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I hurl my backpack into my beat-up Honda Civic, and my body follows, settling into the driver’s seat and buckling in. The engine ticks before finally coming to life as it vibrates under my feet.
Most people assume LA residents live off sunglasses and iced lattes, but I require neither to start my morning. My preference for my car’s sun visor alongside hot black coffee in an insulated travel mug pulls me away from the norm, the absence of the latter making this commute longer than necessary.
“It’s called a blinker, asshole. Learn how to use it!” I mutter to myself.
I’m twenty minutes into my commute, and I’ve muttered the wordsidiotanddumbassunder my breath about five times. I pull into a parking spot once I arrive on campus with just enough time to speed walk into my class. I sigh a breath of relief once I enter the building, and my stomach growls, reminding me that I skipped breakfast. This isn’t a good start to my day or my week.
THREE
RHYLAN
I’ve always wondered why people keep plants. I mean, yeah, they look nice, and they’re supposed to resemble some sort of responsibility towards a living object, but I’ve never understood the appeal. The one I’m looking at right now sits in a large mauve pot on the floor that comes off as snobby. This whole room screams pretentious. From the minimalist décor to the color-coordinated books on the shelves, nothing about it says:Your deepest, most intrusive thoughts are welcome here.At least, that’s the thought I have every week when I walk into this office for my regularly scheduled sessions with Dr. Rosalin Greene.
“Rhylan, this is a safe place. We aren’t here to pick apart every single emotion you have. We’re here to try to understand where these emotions come from,” says Dr. Greene, interrupting my judgmental thoughts on her interior design choices.
She, too, has a pretentious aura to her presence. Her olive-green pantsuit fits a little too loosely to be considered attractive, and she continues to look at me over her gold-rimmed glasses that hang at the tip of her nose.
I nod my head. “I understand.”
“So we were talking about your work. What made you want to pursue acting?”
“Well, at first, it was all I thought about. When I told my parents I was coming to LA to fully pursue acting, they had one condition: I was to go to college while I did it.”
Her pen moves furiously against the clipboard. It’s distracting, but I continue.
“When I got accepted to UCLA, it felt like fate. And when the semester started, I enjoyed it. Acting classes, meeting people that had the same interests, and then finally auditioning for actual acting roles. It was exhilarating.”
“And now? How do you feel about acting?”
“Now?” I sigh deeply. My hands move to my face, covering my eyes in an attempt to rub the tension out of them. “I’m exhausted.”
“And why do you think you feel that way?”
“I don’t know. I mean, you’re the professional. Aren’t you supposed to know?”
She chuckles politely. “I’m here to help you better understand your emotions. I can’t tell you why you feel a certain way or why you think you have an opinion about something. Those are emotions and thoughts for you to decide.”
I sigh again. “I don’t really know. I used to be so eager. Levi, my agent, would have to tell me to calm down and take a few deep breaths so that I could collectively decide my next steps. I wanted it all. I was a greedy nineteen-year-old kid.”
She nods, again writing furiously on her clipboard. “And do you feel like that motivation isn’t there anymore?”
“I mean, I’m literally at the height of my career, and I should be even more motivated and confident than ever.” I lower my head, unable to understand how I got here. So low, so beneath anything I ever expected. “I guess… I don’t really know.”
“Okay,” she answers. “It’s okay not to know. Can you tell me something that you do know?”
My hands rub against my thighs. Back and forth, back and forth, as I mull over her question. “I know I’m getting frustrated, and it’s making me angry. And that’s not who I am.”
“What do you mean by angry?”
“I feel like I have no control over my actions, and it scares me. For example, I was on set a couple months ago, and a production assistant brought me an iced coffee like she did for the rest of the crew. I had asked for a hot coffee, black. I could have taken the iced coffee, it wasn’t a big deal, but I made it a big deal. I threw it against my trailer, right in front of her, and stormed off.” I’m starting to ramble, these moments of anger that I regret so badly now rolling off my tongue. The words are laced with guilt and embarrassment for my behavior. “And just last week, I was attending a wardrobe fitting, and I lost it because I had to try on the same shirt for the third time. It’s all part of the job. I knew it, no one needed to explain it to me, but I’m becoming a ticking time bomb. And I can’t even place why.”
“It can be difficult to understand emotions that you didn’t expect, especially when it’s the complete opposite of what you thought you would feel,” she explains. “But you have to understand, it’s completely normal.”
“But I’m taking out my frustration on people that don’t deserve it. People that work hard and are just doing their damn job,” I retort. “This isn’t who I am, and I hate the person I’m becoming.”
“Okay, let’s change pace a little bit, try a little exercise.” She faces me, sitting upright. “I want you to think of one word that encompasses your emotions as of late. Just one word.”
I mull over her request. And then it pops into my head. It makes sense, apt for the feeling of sinking with no end. “Drowning.”
