Tuesday, January 31, 2012


Time slowed when my mom died, slowed more when I was hit by the car, but stopped utterly the day I left N., my director. I had been trying to keep up with my group-and-I couldn't. I just couldn't. No matter how hard I tried, no matter what tricks I was doing, no matter what- I just couldn't keep up. The last day I saw N., I was in my private session with him. It had been rocky for a while, and my resentment was building....You see-it is the worst thing in the world when you're just trying to function, and you are literally being accused of not having willpower or some sort of control over yourself. In this case it was acting. N. was almost backhanded in his faith in my intelligence and ability. I wasn't terrible, you see. I was actually never as bad as my stories suggest. It was one of the true weirdnesses of the past few years-when I could remember before so well, and the after was just strange. N. could be cruel. There I said it. He was not a nice man. Manipulative,charming,brilliant. But not kind-although he had moments. On this particular day, I had my private session, which I usually had, followed by Banana Republic, and then back again-either for a rehearsal or group class. I was essentially spending all my time either at the doctors, physical therapy, or with him. I couldn't remember my lines. I didn't understand my character, I didn't bring work to him. In retrospect, I was protecting my own sense of self. You see, these things were about as unlike me as you could get. That day, I walked in, and he started screaming at me. And? It clicked in-somehow, someway, I didn't need to do this in order to work as an actor. I didn't need someone who clearly didn't understand or care about what was going on with me. I never made a secret of my injuries, except perhaps downplay them, because I wanted to work with him, however when he cast me as a dancer-I had to come clean. And yet? I still danced in every rehearsal. And as he screamed at me, I stood up, picked up my purse, and calmly said-"I'm done. We're finished. Thank you for everything, but I'm done." He thought I was kidding. I knew I wasn't, and would never be there again. Six years. In those six years, I never made a single friend. I thought of the actors being so close to me, so close, finding my secrets out, me finding out theirs. But that day, I left. And I never talked to anyone ever again. That day probably was the one that broke me. I had always had such faith in my ability. But I knew I couldn't stay. It's been two years. I have not set foot on a stage since. But every day, I write. I look at my plays. I go and watch people. I do all the things I've always done to be an actor. And now-time is moving again. I feel the clock ticking, but not in a bad way. In a "what next" kind've way. Because I am lucky enough to be ok. I can think, I can read, I can write, I can go out with my friends-and yesterday? I accidentally memorized a passage by just reading it. Here's what people who are whole don't realize. That every little movement forward, every new thing that can be done, any new person that you can let in your life? Walking outside with a cup of coffee along the waterfront? For some people that's victory. For me-that's victory. And I appreciate it. I made the decision that day to get well. And? Today, I realized, I've not had physical therapy for two months. And I don't care. For years, my life revolved around treatment. Then just maintaining. Now? It's just about seeking happiness. Nothing will ever make up for the time I lost, but I will not let keep me from seizing the time I have.

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