Parachutes

One week from now, I’ll spend my last weekend in NY. For a while anyhow. I’ve got barely enough savings to hit the ground running – and that’s if everything goes smoothly and according to plan. In many ways this move to LA feels like jumping out of a plane with a busted parachute, it may or may not open.

I had a dream last night that I’d wind up begging in front of the supermarket for food. My mother has decided not to talk to me, hoping I might change my mind. Yet somehow I must remain mentally strong enough to make this life altering decision with little to no support. Somehow I’m expected to write, work on this feature and apply to jobs with an albatross of fear and anxiety around my neck.

Harder still is knowing that as I write this it is cathartic but few to nobody will read it – including him, the one person I’d hope after all these years would reach out again. It’s never going to happen. During this time this blog has become more personal than ever. Yet, while I write for me I don’t do enough for me. I don’t put myself first. That’s why moving to LA is a necessary step for my own career and goals.

My single greatest fear is winding up just another shattered soul along the boulevard of broken dreams. Part of this whole journey is starting to feel like the fallacy of sunk costs. I’ve put so much time into saving money for this move to pursue a career that I fear switching plans. Then I remember that I don’t know what else I’d do. I also don’t know how I’m even gonna keep my head above water and get started. I feel old next to 25 year old assistants – a job I’d kill for. In this industry, I’m like Robert DeNiro in the intern.

There doesn’t feel like a happy end in sight for this Hollywood tale. I’m moving without anybody in my corner and everyone I speak to seems to want something from me that I can barely give to myself. I’m near tapped out of energy, spinning toward the ground with this faulty parachute. I just hope to find a soft enough spot to land…

God speed.

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