The family came to visit on July 5, so there was all sorts of going to the beach and eating New England seafood and walking around town before they came to see my show, which they hated. Okay, maybe "hated" isn't exactly accurate, but "would never have voluntarily chosen to see of their own volition were it not for the fact that a Person To Whom They Have An Obligation As Well As Some Affection was working on it" still lacks a single word. I'm fairly strongly convinced that theatre -- and the other performing arts, as well -- would do well to add such a word to its lexicon. Any suggestions? Or is there a pre-existing one that I'm missing?
I feel a sort of peculiar tension between the artistic tastes of my family and myself. On the one hand, I am eternally grateful for growing up in a household where the arts are appreciated, for having been exposed to the arts in the first place and having my efforts be supported. I'm amazingly fortunate in that respect, and I certainly wouldn't be where I am today without having had all that.
On the other hand, as I've gotten older and my own tastes have developed, I find myself going through that rite of passage where you realize that your parents are, in fact, only human. Only in my case, the harshest blow comes with seeing with clear eyes the way that an individual whom I hold in the highest esteem thinks that Menopause: The Musical was frighteningly clever and hangs a Thomas Kinkade winter scene wall tapestry with blinking multi-colored LEDs without the least bit of irony. It's a fact of life that not everyone has the same tastes -- in fact, that is one of life's boons. But oh, how it stings to suddenly be confronted with such a vaunted figure not having an appreciation for anything that they deem to be too "weird." To say nothing of the refrigerator stocked with light beer that had me convinced for years that I didn't like beer at all.
It's also odd to be reaching that realization that visiting family (or being visited by family) is a disruption. Not necessarily a bad disruption! But it is a disruption to Life As It Usually Is -- in other words, the center of one's life has, at some point, shifted away from Going Home. Having always been a very home-centric person -- with an implicit family-centrism, even if we weren't the most warm and fuzzy of folks -- it's a slightly shocking and untethering sort of thing. It's a sign of time passing and life inexorably changing. It's having to catch one's balance in order to not fall off of that tightrope stretched over that great abyss of the future.
Yesterday was filled with socializing of a different sort, as I went to the beach again, this time with friends from work. We spent a lovely few hours there, splashing about in the Long Island Sound in both low tide -- where you could walk out a good ways and still literally kneel in the sand and have your head be clear -- and high tide. One member of our group brought her ukelele, so at one point, there was the whole troop of us sitting in the sand, with some simple tunes being plunked out and voices harmonizing to the sky.
Most excitingly, after years of failure leading me to resign myself to never being able to accomplish such a feat, I discovered that the impossible was, actually, possible. Yes, it's true. Yesterday, I floated on my back for the very first time. I'd always had sinking problems around the middle, but the salt water apparently gave me enough of a boost that I was able to stay afloat. Trivial as it may seem, it was a pretty joyous experience for me. I spent a good amount of time out there, while my friends gathered and chatted, just off to the side, by myself, looking up to the sky, getting facefuls of salt water when some larger waves would come through but always staying just at the surface.
The floating continued into the night, I took part in the Global Floating Dance Party. It was my first flashmob-type event, and I enjoyed it greatly. The basic concept was that people would download and load some prepared tracks onto their personal listening devices, show up at a meeting place at a set time, and then the whole crew would go dancing through the city together, exuberant in their grooving but not creating any noise disturbance to anyone not participating. The music was uneven -- mostly good but with too many down-tempo sections that went on for too long. Still, it was a great time. Everyone was very well-behaved, and despite the occasional lulls, everyone was in good spirits. The concept was simple, and people could just get into it without any fuss. To say nothing about it being a workout! Despite starting at 10:00pm, it was still rather warm and very humid, and I was drenched and gross by the end of the 90 minutes of dancing.
As for the day in between the family visit and all of yesterday's socializing, I didn't get much done except for convincing myself not to kill myself. So Friday was either really productive or really unproductive, depending on how you want to look at it.
Talking openly about one's health is a dicey thing. Being in the arts, I'm not so scared for my career as a result of holding certain political views or taking a certain attitude. But would it influence someone's view of my usefulness if they know that there are random days when I'm barely able to walk up a flight of stairs? Would they interpret that as meaning that there would be days when I'd be unsuitable for work -- even though I've dragged myself along on such days so that hopefully no one would be able to see any difference, not collapsing into an enervated heap until I'm safely hidden behind the door of my apartment? And even more so with issues of mental health, with someone working in a management capacity. Shit, that bitch be crazy! What kind of liability is that, if a person in charge sometimes has days when they feel like their consciousness is crawling out through their eye sockets and wants to take a flying leap out the nearest window?
But the point is: my afflictions do not diminish my value as a person or as a professional. I am a skilled, fairly successful person working a management job among artists whom I respect. Of course, I am also supremely fortunate that my symptoms are at a mild enough level that I'm able to manage them in the manner that I do, which is not true for many people whose experiences I cannot fathom. But what I'm saying is that we sick folks and we crazy folks are everywhere. You might not even know that we're there.
And you? You're not alone.
It's important to me to talk about this openly because one of the things that changed my life was stumbling upon a Wikipedia entry that described this terrifying thing that I had been experiencing for years: derealization and depersonalization. Clicking on that link was learning that I wasn't losing my mind and that I wasn't to only person to ever feel that way and that there were causes for it. And it was starting to get back control of my life.
My journals from middle school have entries written during those dark nights when I felt like I was going crazy. I can remember nightmarish episodes from all the way back into childhood. But it wasn't until a few years ago that I finally learned what was happening to me. And you know what? Since I gained that knowledge, my occurrences have decreased and the ones that I do experience are so, so much less terrifying. Because part of what made them so frightening was that they were complete mysteries, and that fear, in turn, fed into them and made them worse. While they still aren't pleasant by any means -- let us refer back to my temporary distaste for existing, as of this past Friday -- I know that they're temporary and that they're not going to take over me.
Here are some links that I have found informative:
-Wikipedia: Derealization/Depersonalization
-About.com: Depersonalization, Derealization and Panic Disorder
-DPDRDisorder.org
-PanicEnd.com: Unreality, Depersonalization, Derealization
I'm still feeling rather disappointingly tired, probably a combination of the family excursion, yesterday's youthful indiscretions and the factors that led me to spending most of Friday afternoon lying on my bed, listing to myself all of the reasons why suicide wasn't a good idea. The weather might very well be one of those factors. While I seem to be thankfully past the point of when I would spend a number of summer days flat on my back, breathing labored due to the pain throughout my entire body, the unstable summertime weather still does affect me -- my hands have been rather crotchety and stiff, my back has been begging for a merciless masseuse to try to detangle it and stairs have been more of a challenge than usual. It's also possible that my change in workout routine has been affecting me, as I've switched from longer cardio workouts to shorter, high-intensity interval workouts. (Another reason that I'm so devoted to fitness is that it helps to stabilize my moods.) Overall, it's not a bad tired, though. It's the sort of tired that comes after having gone through something, rather than from not wanting to go through anything else.
Work calls, however, and it's time to perk myself up for something about which I care deeply.
Even if it is kind of weird.
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