This Moment
By Jenna Pastuszek
Summer is almost over. It’s August. We’ve had multiple consecutive days of 90-degree heat. We’ve had sleepless, sweaty nights, burgers off the BBQ, walks around the neighborhood enjoying the late sunset, too much ice cream, and many slathers of sunscreen.
And yet, this isn’t a normal summer. We’ve done all of those things…alone. And in a mask. And instead of hoping that the summer would never end, like I’ve done for most of my life before, I’ve been itchy to see the clock tick forward in the hopes that we’d find ourselves closer to resuming our “normal existence” by the end of it. I can see the end of summer, and yet I can’t see an end to this pandemic life.
I’ve maintained a fairly consistent blog writing practice since January 2019, so two weeks ago, at the end of July, I noticed that I had yet to write anything during the month. How curious. I sat down to begin writing a piece about a judgmental comment someone had made in a Facebook Forum for actors. The comment involved some fear-mongering and arguing that actors who choose to leave the city or get a “muggle” job “never return”. I sat down to question this person’s rationale for thinking that what he said was at all helpful to any actor experiencing the novel severity, grief, and loss of the past five months. I had titled the piece 2020 Broke My Heart and was planning to vulnerably share the many theatrical hopes and dreams 2020 had destroyed.
You see, like many others…2020 was supposed to be MY year. It was supposed to be the year I made my Broadway Debut, the year I found my dream agent partner-in-crime, the year I contributed to brilliant new works, met incredible new people and finally arrived on the New York scene, the year that would finally give me the credibility I knew I needed to be able to reach the people I want to reach, the lucky number year that would maybe go well enough that I could contemplate slowing down just enough to think about maybe starting a family…maybe…and I sat down to write this tell-all in the hopes that sharing my POV might help to express a collective artistic pain while simultaneously telling that jerk to take his "advice" and shove it…and then my Father-in-Law suddenly and unexpectedly passed away from COVID-19 related complications.
At that point, 2020 really broke my heart.
In the weeks that followed, I’ve packed up my planned month-long artist retreat in Montana after only arriving three days before, drove BACK across America, buried a loved one, and began to contemplate accepting that our Brooklyn lease ends after six years on August 31st. My ten-year anniversary with the city I love more than anything else will be spent shoving boxes into a moving van and looking out into an unknown future…while wearing a mask and waving a virtual goodbye from six feet away.
Today, I walked into Fort Greene Park, and as I breathed in its majestic beauty, I heard a small voice inside me whisper, “You’ll be okay.” Only on this morning in August did I finally give myself permission to hear that tiny voice inside and accept that I wasn’t okay- I hadn’t been okay- that many of the people who I love and admire and collaborate with and creatively champion aren’t okay. And I felt this teeny voice’s encouragement, telling me that maybe it’s okay for me to say I’m not okay. Maybe if I say I’m not okay, it will give others the courage to say they aren’t okay- to say we’re all not okay.
I saw another friend’s post on Facebook this morning (I should get off Facebook…) debuting her incredible weight loss/body transformation photos. Immediately, I felt the presence of the Judgement Monster blasting pangs of regret into the air- spouting vengeful bursts of flame my way for eating my feelings over the past few months, for hearing the words “Who wants a hoagie?” come out of my mouth for the first time in years, for not moving as much as I could. I looked at myself in the mirror with self-loathing and anger for letting years of “Broadway Body” inspired dedication go to waste just because I wanted to join the sourdough bread Instagram movement.
As I pinched my love handles and assessed my chins, I faintly heard that tiny little voice again. She said, “You’ll be okay.” Suddenly, I stopped pinching and remembered what I’d heard her say before- that it’s okay to say that I’m not okay- that we’re all not okay. It’s okay to choose recommitting to my health starting today. My body is just as resilient as my mind. If it’s okay for me to acknowledge that my brain/heart/emotional state haven’t been okay and can be okay again, the same can be said of my physique. MAYBE many of us HAVE indulged over the past few months to f*cking COPE because when the giant hopes and dreams are lost, a brownie is all that’s left.
So, in this moment, I say to you, dear reader:
I hear you.
I see you.
I am standing a virtual six feet away from you pretend holding your hand.
And I’m going through something too.
You’re not going through whatever you’re going through alone.
We’re all going through something.
And even if whatever we’re going through look different, they’re still worth acknowledging.
It’s okay.
You’ll be okay.
We’ll all be okay.
2020 may not look at all like we imagined it looking back in January.
Perhaps, we can still salvage it if we acknowledge our pain and try to move through it, with it, alongside it.
Maybe, just maybe, what we were hoping to find imbedded in those big dreams can still be