All The World's A Stage

"Sometimes, I find it's easy to be myself. Sometimes, I find it's better to be somebody else."
-Dave Matthews, "So Much To Say"

I am finding more and more that life is really all about acting, about playing a role. This is what my mother always used to tell me when I had to do something I didn't like. "Just think of yourself as an actor," she would say. "This is just a part that you've been picked to play." I have taken this advice to heart over the years, and it is now an essential part of getting through my day to day routine. I play music in my head, create the soundtrack for the film that is my life. In the morning when I come into work, I sit in my dark office (the florescent lights give me a headache), stare mindlessly at the computer screen and think of melancholy music, songs with hints of emptiness, boredom, monotony.

When I'm working with participants, heroin addicts who have been using for 10+ years, I put on a smile, act like someone who is free of judgments. I go over their drug histories, ask if they've used PCP in the past 6 months. "God no," they sometimes reply. "You have to be crazy to use that shit." I smile and nod, "Yeah...so no PCP in the past 6 months then?" I say, but what I really mean is: "You're a fucking idiot. Crazy is shooting $100 of heroin into your veins on a daily basis." It's all about acting, pretending that you are not fazed. It's about lying, accepting the abnormal as normal. And, of course, about swallowing your smart tongue.

I come home and go running, another opportunity for a flawless performance. I do not love to run. I see all these people cross my path, smiles on their faces, their backs straight, their strides even. That is not me. I feel like a wobbling mass of flesh when I am running. My t-shirt feels like it weighs 1000 pounds, my shoes another 500 each. I sweat profusely. My face turns remarkably red. Not the red of blushing cheeks and sun-kissed skin, but red like a tomato. Red like the neck of a stereotypical hillbilly. So red it looks like my head might burst. But I keep going. I pretend that I am someone who is good at running, who enjoys it immensely. I pretend to get joy from each stride, pride from each step. I pretend that my knees don't hurt so much that I could almost crumple from the pain. I play the part of someone whose legs are strong and steady. Someone who runs five miles with ease, every day.

My apartment is a mess, but I don't clean it. This goes against every part of who I am. I like things to be obsessively neat. I don't like to shower in a dirty tub. I don't like my clothes strewn about on the floor. I could stay up all night cleaning if I had to, and I would, but I am tired. So I act as though I'm someone who doesn't care. Mess becomes my middle name. Clutter is suddenly a comfort. I know that I need my rest. I need to sleep. So I pretend to be a person that can ignore the mess, a person whose need for order is not bordering on clinically insane.

But there are times when I'm not acting, when the real me leads her life. Daniel holds me and I melt into him, cry into his chest if I need to, let him stroke my hair. I watch The Office and laugh uproariously, fully, sometimes for too long. This is me, this is the way I like to laugh. Or I'll hold my sweet little kitten in my arms and squeeze him so tightly, kiss his little head over and over. I talk to my mother on the phone and feel no need to change face. If I'm sad, I let her know it. If I'm happy, she's sure to tell. Sometimes, it is so easy to just be me, to avoid the need for acting, to only play the part of myself. But sometimes, it is better to live my life as someone else, to approach those undesirable tasks like an actor approaches an undesirable scene. I'm not always going to like the role that I've been given, but I'll sure as hell act my ass off anyway.