To my oldest friend, Rejection,

Unfortunately for me and fortunately for you, I have chosen a career which guarantees our longstanding acquaintance. As long as I chase this unpredictable dream, you will always have me at your mercy.

I would ask you to be gentle with me, though I know I’d only be kidding myself. I’ve become accustomed to your unyielding nature since I was ten. You’d think I’d be used to be it by now, and yet you would be wrong. No matter how many times it happens, no matter how many pep talks I give myself in the mirror, I am still gutted just as deeply when you sink your claws into my unassuming flesh.

You always know exactly when I am at my most vulnerable. You lie in wait until my resolve is sufficiently weakened and my self confidence eroded enough to let doubt seep in. It is then, in the moments when I most need a break, that you choose to check back in, remind me you’re still here, become reacquainted. Like an old friend too narcissistic to let us drift apart in peace.

I often lay awake at night wondering when you will pounce on me next. I dream of the life I wish to have, all the while tormented with the shadow lurking in the corner, reminding me that with every brave step I take, I am only barring myself to you more.

And yet I continue to choose this. I continue to go on auditions, to send out my manuscripts, to put myself out there despite the very real notion that I am only kidding myself. I choose this while knowing full well that I am stepping out into daylight and making myself a quick and easy target for you.

Why do I do it?

I am not some sort of masochist who lives for the thrill of the pain you inflict. No. On the contrary. I despise the bitter taste you leave in my mouth each time you unarm me with your apathy.

It’s not personal, they say. Rejection is a part of the process. A part of life.

Something I must get used to if I ever want to make it big.

But I cannot ignore the fact that it stings each time you try to tell me I am not special.

Not a good enough actress.

Not a good enough writer.

Not worthy enough for the position.

Not desperate enough to be the one who makes it.

Not. Enough.

It is your voice I hear when I think I am utterly unspecial.

But the trust is that the more time I spend around you, the less unpredictable your attacks become.

Your indifferent nature will always haunt me, but I strip away a bit of your power every time I choose to expose myself, to play my hand and bet on the dreams I chase.

Because I really believe one day, you will smile in the back of an ornate, stuffy room full of Hollywood’s finest artists. And you will watch as I ascend the steps and accept my award, uttering the words I have practiced in the shower with a shampoo bottle clutched in my hand, thanking the academy and God and my mom.

Maybe then, when our longstanding and complex relationship finally fulfills its purpose and I can say I actually made it, I will understand that there was nothing to be afraid of after all. I will remember that your influence fueled my frustration and determination to prove you wrong.

Until that fateful day, I will continue to look over my shoulder with caution, keenly aware you are always just at my heel. I will continue to be forced to sit in your less than comfortable presence, hoping against hope that it won’t always feel this pointless.

And in the moments when the fear becomes debilitating as I clutch my chest at night, your cold hands wrapped around my neck, preventing me from dreaming any longer, I will continue to breathe until you loosen your grip, reminding myself that you are here for a reason. That I must feel the fear and continue to chase this life I long for, anyway. Because it is only then that I can truly overcome you.

So yes, I am afraid of you. But no, I will not let that control how I choose to live the only life I’ll ever get.

I know this is not the end of you and me, and to that I can only say one thing: bring it on.

Until next time, old friend.

Yours truly,

A fool who dreams

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