Stage Lights Nostalgia

I miss performing

I miss picking up the choreography like I had known it my whole life

And then doing it over and over again because it felt so damn good to move my body with purpose

I miss learning the music inside and out

Every note

Every chord

Every downbeat and key change

I miss having the drive

Even though it was overshadowed by the silent illness in my brain

The silent illness that made the sadness so intense that my very body physically ached and made me sore

The illness that suffocated me

The illness that held me down to my bed day after day and forbade me to eat or drink or sleep

The illness that stole my very will to live

The illness, however, was no match for Opening night…

Performing for a faceless crowd of strangers

To bare my soul, to dance in unison and sing in harmony with the people I shared blood sweat and tears with the several weeks leading up to this momentous moment where for one goddamn moment…

I wasn’t sad

I was thriving

I finally felt alive

My body thanked me as it moved with purpose, my brain released all the right chemicals, a gift for combining physical and mental work with art. My spirit flew all around the theater, touching each soul momentarily before returning to me.

But maybe I’m remembering it wrong.

I did have a lot of bad days during the rehearsal period.

I called out of practice several times because instead of dancing, my body was shaking with anxiety, crumpled on the floor in a heap of sobs tearing from the deepest parts of me.

And worst of all… I didn’t do the very best I could.

I recall a friend watched a musical I was in, and said my solo made him cry, like I had on stage, it was just so beautiful.

The truth was, I was wiping the sweat out of my eyes, and I was disgusted by how I sang that song. Even now, when I think about it in my head, a cat in heat probably could have done it better than my nails-on-chalkboard-wailing.

But even still…

I miss it.

Now I’m too old… too fat…

And I don’t say these things to beckon half hearted cries of reassurances and pity.

No, I state them because I know that’s just how it is.

The world of theater is a cruel one. One hundred and seventy-five pounds and almost ten years ago that was true, and it probably stands more true today.

Or maybe it’s just fear holding me back.

But I am old

I am tired

I have to work and pay bills and keep my house clean and make/maintain friendships and drink enough water AND spend time with family AND spend time doing my hobbies AND go on walks AND go to therapy AND AND AND AND AND AND

AND AND AND AND

AND AND AND

AND AND

AND

….

I wish this rant had a happy note at the end. But I guess it’s just a reflection of my dead hopes and dreams… and I was the one that killed them.

-End