I was only nine when I realized how quickly life can change. I had never lost a grandparent, never buried a pet. My parents had divorced the year prior and, though that did have some impact on my life, I can't say I was in much of a mourning phase at the time. Perhaps things were just too rocky towards the end of that marriage for me to view that split as an unwelcome development. Or, perhaps I was a kid. All I knew were the facts. My uncle Jeffrey was just 23 years old. He was young, smart, sarcastic, funny, and he loved 80's pop music. He was sick. And then, just like that, he was gone.
This isn't some story about my uncle's death or how I went to my first funeral or a cheap way for me to get attention and sympathy for something that happened two decades ago. Though, now that I've written that out, I cannot believe that much time has passed. I can't say that the death of my uncle was the most painful or only loss that I would suffer. When I was 17, my younger stepbrother was accidentally killed. When I was Jeffrey's age I not only experienced firsthand how incredibly young that feels, especially when it comes to the subject of dying, that was also the year I lost my 28 year old cousin abruptly. One year later, my great grandmother passed. The year after that, another cousin was killed in a car accident. There were family friends who were killed suddenly. I watched my parents divorce from their respective second spouses, I fell in and out of touch with people I'd known as constants in my life, I watched my mother battle addiction and lose time and time again, and then things just seemed to even out.
As all of it was happening around me, I knew,
"Casey Gayle, this is a tough pill to swallow. Nothing lasts forever."
And when I stood amongst my peers, a group of youthful, idealistic dreamers who thought and believed we had our entire lives in front of us, my knowledge of time's ability to zip by in an instant and change your reality and my unfortunate familiarity with the finality of death made me an outcast. I was, in many ways, an old woman trapped in a young body. But I knew one thing to be true- the fire in my gut was not indigestion, it was a desire to go, to be, to do, and to become. I set out to prove I could be anything I wanted to be and, having dealt with what I'd dealt with, I was pretty cocky about it. Terrified, yes, but I'd found that most overly- confident fuckers are scared out of their minds anyway. The fear was nothing more than a motivator.
Moving was in my blood. My mother and I lived in more houses in my youth than most people even visited in their lifetime, so I knew I could pack up and go. All I had to do was search and I would find what I needed. My path took me across the country not once, but twice. Alone. The minute I got settled into a "daily grind", I had to move on. I was going to be the greatest success my small Georgia town had ever seen. I would write films, I would write books, I would write books that would be turned into to films, I would star in those films, I would marry Elijah Wood or someone equally as geeky, and I would have money to buy my remaining family members what they needed since their business went bankrupt and they didn't have very much. It was not a question of "if" but a question of "when." Every show that I did was a step toward that better future where I was an accomplished whatever the hell I was meant to be and people were intimidated by how awesome I had become. I wanted and needed to work. Sleep? Who needed it? Money for food? I'd find it. Parties with friends? Later...after rehearsal...when they were all too drunk to remember. I worked my fingers to the bone, I lost too much weight, and I lived a life full of wants. And then 2009 happened.
It wasn't as if I never expected to get another phone call like the ones I'd received in my youth. I knew it would happen again, because that is the unfortunate reality that is life. I just didn't think it would happen when I was so far away from my home, nor did I think I would experience two losses so close to one another. April of that year my grandfather passed and two months later, almost to the exact day, my grandmother on the other side of the family died quickly and suddenly. Two people with direct lines to my childhood, gone. I realized then that the death of a loved one has a completely different effect on you if you're an adult. As a child, you know it can happen. When it happens, you grieve, you send that person's soul to heaven, and you move on. As a grown-up, the pain was like a third arm. It was palpable. I could taste it. It was present in everything I saw and did. It took over my spirit for months and made me question everything about myself. What did I want out of life?
I came out of that a different person. I wouldn't say I'm any weaker, though stronger doesn't seem quite right either. My life did take on new meaning. I started to take root in Chicago. For the first time, I really felt I had a home away from home. Visions of moving off to LA and New York vanished from my mind. This is where I came to find out new things, and this is where I would stay. My goals didn't change, but my approach did. I backed off. I started seeing things right in front of me and taking them at face value: I have a job that I do not like. That needs to change today. I'm not doing the shows I want to do or getting the roles I think I deserve. That needs to change today. I am not acknowledging other people's birthdays or special events like I should. That needs to change today. Everything I saw, everything I felt, everything I believed, it was happening to me and it was happening today. I couldn't say what or where I would be tomorrow, because that was not something I was guaranteed as a human being. I simply had today. So, what would I do with it?
I still only have today. I still live part of my life on pins and needles waiting for news-both good and bad. But I slowed down for today. I can't spend countless hours working towards something that is not guaranteed to be mine tomorrow if I don't even have tomorrow's contract signed and in my hand. It shocks me to this day that those deaths had that impact on my work ethic. The very thing that sped me up and made me a workaholic in my youth slowed me down when I got older. I hold onto goals and dreams, and sometimes those wants and desires are much larger than my willingness to do and to work. I still put forth an effort and I try to "make something of myself" even if I'm not sure what the fuck that means half the time. But I do my best to do what I want to do, when I want to do it. At times, the thought of not having a tomorrow causes me to cling to people, to panic about my current day and worry I won't get things done. But, I have to take a step back and look at life like this: You spend the first few years of your life wrapped up safely in someone's arms. As you develop and grow, you are thrust out into a world that can be cruel and unforgiving. It can scar you. But, if you can end your life wrapped in that same security, whether it's the arms of a friend, a significant other, or someone you've helped in some way, then how can life really be so bad? How can all of the trivial nonsense we bitch about on a daily basis because we're spoiled American brats really matter? If you can't be certain you'll reach the first half of tomorrow, why spend the last half of today consumed with regret and worry?
As artists, as 20 and 30-somethings, as people, we long for what is right around the corner. We beat ourselves up if things don't go our way. We criticize and judge ourselves based on how successful we've become, how much money they make, how many expensive trips we can afford. What if we just cut ourselves some slack? What if we gave ourselves some fucking peace? What if, just once, we sat on the front stoop and caught up with an old friend? What if we made it a point to do that every day? What if we relished in the little things? Would that get us to the goals of tomorrow any faster? Most likely not. But, it would really sweeten our existence today.
