Playing Pretend
I always thought I was a bad actor. At least that’s what everyone told me.
As a kid, my cousins and I spent most of our time together making home movies about mystical happenings in a similar vein to Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, and Bridge to Terabithia with special effects that I can only describe as reminiscent of Labyrinth or some unfortunate YouTube video compilation. But for what it was — a cinematic series about magic produced, directed, acted, and edited by literal children with no clear storyline whatsoever — it was gold.
We each played several characters, which was terribly confusing for both the actors and the audience (as far as I know, and desperately hope, our parents are the only people who have dared watch the thing in its entirety). And although I appeared as a witch many times, I remember agonizing rehearsals for my scenes as Queen-something-or-other because I couldn’t get this one line right no matter how many times I recited them in that green room. Please understand that our “green room” was the second-story landing in my grandmother’s house with a white sheet hung between the stair rail and linen closet. It was a mess. The whole thing was a mess, we were a mess, my grandmother’s house was a mess; but that experience was the backdrop to much of my childhood.
And I’m still playing pretend.
Fast-forward to a bunch of witches and goblins trying to navigate adulthood, my oldest cousin who was the mastermind behind all of it is now a movie producer with recognition at international film festivals. My sister stopped pursuing her dreams of being an actress on Broadway. And I’m still playing pretend.
I supposed I’ve changed in some ways. Depression is a totally different genre. But I’m still memorizing my lines, practicing the appropriate body language, putting on a face for my close-up. I simply never stopped. I live in my own green room and feel the constant pressure of saying the right things, of being persuasive, of selling the story and creating an attractive narrative. Even with my husband. It’s a sickness, it really is. I wish I knew the cure. Haven’t found much relief, despite my best efforts. That’s not to say there isn’t hope, friends, there’s always hope. But hope doesn’t mean much apart from hardship, and these new hardships are compounded by an insidious force.
Depression is a dark passenger, the thorn in my side, my cross to bear. It’s a stumbling block that weakens my resolve to do much of anything some days. It tests my faith. Sabotages my spiritual life. Renders me bone-weary and questioning whether I am apt enough to continue juggling these roles of woman, wife, mother, friend. Depression steals my sleep, moments of joy, positive regard for myself and others. It robs me of experiences, whispers words of defeat when I am most fragile. It leaves me in a battered heap of shame and guilt and sin. It displays a devil-may-care facade that’s not even enough to placate my own pride anymore. And just when I think that everyone else is starting to notice, it spreads a smile across my lips. Fools me into faking homeostasis again.
Maybe I’m not so bad at acting after all.
