Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Searching for perspective in the dark, with a flashlight and both hands...

Today I expressed envy for a person who was able to go to a vocal lesson.  Yesterday I yearned aloud to play a particular role again.  Last week I lamented that I hadn't sung out loud - full voice - in months. 
Today someone told me that I am still young.  They told me that they did their best work after 33.  They told me I would have more chances. And I had to leave the room before they saw my tears....

I'm having a pretty big feeling. And when that happens, I tend to leak the feelings.  These leakages look like tears.  But Rivulet knows better.  She knows they are feelings that were too big for my insides. 

There are parts of me that just feel old.  They feel done.  I fear that I will never again sing full voice, let alone full voice on a stage.  And something inside of me paces like a caged animal: longing with creative blood lust to be let out.  I wish there was a way to satisfy both Sayyadina AND this inner animal, which is my voice.  I can't even sing in the car.  What's really silly is that I sang full voice just this past February.  I was pretty pregnant, and still totally ROCKED songs from "The Phantom of the Opera" to a room full of financial advisers who clamoured for more.

Yet...perhaps it is because with the birth of my wonderful and beloved son, I have added at least a two year and much more likely a four year wait onto a theatrical endeavor.  That would put me auditioning for roles at the age of 34. 

The fear inside me opens it's mouth wide and roars "Who will want you then?!  What good will you be?!  How could you compare or compete with the younger, thinner women who will vie for the same parts in the same theaters?!"  And my strength cowers under this barrage of doubt. 

Being as overweight as I am, I feel like a thief.  I steal playtime from my children, because I'm too tired or uncomfortable to play.  I steal a view from my husband, because I barely physically resemble the woman he married.  I steal years from my life by pushing my body beyond healthy limits.  And I rob myself of opportunities. 

People ask friends to join marathons.  They do not ask me.  People plan hikes.  They do not ask me.  People plan trips to water-parks and swimming pools and do not ask me.   People audition for plays, and no one even thinks of me anymore.  Although logic tells me the real reason is that they know I am anxiously engaged in raising my three incredible and well loved children, raw emotion finds another culprit.

When Brogurt was born, my doctor said to wait 3 months before beginning to exercise - at least anything beyond light housework or light yoga.  So I have tried to keep weight far from my mind.  Just be.  Enjoy.  Worry about it when I can do something about it, and not until then.

But it hurts NOW.  Shouldn't I worry about it when I feel it?  Last year was glorious because I was either succeeding on a diet or pregnant.  The weight worry was minimal.  But it has returned.  And I don't like it one little bit. 

I balance on the edge of a dangerous precipice: if I don't think about it, I remain complacent.  But over the years, thinking about it hasn't helped the situation either.  I cannot win. 

I have learned.  I would not trade the learning for all the world.  Perhaps now my faith is again wrestling with my fear.  Faith says that when I have learned all there is for me to learn, I will graduate, meaning leave that school of thought for another (in this metaphor, be able to lose weight). Fear says that this is all there is and I'd better get used to it.  It is from this stem that blooms the flower which now fragrances my soul with loss. 

Because if this is all I will ever be physically, I can only go downhill.  I will only get older and less capable of hauling this weight about.  I will only slow down, become more uncomfortable and less attractive.  I will only...

This is TheaterGeek talking.  This is the part of me that wants to stay in bed and cry when there is nothing wrong.  This is the me that is dying to express itself and feels stunted and stuffed into silence by either the inability to physically or creatively function or the time constraints motherhood places upon these endeavors:  such as with theater or writing.  My homemaker mothering self is thriving.  But my creative processes are another story.  And I am at a loss to fix it. 

Just survive, right?

Then someone had better tell me how to duct tape TheaterGeek and her chorus of doubting nay-sayers until the day arrives that I can edit, write, play, sing or teach. Full voice.  Somehow the half attempts hurt more than not doing anything at all.....

As we speak, I am sucking back tears, trying not to think the thoughts that are very powerfully muscling their way to the forefront of my mommy-centric mind. 

For tonight I have no solution.  And I just needed to write it.  I needed to remember that at age 30, and with the birth of a new child, I felt my days of creative sharing were over; thinking that no one would want to hear from me either by way of the written, spoken or sung word.  Because someday it's going to be REALLY funny that I ever believed it enough to write it down..... 

Yeah. I will laugh about this someday.  Probably someday soon.  Maybe even now. :)