A Roundabout Love Letter, I Think.
I’m moving to London to learn how to act. It’s the biggest commitment I’ve ever made to a single idea. I’ve thought, abstractly, about doing this thing, this specific thing, since puberty. As years passed I became more pragmatic about it, and more obsessed. By my senior year of college I was fixated on auditioning for these programs; I rehearsed and conditioned my body and spent hours locked in my room thinking through this process, all in preparation for the trial ahead. And I made it, and I’m going, and I’m simultaneously very certain and very lost.
I’m certain that this is the right thing for me to do right now. I can’t imagine going anywhere but very far away, because it’s what I always assumed—for some reason—I would do. I can’t imagine trying to compete professionally yet, because I don’t have enough confidence in my own ability. I know that I could be better if somebody showed me how to be, and I think that would always be in the back of my mind if I denied myself this time to train. I know how I behave under various circumstances and conditions, and I think I know which version of myself will emerge over the course of these next two years, and I think that, for now, that’s the person I want to be.
But I’m leaving a lot of myself behind. I’m committed to the idea of leaving most of my stuff, because I want to be wholly unencumbered, both physically and psychologically. I’m not a religious person, but I do feel some sort of spiritual necessity to do all this with very little. It will probably contrast significantly with the lifestyles of some of my inevitably privileged soon-to-be peers, but I think it’s right. I’m prepared to give this everything I have, and hopefully my shitty wardrobe will help me remember that on particularly difficult days.
And there will be particularly difficult days. The reason that I’m doing this is to improve on my weak points, of which there are many. Sometimes I lie about them because actors aren’t supposed to suck. But they’re there, and they will be singled out, sometimes for hours, days, weeks at a time. I will be reprimanded. I will be the worst one in the class, sometimes, and I will be reminded of the humiliation of fourth grade kickball tournaments. The hardest part, though, will be submitting to this reprogramming without the love and humor of my people.
My people, who I have so painstakingly accrued as a source of warmth and support in the face of my own social deficiencies. Somehow, in spite of my hatred of telephones and my penchant for isolation and privacy, I have made some really important friends who love me. I don’t know how I did that, and I don’t know if I’d be able to do it again. And I’m leaving them for this abstract concept, this high art thing whose origin I can’t even recall. I may not need an array of shirts or accessories, but I doubt my ability to thrive without these people who know how to take care of me when I don’t know how to take care of myself, or how to ask for help.
So I guess what I’m saying is, if you’re reading this and believe yourself to fall under this category (which includes family, by the way, even though I know you’re genetically obligated to love me), please write. Or call. Or Skype. It’s true that I’m about to go live my dream, but I think in that dream I always imagined you’d all be there with me. My relationships are an enormous part of my identity, and they’re the things I’m not prepared to leave at home for the sake of this quest. Just because I’m away doesn’t mean I’m aloof. It just means I’m thinking of you in another time zone.
5 months ago