Rubatosis

Rubatosis.

Well that explains it.

That unsettling awareness of your own heartbeat.  Sure, it could occur when you fancy someone; to feel that flutter when their hand runs along your back.  But no.  That's not what I mean.

I am talking about when you have so much anxiety that you feel your heartbeat in your ears.  Behind your eyelids.  Stuck in your throat as you choke on it.  This is pure, untainted, mercury tasting anxiety.  And even the best of us get it.  I get it every time I get on a stage.  Always figured it would fade in time; that I would grow out of it.  20 years, dozens of shows and three diplomas later it is still as fresh as it has always been.  Now I just use certain tactics and tricks to combat it just enough to get through a show without it paralyzing me.  Allow me to use my last show as an example.

I recently played Adriana in The Comedy of Errors in a Shakespeare festival.  This is how a show day goes.

Wake up 7am.  Sick to stomach.  Angry at my body for waking up hours before it has to.  Toss and turn in bed out of defiance but know damn well there will be no more sleep to be had.

10am.  Still haven't eaten anything.  Feel like my stomach will give birth to an alien like that John Hurt scene from Alien.  I steal a can of Sprite from my housing host and fill my waterbottle.  I chug the water throughout the day even though I want to hurl it back up again.  I know it will be 90 degrees out and my costume doesn't breathe and weighs a ton.  If I'm not hydrated, I will most likely keel over from heatstroke.  Can't have that.  I'm a professional.  I'm being paid to do a job.  Stop it, Stacy.  Don't be a pussy.  Drink your juice, Shelby.

1pm.  Force a piece of toast with peanut butter down.  Do ten sun salutations.  Put on a few episodes of Frasier.  Anything to shut off the mind.  Feeling a little better.

5pm.  Walk around with curlers in my hair and the can of Sprite before Fight Call.  If I traded in the Sprite for a PBR and had a cigarette hanging out of my mouth I'd fit right in at the trailer park.
Have begun to have acid reflux from nerves.  Never felt more attractive in my life. I run my lines from the show in its entirety.  Yup.  Still know them.  That's good.
Arrive at fight call.  Sip on my sprite in between throwing tomatoes, plates, and people around.  Feeling better because I am DOING something rather than thinking.  It's hot out.  I hate being hot.  I've gone way passed glistening and on to full sweaty.  Again.  I'm a beauty.

6pm.  I get in to hair and makeup.  I am still burping.  Everyone is doing their preshow prep.  Some listen quietly to music, others tell jokes and watch youtube videos.  Some are stretching and humming on the floor.  I fluctuate from show to show.  My prep always depends on where I am at emotionally that day.  Today I stay to myself, no music.  Stretch in the splits and half pigeon.  I tape my mic on to my face.  I check three times to make sure it is on.  It may seem excessive but as it will be under layers of fabric, there would be no reaching it once the costume is on.  My hands have gone cold and tingling.  I start to count my breaths.  In for 10.  Out for 10.  I think of the first line of each scene.  Stacy Lynn, I say to myself, you choose to do this to yourself.  Your anxiety is not real.  Stop it.

6:45pm  In costume, I walk to the stage outside.  The heat is stifling.  15 minutes to places.  I spray bugspray all over and then pace back and forth.

6:55pm  I look at each of my castmates.  I say, "Take care of them, Stacy.  Listen to them.  Respond.  It isn't about you and your problems.  It's about them.  Make it about them.  And trust you know what you are doing.  Never. Let. Them. See. You. Sweat.  Metaphorically, that is.  Because, well, it's fucking hot out here."

7pm.  Show starts.  Stomach feels like it is rotting from the inside out.  Slow your breathing, Stacy.  You are on.

7:20pm First scene went well.  That's good.  But right now you are being too aware of yourself, Stacy.  Look at your scene partner.  Listen.  Respond.  It's hot.  Stop it, Stacy.  Listen. Respond.

7:35pm  Oh dear.  It's the kissing scene.  I see the sweat pouring off my scene partners face.  A drop hangs from the tip of his nose.  If only people knew how unsexy we both feel.  And also, how I sprayed myself in the face with bugspray and the deet has caused my lips to tingle and go numb.  Oh dear.  Now we are kissing and the cue for me to stop kissing him is still ten lines away but my face is sliding off his and as I have him in a dip, he is really heavy.  Four lines left till cue.  Wait.  Was that my cue?  Shit.  Nope, it wasn't.  3. 2. 1.  Drop him and say your line.  Boom.  I got this.  I feel better.

8pm  Half way through.  This scene is going well.  I know what to say next.  Timing is good.  Wait.  What?  My scene partner skipped forward a few lines.  What do I say?  I can't improv Shakespeare.  What line should I say?  Will it make sense?  Where am I?  Who am I?  Oh God, I see the panic in her face.  Don't curse, Stacy.  Your mic is on.  Ok.  Shhhh. Stop it, Stacy.  Listen.  Respond.  What did she say to you?  Right.  Ok.  So you should say.... "I cannot, nor I will not hold me still..."  Ok. Ok.  It's ok.  My scene partner has started breathing again.  We've moved on.  We're ok.  It was only a ten second lag.  No problem.  No worries.  Ugh. I hate my life.  Keep going.  It's okay.

8:40pm  Last scene.  This is the one where I am stuck on stage till the end of the play.  It's so hot and there's no breeze.  And as the sun sets, the mosquitos have come out.  I can see one sucking the neck of one of the cast mates.  I can't do anything about it.  I just have to watch.  Listen.  Respond.  Nearly there.  This is fun.  You've a good cast.  The audience likes it.  They laugh.  I slyly wipe my face with my sleeve.

9:15 End of play.  Bow.  Get out of the fucking heat.  Feel a state of euphoria.  It's done. I got through it.  I did well.  I need a beer.  I feel a sense of accomplishment and pride for overcoming such overwhelming Rubatosis.  Huzzah.

11:30pm  Drop dead into sleep.

7am next morning...pop awake.  Sick to my stomach.  Here we go again.

---

Why, you might ask, do I do this to myself?

Because I like the work.  I like the rehearsal.  I like creating something that didn't exist before.  I like becoming someone I wasn't for just a moment.  I like to challenge myself.  I like to remind myself that i'm not a coward and that I can and will overcome these mental issues that want to cripple me.  I like to think that when I have these moments of success, it is yet another step towards becoming everything I've always wanted to be, what I have always been: Unstoppable. Lovable.  Powerful.

The success is not in exterminating the fear.  It is doing the damn thing in spite of it.

Hiraeth

I've been thinking a lot about this word this week.  I feel I've finally found a word that encompasses how I live.  The ache that follows me no matter how many countries I visit, places I live, jobs I do, people I meet.  The world is littered with my memories and pieces of my heart that I've lost or given.  I have no regrets for how I live my life.  I've found a peace this past year, an acceptance, that this is who I am and there's nothing wrong with it.  But the ache still shivers through me often when I think of all the people I miss and moments that didn't last long enough.  Moments I wasn't ready to let go of just yet.
Hiraeth.  A homesickness.  I used to dream of a singular home that would hold all my comfort and love.  Inside it would be people who needed me as I needed them.  There was certainty there.  An absolute belief that I belonged and was loved.  It would be this place of safety that I could escape to when the world was all too much (which it so often is).
I never found that place.  I don't know where I got the idea that it existed.  Perhaps from the protective cocoon that my parents created when I was young.  Or perhaps it was a created nostalgia of my own mind about my childhood.  I just remember feeling safe.  And so sure that my future was going to be guaranteed for greatness.
Now I find that my home is not a place.  It is people as well as within myself. This does not, however, make things in any way easier.  People are transient, fickle, or in search of their own destinies and lives.  You can't fault them for it.  They have their own purpose.  They should want and go after what is theirs.  But it is always hard when your direction is not the same. Sometimes they veer off where you can't follow.  Or you pursue something that is not meant for them.

My home is my mother and father.  They are my past and roots.  They are the voices in my head that tell me to be kind and push harder.  But they are across the country and it's hard when I've had a bad day and all I want is to sit next to them and remember that these two people have known me my entire life and have loved me for every single minute of it.  You can't say that about many people, can you?  Christmases are not same now.  Birthdays are often a telephone call and a card in the mail.  I cannot recapture those themed parties and personally decorated cakes of my youth.  Moments that cannot be recreated even with the greatest of effort.  Hiraeth.

My home is my brother and his family.  I call my nephew and niece on the phone.  Tonight, my nephew asks about the Star Wars story I promised him.  He asks when I will come and visit.  My heart hurts because I don't have an answer for him and I can't make a promise I can't keep.  I remember holding him as a baby, the sound of his voice the first time he said my name.  Soon he will be too old and too cool to ask his Aunt Stacy to come visit.  I ache because I have missed so much.  So many moments.  And I know I will miss more.  Hiraeth.

My home is my dear friend Kate in London.  She is both grounded and a dreamer.  She reminds me that I have every right to fight and believe that I can create whatever I want and that what I have to say is worth hearing.  She brings out the silly in me.  I am not silly nearly enough on my own. And I wish, so many times, at the end of a rotten day, that she could meet me at a bar and have a gin and fizzy lemonade while we plot our world domination.  Our times in grad school are precious memories.  Moments that have sealed us as forever friends despite oceans between us.  We joke and fantasize about being roommates as we collect our menagerie of odd pets and become two old biddies together.  Hiraeth.

My home is with D, who unintentionally inspires how I look at the world even though we have broken a few of the strings that tethered us together.  He is a quiet voice of reason and has provided such stability in my nomadic ways.  Though absent, I still find myself spinning events of my life into imaginary letters, missing his good sense and quick wit that always brought me joy.  I sometimes ache for the moments I haven't shared with him.  Or the memories that might have been made.  Hiraeth.

I have so many homes in so many cities.  Yet I find myself always missing someone. Or something.
Hiraeth is living my best life while wishing I could be in all these places at once as well.
And I AM living my best life.  No, I am not kind enough to myself.  My home within me is still dusty with cobwebs and ghosts.  No, I am not where I dream to be. But I am moving forward while being present, and THAT is progress.  I am IN progress.  I am taking the time to savor my solitude.  Even though I don't share my moments with my homes.

I walked home from a mini performance tonight while the sun was setting over the small South Dakotan village. A half moon appeared above me as I meandered over cracks in the pavement. Main Street has but one stop light and all the stores are privately owned.  There are no Starbucks or Walgreens.  The ice cream shop takes cash only and the Shell station is more of a bakery than a mini-mart.  Colonial houses line the street with beautifully landscaped grass, trees, and shrubbery.  There's a gorgeous yellow mansion with columns, balcony, porch with swing, sun windows, and french doors...I think to myself, in another life, that would have been my house.  Though the yellow would have to go.
I turn down my street and hear only birds in the trees and the beginning songs of cicadas.  There are no sirens or people shouting.  Just the susurrus of the wind through trees.  I think, how lucky I am; to see this and yet know NYC.  To come back to my house here where the doors remained unlocked because people here do not worry about crime, and yet still know and understand the hustle of a great City.  How lucky that I know my way around Edinburgh, London, Seattle....that I've seen Australia, France, Italy, Monaco, Canada, Mexico, Ireland, Iceland, all around the US....and yet I have also been able to walk the streets of a tiny town like this one.

Being an actor, being in this business....it's lonely.  I don't mind solitude.  I actually need quite a bit of time to be by myself, to quiet the outside voices and opinions and recognize my own.  But there are moments...like these...that I wish my home, my people, were with me to experience a dusk like this.

Hiraeth.