Strength

Here I find myself, at 12:55am on Friday morning, sitting under my covers and listening to the song "Tell Me on a Sunday", and longing for sleep to settle in. I have folded my laundry, washed my dishes, swept and mopped my floor, dimmed my lights, drank my tea, washed my face, and arranged my things for my day tomorrow. I am surrounded by me. Sometimes, that single fact is so overwhelming I want to cry. "Me" can be a very lonely place.

I had my first television appearance - which lasted all of two seconds - this Monday night on CHUCK. The amount of enthusiasm and supportive words which came pouring out from friends and family far and wide were touching. Here I was, thinking I had only done some small baby step for my career as an actor, if even a baby step, and those around me were in an uproar over this tremendous personal triumph. And even though I may not have done anything worthy of an Oscar, or solved world hunger, the fact that there were people sitting in living rooms across the United States, gathered with others, taking an hour out of their day to search the screen for my face for a few seconds, meant the world to me. In some way, although I feel alone at times, I am given such strength in knowing that something about this uncertain, terrifying place in my life is inspiring to someone, somewhere. So to those of you who called, texted, wrote, watched - I am deeply humbled and honored to have such fans as yourselves. You are keeping this little silly actress chugging right along.

I spent today doing a variety of busy tasks. I edited a paper for a dear friend. I finally made it to Central Casting, where I updated my status to "Union" (AFTRA). I purchased a red, leather-bound planner for 2011 at Barnes & Noble, because I am constantly dreaming of the future, even as I love the present. I squeezed in a power nap. I folded, stuffed, sealed and stamped together invoices for "Mike the pool guy", who kindly presented me with my very own business cards for "Chelsea's Concierge Service" on Tuesday. I browsed through Borders and then Bed, Bath & Beyond with Evan, who generously insisted on us taking a five-minute detour by Fresh & Easy so that I could quell my screaming belly. I came home.

At this point, around 9:30pm, I finally got to sit down and read the few lines for my audition tomorrow for "MEDIUM", as Charlotte, a "beautiful but disheveled and seemingly homeless young woman with a criminal record and a drug problem." Generally type-cast as the mature, maternal figure or the cute blond, I found myself hungry to immerse myself in this skin. Perhaps this is why I am now feeling utterly lonely.

All actors have their own processes for generating character and for rooting down into something physically beyond themselves, but still very much within the potential range of human behavior and experience. Perhaps my favorite teacher of my entire life used to say that, "you don't have to dirty yourself up to be an actor, but you don't have to clean yourself up to be a human being." Joe urged me and my classmates to be willing to, pardon my French, "swim at the shite end of the swimming pool." I am not an actor because I dream of fame and fortune. Yes, it would be nice to make a living doing what I am passionate about. But at the end of the day, I am an actor because I seek to spread compassion regarding the human condition, and to fully explore the realm of human potential, from the darkest, murkiest hellholes to the exhilarating heights of the cosmos.

In thinking about Charlotte, I found myself thinking back to when I was seventeen. I wasn't worried about bugs in my hair, or finding a McDonald's bag with some stale french fries at dusk, or getting harassed or raped in a dank street corner. I wasn't worried about losing my period due to lack of nourishment, or wondering where I could crash that night, or breaking out in sweat and terror because I couldn't afford a fix. I wasn't wearing baggy, dirty mens' clothes and a hoody, in an effort to disguise my gender. I wasn't wondering if my parents and siblings ever thought of me, or how they had changed since I had left home. I wasn't being spat at or told to "get a damn job", and I wasn't praying to God when I got sick to please, please help my fever break, because I couldn't pay for a doctor or medication. I wasn't watching men being beaten to death, or wondering if I would still be around in three months. I wasn't staring up at the stars at night, freezing under their hollow glow and too exhausted to cry anymore.

Yet, despite all of this, it is my responsibility to let this person inhabit me, because somewhere in the world, right at this exact moment, there really is a seventeen-year-old girl named Charlotte, and she lives this. Her story is my story; we are the human condition. If I can use myself to tell someone her story, and to make them reconsider the world around them, then I can sleep a little better at night.

There is always a story to tell. My craft is my pen, and my strength, and my will.