Why Dreams Aren’t Bullshit (a “welcome back” post from Erika)

Have you ever asked yourself, “Why do I even bother?”

Me, too. Often. And in varying tones of complete contempt and disgust.

Hang on. We’ll get to that.

I know I’ve been gone for awhile. It’s not that I didn’t have anything to write about.

I just didn’t know how to say it. But today, I have a story for you. Maybe you’ll find a bit of yourself in it somewhere. And maybe when you’re having a shitty day, thinking you’ll never be right, things will never come together, and your t-o-o-s (too old, too late, too slow, too whatever) are taking our a second mortgage on your life — maybe this post might help.

And maybe you’re already turned off because you just don’t like my dirty fucking mouth. Someone sent you this link and you’re having a case of the vapors because I’ve already dropped fucking and shitty in the first 100 words.

If that’s the case, this post isn’t for you.

Eleven months ago today, I moved to Chicago. I packed up everything that remained to my name following a fire sale that would make an arsonist’s portfolio look like a hobby, loaded two dogs and two cats into a Honda CR-V, and drove 1100 miles from Denver, Colorado to Chicago. I’d closed on a condo in an “interesting” part of town the month prior because owning would be cheaper than renting. When I arrived, the heat had been turned off and it was 38 degrees that night. I slept on an air mattress that deflated on account of an indeterminate cat chewing a hole in the fucking side and my neck felt like Ray Rice had gotten hold of it the next morning.

But that next morning, I was so incredibly happy.

I’ve written before about what led me to Chicago (I won’t bore you — you can read that here). But I was so incredibly happy because

for all the time I spend in my career helping people figure out their dreams and showing each that those dreams are within reach, I’d put mine on a back burner.

I’d felt mine were out of reach. And mostly, I’d felt like I was too old. At age 40, who the fuck was I to say:

I miss performing.

After all, I’m the 40-year-old, childless woman who’s a statistic in her own book on egg donation.

I’m too old for a lot of things. There are days (a metric shit ton of days) where I feel I’m too old to ever find love again. There are many days where I wonder why I bother with more than a handful of things. Some days, I think I’m depressed (though multiple therapists have told me I’m not).

But in the past 40 years, I’ve had many days where I’ve felt that my t-o-o-s were queen of my castle.

But by moving to Chicago, by saying I miss performing and why the fuck aren’t I doing something about it? I’d put myself in the position of running the show again.

And my t-o-o-s were told they could go shit in a Davey Crockett-style beaver hat.

So, here’s what embarrassing

For all of that happiness — the move, the new home, the exciting and bustling new city (while drenched in some Mother Nature Needs to Get Laid kind of winter that left all of Chicago-kind completely fucked for five months) — I was failing.

Miserably.

I’d found incremental success doing some standup comedy and live lit (which is a fancy name for storytelling, yet no less fun). But I’d come here to work with Second City — dig in, learn, and discover the funny…

And frankly, I sucked at improv.

In nine months, I’d auditioned for Second City’s Conservatory twice and gotten the boot both times. While I’d gotten onto an improv team for about 6 weeks, I never found a rhythm with my group and felt relegated to the back line. I wasn’t funny enough, quick enough, fucking YOUNG enough. I’d seen friends in the improv community have victory after victory and I was completely overjoyed for their successes — but I was left sitting on my back stoop (smoking a cigarette most likely, as I seem to do that when I get pissed at myself) wondering when the fuck I was going to find my groove. And frankly, where I was going to find it.

I was frustrated. So fucking frustrated that if you’d thrown me a wadded up ball of yarn, I’d spun around Tasmanian Devil-style and in about 8 seconds, knitted you an ugly Christmas sweater out of it.

I’d moved my life. My heart. My business. I’d taken the leap and — knowing full well there was no net beneath me — here I was, plummeting to the ground.

And realizing mid-fall that I’d forgotten to pack a goddamn parachute. Thanks, Obama.

I was embarrassed. So completely embarrassed that for all my talk, my classes, my trying, my moving and motivating of others, I was hitting a wall.

And I didn’t want to tell you.

I didn’t want to tell anyone.

The part where I’m sad and you can’t see it and why being sad is awesome for getting shit done

Being a sad-ass sack is a glorious place to be if you’re ready to make some shit happen.

Why?

Because you’re willing to do anything and everything except deal with your circumstances. I discovered this is actually a brilliant way of dealing with one’s circumstances.

I was moping during class at Second City one Saturday morning. An improv classmate of mine (Heather) was talking about how she’d started taking an acting class. How she loved it. She gave me the name of the school. Black Box.

Huh. Clever. Whatevs.

When I got home from class that day, I popped it up on my laptop.

Holy hamsters fucking in a running ball, if you don’t look at that site and think it’s a site I was meant to see, well shoo-lawdy you don’t know me at all. I went down the rabbit hole and I’m pretty sure I could have written their sitemap from memory after about 30 minutes.

I applied to take their first level class. Funny. You had to interview for it — bring in a headshot and résumé. Okay. I’m down.

So I did. I interviewed. And the two people I interviewed with were kind. They weren’t nice (because nice is for assholes who don’t really like you in the first place and they’re being polite and nice can go hump a table leg). They were interested in me. MY goals. What I wanted to get out of an acting class and with my performing career.

And I got in.

And on the first day of class, I got my ass handed to me.

I walked out thinking that I couldn’t do anything right. Why was I there? Why am I paying all of this money to be told that — at this moment, I SUCK? Most likely some deep-rooted masochistic tendencies that one therapist or another has yet to uncover.

But I was coming back the next week. And the next. And of course, the next. And I did that for 3 more weeks for two classes a week. But what I realized over those next three weeks is I’d found a school that teaches the way my brain works. It teaches the way I work with my clients: tough questions, no skating by, no excuses, and you can’t just show up.

You have to show up, and as one of my clients says, dig in and do the fucking work. Attendance and pats on the head were for preschool.

And I’d fallen in love. I’d fallen back in love with performing and I’d finally found that this — right here — THIS is what I’m meant to be doing. This process. How they teach and how their teaching style aligns with my brain and heart and I can’t fucking get enough of this AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRGGGFGGFFFHFSTYUOIPOKJHGDFUDFVB%^&(*)!!!!!!

So, see — being a sad-ass sack what pretty useful. Because if I hadn’t been moping, I probably never would have had that conversation with Heather. And I’d never have gone to the Black Box website.

And I’d probably be no better off than the sad-ass sack I was a few moths ago. Or months. I left that typo in there because I think it’s funny. A few MOTHS back wouldn’t be far at all. Unless those were some huge Mothra-type fuckers.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch…

I’d decided that I needed a break from improv. And I decided that, since Chicago is a theatre town (a BIG theatre town), I should get my ass out there and start fucking up in some auditions. Never do, never learn. But to do that, I needed monologues. See, monologues are weird creature things. They’re one-sided conversations where, when done properly, you feel the other person or people on the other side of the performer’s words. And they’re the de facto norm for auditions in Chicago. Come in, lay down a monologue or two, see if you get a callback. But I had none. And I didn’t know where to even begin looking for them.

So I hired a monologue coach. How might one do that? Google, bitches. I found Kurt Naebig. And frankly, I liked his face. I quite liked his career and experience in the Chicago industry. And so we started working together. And I realized I quite liked him. Possibly one of the kindest, most talented and giving performers and coaches in the Chicago acting community and damn, didn’t I win the Google lottery?

And here’s how things started going:

First (ever) Chicago theatre audition: Two callbacks, I was able to attend one, I booked that role.

Second (ever) Chicago theatre audition: Got an on-the-spot callback, booked the role.

Voiceover work: I’d had plenty of auditions (which is common), but my agent called one day and said I’d booked a national radio spot for Walmart (you can listen here if you’re curious).

Third Chicago audition: This was for a web series pilot. I auditioned in July. I just heard on Thursday last week that I booked a series regular role and we shoot on October 12.

Fourth Chicago theatre audition: Auditioned and got the PAID role offer last Tuesday.

Right now, I’m living a Fuck Yeah kind of life. And in the meantime, I’d made a big decision.

Some might call it a gamble.

For me, it was a decision.

Black Box offers a conservatory program called The Academy. It’s five months long and classes are five days per week for three hours a day. It’s hard, it’s expensive, and I couldn’t think of anything that was more worth it. There are no excused absences. Saturdays and Sundays are your only days off. For five months. No vacations, weekend trips, no bullshit. Sounds awesome.

So I applied. I had to get a letter of recommendation and to write two essays in addition to submitting my headshot and résumé. And then, I had to audition with a monologue, a prepared scene they’d provided, and be interviewed by a panel of five of the bigwigs at the school. I had no idea five people would be in the room. Whug.

That was on August 30. I went it, did my work, enjoyed the process AND the interview. And I left.

I felt good. And I left it all in that room in an outlying Chicago neighborhood and drove away, knowing I couldn’t change anything. Knowing I’d done good work and put the work in to make that work good.

I was enjoying life again. Enjoying the struggle, which was turning out to not be so much a struggle at all.

It was turning more into the work I do with clients everyday — figuring out what you want to achieve and asking the hard questions that are going to make the work you do shine brighter than you ever thought possible.

I’d found my strategy. My rhythm. I’d even gone on a few dates (while this is still filed under “SIGH” for now). I was having some semblance of a social life. I was making new friends.

I was happy.

And back to this why dreams aren’t bullshit thing

Have you ever asked yourself, “Why do I even bother?”

Yeah, me too. Often. And in varying tones of complete contempt and disgust. Why do I even bother because I’m too EVERYTHING?!

But have you ever answered that question when you’ve hated yourself enough to ask it?

Today, I’m telling you why I bother.

I bother because I’m worth it.

I’m fucking worth it.

I bother because if I don’t bother, then I certainly don’t deserve anything except feeling like a sad-ass sack. Life doesn’t have an Easy Button and there are no shortcuts. If you think that for one moment that Google Maps and that little blue dot of navigational happiness is going to show you where you are in life and what has to be done next, you’re so fucking mistaken that you could be in an argument with Rush Limbaugh and lose.

And THAT is a terrifying and demoralizing concept.

I bother because I can’t imagine a life where I didn’t. And I sure as hell can’t imagine a life where I hit the Fuck It button and just let life pass me by.

Wondering why…

everyone else seems to get things

she got that amazing guy

he booked that role on a TV show

his book sold a gazillion copies

everyone seems so happy and all I can feel is sorry for myself.

I bother because I know what it feels like to hit the Fuck It button. I did it for 20 months after Jason died. And I never want to feel that way again.

I bother because every now and then, the universe has a way of letting you know it was bigger things in store for you. That it sees you. Feels you. And it appreciates you.

Like yesterday. When I got the notification that I’d been accepted to the acting conservatory.

And this, my friends, this is why dreams aren’t bullshit.

Because you read my words, whether on Facebook or here or both. You see a strong woman who speaks her mind and seemingly doesn’t take shit from anyone.

But underneath is all is a woman who lives with doubt every day. A woman who wonders, “Why do I bother?” more often than you might think.

The difference is — I answer the question. I know why I bother.

Because I simply refuse to be someone who can’t be bothered with bothering.

Because your dreams — they’re not bullshit. And the next time someone poo-poos you for having the audacity to share something that scares and excites you, you might need to think about the people in your life. Because that one’s an ass monkey.

I mean, unless you share murder. If you share murder and your friend poo-poos you, that’s totally legit. Murder isn’t cool.

So today, I’m scared. I’m so bloody fucking scared that I don’t have the words for it (save the 2250 I’ve already written above).

But I’m also so bloody fucking happy.

Because I bothered to answer the question of Why do I bother?

And that…shit howdy and a pygmy marmoset rodeo…that bothering is what dreams are waiting for.

Dreams are waiting for you to bother with them. And they only bother changing into realities for those brave enough to do so.