Friday, December 10th, 2004.
My band had just finished a terrible set at a place called Big Boys Q'N in Carbondale, IL. Truly one of the very worst shows we'd ever played. Which is really saying something, because this particular line-up had just never gelled. That night was only the latest in a string of bad gigs.
It was halfway through the second song that I decided I didn't want to be in this band anymore. I finished the show and before the last note even finished fading out, I turned around and said to the drummer:
"That's it."
"That's it?" He replied.
I nodded. "That's it."
I'm pretty sure that was the last time we spoke.
A lot of things were ending. A girl I'd been dating on and off for most of my time at Southern Illinois University had just broken up with me. I was blindsided, but I shouldn't have been. She'd had one foot out the door for most of our relationship. We were still hanging out constantly — her trying to stay friends, me clinging to something that was already gone.
She'd been at the show. We rode back to my place together in silence. My place. Just a few weeks prior, it had been our place. Her friends had moved her stuff out while I was away one weekend. There were a lot of naked walls and empty corners I couldn't bring myself to fill.
As I was unpacking my gear from the trunk, some kids in a car threw empty beer cans at me, yelled a few derogatory slurs, and made fun of my long hair. I went inside and capped the night off by getting into another argument with my ex. For no other reason than to pick at scabs. Refusing to let up until a door was slammed in my face.
I hated that town. I hated who I'd become there. And more than anything, I hated that it felt like I was trapped.
Things only got worse from there.
A few days later, I found out that a close friend of mine back home had taken her own life. I thought about our last conversation. Dissected it for clues. Blamed myself for being too self-absorbed to notice how much pain she was in. Even the good memories were tainted now. Paper cuts across my heart.
I didn't know how to grieve because the distance made it so intangible. It wasn’t until her mom called that it felt real. Although I recognized the voice, she sounded different — half there, half somewhere else entirely. When I saw her a few months later, she was like a vase that had been shattered and then glued back together. Reassembled, but with visible cracks. Never the same. Because when someone you love dies, they take a piece of you with them.
Carbondale became a ghost town over that winter break. There were some days I appreciated the isolation, but most of the time it was torture. I knew I had to get out of there. And as I was packing my bags to go home for the holidays, a truth I'd spent months trying to suppress grew too loud to ignore...
I didn't want to come back.
I was terrified to admit this. Because I knew how it would go over with my family. This would just be one more thing I hadn’t been able to make work. The latest in a long, sad string of fuck-ups. But that’s what I was. That’s what I did. Every God damn time.
A few years prior, I had dropped out of film school at Columbia College in Chicago to focus on my band. I know, I know... just typing that sentence made me laugh and cringe. But the thing is, I never felt like I was closing the door on filmmaking. It was just that the band was picking up some serious momentum and I felt like if I didn't give it a real shot, I might always regret it.
So. Y'know.
Whoops.
After a year of ups and downs with that (mostly downs), some of my bandmates and I started to wonder if having some sort of Plan B might not be the worst idea in the world. So that's what SIU became. My Plan B was to become an English teacher.
In retrospect, I think the real reason I did it was that so many other people told me I'd be good at it. And after years of feeling like a black sheep, it was so satisfying to have truly enthusiastic support. Especially from someone like my dad. I remember the way he lit up when I told him. For once, there was pride instead of disappointment. And when you’ve spent your whole life chasing the approval of someone who never gives it to you, finally getting a tiny taste of it can make you ravenous for more. Which is why I never questioned whether or not this was actually something I really wanted to do. And I still feel terrible about that. I could have saved myself and everyone around me a lot of misery (and money).
The funny thing is, I never stopped making movies or writing scripts. Not that year with the band or my entire time down in Carbondale. I don't know why it wasn't a red flag to me that that’s what was always on my mind. I think I felt ashamed to admit it. After dropping out of film school, my interest in that stuff became something I convinced myself I had to keep secret. Like a recovering addict trying to hide his relapses.
So despite everyone telling me I was finally on the right path, I knew something was wrong. I wound up making this mix CD where there was a running theme across all of the songs: rebirth and transformation. The last track on it was “Butterflies & Hurricanes” by Muse. Here are some of the lyrics that get repeated over and over…
Change everything you are
And everything you were
Your number has been called
Fights and battles have begun
Revenge will surely come
Your hard times are ahead
I listened to that CD (and that song especially) while trying to figure out what I wanted out of life at that moment. What did I want it to look like? What did I want it to feel like? As I daydreamed about different scenarios, there was one in particular I kept returning to…
I couldn’t stop thinking about everything I’d thrown away by leaving Columbia. Not just the classes and the credits, but the connections. The friendships. The mentors. I wondered what it would be like to go back, but to do it right this time. No more half-assing everything. No band. No distractions. And no more commuting in from the suburbs like I had previously.
So that’s what I wanted life to look like: an apartment in the city, going to school with people that had similar goals and interests, and making friends that I’d work on projects with during the day and hang out with at night.
And how did I want to feel? Honest. Creative. Challenged. Accepted.
But none of that seemed remotely possible. Not logistically and certainly not financially. For many, many reasons, the easier choice would have been to just suck it up and ride it out in Carbondale. Not the least of which was the thought of having to call my dad to tell him I was dropping out of college for the second time.
But I did. And you know what his response was?
"I'm just about ready to give up on you."
It was blunt. It was cruel. And it was also completely understandable. Dad may have been the only one to actually say it, but I’m sure he wasn't the only one thinking it.
Thank God Mom was the second phone call. She hid whatever reservations she may have had and simply told me that if that’s what I really wanted, that’s what I should do.
As I started making plans, there was one more lyric from that Muse song that kept echoing in my head…
Your last chance has arrived.
I can't believe how fast it all happened. By the time that winter break ended, I had re-enrolled at Columbia, applied for student loans, moved out of the house in Carbondale, and found someone in Chicago who had just lost their roommate unexpectedly and needed a new one asap.
But here’s the really important part: things didn’t get better right away.
I didn't know anyone in Chicago. Classes didn’t start for another few weeks. I was also down to my last few bucks and having a hard time finding a job. I tried to keep myself occupied and explore my new surroundings, but it was the middle of winter. So I spent most of my time sitting alone in that apartment wondering if I’d made a huge mistake.
Not many of my credits from SIU carried over, so when the new semester did begin, I still had a lot of gen-ed classes to take. They were all filled with kids much younger than I was. And in my film classes, I quickly realized that because I’d transferred in the middle of the year, these students all knew each other already. I was an interloper.
Reality did not match the daydream.
The next couple of months were lonely, demoralizing, and bleak. I thought, well now you’ve really done it, dummy. You went all-in with a losing hand and now you’ve blown your last chance. Every bridge has been burned. Every heart has been broken. You’ve got no friends. No money. No prospects. No future.
At best, I was a burden to everyone around me. At worst? An absolute embarrassment. It seemed like I had gone the long way around to return to a very familiar status quo: no clue where I was going or what I was doing. Aimless. Meaningless. Hopeless.
And then…
It came time to make a film for my Production I class. I hadn’t held a 16mm Bolex camera in ages. I was worried everyone on the set was going to be standing there waiting for me to try and figure out how to load the damn thing. I couldn’t believe it when muscle memory took over and I did it in less than a minute. I had neglected this part of myself, but it had never abandoned me.
When I called “Action!” on the first take and the film started humming through the body of that camera, I knew for the first time in years that I was right where I was meant to be. For someone who’s perpetually stuck inside his own head, the space in between “Action!” and “Cut!” is one of the only places I can truly let go and be 100% present. That’s my home. That’s where I belong.
And on that afternoon, it’s how I knew I would eventually be okay.
That long winter eventually ended. The sun came out. The city came alive. And even though reality never completely matched the daydream (does it ever?), by the time that semester was winding down, I had to acknowledge it had at least come pretty fucking close.
And in some ways, even better.
In addition to the friends I made in the film program (a few of whom I still work with to this day), I eventually got a job at a Starbucks where I met some of the best friends I’ve ever had in my entire life. We were all so different, but also the same: young, creative, a little out of step, and just trying to figure it out. A band of misfits who, for a time, became a family.
And during one of my shifts at that store, a cute blonde who worked at the theater across the street came in for a cup of coffee. Unbeknownst to me, I had just met the woman who would become my wife.
Looking back now, I can’t even fathom what would have happened to me or who I’d be today if I’d stayed at SIU. Leaving the way I did made me feel like a failure at the time, but walking away was not quitting. Sometimes staying is what giving up looks like. You should never resign yourself to a particular outcome, situation, or relationship.
That December in Carbondale taught me that you have to listen to your heart, even when it’s telling you something you don’t want to hear. Maybe especially then. The right choice will almost always be the more difficult one.
And what those first few terrible months in Chicago taught me is that it won’t always feel like the right choice straight away. Sometimes things have to get worse before they get better.
Whatever you’re going through… no matter how low you feel… if you can just hang on, you’ll discover this is not the end of your story. It’s the beginning of a new chapter.
Take care, friends. Talk to you soon.
This post hit me like a freight train. Especially how I feel right now. Working two jobs that don’t give me any satisfaction whatsoever and can be replaced without a second thought. A day job that has brought me to tears on more than one occasion. But, filming something with my friends just recently had me feeling like I was in my element. That those creative challenges aren’t overwhelming but rewarding when they’re figured out.
As someone who feels embarrassed when family asks, “How’s the movie business, kid?” I too feel like I’m tolerated for my goals due to family ties. But, having those folks who come into your life and support you sincerely because of all your quirks are worth their weight in gold. So glad you have that in your life now, man.
Welled up reading this from sadness, however happy tears were rolling by the end. Keep up the awesome work, Chris.
Powerful post. What say you to someone whose figured it out on the cusp of 40, realizing there's a passion for film, world building, comedy writing, etc, but feeling like they're way too late. "I" feel like I'm way too late, I'm playing catchup. In addition to this challenge, I have a 9-5 job to earn the "fun coupons" in order to pay for life, so I can't fully immerse, nor spilt myself into a new career into the arts. Or is that just silly? The thing is, these weren't options presented to me when I was younger, but I should've just figured it out on my own that you don't have to live in California to be associated with film entertainment, or stay out in the clubs until 2am getting heckled in New York to be a standup comic. The fact that I've come to these realizations now is a bit disheartening, because I can't just pull the ripcord and get the last 10 years back. Coincidentally enough, I was talking with my mom the other day and said something along the lines of, "I wish I could just leave the firm and work as a barista at Starbucks so I can have the time and bandwidth to work on my stuff, while also being able to pay for my expenses." As supportive of a mother she is, her response is "Yea, no." And I know what she means by that, because I've heard it my whole life, that she just wants her son to not have to struggle and become a "starving." We're Italian, so failure and how starved we are have a real correlation to success. Admittedly, I've also grown accustomed to living a certain away, but I can't stop dreaming about the other stuff. You've done so much already, and you're a freaking inspiration sir, so I would ask what would you recommend or say to yourself if you had started 10 years later without that ability to go to school, or ctrl+alt+delete your situation to start anew?
Thank you as always Chris!