I Have A Crush

 

Sometimes, we find ourselves at such a low point in  our lives, where we feel alone, afraid, isolated and helpless. 

There could be hundreds of hands supporting us from below, preventing us from tumbling into the depths of the existentialist pit looming below us, and yet we still feel like we're free falling into nothing. We grasp at branches of interests, responsibilities, hobbies and TV to keep us from falling further into the nothing; but there is only so much time we have on each one before the wood splinters and breaks. 

It gets to the point where you make yourself sick. 

You pick at your hangnails for a little too long to make your fingers swollen. 

You pop your pimples a little too hard to make it scab. 

You shovel bags of chocolate into your body to see how much it can take before your muscles lock up from inflammation. 

You pick at your dead skin enough to take the healthy layer with it. 

You only eat fried food for days, because you're too stubborn to make one decent meal for yourself in a home you don't feel comfortable in anymore. 

And then, as you're falling, you get scratched by a few branches on the way down, a nice reminder you're alive and can in fact bleed, before your hand grabs one on impulse. 

You almost let go, because you're tired of trying to hang on anyway. You haven't worked out in months, and the stretch of your pectorals to your biceps is really starting to ache, but against all the negative reasoning your brain gives to simply let go...

You hold on a little tighter. 

And well, that's what I did. 

I found an improv workshop and showed up, despite wanting nothing more than to curl up into a shrimp and become fried rice. But I didn't. I dragged my ass thirty minutes out after work, drove into a quaint place that looked very closed, expected it to be closed, and would have literally lost my mind if it was. 

But the museum wasn't closed. And even if that was the case, I was too enthralled by it for that fact to bother me anyway. Two concrete steps led up to the forest green double doors with rusted metal handles, much like the ones I haven't touched since elementary. Opening it led to dark wooden floors, glossed with probably lacquer (I'm not a woodworker), and two stair wells. One down the hall in front of me, and another to the left, next to a closed door. It was a museum, but the building inside and out appeared more like an old school. 

To my right, a music stand had sign in sheets and a pen ready for use. Two men came out from the open room to my right, bounding down the hall while music played. I stiltedly waved, and refocused on writing my name like what I assumed a normal human would. 

I stood in the hallway for a moment. Nervous. The men disappeared somewhere, I wasn't paying attention. I knew there were people in that room, people I'd have to talk to. Socialize with. I was too tired for that, and everything hurt.

At the same time, that's what I was there for. 

To try, again, to conjure normalcy into my life. For some branch scratches to scar me for a little while, to remind me why I still get up in the morning. 

My legs moved before I could command it, or chicken out, and when I turned into the room, my first thought was- "Oh." 

The room was pretty. Open plan, some cozy chairs and couches aligned with the far back wall. Historical photos littered the left side of the room, and the right was adorned with paintings, two or three large ones propped on easels. 

The room felt like our old porch in Amherst. Like the aged splintered wood that's been repaired over and over again. Weathered but welcoming. Holding history, yet open and ready to witness more. I wanted to read those experiences on the wall, but there there wasn't time to witness previous lives. However, I knew that I'd be back to do just that. 

As the other attendee and I struck a conversation, one of the men came back, the teacher, and began the workshop. The experience was rejuvenating. 

I was expecting- no, hoping - for more people, to fade into the background. Tick the night off as present, but not really there. Instead, between us three engaging in conversation, physical and mental warm up exercises, and exploring different types of scenes together, I had...well...fun.

I forgot my pain, I forgot my fears, I forgot who I was. All that mattered, was the performance, was the next exercise, was getting on the same creative wavelength of strangers I had just met.  

That workshop triggered something that had already been wading and cascading within me the past few months without even realizing. I was able to connect with people artistically in that moment, I was able to be a complete awkward fool and laugh at myself and their performances. I was able to catch a glimpse of someone else. 

Someone hopeful, fun, optimistic, and creative. 

This branch wasn't just one I could scrape and pick at later. One that would scar and disappear within a day or two. A branch that would break easily under my heavy burdens and lead filled tears. 

No.

That branch, was a giant tree branch, that stabbed me, and made me bleed beautiful clear water.