Trigger warning: This post deals with anxiety. Title notwithstanding, the storm did eventually pass.
My Real Memoir
Rehearsals began immediately after my previous show. I’d loved playing a Scottish painter bantering with his feisty ex-lover. I was not looking forward to playing a Polynesian chieftain spouting long incoherent monologues. All while wearing little more than instant-coffee as body-paint.
I had no idea how to approach the role. Accent? Mannerisms? I scanned my old copy of Michener’s Hawaii, but found no clues. So I started reading Michener’s The Source, instead, in order to learn about the time of Jesus—and avoid memorizing lines.
Spring break interrupted our rehearsals. Having nothing better to do, I drove to Baja with Brad and Bart who were playing crewmen on Captain James Cook’s ship. They talked incessantly about which girls “put-out.” I mentioned Erica, the buff blonde I’d met at a cast party. “Her?” Bart snorted. “Forget it. I tried. She thinks she’s better than me.” So do I, I thought. “And I hear she kisses like a fish,” Brad added. I gotta kiss more fish, I thought, and made a note to call her.
Suddenly, the final week of rehearsals for A Supplement to Cook’s Voyage was upon us. I stumbled awkwardly through the final dress rehearsal. And now the one and only performance for this odd little one-act play had arrived. Smeared with Nescafé, I jumped up onto a fake rock, and greeted Captain Cook:
“My name is Oh-oo-toh-oo-roh-oo! My birth was written onto the wind by two thunderbolts!” Then I turned and squinted at 300 darkened silhouettes in the auditorium. And my mind was instantly scrubbed hard-drive clean.
I couldn’t even remember what the play was. Instead of improvising and saying something, anything, I just stood there, staring. All I could think about was the absurdity of pretending to be someone I wasn’t for people who’d paid money to sit in the dark and watch me do it.
Why was I here? My existential crisis, the old image of driving without a destination, was back. Only worse. Because I’d finally run out of gas. And I’d done so in the middle-of-nowhere I called my life, myself, my purpose – or rather my utter lack thereof.
After an eternity, I grabbed some tattered strand of memory, barked out a vague approximation of my monologue, and wandered offstage. I made it through the rest of the show in a state of semi-controlled panic.
At the cast party, I guzzled gallons of alcohol, trying to drown out the voices in my head. I talked distractedly with a stately brunette named Dinah, who before tonight would have had my rapt attention. She seemed offended, as though, to quote Bart, she thought she was better than me. Well, she was.
I stumbled home to my little cave of an apartment and disappeared down the sleep-drain. But at 3 a.m., I sat up, instantly sober, my mouth stuffed with cotton wool, and thought, What if I go insane? A passing thought. I’d had it before. Hasn’t everyone? But this time it didn’t pass. Because this time I believed it, believed that unless I managed not to think it, it would come true. What if I go insane? The words encompassed me, encased me like ice, even as sweat soaked my sheets.
And I would continue to hear those words…
For years to come.
My Real Memoir is a series. To read the next one, click here.
Wow
pray for cora she is probably sick?
If not for the grace of God….
My heart aches for those like “the old Mitch” who long for meaning, direction, and contentment in life, who try everything the world has to offer, to no avail. (Their efforts fail because the world was never meant to supply complete fulfillment.) Praise God you found the way to life-satisfaction–eventually (though I am sorry your storm of dissatisfaction lasted so long.)
Thank you, dear Nancy.
You’re definitely a wordsmith, Mitch. I was able to see the entire situation in my mind’s eye.
So glad to hear that, Terry.
Oh, man! The only good thing about a rough day is always comes to an end.
Mitch, I always appreciate your honesty in telling your story! Most of us can relate and it lets us know we are not alone. Blessings!
Thank you, Peggy. And blessings to you as well.
anxiety is indeed a storm with no ends
Wow Mitch you have a way with words. I definitely could relate to this.
Thank you (I’m afraid I don’t know your name).
Hi Mitch, I’m Christina 😁
Nice to officially meet you, Christina.
You’ve captured moments that feels both intensely personal and universally relatable. Stunning storytelling… funny, painful, vulnerable, and sharp in all the right places.🙏
Thank you so much, Mohan.
👍🙏
Loved it. I do hope though that you wore something in addition to the instant coffee body paint.
;>) I wore a pareo (grass skirt).
😅
If would seem Mitch that God was trying to get your attention even back then…
He was indeed, my friend.
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Damn, this hit me harder than I expected. It started off funny, like casually absurd in the best way, instant coffee as body paint? But then it just… spiraled. In a way that felt way too familiar. That moment on stage, frozen and blank, then the 3 a.m. panic, “What if I go insane?”, man, I’ve been there. Not literally, but emotionally. You captured it so well. It’s wild how you managed to be hilarious and deeply unsettling at the same time. This really stayed with me.
Thank you. It was the start of a whole new stage in my life (pun only slightly intended).
Haha, well played. Glad you made it to the next act.
Me too, my friend, me too.
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