I got called back. Guess momma’s hopping on NJ Transit again.
I had the weirdest audition of my life yesterday. Total disaster– and all on him. I thought it was for a PSA, but no… it was not. It was indescribable, you guys. I just can’t even begin to explain. I was over it from the second I walked in, so it’s pointless to even go into.
Today I have another one of those pay-money-to-meet-agents bullshit things, and the last thing I want to do is go. Didn’t go so well last time, and I’m so tired of pandering for attention. I guess Mission Spring 2012 GetAnAgent is on pause until I can handle assholes again.
Then I have an audition for a student film at the School of Visual Arts. Fine. I haven’t prepared. We’ll see.
Next week, an audition for a short film and for a regional production of Bloody Bloody. It’s terrible… I couldn’t care less.
This last week, I’ve been a mess. Depressed, bed-ridden, binging like a crazy person. Crying, hating myself, hating everyone else. Walking through the city as though I’m existing in my own little bubble, not allowing anyone else inside. You may not approach. You may not speak. You may not see me. I am invisible to you. My therapist says this is “shame.” I agree, sure, but I still do it.
I’m hoping that begins to pass, but even today I’m just in no mood. No mood for what, you say? No mood for anything. No mood for being awake, as it were. I’m in no mood.
If I could, I’d apologize to my friends and family for being the worst this week. These are times I’m glad I don’t have a roommate. The way I’ve been functioning is in bursts of energy, getting me dressed (showered once this week– go me!), washing the dishes, taking out the trash. But once that’s completed I rush home to collapse in bed. I let my phone calls go to voicemail, even the call from the boy who I love so so so much (the boy who “had a girl in his life” after we had the most amazing date and yes, made out), even his text. Which is probably good on me, but done for sheer “over it”-ness. I didn’t call my mother for the whole week, despite her anxiety about my Jersey audition, my trip to Wit, my impending visit home, and my inability to scan and send my tax forms simply because of my inability to get out of bed.
Finally, yesterday I called her, after managing to shower, blow dry my hair (a feat on a good day, since I really just don’t care), dress, scan my forms, AND called both the restaurant I worked at last summer who haven’t sent me a w-2 and the IRS– more than I’ve accomplished in at least 48 hours together. She didn’t pick up, but called me back within the hour. I told her the reason I hadn’t called was because I’d had a bad week. I forget that my euphemisms don’t work on my mother– she’s unfortunately overly attuned to my mood swings. Not calling her for a week, regardless, is a sign of depression. She tells me,
“You know, you can talk to me when you’re feeling sad. I’m not judging you or worrying about you. I know you can take care of yourself.”
This is a response to something I’ve told her before about why I only call when I’m happy (also related to her hyper-attention to my moods), but in all honesty, I meant it when I replied,
“No, mom, I know that. It’s just that I wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone.”
Time to put on my coral orange dress and my gray booties. Time to brush out my curls. Time to put my coffee mug in the sink and pack my headshots in my bag. Time to go down to 36th St and whore myself out to five agents. Time to audition for a student director who is probably at least two years younger than me. Time to pretend I’m prepared for things I haven’t even looked at. Time to give myself that burst of energy and hope it lasts long enough until I can rush home and lie in bed again.
I’m fine. This too shall pass. But honestly, I’m in no mood.