Handling the nausea that comes with reaching for the stars
Call it torrential shame, call it return of the repressed, call it fear of the hammer coming down, but any which way you name it, nausea hits me like a freight train whenever I start making big moves towards my actual dreams.
Actual dreams, because dreams I think I ought to have; or dreams more easily accomplished; or no big deal dreams don’t cause this effect in me.
Start and run a counseling business? Sure, how exciting! Deadlift my own body weight? Hard to do, but fun to work towards! Get cast in a play I don’t care about that much? Yeah, why not!
But how about making something that really matters to me? How about reaching out to people who could really help me go where I want to go and do what I most want to do?
How about pursuing the acting career I really want?
Oh no. Ahhhh.
I’m going to need a barf bag. Not any I’d cribbed from an airplane and turned into a puppet by drawing it a face. Something bigger.
Maybe a vat. Or a vestibule. Or an emptied out IKEA. But not too emptied out. I’m hoping I won’t actually be sick and can hug several of those giant stuffed animal pencils all at once for comfort.
Maybe I can move into the IKEA, find all the fuzzy pencil friends, hole up at the bottom of a bunk bed made for a kindergartner, and never ever ever ever again write another email asking to be considered for any of my dream jobs.
If there’s a bathroom and a working sink and the giant gummy candy wall that’s stocked with vegan pink lemonade skulls this could definitely work.
Best part is that I’ll have access to all the space and all the props and all the time to come up with all the jokes and characters and then I’ll film and share my stuff on my phone and get really pumped to do more, and then I’ll want to send some emails to managers, agents, and casting, meaning…
…I’ll start making moves towards my actual dreams.
I think I’m going to be sick.