I spent all day yesterday crying because I didn’t get into this screenwriting fellowship. I knew upon applying that I wasn’t going to get it—still—I put the entirety of my self-worth on its outcome and sulked around my apartment. To soothe my psyche and forget how hyperbolic I was being, I decided to drown in a few episodes of Alone season 6, while inhaling cheesecake on our couch that we’re forbidden to eat on— a rule that I declared upon its godly arrival.
Alone is a reality competition show about ten people dropped in the Arctic with ten supplies of their choosing, who must outlast the others in order to win $500k (pre-taxed, my dad would like you to know). They’re removing themselves from society in hopes of being able to participate more freely in society… it’s ironic and I totally get it. The participants film themselves and can tap out for any number of reasons such as injuries, homesickness, or severe hunger and lack of hope. They might also be sent home if they are found to be under weight during one of their medical check ups. While no reality TV show participant has ever died in my personal history of watching reality TV, the potential of death is the kind of blood-rare steak that keeps me coming back for more.
I scraped my Tupperware for more cheesecake as I searched the show for connection and catharsis which I often find in T.V. One of the contestants, Jordan, a simple man from Virginia, catches a moose in the first few weeks. This guy is set, my little city-brain thought. Instead, Jordan hemorrhages energy (AKA survival gold) working to store the meat away from greedy wolverines (AKA Hugh Jackmans). One of these Mr. Jackmans steals the fat from Jordan’s moose meat, leaving him with only lean moose meat, which might as well be air, because we need fat to survive. So, Jordan is stuffing his frozen face with lean moose meat (if I mention moose meat three times, I get a years supply of it), only to find out he’s losing weight at a dangerous rate. As I carefully steered lumps of fat and sugar into my mouth, I wondered if this show was helping me feel any better. Was I going to be able to connect with any of this? I’d never been overwhelmed my moose meat before. Perhaps it was just entertainment, and it’s as dumb and simple as that. But as I let Netflix play one episode after another, I began to notice a relatable theme of perceived wins and set backs.
Nathan, one of the more boring contestants, forgoes bringing a ferro-rod as part of his ten items (literally the only one who didn’t choose this). He spends his first day in the Arctic burrowing holes through pieces of wood trying to start a fire. Finally, he sparks one up just before darkness descends. Wohoo! He did it! But then the embers catch on his pine roof and his house burns down.
Nikki, part wilderness-guide part cavewoman, is giddy to find that one of her traps has caught a squirrel. Tearing up with gratitude, she reaches for the squirrel and… SURPRISE! The squirrel’s still alive, Nikki! It digs its thick, diseased teeth into her hand, reaching bone. The puncture is so deep and bloody that there’s no way of telling if any foreign objects got inside. She cleans it as best she can and waits to see whether or not her hand falls off. But, at least she gets to eat squirrel for dinner.
The sting of my rejection started to wane. Losing this fellowship opportunity was merely a little squirrel bite in a world of house fires and malnutrition. But as the gravity of my experience lessened, embarrassment over my intense wallowing soared.
Less enthused, I watched as Mike, a big rugged man, treks across a frozen lake to a part that’s thawed. He pauses from gulping the fresh water after not having a drink in 24 hours. “Man, I miss my wife and kids,” he confesses on the brink of mental, physical, and spiritual collapse. The effort of it all makes him doubt his decision to be out there. But then, Mike falls to his knees on the hard ice, and folds over himself, weeping. My jaw dropped, the cheesecake balancing on my slippery tongue. I recognized that position of self defeat. When he’s done sobbing his brains out, Mike (sets the tripod up) and gives a little speech to the camera:
“I know on TV it probably looks easy. Like, what’s that guy crying about, but this place really cracks you open like an egg. You grow up, you don’t cry, you don’t show emotion… And being out here, it really strips all that away. You’re okay with feeling emotions. I just needed a good cry, I guess. I needed to get it out. Let it be done. And as soon as I did that, I just knew it was gonna be okay.”
Damn, was thirsty Mike speaking right to me? I’d indulged in playing the role of tortured artist after being paralyzed by rejection, but maybe I didn’t need to add a layer of embarrassment or shame. Maybe the only way to get over it and move on, was to go through the feelings, not around them. Similar to Mike, this wasn’t something I’d practiced growing up. I didn't express my feelings because I feared they would be “too much.” Although, some may disagree with this narrative, like my brother, at whom I once threw a phone…and like my sister, at whom I once threw a chair. I can express upset about not getting something I wanted just in the same way Mike can be upset about potentially dying of thirst alone. I exhaled relief, renewal, and cheesecake breath, and sensed I was now ready for another day of work, just like Mike.***
I closed my laptop, and surveyed the couch for any crumbs only to find a giant red stain. As it turns out, it wasn’t my poor motor skills serving me sweets that I had to worry about, but rather the show’s ability to make me forget all sense of time and reality. I guess catharsis can be found in escape as well as connection. I sat there for so long uninterrupted that I bled through my super tampon, my Thinx™, and my sweatpants, onto my spotless couch… If that’s not a rave review for this show, then it’s simply a testament to how heavy my flow is.
***Mike was sent home the next day for being severely underweight.
