WEST HOLLYWOOD APARTMENTS

Today, I walked past one of my old apartments—an apartment that, for whatever reason, I still dream about. It wasn’t great or anything. I didn’t have a washer or dryer; I don’t even know if I had central AC. But for some reason, I find myself haunted by the gloomy, dark atmosphere of this single bedroom in West Hollywood. I’ll find myself standing there, rummaging around, looking for Zone Perfect Bars or trying to collect articles of clothing, and sneaking out before my ex-boyfriend returns from work.

Carl Jung asserts that dreams stem from an innate desire to resolve unresolved emotions. And since I’m always returning to this particular place, I have to assume that something about it still needs my attention.

When I lived there, I was in my early twenties. I was bulimic and depressed and unsure of who I was. I didn’t have a clue as to what I should be doing with my life, but I also didn’t feel empowered to change it. There was no social media, no Twitter, and no real way to express myself aside from journaling and grinding out audition after audition, hoping for someone to take notice. Sometimes they did, but not always for the reasons I desired. I would occasionally land thankless roles that would temporarily lift my spirits, only to quickly fade away. The reality of what I was doing with my life was always difficult to stomach, as none of the work felt meaningful or significant. I was almost as embarrassed by doing it as I was for wanting it. And I wanted it- more than my relationship, more than friendships, more than the S’mores flavored Zone Perfect Bars.

I think I went into acting because I needed to feel seen. But the more I did it, the more I realised that what I actually needed was to be heard. I was seen in my twenties the way twenty-something-year-old women are seen. But I didn’t feel heard until thirty-five.

Part of me wonders if I’m not breaking back into that apartment in search, not just of my Betsy Johnson peacock colored slip dress, and black sequin Doc Martins, but also of my younger self. Maybe I'm trying to save her, prepare her, or reassure her that the world is about to change—that she will outgrow that shag carpet and even that sweet supportive boyfriend—that she won't stay in the dark forever—that she is winning—that she does win—and that one day, that life will be nothing more than a distant dream.