Loneliness had always been a staple for me, an inherent disconnect from my surroundings, a foundational dissociation. Lured away from my existence, I thought those around me wanted me to disappear—that I was preferred as an illusion.
I was unable to work for a while. The therapist suggested the break, as did my parents. Acting was the last thing I wanted to do anyhow. Too fragile and erratic, loud noises made me jump. A soft touch on the shoulder could make me cower. The thought of being away, of being alone—for the first time, it all felt impossible. I’d ached to be on my own in the past, and now I’d cling to whatever I could grasp. Any inkling of care I could sense.
For the most part I followed the eating schedule from the therapist. The stress at mealtimes did not go away and knowing how dangerous the situation had become only added to my anxiety. I wanted the external concern to stop. Tired of “the talks” and the scrutiny. And there was a part I desperately wanted at the time, the role of a pregnant teenager no less. I focused on Juno, and avoided the core of the issue.
Snacks had been a void in my life, something before bed, unthinkable, but I’d force it down. My weight began to rise. I drank smoothies with blueberries and avocado and protein powder that made me gassy. I was managing the snacks, slowly training my body to chew and swallow and digest food again. To stay calm, to not have to get drunk first. Not ideal, but at least some pounds were returning.
I had to travel to Los Angeles for my final Juno audition, which was more of a screen test. I am the first to admit when I am not right for something, but this was one of those rare occasions where by page five, I couldn’t fathom not doing it, I just knew. I read Diablo Cody’s screenplay on the floor of my bedroom in Halifax. Her wit opened up a new vernacular—it was organic and honest. I’d been craving something like this, a character like this, as an actor and an audience member. This I could do.
Still too thin, but much better, I flew to LA with my mother. I had gone from being independent very young, moving out at sixteen, to a kid with their mother traveling alongside them. The thought of functioning alone felt too risky, and I could not take any chances. A suggestion from the well-meaning therapist that I don’t think was the best decision. As I grew more confident in my queerness, her denial grew, too.
Before she was a teacher my mom worked for Air Canada, not as a flight attendant but as a passenger agent. My mother has been forever terrified of flying. For the takeoff, she closes her eyes and braces tight. Turbulence and you witness her heart jump, a sort of shiver runs through the body. I let her know that it’s okay, it’ll pass. It wrenches my heart watching my mother afraid, a window to her pain. She’s had a lot of that in her life.
We reached altitude. My anxiety was fluttering. On a plane you have no choice but to sit, body pressed into the seat, nowhere to flee. I obsessively went over the pages for the audition. Running the dialogue in my head, I wrote it out over and over, a process that helps me remember. My mother finally calmed and focused on a movie.
We flew from Halifax to Toronto, where we met Michael Cera and his father on our Los Angeles flight. For this audition, I was to read thirty pages of the script, mostly with Michael, the lengthiest audition I have ever done. But having just binged Arrested Development, I was stoked, his humor original and grounded, emotions on his sleeve. We sat in the middle of the plane, Michael and his father were on the other side of the aisle. We exchanged pleasantries, he was quiet but exuded kindliness.
After takeoff, Michael promptly lowered the meal tray, crossed his arms over it, and rested his head to sleep. He stayed that way until we started our descent. I looked on in admiration and disbelief. How could he be so relaxed? I pressed back my seat, reclining it more, I could see my mom’s anxious knees bounce.
Even though it was implied the role was mine before the screen test, my heart still burst with excitement when I got the call. One of those rare occasions—a character who filled me with joy. I’d been cast, a dream role.
Initially we were supposed to make the film a couple months after the screen test, but it ended up being pushed, which was good, more time to recover, no excuses. Drastically better with food, albeit still self-restricting, work helped me. Being on this set was healing, flashes of torture not following me home, and I was making a point to fuel my body. Not perfect, but a hell of a lot better. I had something meaningful to focus on after feeling unequivocally no meaning at all. Depression had sucked me dry.
It was a job where I felt comfortable, able to start from a grounded place, versus outside my body, trying to crawl back in. Hair, wardrobe, and makeup at work was typically a nightmare for me. Ironically, playing a pregnant teenager was one of the first times I felt a modicum of autonomy on set. I was wearing a fake belly but not being hyperfeminized. For me, Juno was emblematic of what could be possible, a space beyond the binary.
While filming in Vancouver I stayed at the Sutton Place, or the “Slutton Place” as some in the industry refer to it. A cavernous hotel, with dated decor, it’s located in downtown Vancouver and has long-stay units where actors frequently reside.
My mother and I shared a two-bedroom suite. And her being the daughter of an Anglican minister born in 1954 in Saint John, New Brunswick, well, it made it complicated when I met someone, the first woman I had a suitably consensual sexual relationship with.
I was taken aback the moment I saw Olivia Thirlby. Embodied and bold, her long brown hair moved in slow motion. We were the same age, but she seemed so much older, capable, and centered. Sexually open, far removed from where I was at the time. But the chemistry was palpable, it pulled me in. I was embarrassingly shy with Olivia. She had much more experience. I was closed off. It was rare I let anything in, but I felt comfortable with her, and I began to poke my head out of its shell. We became friends quickly, spending a lot of time together.
We stood in her hotel room. Billie Holiday played. She was about to start making lunch, when she looked directly at me and said point-blank, “I’m really attracted to you.”
“Uh, I’m really attracted to you, too.”
At that we started sucking face. It was on.
I had an all-encompassing desire for her, she made me want in a way that was new, hopeful. It was one of the first times someone would make me cum, the first time I would open up. And we started having sex all the time: her hotel room, in our trailers at work, once in a tiny, private room in a restaurant. What were we thinking? We thought we were subtle. Being intimate with Olivia helped my shame dissipate. I didn’t see a glint of it in her eyes and I wanted that—done feeling wretched about who I am.
I do not know if my mom suspected anything. She probably just thought Olivia and I had become fast pals. Which was true. But still, I kept it hidden. Olivia came to my suite maybe once.
We would sometimes hang out in Michael’s room, and once Jonah Hill came to visit. It was after they had made Superbad but before it had come out. There was weed and gin. Michael had a groovy little keyboard out and was tinkering around with Jonah. He would make music when he wasn’t filming, just always being perfectly, annoyingly cool. We all got baked and wandered Vancouver together. We trekked down to Stanley Park, a massive, jaw-dropping green oasis. The gargantuan trees bring you to your knees. The Douglas firs, the western red cedars … some towering up to 249 feet. All of these moments brand-new adventures.
Making Juno reinvigorated me, inspired me, strengthened me. We said our sad goodbyes in a curling rink, a very Canadian wrap party. My heart hurt as I traveled home. Switching planes in Toronto, I boarded a flight back to Halifax. Listening to the Moldy Peaches as we broke through the clouds on our descent. I stared out the window, nothing but trees and lakes and rivers below.
What will happen with that little indie? I wondered as the flight landed on the tarmac. The sudden lurch caused me to jump.
11
ONLY KIDDING
I did not vomit from the age of eleven until I was twenty-eight, a few months after I came out as gay. At a party at a friend’s house in Brooklyn on July Fourth, we climbed up to the roof to watch the fireworks. BANG! POP! I looked to the sky, out over the river the colors exploded across the backdrop, the moon staring down quizzically at us funny humans and our funny things. I became light-headed and my ears started to ring.
Am I really about to vomit? I thought. Is this the moment my streak is over, like that episode in Seinfeld with the cookie?