Page 87 of Director's Cut
“No.” I’m back to rubbing my arm. “I—I think I got close. When I took this TV directing job and we had hope that Oakley would get picked up. I had this whole vision for my career where I could be more than someone else’s mouthpiece for a message that didn’t resonate with me. Directing was going to give me an outlet to really say something, to take on projects that were more cerebral and vulnerable, like Stroke. I wanted to be taken seriously, but then the interviews started going south and the thing with Winston happened and everything fell apart.”
Rosalie pauses. Really pauses, like she might be uncertain about how I’ll react to what she’s about to say. “Did everything fall apart that night? What changed in your mind?”
“I realized that my ideas weren’t going to be taken seriously. The last time I’d felt my ideas validated was in academia, so I thought it was destiny to go back in that direction.”
“Did you find what you were looking for in academia?”
The answer comes so quick that I almost feel knocked out of my own body. “No.” I think about the students who still ask me about Hollywood, about all the hoops Maeve has to go through just to get to teach her own class, what my future would look like as an adjunct. It wouldn’t be better, even with my celebrity privilege. “It was just different.”
“When you think about having to do another interview for your new film, what comes to mind? What impact did the interview with Winston have on you? What would’ve happened if you’d just done the guest-teaching gig and gone back to your career in Hollywood?”
All this time, and I don’t think I’ve revisited that car ride with Trish after the interview. Everything felt so out of control, so awful, that I took the first balm available to me. It happened to be this guest-teaching gig. But I’m starting to wonder if the wound would’ve healed regardless. What would’ve happened if I’d kept pursuing directing? Would Maeve and I have still dated? Would I have taken that HBO gig and…actually felt good about it? It was such a good script, and there was directing potential.
But it also would’ve meant going back on the late-night circuit earlier than this week. Returning to that awful gay question cycle.
“All I can feel is this—this overwhelming fear and anxiety that I just can’t shut down.” My head aches. “I don’t—I don’t know how I did it before. Looking back, I can’t think of a time I didn’t feel this way. Like I had to fight through tar to get anywhere I wanted to go. I guess there must have been times that were easier than others, where I saw my path clearly and knew what to say and how to conjure my best self for people. I wanted to be the best version of myself for this class. But I also went into the teaching with an expectation. I just keep thinking, If I get this, then the anxiety will go away. It’ll get easier. I’ll be able to deal with things like what happened with Winston without it bringing me to my knees. But it—”
But it’s like Charlie said.
There will always be more.
There will always be social anxiety, there will always be my health conditions, there will always be this fear that my parents were right, that I chose a path for myself that has no value and prevents me from living a fulfilling life. Fame is never going to get easier. I’m never going to be able to just make art and escape into a corner and not be bothered.
“Never will.” I finish. “I just have to learn how to deal with it better. No matter whether I switch jobs or not. And I really love directing.” Something buzzes in me, from my fingertips to my brain. “And I’m really excited for what’s coming next.” A smile spreads on my face. “After thinking I had no talent in directing, the board at one of the most prestigious film festivals in the world said I did. That’s—” I put my face in my hands, feeling like a giddy child again. “That’s unbelievable.”
I’m so excited for what’s coming next, yet I ran from it. Even with the elation from the Cannes news finally able to be, there’s still that twist of anxiety as I sit in Rosalie’s office. And maybe more than that. It’s pain. Pure, virulent pain. It all comes back to my coming out. After years holding myself afloat thinking maybe the world I loved could embrace the real me, they could only take me in a specific package. Put a bow on it, but it was rejection. Letting go of that fantasy as I went through the press circuit fucking sucked. I told myself I couldn’t take it and so I abandoned a career I fucking love.
I never stopped caring about my acting and directing. I wanted Oakley to get into Cannes.
And it did. That film is wholly, nerves-exposingly mine and everything I ever wanted to say about my sexuality, and it’s going to compete at Cannes. I’m tired of pushing away my wishes for it. I want it to perform well. I want to do everything I can to make sure that happens. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and I’ve already wasted two months pushing it down and telling myself it meant nothing. I should be celebrating it.
My dream came true two months ago, and I didn’t tell the person I love. Of course Maeve was upset about it. Of course she’d need a break after I couldn’t even process that. I should be at my career high; Maeve should be able to look at me and be proud, like I’ll be when she gets that grant. Charlie was right. I’m done sabotaging myself. I’m going to fight for Oakley, for my creative future, and I’m going to fight for Maeve.
I never want her to feel left out of my life again.
Still, I can’t just psych myself up for Cannes and expect that happiness will come to me because I want it to. I can’t just wait for the divine intervention of love to pull me up by my bootstraps and win Maeve back for me. But I can help make my life easier.
I take a deep breath. “Can we talk about medication again?”
Rosalie’s expression softens. She picks up her clipboard and writes something down. “Of course. You know I can’t prescribe it, but your GP should be able to, and I can help you monitor it from a mental health standpoint. You can get a psychiatrist as needed.”
And for once in my life, hearing the word medication doesn’t spin my heart into a frenzy. In fact, it slows my heart down. The only thing buzzing is my brain, but it’s the kind of buzzing I get before sitting down and watching a movie I love. It’s—it’s hope.
It’s been so long since I had hope.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
My first week on Klonopin is not exactly a dream. In fact, it could be argued that I almost cease sleeping and become very convinced that the joke demon infestation in my house is a much bigger issue than it actually is. But the weird thing is, it’s not anxiety that keeps me awake. Am I paranoid? Sure. Uncomfortable? Definitely. Battling vertigo I’ve never had before? Yes. But those incessant thoughts that make me afraid to go outside and see people, that have been making me panic about having to go to the South of France, are all fading into the background. They feel about as important to me as making sure my flight, hotel, and Cannes schedule information is correct. Things that, yes, do matter, but don’t feel life shatteringly important; if things don’t go exactly according to plan, I know I’ll be fine.
And okay, it still stings when Maeve keeps her distance during our lectures. But that’s easy enough to cope with when I tell myself I have a plan with a timeline. Maeve is qualified for that grant and deserves it a million times over. She’ll earn it with the work we did together and everything that came before it. But as someone trying to be worthy of being her girlfriend, I need to do my all to support her. There’s one last thing I need to do before I leave for Europe tomorrow. Even if Charlie’s right and Maeve has her own shit to work out, I can do this.
Sitting in Ashlee’s office, I drum my fingers against the side of the first belt Maeve touched. I fly out to France tomorrow morning. Mandatory Cannes schmoozing starts the second I arrive delirious and jet-lagged Wednesday, Oakley in Flames premieres Friday night, and then schmoozing continues through the next week and a half. Then it’s other premiere invites, interviews, lunches and dinners, billionaire yacht parties, and spending some time with Gwyn and my parents, who agreed to come for emotional support. I have not packed yet. But nothing is more important than sitting at this desk, looking Ashlee in the eye, and fighting for someone I believe in. Charlie officially signed with Trish earlier this week, and he said talking to me about Star Trek was what got him to finally drop his old team. I know I can help make an impact.
In Hollywood, anyway. I’m not sure about academia yet.
Ashlee takes a seat across from me and smiles. “What can I do for you, Valeria?”
I stop my fingers from drumming and feel my heart beat faster. “I wanted to talk to you about Maeve before you review her next week.”