Sorrowful...

It started Friday.

Well, maybe it started Thursday night. I'd been told by my director that, in the play's "fight scene", I'd gotten out of hand - too violent - scary. And the actress I was playing against was afraid to tell me.

Now, I'd said from the beginning that I wasn't comfortable doing it, and I made sure to check with the actress after every night, to make sure she was comfortable with it. Sadly, she felt more comfortable going behind my back.

One of the reasons it had become more violent, and it had become more violent, was that she made it necessary - she was/is a whacko! She doesn't stick with the choreography and I'm forced to (live theater here!) keep her in check.

Now, I end up looking like the psychopath.

Nice.

So, when I woke up Friday morning... I don't know how to explain this and I really don't know if it has to do with Thursday night. I felt hollow, like one strong breeze might blow me apart, unravel me. I felt fragile and alone and I couldn't move.

And slowly slogged my way through Friday.

But I could feel things turning, not like wheels but like old bread.

Saturday was a devil to get through. I got to the theater early and laid down in one of the prop rooms. (They have sofas in there, you see.) I closed my eyes. Then, I heard a car pull up. I knew it was pulling up behind the theater but in my half-asleep state, it was Rosa pulling up to the house. Our house. And I was lying on the sofa in the living room. And it was five years ago. And the sun was shining through the window. And -

I made a quiet scream, wiping my face like it was covered in bugs, trying to wipe the memory from my mind. It didn't work, though. I couldn't shut my eyes without returning to that place.

Somehow, I made it through the performance.

When I returned home, I laid down on my sofa. I was so tired. But I couldn't close my eyes without seeing Rosa, or the house, or some place where we'd been, or any number of a million things tied to her. I tried lying down in bed but the same thing happened, each time met by a shriek and an injection of terror. And so, that night was killed off many hours later with as many glasses of scotch.

Sunday, I was back at the theater again. We started the performance. About halfway through, in the middle of a line, I suddenly flashed back on the day I moved out of "Ken and Rosa's Place", our house. I was carrying boxes of comic books to my car. Rosa was trying to stop me in her own "here are some doubts you should have rather than me telling you I need you" kind of way. And I was telling her, "This doesn't mean I'm never coming back. But this marriage is over. After some time, maybe we can start again."

But I was also on stage! The whole thing made me shake! It was like whiplash, or the feeling of someone or something pulling you from your body - only to be snapped back.

I don't know how I made it through the performance. That's never happened before, never while on stage.

Last night, I returned home, shaking. And I drank.

This morning is nothing but sorrow - and the familiar wondering when it will end.