Postpartum Depression

See How They Run is over. Promptly following yesterday afternoon's matinee performance, we (the cast) promptly struck the set and cleaned the stage. I give congratulations and thanks to the cast, crew, and director. It was definitely the best show I've ever worked in or on, and my best perfomance yet, if I do say so myself.

I think the depression is already starting to set in. If you've ever been in a play before, you'll probably know what I mean. It's the same sort of thing that a mother feels after she's carried her child inside of her for nine long months, and then it finally comes out of her. She's left feeling empty. Postpartum depression, I think they call it.

Anyway, it's sorta like that. After pretending to be someone else (and in some cases, actually becoming someone else) for so long, it's hard to just let go of that person. They've been inside you for weeks and weeks as you rehearse the play -- so long that they've become a part of you. They've affected the way you walk, the way you talk, and even the way you think, if only for the several of hours you spend at rehearsal each week.

But if you're like me, and I'm pretty sure most people are, your character isn't just developing inside you during rehearsals. He's growing every time you read your script. He's growing every time you practice a gesture, a fall, a turn, or a look. He's growing every time you're in a conversation and you respond with a line from the play -- his words coming out of your mouth. He's growing and growing and growing and growing, until he's so big that both of you can't occupy the same body any more.

The contractions begin and you're rushed to a stage, dressed in your maternity constume, and wheeled onto the set where a hundred, maybe even a thousand, eager father's expectantly await their child's arrival into this world. You pant and sputter and groan and scream until finally the character comes out of you and into the open arms of their father, who immediately checks for all ten fingers and toes, and ultimately, deems the child perfect despite the occasional unsightly birthmark, dropped line, or late entrance. And there it is, a new life is born.

The father welcomes their child into world with applause. And as you bow, you resent the father. Where was he when you were fat and ugly and there were lines memorize and blocking to learn? Where was he when you were eating pickles dipped in double fucge icecream and screwing together wobbly set pieces? Where was he during this whole process? He hasn't done any work; this is your child, and yours alone! Then the realization sets in that without the applause, without the wide-eyed excitement and laughter, without the energy radiating from every audience member in the house, this character could not have been born.

And then the curtain falls, the audience leaves, the lights go out. It's over. You can no longer feel the character kicking inside you and you feel like an empty, useless husk. You change back into your regular clothes, get in your car, and drive home in silence.