So this was who I really was. Neuroscientists say the prefrontal cortex, that “third eye” behind our frown lines, finishes developing in our mid-twenties. The results can be disastrous. Some people completely lose their sense of self and panic. Enter my anxiety. Right on schedule.
True, I’d developed a nasty train phobia when I was eleven. But the cause had been something outside myself, something I could face and conquer. Not this phobia. It came from within. It was a coup. In an instant, the befuddled and directionless Old Me had been overthrown.
Still, I had to get on with Old Me’s commitments. Which included directing the Newport Beach Arts Festival. I’d moved it to a lavish outdoor mall, Fashion Island. Which increased the former shoebox event’s size tenfold. Juried art works exploded to over 2,000, and dozens of performers signed on. It was a smash. Old Me would have been proud. New Me wasn’t anything—because New Me was just the husk of Old Me.
A week later, I did my final directing class project, an on-camera spoof of an Italian war movie. In it, soldier Vittorio rushes into the arms of his gorgeous Sophia Loren-esque wife—who discovers he hasn’t bathed in months. I had my actors mouth gibberish, while another actress and I “dubbed” them into English. I’d written the scene to feature Dinah, the statuesque actress I’d offended the night of my melt-down. Dinah was hilarious, and suitably gorgeous. But she showed no interest in me. And just as well. How dare I drag anyone into crazyland with me?
The only person I risked getting close to was my previous co-star Jelli. And she kept it casual. We didn’t even date, just talked and made out, albeit pretty steamily. We were friends-with-partial-benefits. Jelli sensed I was going through something, but didn’t probe. She just took my hand and walked with me. Knowing I’d had thoughts and doubts about faith, she urged me “not to give up on God.”
In June, my new-roommate-slash-old-mom and I moved into the upscale apartment she’d rented at Park Newport. There, amid a gaggle of middle-aged singles, Mom would finally renew her life. And me? I was just glad to have gotten out of that windowless cave.
Sunlight! The top half of my bedroom window was sealed. But the lower half slid open, so I left it that way to allow fresh air in. And it soon let something else in: a nimble little sparrow. I fetched a bag of sunflower seeds, and put a few on the sill inside. Todd (for that was his name) flew off, but soon returned. He looked at the seeds, looked at me, and then stepped through the opening. He finished them all, and hurried away.
The next morning, Todd arrived with his wife Vera (just go with it). I piled seeds on the sill, and stepped away. Vera ate like a bird. But Todd finished the lot. The next morning, there were five sparrows.
I found unexpected joy in the way my ever-growing flock crowded inside and waited for me to deliver “their” seeds. And joy in the way they feasted, even as I watched from just inches away. But the most memorable moment came a month later.
I’d had a rough night, and finally fallen asleep twisted in my sheets like an anxious mummy. I awoke to a twitching foot and a high, strident squawk. I opened my eyes and saw Todd, standing on my big toe, demanding that I get up and fetch his breakfast forthwith! I let out my first real laugh in months. Todd was my harbinger of hope. From whom, and for what…
I wasn’t sure.
My Real Memoir is a series. To read the next one, click here.
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