“Bored”– from my last post?
Pretty sure that was just feeling depressed. Low energy? Apathy for favorite activities? Lack of motivation? Yeah… that’s the thing. There it is.
Talked about it in therapy today. I got off the train at 72nd, and per usual, pulled out my phone to check my texts and email. Got an email with an announcement from my company– one girl they cast (who I knew from high school, who I got an audition) had received an “exciting opportunity” and would have to withdraw from the play. R will replace her.
This shouldn’t cause a huge reaction. Does it really matter? R’s a great actor and right for the part. I should be happy for the other girl.
But no. I felt my heart break. Because where is MY “exciting opportunity?” Where is my thing that is so important I can drop everything else?
And this really has no reflection on this show. I’m excited about it. I like these people. We have issues emotionally, friendship-ly, but I love to rehearse and perform with them. I trust them. And yet… I’m not excited excited. I don’t want to tell the world. I don’t want to like every related status on Facebook. I don’t talk about it in advance, giddily, any chance I get. No. It will be fun. I will feel artistically fulfilled in a basic way. But… I’m not excited.
In fact, there’s nothing in my life I’m “excited” about. Not this show, and certainly not the next. Not my agent, not my day job, not my union card, not a trip home (who knows when the next trip home will be), not anything really. There is nothing in my life I want to shout about from the rooftops.
And when I feel this way, I become heavily, disturbingly nostalgic.
I miss my high school, a literal bubble in the woods where only we existed and you knew everyone who trudged past you in the snow.
We knew we were the best and our only focus was our work, our craft, the active blood, sweat and tears in reaching for what we want most in the world.
And I miss last summer. I miss the Buffalo Bill House. I miss our mornings at the gym with Rusty the dog, jamming out to the songs on the radio. Late nights, full of white wine and guacamole, dressing up and feeling special and like everyone’s little girl– someone to treasure and support and be ceaselessly proud of.
I miss feeling like anything could happen, like this was the first step in a long journey that would change my life. The pride of being a crucial part of something bigger than myself. Being wanted. Being needed for this step, and the next, and the next.
I miss performing. I MISS PERFORMING. God, I miss performing. Walking out in the darkness with two sticks of chalk in my hand, backpack slung over my shoulder, rainbow plastic bracelets stacked at my wrists. The comforting, never boring routine of my role. Enter on this line, grab wrist and left shoulder for the fight, roll onto my right buttcheek for the throw. sit on the wicker chair stage right, listen, listen, listen, laugh, laugh. Let his words cut through my heart, feel the fight seep out, then build back up, slam the door, wrap the chain around the knob, wrap twice around my wrist, lean out, holding the door shut through the screams, eyes wet, looking towards the audience, shaky silence, shaky silence, look out. Black out. (and that’s just a brief selection from two scenes).
For more, if you care, click on any “new jersey” tag. It’ll take you there.
My therapist asked me if there was a way I could take those incredible, warm, loving feelings and instead of holding them outside myself, making me sad, allow them to penetrate and give me some comfort.
I don’t know how to do that.
But I’ll try.
(Sorry about the ramblingness of this post… I started a post and then it turned into another post. Ah well).