Aside from my delicious bean sandwich yesterday, it was a rather emotional and pleasantly solitary day. After fleeing the theatre, I found myself glued to Ken Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, and then, after I'd finished it, found myself hiding in my bathroom, crying silently so my roomie wouldn't think I'm weirder than I already am.
It hit a similar chord as Next to Normal always does with me. I have a feeling it'll be another one where the more I read it and the more I watch it (I made the heartwrenching mistake of watching the Jack Nicholson film immediately after reading it) that it will sucker punch me more every time.
What is crazy. And I cried some more, knowing that taking away laughter and hurting and crazy makes someone worse than dead. "Because he knows you have to laugh at the things that hurt you to keep yourself in balance, just to keep the world from running you plumb crazy."
I looked up lobotomies and EST, reading how, before chemicals could run through our blood, they would shock and cut up the brain matter of people like me. Is it self-awareness, now, that makes me different?
Also, I'm not actually insane.
Also, without my brand of crazy, I wouldn't be half the artist I am. It's as much a part of me as my DNA. Oh wait, it's in my DNA.
And, basking in the warmth that feeling a lot of emotions all at once tends to create inside me, like some engine hidden under a dusty old blanket was finally uncovered and was glowing in my core, still chugging away, I found myself lying awake, watching the play of headlights and streetlamps sliding in blind-bars across my ceiling. Thinking too much? Can't sleep? Think some more!
So I got to thinking, not about what constitutes crazy, but about things I shouldn't think much about, exes and flings and mistakes, and I found the root of a certain kind of hurting inside of me. Why I act, maybe, and about my high standards, and about how my heart is slowly growing a coating of jade plating. I'm not sure that, except for brief moments, I have ever felt like every ounce of me is enough. That my mind, my body and my spirit, combined into the entirety that is me, has ever been completely enough for anyone. So I'm in this constant uphill battle to find the face I need to wear, or the words I need to say, or the gestures I need to enact to be enough for myself and someone else. It's not an incompleteness. It's like rearranging a tangram puzzle into a new outline, but with all the same pieces as before.
Which is funny, since I know, deep, deep down, that (and I can't find the blog post about it, but it's around the archives somewhere from this past semester) I am not broken. I do not need to be fixed. I sure feel like I'm missing something, most days.
So. I'll hopefully spend today being productive and not thinking quite so much.
Lots of love.
You seem like such a beautiful person. I'm 28 and just realizing that I have a talent for acting. The first time I auditioned for a local show, I got the lead (Jack Manningham in "Gaslight"), and rave reviews, and compared to Orson Welles. Flattering and shocking all, but I digress. I can sympathize with the "insanity" I think acting is in the blood/soul and that actors/actresses simply feel... More... Anyway, check out my blogspot for a link to my Vlog. Hopefully you'll get a giggle or two, and break a leg in life, won't you? And thank you for sharing your feelings and insight. Things like that encourage and inspire!
ReplyDeleteThank you so much, Cody - I just realized today that people actually comment every so often, so sorry this is so delayed. Break a leg to you too - at everything :)
ReplyDeleteYou're welcome, and, no worries. It's just awesome to know that someone else out there... God, how to put it into words without cheapening it... It's simply comforting to not feel utterly alone for once. To realize that someone else feels awash in a sea of "sanity" and people who want to force their brand of sanity upon us. Who knows, maybe we are the sane ones?
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