantly I am shocked by the pain.

I get up because I have to be somewhere, always. It is either work or school depending on when it is, and I am late. I stare in the mirror, atop the sink in any bathroom that has ever been occupied by me. I stare, stare and then I slowly dip my head to the faucet, and begin to wash my mouth.

Cold, warm or hot—the temperature does not matter. The water is foreign, and like everything else, my body rejects it. I reel, tripping over balled-up clothes on the bathroom floor, falling backwards, slamming the back of my knees on the toilet. I scream without opening my mouth and so the noise that comes out is broken, hidden, different.

I let my body absorb the pain and I try again. I stick my toothbrush into my mouth and the rush that comes is neither a high or a low. It is just feelings and nerve endings and I punch the sink or the wall to replace the mouth pain with something else, anything else. I kick at the garbage can. Sometimes I fall to my knees and sometimes I throw up. When my head is in the toilet, I am shocked at the audacity, at how a tiny hole on my tiny tongue in my gaping mouth in a short body in this small life can posess so much feeling. I call it the Thunder and it visits often, and it changes me. I am forever isolated.

It is only in this vaccuum of pain where I am safe.

London Calling!

2011-03-23T22:54:00.003-04:00

So today I did something crazy.

I booked a flight to London.

It was crazy cheap. Dirt cheap. So I..DID IT.

Even though I'm broke. Even though I have no one to stay with.

I just...did it.

ONE LIFE, right?

I say this all the time. It's about time I started living it.

I plan to stay in hostels and am also going to Paris for 3 days.

I've been to London once, but never to Paris. It's been a long time since I was in Europe.

One LIFE. (And, also, one milligram of Xanax. That I just took.)

Tips are appreciated. Hostel recommendations. Things (or people, ha ha, just kidding, wait, free pints) I must see, do, or eat.

Help a crazy sistah out. Email me at kelly.bergin@gmail.com or PLEASE comment with suggestions.

THANK YOU.

Roarke

2011-03-20T02:08:00.000-04:00

From the shore,
it looked like
he had
negotiated the swell,
thrown down his last penny,
for the sweetness
of a good wave.

The storm had brewed for a week.
For seven days,
the sky lumbered,
and
Roarke waited.

Finally,
at the light at the
dawn on the eighth day,
we pulled up chairs and
watched him from the shore.
Only our hands were clasped,
shaking at every crash.

But Roarke?
Roarke only ever knew how to
stride, swim, talk, walk-
live-
with a steady hand.

At six,
he walked with no shoes.
At ten,
he used sticks for swords,
his back always bare against
the sun.

Now twenty,
invincibility is a clause
at the end of every short contract
the boy signs and dots.

But today, the swells battle him,
throw him from his board,
suck him underwater.
And still, he goes toward
every wave.

During a break,
he pauses,
looks back at the shore,
and smiles.

We wave and watch
as he paddles out again.
Out and out and out,
until he is hidden,
camouflaged by sea
and suit.

A flash of white erupts
from where he last sat.
It's his hand,
shot in the air to reassure us.
It's just a glance,
until he bellies up on his board again,
his arms flying like oars.

There he was,
and there he always had been:

Paddling, paddling, paddling,
further, further, further,
just a little bit further,
into a place
where we could no longer
recognize
him.

The Week From Hell Ends Here

2011-03-18T19:02:00.000-04:00

So-

If you have no immune system,

and lupus,

and you know,

issues,

it's pretty much guaranteed

that you will catch your roommate's sickness

and it will grow,

this virus inside of you,

until you are 102.4 degree fevered mess,

one degree away from hospital admission.

That was my week. MRSA,

fevers, mouth sores, lupus ailments--

oh, what a week.

Today I got out of bed and went to my parents house,

taking the ferry to Atlantic Highlands.

I had not been out of bed since Sunday,

save for doctors visits and a truly MISERABLE trip to Duane Reade,

where I leaned against a Claritin display for support

and sent it crashing

to the ground.

But today!

Today I got onboard,

found my seat in the back,

and the sun hit my face,

East River spray soon to follow.

I breathed in,

and as I am wont to do after a rough few days,

I felt true,

true

gratitude.

Things I Said To Taylor During NEVER SAY NEVER

2011-03-08T22:33:00.012-05:00

Ugh. Justin Bieber sucks. I can't believe I'm seeing this.
It's starting. Wait, I don't know any of his songs.
OMG! I LOVE THIS SONG!"
Wait, can you pour me some beer?
Taylor, I found a great way to cool our beer. Go get me some ice from the concession stand.
And I was like Baby, baby, baby, NOOO!
Do I look good in purple?
Oh my God. He was the cutest baby ever.
I wish I could go back in time and be a teen mom to Justin Bieber."
If my son is not like Justin Bieber, I'll be so pissed.
I just want to rock him! No! Not like that. Like a baby.
Oh no. His vocal cords. I'm so upset.
His grampa! I'M CRYING TAYLOR!!!
Look at Justin. He's working so hard to attain the affection of his absentee father.
Why? Why didn't we go to this concert at MSG?
That fat fan will never marry Justin Bieber. She needs to get used to a life of disappointment. Girl ugly.
Do you think he wrote One Less Lonely Girl for me?
Jaden Smith is so cute. But probably an asshole. And a Scientologist.
BIEBER FOR LIFE!!!!!!!!
I will never say never again. I'm going to start volunteering."

Best. Movie. Ever.

On This

2011-02-25T01:37:00.002-05:00

For some time now, I have been wading through slush piles and kicking gravel as I wait at street corners, listening to playlist after playlist, letting the music see me through the seasons. Every shoe I own has now walked this path with me--from work to the bar to the train to my apartment. To home, again.

For over six years now, I have lived in New York. First, the Bronx. Then Williamsburg, the Lower East Side. Now, the East Village.

Each bedroom has been sparse, the walls barely held together. Stained with finger prints and punctured by broken hooks that fell, again and again, exhausted from scarves and coats.

Every apartment, every place, every roommate--each a memory. And they have mostly existed here, in New York City.

I think of how some relationships were contained to certain rooms. I think of the foreign beds I have slept in, the rooms I have laid in, awake and vulnerable. The places I stayed until the morning broke and I could walk out and grab a cab, breathless, my address spilling out of me.

Last summer, I walked down 2nd street with a new friend. We passed my old building and realized, immediately, we had both called it home, four years apart.

"Those halls...that doorman..."

We looked in, and there it was. The same doorman, same old lobby. Years and years and still there, for us to peer in and see.

Bloomberg has been mayor since I've lived here. But he has been the mayor for a long time and the city has changed, even as I believed myself to be ageless.

In six years in NY, I have not changed my driver's license. I have held stubbornly onto my parents' address.

That was home. And this, this was something else...

What is it called when you work at a good job but still need money for medical bills and a security deposit and sushi? When you claim to be independent but are really, and truly, not? What are these years, really?

But I have grown. Out of apartments. Out of this one, and its tiny box of a room. Four walls and a bed and me.

And now my license is expiring, concrete evidence of this stretch of time.

I need a certain amount of "points" to prove my identity. And so, I've collected mail. Last week, I cleaned behind my bed. I found two empty Gatorade bottles, candy wrappers, a wine cork, and my passport.

I have everything I need for a New York license.

There is a place in my wallet for another wide picture of my face. A picture so hideously unattractive I'll wonder how I can keep it in my beautiful wallet. The DMV camera will stretch out my face, the lighting will enhance every flaw, every blemish.

So, I think: maybe I should just renew the New Jersey one. That picture is better. I was tan, I had left the last bloated picture in a cheap wallet on a flight home from Miami, and had rushed to the DMV in the middle of summer to get a new one. And on the second try, we hit gold: that picture has it. That 21 year old glow. Bubbly and careless and broke as shit--

No, I think.

This is home now. I live in New York. 300+ days a year. Wide, skinny, happy, sad--

I live here now.

2011-02-21T10:02:00.002-05:00

i am starting to believe that

the swell that overtook us

might have caused

the storm.

because the wind rushed in

and we flew sideways off the sidewalks,

pushed together

underneath awnings.

our hands cracked from cold

and the snow piled

before you left.

we saw carvings in ice and

a snowman,

made of days old

dust and rain.

we listened as he

looked up from his perch on a curb

and told us that

later, we would remember this.

2011-02-18T14:49:00.001-05:00

I have always been one to dream of May in October. To wish for Christmas in July.

I hold on to the smells and sounds I have saved, the ones I know by heart. The crash of the ocean and the smell of a fisherman’s wellies, crunched with sand and sea.

I held on until I let go, until I did what I needed to do in order start my own life. To become myself, outside of my home.

But sometimes we have to swallow our pride. Ditch our half-hatched theories, release ourselves from what has held us back.

We can watch all that hurt swirl, form, and change. We can watch it and say goodbye.

Things may never change. There is a terrifying peace in knowing this.

But it's time. It's time to know this.

It is time for me to let myself go back home.

T W E N T Y F I V E

2011-02-17T06:00:00.001-05:00

Last week, a coworker said to me: "Let's just erase 2010 off the books for you, Kelly." And there is a part of me that wants to agree, to say "2010 did me wrong" and forget it. But to delete a year's worth of memories is no easy feat, and my 24th year did not come and go without meaning.

I might, in a melancholy mood, try to count the days I spent lost in bed, my feet kicking through the sheets, my head spinning, my body an entire reaction to itself. But it's not my way to look at things in terms of years, or seasons, or segments of time. Because every minute I was sick, I was thinking about something else, and so the sickness wasn't the only thing. It was happening but I never thought about that until later, until the consequences had taken root in my life, changing things.

Some of these changes were for the better. I'll never forget living at Grandma's for 2 months, dancing to Sam Cooke in the kitchen, exploding wine bottles on the porch and reacquainting myself with the Dewey Decimal system at the OB Public LIbrary.

I spent a summer sick, surrounded by my cousins. I swam for three straight months. I danced at Moe's wedding. I took trips. I memorized faces. I taught Emma to say "Beer me!" I met people in unexpected ways, people who changed my life.

I ran when I needed it and slept when I had to.

I did what I wanted and I showed up, even if I wasn't always on time. I made a thousand mistakes and tweeted approximately 5x time that amount.

When I was 24, I was better and I was worse.

And things are different now.

I had dinner with the family I used to nanny for in college last week. As I put on my boots and prepared to leave their apartment, Emily stopped me. "25!," she said. "Do you feel any different?"

I paused for a second. I thought of the changes I had made, the changes I was making and the path I am only beginning to carve for myself.

I smiled and looked up.

"Yes. I do."

the free pass

2011-02-03T15:34:00.001-05:00

the free pass is my youth, slowly floating away.

i can cling to it. i can be drunk and foolish.

i can tweet and blog about the dumb things i do,

the trips i take,

the people i let in for a second or two

and then quickly discard.

i am young!

i can feel things but face them later.

i can see it, drink, and forget.

or i can be present.

and feel those things now.

and not ignore it.

and do what i should.

face reality.

become a better version of myself.

the person i can be.

the person i always have been,

even as i've hid it,

and drank it away,

and melted those feelings into one big lump.

the lump that's hard to swallow.

i can look in the mirror and see everything,

and deal.

i can do that.

i have.

i will.

I'm almost 25 years old.

2011-01-20T16:20:00.001-05:00

Things That Make Me Realize I Am A Child

· Realizing, at 12:30, that I have been wearing my shoes on the wrong feet. For 4 hours.
· Standing on my bed to jump off (for no good reason), slipping and smacking my forehead on the hardwood floor. However, the THWACK! sound that rung out when my demented head hit the wood was rather satisfying.
· When playing Declan in a game with Words with Friends (username: kellybergin), I laugh hysterically at his last word choice: duty. DOODIE!
· Breaking my very expensive eyeglasses. For the 4^th time in less than two years.
· Daring a friend to eat a whole thing of wasabi as a form of petty entertainment.
· Entering a very smelly women’s bathroom at a bar and immediately yelling “It wasn’t me!” to everyone who walked in. It wasn’t, in fact, me.
· Not owning a laundry basket.
· As a result, not doing laundry for 6 10 weeks.
· Burning Ramen.
· Eating Ramen.
· Being like, really bad at grammar, and having to google the difference between < and >.

I need to go back to elementary school.

2011--LET'S DO THIS.

2011-01-12T05:08:00.002-05:00

Last week, in a haze of self-doubt at work, I began obsessively thinking about the ways I could change myself.

Each year I hope to become a better person, but part of me had faltered in doing that in 2010. Everything I did or felt was in the extreme: sick, happy, sad, drunk, stupid, mean.

It was a long year, filled with pain and hospital visits and more trips to the ER than I can count. But it was also filled with pockets of joy, moments where I felt whole.

However, I failed to follow through on any of unrealistic last year's resolutions. I joined a gym for like 5 minutes, I didn't write a book (no, I'm not Snooki, despite popular beliefs), and I still have no money.

I didn't travel as much as I would have liked, but I ate dim sum in Chinatown that one time and also lived in Middlesex County for 3 months. (Middlesex County, New Jersey. Not England.)

I certainly didn't have enough adventures in 2010, either. Unless you count ill-advised drunken nights in Seattle with strange older men. WHICH I DO!

I also never stopped using my parents credit card. And thanks to them, I'm Delivery.com's best customer. And will soon be rewarded with a Delivery.com SNUGGIE!

So after failing miserably in 2010, I set out to make a list that would mold me into the best version of myself in '11. This is the year I turn 25 and stop acting like I'm 19. This is the year I stop writing blogs about puking (mmm..). This is the year I have a child. (HAHA JK IT WOULD DIE IN MY CARE.)

This is the year I become less dead inside, avoid McDonald's completely (even when hungover), and stop taking Xanax to sleep every night. I'll also write that book (pen name: Snooki), eat disgusting healthy food, and avoid my quarterly hospitalizations. I'll learn to speak Spanish (Como estas, BITCHES?) and hug people more. (Why do we hug? To show love?? Still not clear about the point of hugs.) And I will go to Europe.

I'm ready for a change. So, 2011, let's go:

This is the year of the Bergin.

Watching From Across the Room

2010-12-30T01:37:00.007-05:00

I’ve watched myself this time, from the chair across the room. I have watched and listened as I cried through the night. I’ve seen the sheets rumple and toss as my legs kick them, over and over. The computer is pulled toward me, the plug ripped out of the base. I’ve seen my arms get skinnier, I’ve seen my stomach shrink a little.

At night I hear my stomach growl, and it is loud. Rachel hears it, she is next to me, we are stranded and the snow piles and piles outside.

“Want me to take you to the ER?” My mother asks this tonight. I grunt. I shake my head.

If I go, I will be admitted. I can’t be admitted. I have things to do.

My body grows weaker with each bite of food I don’t take. I slide Ramen noodles down my throat, the sodium will bloat me but it is carbohydrates and I need something. Icy Gatorade is all I can sip. I bite the straw so hard. I feel like I am growing new teeth, my gums are bleeding.

I wanted to eat Christmas ham and turkey. I wanted the catered penne vodka. But we all
have things we want but don’t get.

I’m watching this time, I am still smiling. I still feel the rush of new feelings.

I dance across the hardwood floors to make sure I can still get up. I get my own ice. I plan to memorize the United State Presidents by date. I organize my thoughts so that they do not drift into the Bad.

I write about characters who are healthy, who swim and jump around. I write about them and for a minute, their bodies are mine.

I am watching. I am here. I am not letting go.

I will not. I will not let go.

You and Me and the Sea

2010-12-17T11:49:00.001-05:00

It's been 80 days since I last held my breath and dove under the waves.

It was late September when I grabbed my chair and my Asbury Park teen beach badge (I look 12) and plopped down in front of the ocean.

I brought a sweatshirt that day, in case of a cold fall breeze, but the air was still. I stretched out. I looked at the children, their heads bobbing in the sea. I jumped up from my chair and into the ocean.

It was warm; over 65 degrees, for sure. I read recently that Bruce Springsteen, a fellow Monmouth County dweller, swims in the ocean until November. I believe it. The ocean is warmer in the fall than the air that surrounds it.

I swam for an hour that day, knowing it would be my last until June. All summer long, after every sick spell and hospitalization, I had gone straight to the ocean and jumped in. A baptism, of sorts. My orientation, back into the outside world.

Now that it is cold, and the New York City wind stings my face, I wish for nothing more than the ocean. For me, it is my only healer.

And so I will sit at my desk, Googling flights to Costa Rica and Miami until spring breaks and the summer sea welcomes me once again.

Life, right now.

2010-12-14T19:22:00.004-05:00

I am late to work, so I am running out of the apartment. I am leaving behind my phone, or keys, or wallet. I am forgetting to to make my bed.

I am saying "fuck it" to the subway, I am making excuses, I am too ill to ride public transportation. I am taking cabs, too many cabs, I am telling them 22nd between 5th and 6th, YES, I said 22nd, no, not 27th. Two-two. Twenty second. Thank you.

I am watching the meter rise. I am riding up the elevator. I am sliding into work as quietly as possible. I am working, I am reading, I am getting a headache. I flirt with coffee. I don't drink coffee, but I am drinking coffee now.

I'm watching the hours unfold in reverse and I read human interest stories, over and over. I update. I check. I read. I work. I lay my head on my desk. I whine. I talk to my friends, the days move slowly, I am telling myself that this is the best I can do.

I leave work and I walk on ice patches. I dash into traffic without looking up, I am invincible, I cannot move and I am throwing up now, on the side of the street. I am looked at, approached, worried about.

I come home. I watch fake shows and I don't read enough. I don't write enough. I am worried, I am not, I am fine.

People call me and I don't answer. I write down words: asshole, inconsiderate, incorrigible, awful. I look at these words and I want to embrace them fully and become them, completely.

I am back four days and gone two. I am doing my best and failing, wildly, for everyone to see. I am sneezing into toilet paper and wishing this was fiction, wrapped in cotton, not real.

I hibernate. I put on Christmas music. I talk to strangers instead of friends.

I fall asleep. I breathe through my mouth. I hug the toilet. I think optimistically. I run out of space on the floor.

I resist this life. I embrace it.

I live it.

Boob Tube; Alternately: Reasons Why YouTube Should Not Exist, Part One

2010-12-04T23:40:00.000-05:00

Sometimes instead of sleeping or working on grad school applications, I watch YouTube videos of tragedies/major news events from my youth.

Tonight was another one of these nights.

It all started out so innocently, as it always does. Prince William got engaged, so I was People.comming that shit and then, before I knew it, an hour had passed and I had spent most of that time watching news clips announcing Princess Di’s death and highlights of her funeral (THEY CALLED IT HIGHLIGHTS. OF A FUNERAL. AND I WATCHED IT.)

Then I moved onto John F. Kennedy, Jr. (John-John Is Gone-Gone: actual New York Post headline that I oddly remember, even though I was 13) and now I’m on 9/11 again, which makes me really sad and nauseous but I watch the breaking news clips anyway.

I’m really curious about O.J. Simpson so maybe he’s next (something about a car chase?) and I probably need to find out who the Menendez brothers are, because The Nanny keeps referencing them. I’m going to find out, and also figure out what happened in the Korean war (you know, since my grandfather got TWO Purple Hearts fighting in it), and then cry some more about Tim Russert.

And maybe then I’ll take a Xanax and let myself pass out.

My Back To Work Week, In Numbers

2010-12-03T12:44:00.000-05:00

Welcome Back Signs: 1
Welcome Hugs: 10
Unwelcome hugs: 1 (Personal space, people.)
Times I almost cried: 2
Times I found myself in uncomfortable conversations: 2
Times I blushed so hard my scalp turned red: 3
Times I laughed so hard my scalp turned red: 5
Drinks consumed: 2
Drinks bought for me: 2
Number of people who looked at me as if I was coming back from the dead: 10
Number of people who looked at me like they thought I'd been fired: 5
Hours billable to client: Good question.
Hours I spent making my own Countdown to Vacation calendar: 1
Hours I spent enjoying "welcome back" attention: 5. Or 21.

Not a bad week.

P.S. Thanks to everyone at H&S who has been so understanding this year. Onto 2011!

Win for Bergin

2010-12-02T13:14:00.000-05:00

Hello, disciples.

Today is a proud, proud day for Kelly.

After 18 months of ordering food online using my mother’s credit card, I have finally qualified for the Delivery.com Snuggie.

This, friends, is a moment to celebrate.

I will soon be warm, in my Snuggie, devouring chicken fingers with a big, fat smile on my face.

Hurrah!

The End of Funk

2010-11-29T12:41:00.000-05:00

It would so often just be the two of us in Sam’s Honda, an early 2000s model with leather seats and two doors and a CD player with Stevie Wonder inside. His greatest hits became the soundtrack to my fall, the Disabled Fall, the Fall I spent in the passenger seat of Sam’s car, listening to “Isn’t She Lovely” and something that starts with “do do do do do dooo”. On the rare nights we’d go out, Colleen, Sam and I would singalong and I’d mix up nearly every word.

I watched the seasons change through the windows I stare out now, the windows in my grandmother’s house, where I have lived this fall with my cousins, the aforementioned Sam and Colleen. We ate dinner every night at the round, ancient kitchen table. My grandma cooked. She cooked a lot, actually, for someone who just turned 77. She says that a good square three meals a day will keep you healthy and maybe make you lose weight too. (It might be true, I lost about 9 pounds of the prednisone weight, which is the size of a large baby.) She bought this house over 40 years ago for $19,000 and damn, was it a good investment! Did you know they almost moved from the Bronx to Levittown instead? I could have been a Long Islander.

I learned that fact this fall, and I learned other things too. I learned a lot about babies and toddlers when I spent a few days at Katie's, hanging with my favorite people in the world. There I woke up at 7 with Emma hollering at me down the stairs "I'm up, Kelly, come get me!" But other than those early mornings, I stayed up late most nights and slept in until the afternoon. (I recently read that this is the sleeping patterns of geniuses. Which, yeah.) If I was awake by 2:00 for ABC Family’s reruns of Full House, then I was pleased with myself. That’ll have to to change, because this week I go back to work and the real world and all the trivialities of daily life that I have forgotten.

I had no money this fall and I still don’t, so keep those Christmas lists short, family. I kept my apartment in the city but my bed was largely unused. I came into Manhattan for Halloween, to gallop drunkenly around a bonfire and break my 3 Blind Mice cane over my knee. I also came in to make a few bucks off literary superstar Julie, and to see my friends, and to go to doctors and have my armpits mangled. But mostly I stayed at Grandma’s because I have felt warm, and safe, and home here.

I watched the seasons as they changed and I tried to go outside every day. Most days Sammy and I would hit the open road, the glistening pavement of Route 18 leading us to Guitar Center that one time Sam let me jam or Starbucks where once we nabbed a table and took advantage of free Wi-Fi. But our best destination was the public library, the library my grandmother cursed to hell because my grandfather (God rest his soul) once donated $1,000 without her permission. One Friday night, Sam and I happened upon a Jewish Klemzer band, and boy, did that accordion player jam.

It was a good fall, a time warp for me, a respite. So often I feel paranoid, fearful that everyone thinks I'm being lazy because I'm not working. But this year proved that I needed this time off. It was necessary. I know that it has not healed me, and I'm not sure I am better. But to rest without judgment, to have the advantage of living here--this has fulfilled me.

If you had told me at the start of the year that I’d spend two months living at my grandmother’s house in suburban New Jersey, I wouldn’t have believed you. But the beds are warm here, the linens old and broken in. It felt right to be here, a perfect place to rest and write and work. I got things done, I watched the leaves fall, and this week I will go back to work, ready to close out the year.

(Also, thanks to my parents--and grandma-- for filling in the $$ gaps when the disability checks failed to supplement my rent/lifestyle.)

They're Ba-Ack!

2010-11-08T08:18:00.004-05:00

I wake up choking on my spit. My eyes water and my face reddens. I run to the bathroom to gulp water from the faucet and wipe my face in the mirror.

It is 7 am and I have been asleep for just a few hours. The pain kept me awake, as did "The Nanny" marathon on Nick at Nite. (No one cheers me up like Fran and her struggles against the upper echelons of New York society.)

At night, I perfect my dance in the kitchen with Colleen and Sam. But in the mornings I am alone and so painfully awake.

I cough again and swig Orajel mouthwash- antiseptic, bitter, unkind. I take prednisone, even though it makes me crazy and fat. (Which, come to think of it, is not such a departure.)

My mouth has blown up again—sores have moved in, taken residence on my gums, lips, tongue. The crater on the tip of my tongue is offended easily; the passing wind of my breath aggravates it, like
peroxide on an open wound.

It hurts to talk, so I only speak when a good joke or insult comes to mind and when someone is about to eat the last of the lo mein. And It hurts to eat, so I only eat popcorn and noodles, where I can place each bite in a non-infected spot.

But when the night has dried my mouth and the air is particularly offensive against the open wounds, I must look for something to distract me.

I throw my fists into the air. I punch the armchair in this old bedroom in my grandmother’s house. I kick, kick, kick.

And then--I take a deep breath through my nose and think:

This is not easy.

Life in the 'Burbs

2010-11-02T08:13:00.000-04:00

Month two of disability leave finds me in the suburbs for most of the time, as money is tight and the city is filled with shiny alcohol and cheap Forever21 frocks that I just have to buy.

I've been staying with Grandma for awhile, after my parents, in a fit of frustration over my lack of cleaning abilities and my tendency to scream downstairs for more water and Panera bread, suggested I go to Grandma's for a few days. (Typical joking conversation between my father and I: "How did you become so spoiled?" Me: "I AM WHAT YOU MADE ME!).

Life with my cousins at G's house has been nothing short of a vacation. It is a world on a whole other level. I love my parents, but the dinner discussion is more likely to be about grad school and colleges for my brother. At Grandma's, we spend 20 minutes discussing the price dry-cleaning one coat's might be at the dry cleaners. ($15, if you're curious.) Easy stuff. And G doesn't look over my shoulder, counting the amount of questions I got right on a GRE practice test. If I were at home with my mother, I'm sure she'd be quizzing me on what "temerity" means. And I would fail.

A few days vacation turned into a month, so here I stay, studying for the GREs and watching marathon episodes of "The Nanny". It's been productive: my score went up 200 points in each section and I can do a dead-on impression of both Fran Fine AND Mr. Sheffield. I hope to continue to do the Fran one all the time, at paid events and impersonator conferences.

I've also spent a lot of time trying to master the moves in Hanson's new video. I did a trial run of my very loose interpretation of the dance in Grandma's kitchen last night and Colleen laughed so hard she choked on her water.

At least I think she was laughing.

I've loved living with my two younger cousins. Last week, we decided to get a bottle of red wine at the local Browntown shopping center. (I have high blood pressure and WINE HELPS!) I got home with my purchase (ten bucks for 2 liters. CAN YOU BEAT THAT?) and was immediately disappointed to discover that we broke the corkscrew the last time we indulged in vino.

After Googling how to open wine without a corkscrew and trying to open ours with a shoe like some dude on YouTube, little cousin Colleen (also known as Jolly) decided to push the cork all the way down, into the bottle. My lack of knowledge regarding physics did not prepare me for what was about to occur.

Throwing caution to the wind, we took our place on the kitchen table, in the presence of two laptops and my beloved iPhone. Having lost my iPhone to a wine spillage before, I covered it with a napkin just in case. Jolly pushed the cork, as I held the bottle. Colleen pushed and pushed on the cork until we heard a satisfying pop! of victory. I looked up just in time to get sprayed in the face with pungent cheap red wine.

Jolly lost two of her favorite shirts and my laptop is permanently stained red but we poured ourselves a glass and moved on.

The next morning, I was chatting with Grandma in the kitchen. She was making her usual cup of tea when I looked up at the ceiling and down at the walls. They were absolutely covered in specks of our cheap Yellow Tail wine. Horrified, I attempted to distract G from this sight.

Samantha and I spent the rest of the morning scrubbing our family history off the walls and ceiling.

It took a long time. But even though I was elbow deep in 409, I was immensely grateful for the position I am in. I have been afforded the opportunity to rest and be well.

I haven't been sick every day of this disability leave, but I have used every day to reflect upon the position I've found myself in. Without having to work full-time, I have been graciously allowed to be well and revel in it. It has been a long time since I've had such a stretch of good health. (And by stretch, I mean two weeks). So I have lived in these moments. They have been big and small and sad and happy but altogether, they have been meaningful.

This morning, I woke up with a mouthful of sores and a fever. Instead of wondering why this happened, I decided to just accept it. I am not better but that's okay.

I will accept it, be happy, and move on.

For now, at least- this is a reasonable goal.

Ah, Bloody Hell! (Said in appropriate British Accent)

2010-10-15T03:49:00.003-04:00

I shook in terror even before the needle touched my skin.

I cried when the needle numbed the first abscess and again for the remaining two.

I kicked a tray table involuntarily. And I tried to remember: deep breaths.

Those yoga breaths didn’t work.

So I cried and cried through it. Large, grabbing sobs. I wiped my shirt on my hospital gown and silently berated myself for being such a wimp.

Still, I couldn't help it. So the tears and sobs escaped me. Until all three hard, nasty abscesses, located right above my armpit, were sliced and drained. The surgeon applied pressure after her scalpel work was done, and she pushed her hands against my arm so hard that I gasped.

There was a lot of gauze and blood on the floor, and I looked to remember, as I always do. I remember the most jarring of medical experiences; my tenth birthday was spent on a surgeon’s table with my face cut open for the same kind of infection. I cried then too, but I was only a child.

The surgeon apologized afterwards for being “vicious” but she had to get everything. She had to get all the MRSA, the infection that has caused so many problems this year. The infection that lives inside my body.

I choked out “It’s okay.” It's not her fault.

I rarely cry. I have an extremely high pain tolerance. I mock people who faint when they get their blood drawn, even though that’s mean. I am trying to get better at realizing that pain is relative (BULL!), but I don’t even feel it when I go for my monthly blood test.

I failed at being strong this time and I failed last time, too. And it pissed me off.

I signed discharge papers and heard a 30 year old woman WAILING because her blood was being drawn. I listened to a girl my age gripe about going for a chest X-ray.

"Piece of cake", I said, once I reached the hallway. She just ignored me. But I couldn't ignore her and her bronchitis. It seemed simple. Pretty-faced, clean clothes, no hospital gown soaked with snot and blood and tears.

The nurse helped me put on my sweatshirt and I put on my headphones and ducked outside. Inwardly, I wailed just like the grown woman inside, afraid of needles.

I left the emergency room into a New York City storm that soaked me until my mother pulled up with her car. Hail pelted the car as we drove down the turnpike.

And I cried.

I feel split open,

and I suppose today I was.
For the second time in a month,
I was split open.

A Disability Leave Update

2010-10-11T02:05:00.002-04:00

I have been on disability leave for well over a month now. (NO WORK! SCHOOL'S OUT FOR THE SUMMER!)

In that time, I spent one day in the emergency room getting an abscess underneath my armpit drained. I was in a wedding. I went to Atlantic City. I spent time in the city and then, tired and out of breath (and money), I left the city for my parents' house, where I was given Gatorade and pretzels on command. It was nice, and it was fun for awhile. Life with Ozzie and Harriet got boring though, and I craved the company of peers, so I headed to my grandmother's. She's not exactly a peer (Sorry, G.) but my two cousins, Colleen and Samantha, live there. And we are close in age and have been raised (sometimes like a pack of wolves) pretty much together, so I spent five days there. I studied for the GRE and wrote. I even went to the Rutgers Library, where I realized that I am old and college boys are loud. And hot.

And then I returned to the city, for more doctor's appointments to devise Kill Lupus, Kill! treatment plans. I was prescribed new medicines and a flu shot and then I spent two days puking and feverishly moaning on the couch, clutching my left arm (now infected) to my side while watching marathon of classic episodes of The Nanny. I went out briefly in Brooklyn on Friday, for Ross' birthday, but Gen punched me in the wrong arm so I went home and took painkillers. On Saturday I went back to New Jersey, to see Katie, Allie and Emma. Aren't they cute?

Now I am back in my parent's house, in my sister's bedroom. Today I will be back in the ER.

This will have come full circle.

I have rested much of this past 40 days, but to what relief? None. There were bright, shiny days when I felt I could do what I wanted. These were days I cherished, perhaps in ways that healthy people do not. I did what I wanted while I was well, but I have spent much of this month with the shades drawn and my laptop humming beside me on the bed.

I am supposed to use this time to get well, or at least better myself in some way. Despite my lack of physical relief, I know I have. I feel stronger mentally and emotionally than I have in the past 2.5 years. I feel loose on my feet, and even though steroids have made my face fat, I think I might be. I did a jig in Grandma's kitchen last week, and I thought it was pretty damn good.

It annoys me that my life is so cyclical--sick, okay (for a week or so), and then sick again. I haven't turned a corner because I have been jogging in place. I have no progress to show and no idea when I will be ready to work again.

But I can at least rest knowing that I'm using this time for some good. Later today will be brutal, gruesome, bloody and unpleasant, but at least I have a better grip on it than I did a month ago.

This time has not been fruitless, after all.

(Thanks, as always, for the emails, Twitter @'s, messages, care packages, and kind words. I appreciate it all.)

Who Let Me Have A License, Anyway?

2010-09-27T13:59:00.000-04:00

In order to break up the monotony of sleeping, napping, and overdosing on Xanax, I decided it would be in my best interests to join my friends for One Night In Atlantic City for Declan's birthday. The whole gang took the bus down, but since I was in New Jersey being disabled, I drove down.

We stayed at the Tropicana and I ended up having the typical AC experience: I lost money, dignity, Ross' T-shirt, and got kicked out of a nightclub for taking off my shoes and trying to lay down. (I AM NOT MEANT TO WEAR HEELS. I still can't bend one of my toes and my calves are in constant spasm.)

After a long night out (for everyone else...I was asleep by 1:38, according to my last ill-advised text message), we woke up early because checkout was at the ungodly hour of eleven AM.

Bleary-eyed and beyond exhausted from this change of pace, I got my car from the valet (I don't know how to park) and set about driving home alone.

But first, I needed McDonald's. Because, you know, I was hungover. And a Happy Meal cures that.

OR SO I THOUGHT.

I pulled up to the window and ordered the usual: Big Kids Meal with Orange Hi-C and a side of ranch dressing. I paid and received my order. Looking into the bag, I realized that they gave me a fucking BOYS toy and not a girls! Um, I may not have the most feminine of voices, BUT I AM A FEMALE ADULT BABY WHO DESERVES A GIRL TOY.

Overcome with anger, I hit the gas pedal without paying attention to any signs and ended up driving down the wrong way of a one-way street.

"FUCK!!" I screamed and jerked the car in a retarded U-Turn, while simultaneously trying to shove a fry into the ranch dressing and then into my mouth. Because what's more important? Not killing others with my likely elevated BAL and idiocy. Clearly, it's French fries!

I got in the right direction and set about opening my McNuggets while the light turned green and fellow road rage sufferers beeped at me. Startled, I jammed my foot onto the gas pedal and turned onto Atlantic Ave, on the hunt for the Atlantic City expressway. But I was still distracted, so I missed my turn (again) and ended up on some shady street, the name of which I never saw in a game of Monopoly. I pulled over to regain my composure and to open my McNuggets and STUPID action figure (I wanted to make it dance to Rihanna). I checked Google maps, looked at myself in the mirror and said "You can do this."

I got onto the expressway and was cruising at 80 when suddenly, I was cut off. I panicked and swerved into the next lane, mid-fry dip. In the wake of my speedy turn, my beloved Ranch dressing was expelled from its container and drenched me, my awesome denim shirt, and the steering wheel.

"MOTHER OF ALL HELL, YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME." Still driving at dangerous speeds, I attempted to clean myself off while steering the car and flipping the bird at the Granny who cut me off.

Finally, I hit the Parkway at the exact moment my hangover decided to really kick in. Forty minutes of bumper to bumper traffic later, I pulled off at the Forked River rest stop and slumped over the steering wheel, near tears and cursing the beers I drank the night before.

Then, the nausea hit. So I ran into the rest stop, flecks of fries falling out of my lap and onto the dirty asphalt.The freaks at the stop (attracted by that machine that turns pennies into NJ landmarks and reading glasses, obviously) stared at me and my dressing-filled hair as I flew into the ladies room and puked in the first stall.

I came out of the stall, to the judgmental looks of the populace, splashed some water on my face and went to Sbarro. I bought myself a breadstick and some dipping sauce and got back into the car.

An hour later, I was home. I spent the rest of the day laying in bed and singing the song I made up in the car. Entitled "Blame Ronald", lyrics include "Kill yourself, Kelly/but kill Ronald McDonald first/When that is done/Shoot yourself in the face with a gun". (Note: I may have self-esteem issues.)

Lessons from this hellacious experience? Don't drive if you might be still drunk and/or mentally unstable. Signs of this may include--dancing with your Happy Meal toy, cackling with laughter at a sign that said 'poop' instead of 'pop', calling a breadstick a "crust thing" to the cashier, and using said "crust thing" to wipe the dipping sauce off your face while half-alive at a rest stop in Southern New Jersey.

And also, don't drive when your main focus in life is trying to dip a fry into a ranch dressing packet.

And also:

NEVER GO TO ATLANTIC CITY.

Life on Disability Leave

2010-09-20T03:50:00.001-04:00

This, ladies and gentlemen, is Kelly Bergin on disability leave.

Not sleeping. Watching 50 hours of Six Feet Under in one week. Eating only sourdough pretzels and Gatorade. Listening to all the songs listed on Entertainment Weekly's 50 Most Depressing Songs. Developing a harrowing addiction to Xanax. Rereading Babysitter Club books to remind you of a simpler time. Being forced to shower by Mother.

It's not pretty.

Can you tell I majored in English?