"This artist is really good," is a text I’ve begun drafting for my partner, with a link that leads to another young woman with a guitar and a hole in her heart. I find these women, or I suppose they find me, and because I am temporarily (masquerading as permanently) unfulfilled and because I have a bit of access through my partner (a music agent), I cosplay as his liaison. Oftentimes I get a reductive "I’ll check her out" because he is more overwhelmed than he is capable of expressing, or sometimes she’s already spoken for. Occasionally, these recommendations lead to coffees and emails, and I am left wondering: will I always cling to the unpaid internship of others’ futures? I’m adding windows and moats to my loved ones sandcastles while I sit staring blankly at the lump of sand in front of me, wishing the water would wash it away.
I am looking at this aforementioned text, the cursor blinking like a batting eyelash, and it comes up like agita: "apologize." I’m as familiar with this regurgitative mechanism of apologizing as I am with my actual chronic heartburn (I’m sure they are intrinsically tied). "Sorry, I know I send you stuff a lot please tell me if it’s annoying." It’s drafted, but I haven’t sent it yet.
I want to be unafraid of my inner bitch. Let me explain. I’ve become keenly aware that I am on a constant quest for likability, and it’s left me with a ghost-like apparatus in place of a sense of self. I live with a haunting certainty that everyone secretly hates me, and it’s my job to undo that with every interaction I have. I remember in my first therapy session years ago, I explained to her that I have a kind of built-in karmic system. I was living in New York City at the time, where my days were filled with microinteractions—a shoulder brush on the subway, a cut in line, a taxi here, an Uber there, a stranger asking for directions. With each of these interactions, my subconscious developed a point system. The more I floundered in my life, the louder this judgmental narrator became; she’s a combination of two entities: a nail-biting, paranoid, and terrified little girl and a textbook high school bully whose eyes roll so violently at my every move, they disappear into her skull. With each interaction, I’d assess myself like a table of judges with points cards, oftentimes failing miserably—"You were short with that cashier; good luck having a successful future." You’d think I experienced religious trauma, but I grew up with a soft cultural embrace of Judaism; there was no God to smite me, only the internal God who deemed me a huge loser cunt who no one likes. My therapist looked up at me with concern, an expression I’m familiar with.
I could make a list of things that have led to this cloying mechanism, but I won’t. If I did, that list might include me singing too loudly in the shower or the car and being told to be quiet, hearing the "pop" of my joy bubble like my own personal tinnitus. It might include being scorned for every left-out water bottle or left-at-a-restaurant sweater. It might include the time my bus monitor told me at 10 years old that I was being harassed by the boys because of my "slutty" clothing choices. I guess it would include my high school boyfriend yelling at me for doing my makeup in his car and the times I had to pee during sex. It might include the time I didn’t get the part I wanted at performing arts camp—when I cried from the sting of rejection, the director pulled me aside to shout a note card of personal criticisms into my 8-year-old marrow. It might include my college teacher advising me that when I tilted my head while listening, I appeared "a little stupid." It might include the way I stayed so good, so poised for approval, a good little soldier, but if I wavered? If I slammed a door, released a sharp tongue, showed up late, expressed emotions, or experienced pain or sickness, I was met with an intense and cruel dismissal. I was met with chuckles, scoffing, and harsh words.
This is if I made that hypothetical list, of course.
I learned to stay in line, but I failed time and time again. I lived my life walking on the tight rope of my conditioning, so incredibly scared to fall. So I practiced hard, vacillating between soaring heights and snake-filled pits, unable to simply stroll on solid ground.
Throughout my life, I have placed myself in positions of rejection and approval, like a helpless addict. I made it my life’s work and became an actor, and my entire life was one big audition. I needed the high highs, which would inevitably lead to low lows, and I became comfortable with survival; it meant that someday I would reach a leveled-off finish line. I still haven’t reached it. I fear I never will.
When I completed my first year of college, I looked back and saw myself rolling around on the floor in exchange for a lifetime of debt. I craved the comfort of the tightrope. For a year, I listened to teachers advocate "art for art’s sake," and that left me terrified by the frightening possibility of never being truly and finally adored. So I decided, against an albeit timid internal compass, to audition for American Idol. I was a gifted singer, according to everyone in my life. It was the through line. My voice was held in royal display above my head, like a crown I inherited against my will. I tried to stray from the monarchy of my own talent, but it was so cold and dark out there. I could not guarantee the rush of being celebrated in the quieter futures I toyed with, and while I may have been happier inside of them, it was simply too scary. I held the "Idol" option in the back of my mind, like an envelope of cash under the mattress. I brought myself and my blunt bangs to a football stadium, where a couple of line producers told me to ditch my torn stockings and oversized flannel (hello 2009) for something "girlier" next time. They read me like a book and led me into hell. I filled out paperwork that asked me about my uniqueness, knowing full well that was a synonym for "emotional trauma," and briefly considered divulging the recent death of my maternal grandmother (who had a beautiful voice). I shuddered at the thought of exploiting her death for something I, deep down, knew was a little evil. Instead, I mused on about my carousel of voices and impressions and all of the quirky pixie facets of my cringey self.
I was prepped with care by a demonic sequence of producers with British accents who told me I was perfect, wonderful, and great for TV. I was greased up, apple in mouth, while Ryan Seacrest asked me to do random impressions in random corners of a carpeted conference room in Boston, of all places. It was like an opium den of my habituation; I was a trained Olympian in the art of validation seeking, and these were the finals. When I finally walked into The Room, blinded by hot lights and varying degrees of plastic surgery, I presented my earnestness like a kid at Show and Tell. I was met with ridicule and a wave of judgment that directly opposed the narrative from the smarmy British producers: the tightrope not just breaking beneath me but snapping me like a whip. I spun webs of "you don’t understand, I have to be liked" and thrashed against the inevitable fact of this being televised for the whole world to see. This was supposed to be the finish line, but instead I was thrown into the tumble cycle of my life’s neuroses as if the universe was pointing a finger and laughing at me. That was just the audition.
The televised final product was so much worse. They cut and chopped and blew dragon-sized clouds of smoke at every mirror they could find and left me looking, for lack of a better word, batshit fucking insane. They played Oscar music over my lamenting, and I twirled around in my producer-informed girlie ensemble, making noises with my mouth that seemed to be apropos of nothing. Simply put, I wanted to die. Everything I hated about myself—my cringe factor, my theater girl energy, my overly bloated confidence—was put on full display. And the worst part was that I had no access to my tools. I couldn’t edit myself. I was unable to customize others’ experiences of me. I was strapped down and gagged while millions of people were fed the undeniable story of me: that I am deeply and ultimately insufferable. While on academic leave, I remember taking myself to a diner in my hometown (for the plot). I was eating key lime pie and reading "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" while Long Island moms approached me with pity. "I thought you sounded great," with the implication floating around us like a swarm of bees: yes, you did in fact seem crazy. My face grew hot with anger. You are the reason I am a laughing stock, Diane. For years, you and your Tiffany-bangled daughters told me I was placed on this earth to sing professionally, Diane. You screamed "American Idol" at me like I was a DJ taking requests. Don’t you feel embarrassed? No, of course you don’t. You have two Mercedes. I have a lifetime of psychological trauma and a mediocre slice of pie.
All my years of doing what people wanted and saying the perfect thing, all of the sand castle building I did for people, all of the over-flowered greeting cards I wrote, the performances I did both on stage and in my life, all of the times I took my reliable eraser word “Sorry”, none if it mattered.
Despite this implosion of my identity, I continued to seek validation, though the muscle had matured a bit. I put it in convincing disguise; I took up comedy so I could laugh along. I learned an instrument for grit. But still, I did the dance.
I contorted myself, especially for boys and men. I recall the first time I kissed a boy. I recited a line from the movie we were watching before I placed my lips on his, always writing the story of my own perception. I waited for uproarious applause, but more often I was met with confused shrugs. I crafted careful versions of myself based on Girls in Film. I was Natalie Portman in Garden State; I was Juno; I was Clementine—my beautiful pain backed up by charm and humor. And then, when real feelings happened, as they are wont to do, when I was plagued by the gnawing of expectations placed on me (that I should don a toothy smile to match my childlike frame), I would lash out. I struggled with reactivity and emotional outbursts, and lo and behold, this became my banner. It didn’t matter how well I painted inside the lines; when I inevitably slipped beneath the pressure and fell into tears, I became the Tear Soaked Girl and wore her like a scarlet letter. Sometimes all I had to be was disagreeable to get a tsk tsk lashing. For example, I recall the first time my college boyfriend and I exchanged gifts for Christmas. We were broke early twentysomethings, and we did the best we could; I got him a couple of small trinkets—a device that claimed to keep avocados fresh longer (he often complained about their transience) and other knick-knacks. When I opened his gift, the paper gave way to the old DSLR camera that had sat atop his shelf for a year, collecting dust. The autofocus was broken (a key component for an amateur), and I knew that because I was terribly familiar with this camera. I never once mentioned wanting to take up photography myself, and so I was baffled. "Your old camera?" I asked. He sat there looking at me, eyes widening and jaw clenching as if I spat on it, and yelled "What the fuck?". I went on, "I just don't... I mean, I guess I don’t really understand." The rest is a bit of a blur, but I remember clouds of rage and incredulity. He said I was a selfish person, and I think he attempted to kick me out of his apartment. He told me my family was materialistic and I inherited those qualities, and that I should just be grateful to receive anything at all. After several attempts at defending myself, I did what I had been trained to do: I apologized. I said sorry, for what I’m still not sure, and I told him he was right. His forgiveness soothed my aching bones; I drank in the passing of conflict like honey down my throat, and I betrayed myself again. I kept that camera for 4 years; it moved with me through apartments and relationships, as did my deference for everyone and everything outside of myself.
I think what is most confounding, though, is my steadfast commitment to my acting career. I shape-shifted and "tada!"ed for people who had more power than me; I left every audition like an addict who caved; I usually required a cookie for consolation. In my swamp of apology and customized Girl Building, I continued to lose my essence. Then something even more upsetting began to build, like mold spores in my atmosphere; people around me became more aware of the apologies themselves than the impetus behind them. I was "The One Who Apologizes," and I wore that cockeyed crown too. I had friends rooting for my potential ad nauseam—friends who left me mushroom-induced voicemails urging me to "Get out of your own way!" Because something truly amazing lives on the other side. I glommed on more expectations and more calculations, and I apologized for apologizing. I auditioned versions of myself through variations of persona and hairstyle, while I waited for everyone to greet me in my room, saying, "Yay! You did it!" I'm totally unsure of what it even is anymore, and GOD, I just want to scream as I’m writing this.
I feel as though I’ve been mummified by my attempts at "just rightness." I’m Goldie Locks, but the three bears are over it; they’ve given me a to-go box and gone down for the night.
My therapist is obsessed with how often I blame myself. And I do a lot. I’m doing it in this, whatever this is. I want to shake myself or lay down for days, but I see the ways I’ve been led to abandon myself. I can hear myself, my true self, yelling muffled "Help!"s from the bottom of a truly massive pile of costumes. I’m frantically rifling through wigs and mustaches—those glasses-nose combo disguises—searching for me. When I get to her, I will reach out my hand and pull her up with all my might. This is the work I’m doing now: to perform a fusion of the “me” I spent years building, in all of my costumed charisma, and the me who was left behind: a child empress, cloaked in nothing but the power of knowing herself.
I will ask her, this empress: What lives outside of my insatiable hunger for brownie points? What stirs my undiluted life force?
And she will answer.
Biking around our childhood neighborhood, listening to music, and watching the light dance through the trees
Losing time making art for no reason.
Traveling to new places with no context to precede us.
Hiking, walking, and listening to nature.
When we’re in an artistic process, aligned with the work, and completely trusted.
Writing.
I go back to the text. Quickly, firmly, and with gusto, I hit backspace until "sorry" is dead and buried and only the statement remains. No question marks, no padding, no tightrope. I am learning to take the hand of The Empress as we free fall into assurance. I am learning to walk on the ground.