The darkness that has been ebbing and flowing around the house of me decided to let itself in and settle down last night. Much like Ripley, it sat on my lap, curled itself up and fell asleep like dead weight.
A few weeks ago I received a rejection letter from the Williamstown Theatre Festival's Boris Sagal Fellowship. Last night I came home to a two-page (!) rejection letter from the NEA/TCG Director Fellowship. First of all, don't make any rejection letter two pages. It confuses the opener of the envelope. Secondly, I spent over two weeks working on the essays for that grant and thought I would have at least made it to the second round. It wasn't devastating but it was another blow that seems to follow a series of hits determined to keep me down.
I'm waiting to hear about a second interview for a job that is supposed to take place on Monday evening. But no word yet. This all comes after a ridiculously insane interview process with TVI Actor's Studio. It went on over the course of a month; an interview a week. And, in the end, I fear my chain was being yanked. I feel defeated and stuck.
This darkness is certainly not unfamiliar. It played with me in high school. I managed to keep it at bay most of the time in college. Out here though, in the "real world", it courts me more regularly. It first reared its ugly head during my initial stint in Casting. There was no way 'round it and the only way to shake it was to shake the job. The next time it visited was during grad school in the post-9/11, post-Present Ex break-up, post-Gram's death days.
I became stunningly reckless about myself. I would conduct myself just fine during the week, able to concentrate on school work and such. But once the weekend came, I was lost. My evenings would be spent at bars or parties. I would drink more than I should. I would drive home, stopping at the local 7-11 for a box of Entemann's chocolate covered donuts. Once home, I would pull out the sofa-bed in the living room (if my roommate wasn't home) because the darkness and emptiness of my bedroom was too much for me to bear. I would pull out the sofa bed, pour a large glass of red wine and eat the donuts watching reruns late into the night, falling into a fitfull sleep.
I was driving my dad's Honda Accord at the time. In the mental state I was in I was seriously unfit to drive. One night while trying to pull into a parking spot in downtown New Brunswick I swiped the car along the side of a truck ripping off the entire back bumper of Dad's car. Shocked and horrified my lack of persepctive (literally, I had no idea I was too close to the truck), I tried to think quickly and pulled out some rope in the trunk to tie the piece on until I could get it to a shop. Dad was very particular about his cars and I had just pretty much destroyed it.
A few weeks later, on a rainy Sunday morning in late October, I was up at the crack of dawn. I decided to go to a 7:30am yoga class at the studio a few towns away. On the curved exit ramp that led to Route 1 Dad's Honda Accord hit a wet pile of leaves, spun around in circles and slammed into the curb. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a hubcap fly over the car and when I tried to back the car up and drive onto the highway, the wheel started to shake so violently I couldn't hold on to it. Upon slamming in to the curb, I had knocked the axle straight out of alignment. I had really done it. I called and called the apartment until the roommate finally picked up. I apologized for waking her and told her she needed to come and get me at the garage I was now all too familiar with.
My life was a car crash. Not being a fool, I decided to take advantage of the school's counseling programs. I went into therapy for the second time in my life. The first was after Present Ex and I broke up, round one. The woman looked like Doctor Ruth and had an office in a swanky Upper East Side apartment building. She was very short and sat in one of those 1960s egg chairs with her legs up on an ottoman in front of her. I lay down on the leather sofa and talked for 45 minutes. The therapist never said anything. She scribbled in her pad from time to time, but mostly listened. The problem was, I didn't need someone to listen. I needed someone to help me ACT. I needed guidance.
Our last session came after I had had a particularly vivid dream. These were the days when I was waiting to hear about grad school acceptances and planning an Italian retreat, should grad school not be a reality. In my dream, I was walking down a dark, unfamiliar city street. There was a blue wash over everything filtered by a yellow glow from the streetlights. In my dream, I was Tom Ripley. I had just murdered someone but no one knew it yet except for me. As I was walking down the street, I passed a group of police officers heading in the direction of my murder. I didn't make eye contact, but I nodded and continued walking on.
I was shaken by this dream. I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that I had knowingly, willingly, killed someone with my bare hands. I couldn't let it go and it haunted me for days. Upon recounting the dream to Dr. Ruth she asked, What have you done wrong?
I called her service the next day and left a message saying I wouldn't be returning.
So going back into therapy in grad school was a big step. My therapist was a young, Indian woman who was most likely a student. Like the Theo Huxtable's teacher, Mrs. Westlake, on The Cosby Show played by Sonia Braga, this therapist wore her hair in a tight bun at the back of her head. One day I came in and her hair was falling in beautiful waves around her shoulders. When I sat down in the chair across from her in her little, cluttered office I commented on it. She immediately asked if I was ok with it and should she put it back up? I said, No. It was fine. There must be some practice taught in therapy school that says do not change your appearance or your patient might go mad. Unlike most people, I'm ok with change and, often, welcome it.
This therapist, whose name escapes me, immediately saw my need and was a great help. She also referred me to the psychiatrist who saw me immediately and sent me on my way, arms piled high with sampled of Wellbutrin. This was my first experience with an anti-depressant. But it was necessary. One of the unfortunate side effects of this drug, I soon learned, was insomnia. So I was also taking sleeping pills. I felt like Neely O'Hara or LIza Minelli. Especially on those nights when I would come home from parties and add sleeping pills on top of my diet of red wine and Entemann's chocolate covered donuts. After a few weeks, I was able to adjust to the Wellbutrin and ween myself off of the sleeping pills. After a few months, I was able to ween myself off of the Wellbutrin. I didn't want it to be a crutch; a necessity. I needed it when I needed it and then I had to let it go. I was able to cope, finally, with the loss of my grandmother and the loss of Present Ex as a lover. I kept them both in my heart in different ways.
The second round of Wellbutrin came a few years ago upon the loss of the Mormon followed immediately by the death of Present Ex's mother. I couldn't function for all the losing. And with aggressive therapy and the pills, I once again battled the darkness.
Since then, as always, the darkness comes and goes. I'm usually able to hold it at bay. But with it settling down, and the fear of me settling into it, it needs to be dealt with. This time, there's no loss to point to its strength. What is feeding it is an overwhelming sensation of inertia. Only it seems like the world around me is inert and I keep running into walls.
So, Wellbutrin, third time's a charm.
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