A brave and vulnerable post from Jennie Kamin - a daring Millennial off to New York to complete her masters at the Colombia School of Journalism after a colorful career in Los Angeles.
This week was moving week.
Like many a 20-something, I am well-acquainted (to the tune of seven times in the last eight
years) with the perils of this particular activity. In that time, my travels
have included moving to-and-fro a dilapidated frat house, a small flat in Central
London’s Arab neighborhood, and most recently, the hipster oasis in the heart
of Los Angeles’ Silver Lake area. Each time I engage in this familiar song and
dance, I am always struck by one realization: junk. That is, the astounding amount of clutter one
person can accumulate in a few short years.
In this case, I had been living in Los Angeles for just two years. I
owned nothing outside of my own bedroom and yet, the junk was everywhere.
Stacks of literary junk I would never read.
Garment Junk that could never be utile outside of an Arctic tundra.
Sentimental junk I had lost and re-discovered from 6th grade, only
to bury and lose it in the depths of my next move once more. Then there was the other kind of junk. The
emotional, metaphysical remnants of each phase of life one packs up, hoards,
insists on paying a hefty fee to store, carrying it over again into the next
phase of life.
I moved to LA to join the ranks of starry-eyed young people hoping to ‘make it big’ as Hollywood starlets. Sure, I had some success. I also had a lot of un-success (at least in my own perception). This is, perhaps, the most imposing mountain of junk I have hoarded over the years.
In the classic way, I moved to LA having had a lifetime of
theatrical and on-camera training and tremendous (though seemingly undeserved)
support from my family. I had a decent amount of success over the years in
smaller markets and regional productions and a few excellent contacts to boot. Thanks
to the incredible generosity of my cousin and his family, I even had a
garage-apartment where I stayed-free of charge for the better half of five
months.
One day, after two years of seeing each other at least
weekly and often more, said cousin asked me if I was really happy all the time
as, to him, I had appeared to be. I
laughed and before brushing it off, did admit to him that I, too, have demons
(for God’s sakes I was a struggling actor) I would one-day share with him. One
day never came.
The night before my departure, said cous took me up on
it. He asked something to the effect of
“what do I not know about you?” as he prepared salmon over the stove and his
children ran in and out of the kitchen. It was time to purge my clutter; that
blockage of junk I had amassed throughout the acting years, protecting me from
sharing vulnerable moments with the people I love, creating an impasse through
which my authentic self could hardly seep.
Though, in my thoughts, I had no problem telling the truth, the truth
never made it from the gate-keeper of
the biggest junkyard that lived just before my lips. I fumbled and returned the
question to him.
In spite of the openness of our setting, the proximity to
his own wife and children, he was fearless. He easily shared with me his
apprehensions that, at the age of 50, he had not made the impact he set out to,
his regrets of not pursuing more formal training, among others. I still hid
behind my walls of junk.
He pressed on. “Why do you have such low self-esteem?” The
answer to his question remained in my mind. Though I truly was (mostly)
well-adjusted by this point in life, it wasn’t without consequence; largely, a
self-worth that was still being rebuilt after a few years of destruction. It
was, of course, because my self-worth had, on this journey, become wrapped up
in comparisons, accomplishment wars with my past self and with other people I
had created just to prove to myself what I loser I really was. In high school,
I had been student body president. At 26, I was an unpaid intern the same age
as my supervisor. At 12, I was on the board of directors of a non-profit. By
26, I blew threw a once-massive savings in just three short years. My best
friends and sister finished medical school, nursing school and law school
respectively. In the same amount of time, I had six lines on network
television, five of which landed on the cutting room floor. In the midst of a perilous career path, moving
to a place with few close friends and even fewer opportunities to succeed, I
found comfort only in retreating into this shell of junk I so painstakingly
constructed.
The irony of it all is that, both figuratively and
literally, I love to be naked. Given the
proper audience, I am often the most confident person in the room. I love to
give speeches, to dance wildly and sing at the top of my lungs. There are
people in life whose company I seek just so they will ask me the “why do you
have low self-esteem” questions? Those friends who will look me in the eyes,
take none of my bullshit and surrender only when we both know I have purged the
clutter and they have purged theirs, until we have each shed layer upon layer
upon layer of emotional (sometimes literal) garment until we are both dancing
freely in our birthday suits. The paradox of course, is that my best friends,
my best cousins, those who have known me for eternity, shown me generosity of
home and spirit, often see little except
the well-painted clutter and false garments in which I have so carefully
wrapped my fragile ego.
My cousin knew the safe things. The daring things I had done
in college that I prayed my parents would never know. He knew my funny stories
about the perils of dating in Los Angeles. He had glimpses into the window of
my tales of a lost love. But as for the song of my self-worth, how I worried
that I was too old to ever make something of myself, the all-consuming fear
that, due to my lack of long-term relationships, I would never find true love,
or make a real difference in the world. He knew not of the eating disorder, the
guilt I felt in living such a self-absorbed existence, the time I was so
anxious I missed four nights of sleep, or the cutting. As for all of the
shameful and painful truths of my 26-year journey, the truths imprisoned behind
years and years of internal clutter, he knew virtually none of it. Equally, he
knew not how I earned my battle scars, how I fought valiantly, how, as a young
teenager, and again as a young adult, I vanquished darkness in the
aforementioned challenges and found light again. How, for my family, I resolved
to triumph and discovered in these instances that I was one tough motherfucker.
As I packed up my belongings in the California heat, I
purged many of them. Of course, I was still shocked by the amount of clutter I
sent down I-10s endless desert, hoping that by the time I got to New York my
load would somehow be lighter. Now that summer is here, it is time to get
naked. The halfway point is upon us and with it, the questions: ‘What can I
purge?’ ‘Where are my walls of junk so high that my loved ones cannot see past
them?’ ‘When was the last time this piece of junk served me?’ ‘What can I
surrender that may serve someone else better?’ And then when you are all done
purging and you feel that you have nothing left to throw away or to give to
charity, ask yourself again: ‘what can I purge?’ This lesson is, perhaps, the
only junk worth hoarding.
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