Therapeutic
The paint on the ceiling in my bedroom bubbles and begins to drip water. The rain has been heavy this year. I wish someone would find a faucet and put a stop to this never-ending shower. The clock projected a bright blue 2:00 a.m. on my wall. I turned over in my bed and wrapped my arms around the girl beside me. She was just another nameless, faceless distraction to the disappointment that is my life. I looked over at her trying to recall the mnemonic device I used to remember her name. Jane? I know it’s a J name… Or was it Courtney? It doesn’t matter. She’ll leave in the morning just like the others. She’s no longer of use to me; I got what I needed last night. These women and I have an understanding though; I tell all of them that I’m not interested in anything serious. I’d like to believe that it’s helping me somehow, the meaningless sex, at least that’s what I want myself to believe. Who knows maybe I’ll get the inspiration for my next screenplay… here’s hoping it doesn’t end up a porno…
I tried to think back to the good times, my graduation from the New York Film Academy three years ago. I wrote, produced and directed my first feature film. It was about the dreams of a young boy. The entire film, until the end, took place in the dream. The plot revolved around the boy’s vision for a new world. It is set in the year 2025, but ignore the futuristic fantasies that automatically come to mind, this world would rely more on generating relationship between people. Unseen by any present day man or women, this new world knew nothing of the past horrors of slavery and genocide. The people exist in tranquility, and all sexist, racist, classist, and homophobic ideals are unimaginable. The boy awoke to being kicked in his ribs by a larger boy, he was daydreaming at a playground. A singular word ended the film, “Faggot.”
I won Best Film at the four film festivals I entered it into, and received critical acclaim at Sundance last year. People are expecting me to follow that up, but I don’t know how. I feel like I have no more stories inside of me. I have been suffering from intense writers’ block for months, resulting in the aforementioned series of one night stands. As time progressed these went from being fun encounters to hollow moments leaving me feeling drained and depressed. I had now spent almost two months of my life feeling sorry for myself.
I closed my eyes again. I saw images of the world I’d created. Faces of girl after girl projected on the walls of my mind like the old movie. In each scene I had the same face, one of loneliness and sleeplessness. My face was beginning to develop frown lines. The girls disappeared and it was only me lying in the bed. A line drew itself jaggedly on my wrists causing an eruption of blood. My face began to thin as my wrists continued to drip remnants of my life onto my bed. I tried to yell out, but nothing happened. My voice was gone.
I awoke in a cold sweat to an empty bed. The clock shone: 8:00 am. I scanned the room and saw no remnants of the girl. I found a Post-It from my desk stuck to the side of the bed. Sorry I had to leave – Valerie. Valerie… Oh that’s her name. It looks like that J name guess was really off. My head throbbed with the disjointed images of last night’s dream. I closed my eyes again wanting to sleep for the next 24 hours and ignore the gnawing feeling of disappointment I have with myself. Saturday mornings are the days that I sleep off the mistakes from earlier in the week. All I have to do is close my eyes and drift back off into the nightmares; they were at least an escape from reality…
Ring. Ring.
Argh… I tried to block out the persistent sound of my cell phone. Why can’t they leave me to my misery?
Ring. Ring.
I reluctantly grabbed at my phone.
“Hello…” My eyes squinted at the light of the sun coming through the window. I sat up in the bed causing my head to pound as if it were being attacked by angry woodpeckers.
“Phoebe! Pull it together, it’s time for you to get out of this funk,” the voice on the other line yelled. It was Scotty, my one constant annoyance, otherwise known as my best friend. I’ve known Scotty since we were in high school. He got me through that frustrating period of acknowledging my sexuality which, until that point, I’d repressed since age five.
“Must you yell asshole?” I asked.
I stood up and slowly walked to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. The room swayed as I moved. The bags under my eyes were going to need a luggage cart soon. My short brown hair shot out in just about every direction, and my comb was doing nothing to help. I found an old baseball hat and stuck it on my head.
“Yes, especially when it’s necessary. Come out with me, how long have you trapped in that old apartment of yours? Is it even clean?” He sighed, probably asking himself why he continued to put up with me.
“I have been going out, almost every night actually…” I retorted.
“The bar to drink and meet some random girl to sleep with doesn’t count,”
“That’s not all I do…” He knows me way too well.
“Forget it, I’ll pick you up, don’t move… although I know you won’t,” He said snickering and hanging up the phone. I’m sure he thinks he’s just hilarious.
I attempted to clean my room, wanting not to appease him, but lost interest and kicked all of my clothes that were lying on the floor into a corner. I peered out the window and saw Scotty pulling into the parking lot in front of my apartment complex. I grabbed a shirt and jeans from the corner and put them on. I ran down the two flights of stairs to open the door for him. The first thing I noticed was his signature fedora and aviators. They are more precious to him than life itself, literally he threatened t o kill himself when I sat on his aviators one day. The last time we hung out, a few weeks ago, we were having dinner in a restaurant and girl started flirting with him. She pulled off his hat as a joke, and that was it for her, his interest in her and her childish games fizzled and he had no problem telling her. He’s very superstitious about that hat, no one can touch it. I’ve rarely ever seen him leave his house without it on. Maybe that’s what girls find so attractive about him. Obviously he does nothing for me. I’m used to girls flocking to him though. I personally think he’s full of BS, but that’s for those bimbos to find out.
He stood in front of me and gave me that hug that I’ve been missing for weeks, my Scotty embrace. He stood back and put his hands on my shoulders. “You smell terrible,” he said smiling and scrunching his nose. He walked past me up the stairs to my apartment that he’s been to a million times.
“It’s nice to see you too buddy,” I said condescendingly.
Using the word messy to describe how my apartment looks right now is a severe understatement. Clothes and food wrappers littered the floor of the living bedroom; some of them not even mine. I had so much space, but so little at the same time. My kitchen, which is barely ever in use, is the only space free of debris. This place was once one I was proud of; I picked out the wall colors for each of the rooms. I made several trips to IKEA to create the atmosphere I needed to feel inspired. As soon as my mood turned, that inspiration soon disappeared.
Scotty walked into my room and sat on the edge of my bed, kicking his shoes off in the process. He surveyed the room shaking his head at the endless Chic-Fil-A and McDonalds wrappers on the floor.
“It’s this film Scotty, I can’t find what to do. It’s like I’m lost in my own head. This is my job you know, I have to think of something but everything I write sounds like crap or just completely cheesy. I refuse to lower myself making movies about nothing … I’m just exhausted… I want to say so many things but it won’t translate to paper… I sit at my desk and stare at blank pages for hours. I feel so worthless…” I dropped myself on the bed and covered my face with the pillow.
“Ok so I have a solution to get you out of this sad pathetic state you’re in,” Scotty pulled me upright.
“Snap out of it! Stop feeling sorry for yourself, the word can’t doesn’t exist in our world Phoebe, we have enough to worry about. Where is that drive that was embedded in you that day I met you in 9th grade? You’ve always gone for what you wanted. Don’t stop that now. This new movie can become the reason you became a filmmaker in the first place. But to find that movie you need you have to get out, hear, see and interact with people… and I don’t just mean the girls you see in bed. Stop wallowing and stop complaining.”
He smiled, got up and walked over to the bathroom, “…or you could just make a movie about my life that will definitely keep people interested.” He closed the bathroom door and I could hear his irritating laughter. I guess he did have a point though. Not about making a movie about him of course, but telling a story that means something to me that I can be proud of.
Scotty’s other solution to solve my problem was taking me to the movies. There are so few times that I even go to the movies. The endless brigade of pretentious romantic comedies with the same tired formula that has been used for decades, the action flicks that create a problem that would never exist in real life as an excuse to blow up buildings, and worst of all the quintessential ethnic film that produces more stereotypes than it erases, always causes me to lower my head in shame at what this country consumes. Needless to say, I wasn’t too hopeful any movie out right now would do anything but depress me more.
****
“Honestly, you thought this would cheer me up?” I asked settling in my seat and crossing my arms. I looked down; the floor was littered with popcorn and candy.
“No, I thought making fun of it would,” he said ginning devilishly.
“What movie is it anyway?” I said suddenly interested.
“What fun would that be? Watch and find out,” he replied shifting in his seat back toward the screen.
I should have known; the depression has taken over my sanity, of course it was to make fun of the movie. Hollywood hasn’t produced anything watchable in years. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to become a filmmaker, to end the cycle of nonsense that is forced into the American mentality. Scotty has been working in the advertising industry for years trying to counter the decades of toxic imagery. He hates the movies more than I do, not just the movies, but commercials, TV shows, and print ads. However, every now and then he’ll see a quality advertisement; whenever that occurs he immediately tears it out, or records it, to hold on to it as research (history).
We left the movie theater and walked over to his car. The movie turned out to be a real winner, a stunning tale of a college maiden searched for her true love and blah blah blah. I give it five stars, only if the score is out of one hundred stars. It was better than watching, and judging, Vampires Suck for the sixth time in a row. I could see tears in Scotty’s eyes as his laughter failed to contain itself. I had already been laughing since the first badly acted line was spoken. The kids in the theater glared at us and I felt popcorn run down my shirt but I didn’t care. As soon as the ninety minutes of eye gouging writing and acting were over, I could feel my mood lift. No wonder I want to be a filmmaker, to keep filth like this from being taken seriously. Come on people, I mean honestly. The main character has to have more goals in life that just finding a man. I find it hard to believe that this girl, who’s in college mind you, gave up on everything and said, ‘you know I think it’s time for a husband’. It seems like such a joke. I just don’t see why everything has to revolve around love being the ultimate completion of life. When my film career was strong I felt great, personal achievement and supporting friends can create lasting happiness too.
I snapped out of my thoughts when Scotty playfully bumped my shoulder. He was already driving us to his new apartment. He was blessed with a high paying job and could actually afford an apartment that doesn’t leak. Even the lobby of his building makes my apartment look like shit. We walked into the elevator and Scotty pressed the button for the twenty-fifth floor, causing the doors to close.
“Honestly? Twenty-fifth? You might as well have bought the penthouse asshole,” I said jokingly. I glared at him; he glared back accepting my challenge.
“I’m sorry we can’t all live among the New York elite like you,” he said shooting sarcasm like venom, “Have you gotten that leaky roof fixed yet?” He cupped his hands to his face making the noise of a crowd’s cheer. He ended this childish spectacle with the addition of “Go Scotty! Go Scotty!” by the “crowd”.
I punched him, then I smiled and gave him a hug, “Thanks for being there for me. I feel better already.”
He hugged back, “Depression is a hell of a drug,” he said laughing quietly.
The door opened to our floor and he led me down the long, beautifully decorated, hallway. His apartment was on the far end. We walked into a living room right out of an IKEA catalog. A plasma TV hung above the fireplace, which shone with an eclectic fire. I instinctively took off my shoes collapsed onto the couch. I put my arm over my face and sighed feeling the impending weight of depression creeping back towards me. The joy from the day disappeared and I, again, started thinking of the film I needed to make, the film with no subject, no meaning, no characters, and no plotline. Scotty noticed my still body and sat in the chair beside the couch. He shook his head and moved my arm away from my face.
“This again? What’s wrong, I thought you felt better,”
“I do… or I did. I thought seeing what horrible movies are allowed for public viewing would instantly inspire me. But… nothing. I don’t know what it is… Is life really worth it if I can’t do anything to make my dreams of being a success come true?” I said looking at the ceiling.
“You know your problem? You’re over thinking this. All you’ve done is whine, are you even trying? What do you mean is life worth it? I’ve never heard a bigger load of crap in my whole life; grow the hell up and stop being so selfish. Do you know how many people who can’t even eat? Let alone worry about a career.” Scotty said annoyed.
I irritably threw the couch pillow across the room. “You insensitive jerk, I’ve spent two months feeling like I’m worthless. Yes I’m trying. If I can’t be a filmmaker, what am I good for? I put my life into this field and I would hate to think it was over now.” I felt tears threaten to escape. It was too late, the dam broke and the salty springs streamed down my face. Why didn’t he understand? It’s not whining. Far from it, it’s years of abuse and neglect by the people I care about most all built up to this moment. Until the critical acclaim of my first film no one but Scotty supported my dream. My mom continued to tell me how impractical filmmaking was. Why don’t you consider a career in the health field, she would always say, their looking for more African American representation. I wish I could express to her how much I could care less. I need filmmaking, without it I’m just another player in societal oppression. Filmmaking gives me a voice to speak. In making a film I can tell the other side of the story that people barely get to see. Maybe people will finally understand the problems that still exist in our society. Through my films I can paint a world of equally and expose the reality of corruption.
