I was just saying to m’carpool buddy last night…as we unlocked our seatbelts and began collecting our bags of crap to take with us into the theatre…that it’s prob’ly a really good thing that I’m doing a show right now, else I’d be pretty plowed with this cloud of “suck” I’ve got stalking me.
Work at the office it just hell-squared and multiplied, with too muchness and no rest or reprieve in sight…and finances are for total shit, with now added stress of getting license fees paid so I can rejoin the rest of the adult driving population, plus some personal stuff has really gotten me down.
I dunno ’bout you, but every so often, life likes to hit me these shitty ground balls, that keep popping up at the last second and smacking me in the face. It’s never just the one, it’s often three or four…they are always in close succession, and at the most inconvenient times.
This is one of those times.
…And it’s hard to find a good balance to that.
You know what I mean?
…Turning the crap parts off, at the end of the day, has become like a third job for the past several weeks. And carpooling with Mr. Director means I have less than the average time to do that in, as his schedule requires earlier arrivals for production meetings. Which means for the past week, I have not “been done” yet in the converting process of Part “A” into Part “B,” by the time I’m supposed to be moving on into “the next thing.”
…Plus, for the past TWO days of that, I’ve been hormonal as well.
…Which meant my needing (for sanity purposes) to unplug from the world the second I get into the car, until nearly the second we arrive at the theatre…in which time I’m over my head with blaring music coming at me through my earbuds, and trying my very best NOT to fixate on the crap that I cannot control across about thirty minutes of commute time, after which, I’m supposed to magically emerge as: “funny.”
“Funny” isn’t easy in any circumstances, and it’s even harder when you really, really, really, would rather just sit and cry…alone…in the bathtub…for a few minutes.
…Not in a total melt-down capacity. Not because life is beyond the point of undertaking, but rather because you are frustrated, and tired, and broke and see no reason that won’t continue for a great deal of time to come. Or, like Holly Hunter in “Broadcast News” where she gives herself that 5 minute pre-cry release every morning, as a prep for all the shit that will likely be flung at her that day.
I feel like this kind of depression needs it’s own name, really. It surpasses a “groan,” but isn’t as bad as “travesty.”
…It’s “important” and constantly “present”…like the reverse gut-fear feeling of an adrenaline rush, but it isn’t a major disease, and you aren’t being evicted.
…It makes sleeping spotty, involuntary sighs a natural byproduct, and stupid people annoy you a little bit more than they usually do, but you haven’t burst into tears due to a malfunctioning stapler, punched a wall, or set your desk on fire. (yet.)
Actually, this emotional space I’m currently at, is what I picture a LOT of poor adult bastards live in…like 80% of the time. So I should be glad that it’s just come to my attention as being a current “thing” and not a life-long “constant”…which is about two steps lower than my average emo state…which still puts me better off than the chick with 5 kids, working the drive thu at McDonalds right now.
…And I can appreciate that fact.
Some of the time.
…Only mostly, this week, I have not. Appreciated it, that is. Not even the part where I “get to” go to rehearsal every night.
Nope.
This week, absolutely everything but breathing and sleeping has been one gigantic personal pain in my ass. Even eating.
…And yet, every night in it, by the end of a rehearsal that I sincerely did NOT want to go to, where I insisted to myself that there was no fucking way on god’s green earth that I would ever be able to be FUNNY at, (because why in the hell SHOULD I, given the current circumstances?!) Every night (by the end), I had somehow or another been slapped out of it.
…Which ended up helping a lot more than I originally thought it did.
It meant, going to bed every night, minus the cloud of “shit.”
…Sure, it would come in throughout the night, like a light fog, and start to seep and settle and collect and grow by morning, back to it’s original size. But in the meantime, at least I got some sleep outta the deal. Some laughs the night before…
…And every once in a while…for reasons surpassing understanding…for about three hours or so, I could even be “funny.”
I don’t know what I’m trying to say with all that. But whatever it is, involves art somehow, and how it’s a good thing, I guess.
So: now you know.
~D
