I accidentally find myself with 21 minutes that are not scheduled. I decide to write about it.
I can't tell if I'm doing a good job anymore. Last night when I got home from our run-through I cried and cried while David made toast and looked concerned. I had some raging PMS but also keep feeling like I'm just-about-almost-really-close-to getting things right. But all those modifiers first. People are crying. People are calling me to speak their minds. I'm getting concerned e-mails. I hear people behind me tsk-ing and sighing noisily when I make a suggestion. People are late. People are freakin' sick, sicker than anyone should be, regaling me with tales of vomit and fever and finally showing up with no voice and hacking coughs. I wish I had a force field around me. Maybe I do. People are exhausted. I. AM. EXHAUSTED. A 21-year-old boy in my acting class said: "Then why don't you sleep?" Oh, to genuinely not know the answer to that question. Bless his heart.
There's only so much more I can do. I get that. It's rolling now, a big boulder of a "things in motion tend to remain in motion" type of thing. Feel free to laugh at my vague memory of physics. I failed that class.
At home, I try to focus on laundry and groceries and sweeping the floor, stuff I can control. A lot of this I can't control. I want to but I can't. I talk a good game, though. That I've got down.
I keep having this disturbing feeling that when all this is over, I'm going to stare at the wall for like a week. But not in a good way.