Punk Rocked.
21 September 2014 • college, Drama, dreams, happy, inspired, learned, learning, lessons, love, memories, old times, punk rock, simon stephens, teacher, uni
Would
you believe it, once upon a time I was a wannabe actor with stars in
my eyes and a lump in my throat... I studied A Level Drama, at Sussex
Downs Park College in Eastbourne, two trains away from my sacred
sweet little hometown, in unknown territory that I would wake up at 5:35am
to get to each day. I studied English Literature, French, Drama and
Sociology. I desperately wanted to do Photography, but had already
allowed myself one frivolous fun subject of study – Drama – so a
second was out of the question. I just lived vicariously through my
friends who were brave enough to take arty A Levels and not back them
up with a safe academic discipline.
Drama was my outlet – eventually. I wouldn't have known it on my first day. I was running late, lost in a tiny three-storey building, and as far as I knew the entrance to the black box theatre was through the double doors on the Learning Centre ground floor. I ran politely and timidly up to the doors before gently pushing them open; a ring of sixteen year-olds wearing jeans and hoodies sitting on the shiny black floor turned to stare at me as I dithered awkwardly in the doorway. A woman with a sleek dark bob – one off-blonde highlight streak near the front – wearing a massive skirt and stripy shirt plus some decidedly retro beaded jewellery looked up from a heavy folder lying at her knees, fire in her eyes, and spat at me: 'You're late, and the entrance is round the side door. Move.'
Drama was my outlet – eventually. I wouldn't have known it on my first day. I was running late, lost in a tiny three-storey building, and as far as I knew the entrance to the black box theatre was through the double doors on the Learning Centre ground floor. I ran politely and timidly up to the doors before gently pushing them open; a ring of sixteen year-olds wearing jeans and hoodies sitting on the shiny black floor turned to stare at me as I dithered awkwardly in the doorway. A woman with a sleek dark bob – one off-blonde highlight streak near the front – wearing a massive skirt and stripy shirt plus some decidedly retro beaded jewellery looked up from a heavy folder lying at her knees, fire in her eyes, and spat at me: 'You're late, and the entrance is round the side door. Move.'
I
burst into tears as I ran, somewhere between the Law classroom and
the Photography corridor, and my many bracelets and bangles (which
went all the way up to my elbows and inspired a blog URL) jingled and
made me sound like a sniffling reindeer – ludicrous, as reindeer
live in the North Pole, so surely they've adapted and never catch a
cold. I slid into the circle of students on the floor – literally,
my jeans burned my butt as I puffed and panted and hoped nobody had
noticed me. I'd adopted a new personality at college in the past
week: invisible commuter chick with average grades. A new stance:
head down, hands in pockets, lips tight. It was working – I was on
top of my homework, I had no needless dramatics, no worries, and...
No new friends. It wasn't an ideal personality or stance to be
present in a black box theatre twice a week, but oh well.
We left the room an hour or so later, bewildered by yet ready for the year ahead. I walked to my French class in the Tyler building, following an armoured boy who I was vaguely aware had sat near me earlier on in the theatre. He became my best friend. He'd pass me notes in French, not in the language just as a distraction from learning the language in class, and partner up with me eagerly in Drama lessons. I was honoured he even looked my way, as he was one of the best actors in class and the coolest guys in the group who hung out in the conservatory. He even had a motorbike, for goodness' sake. He'd actually ask me for girl-related advice quite a lot – nowadays of course, he's swanning about London dating regulation hotties left right and centre, and he hardly ever requires advice, just a shoulder to cry on and an ear to rant at when they turn out to be demented cuckoo birds wearing too much eyeliner. Bless him.
We left the room an hour or so later, bewildered by yet ready for the year ahead. I walked to my French class in the Tyler building, following an armoured boy who I was vaguely aware had sat near me earlier on in the theatre. He became my best friend. He'd pass me notes in French, not in the language just as a distraction from learning the language in class, and partner up with me eagerly in Drama lessons. I was honoured he even looked my way, as he was one of the best actors in class and the coolest guys in the group who hung out in the conservatory. He even had a motorbike, for goodness' sake. He'd actually ask me for girl-related advice quite a lot – nowadays of course, he's swanning about London dating regulation hotties left right and centre, and he hardly ever requires advice, just a shoulder to cry on and an ear to rant at when they turn out to be demented cuckoo birds wearing too much eyeliner. Bless him.
That
snappy Drama teacher, sarky Essex girl-turned Royal Holloway graduate
dating a genius playwright who refused to buy any clothes from
mainstream high street stores, opting instead for pre-owned charity
shop bundles, and had a teensy generic star tattoo on her upper arm,
the epitome of underage rebellion... She became my idol. I worshipped
her; I kissed the ground she walked on, I ordered the coffee she
brewed and I read the plays she'd mentioned, even in casual passing,
even in utter disdain. I just wanted to be her. I wanted to hang out
with her outside lessons – once or twice I even accompanied her
round the back of the building when she needed a 'sneaky fucking fag
break'. I just stood there and let the smoke waft up my nostrils,
coughing subtly over my shoulder and then sucking in the fresh air
before turning to face her again as she imparted her infinite wisdom
about the world between drags. After my English Lit exam retake I
walked into the theatre, into the midst of everyone getting prepped
for a performance exam, in a complete daze as I was brimming with
certainty that I'd failed Lit again. Nicola locked eyes with me,
raised her eyebrows when she saw my panic, and I told her I was sure
I'd fucked up. She dropped her many folders and ring binders and
pulled me in for a hug, stroking my hair and saying over and over
that I couldn't possibly have fucked up – we'd had a few hugs by
the end of the year, and they were always just the best possible
medicine. I'd never realised that I'd always needed a teacher like
her.
My
sister started college recently, the same college I went to way back
when, and she has had trouble with the adjustment transition nonsense
– understandably! It's hard moving to a new place, two trains away,
to study things that you want to pursue and get experience, get to
grips, especially when the kids who are studying with you have all
lived in that place for their whole lives and know each other from
primary school at the latest. All I could think was: she needs a
Nicola, and a Pugwash.
To
the point! After expressing my sisterly concerns and indulging in
many nostalgic revelries...
Tonight
I found out (via Twitter, my source for all news, TMI moments and general
hilarious quips) that my uni's esteemed performing arts society are
putting on three shows this year; a musical, a play and a devised
performance. The play is Simon Stephens' 'Punk Rock'.
I
performed in this play at the end of my AS year at college. I read
the script in the weeks when my teacher was busy casting us all in
three plays (all Simon Stephens, all mind-blowing). Much as I'd love
to tell people I would be starring in 'Pornography', I wanted to be a
smarmy school kid in 'Punk Rock'. So badly. With every fibre of my
being. I figured I'd get passed over, though. I'd be the grandma in
'Port', or the poor chick who gets shot through a pillow in
'Motortown'. 'Punk Rock' was too hardcore for me.
I
was cast as Cissy Franks, girlfriend of the closet-gay school bully
Bennett Francis and a prissy bitchy queen bee. Outspoken and
outrageous, trodden down by her boyfriend but putting up a sassy
front for her classmates. I was instantly out of my depth.
'Cissy.
Cissy? CISSY, though? Are you kidding?'
'I
think it'll push you.'
As
always, she was right. Partly because I was so stupidly worried that
my Drama peers, specifically the others in the 'Punk Rock' cast, all
of whom were magnificent actors and so good-looking, would see me as
the 'weak one', the crap cast member who dragged down the production,
someone who'd been given a part as a shameful handout... All of that.
Little did I know these cast members would become important friends
soon enough. One was already on my side – my new found bestie. He
played Chadwick Meade, the school punching bag, the 'absurdly clever
puppy' who knew how many galaxies there were in the universe (about a
hundred billion) and was a little too quiet at times. I remember the
evening I was poring over my script in my bedroom at 8pm, cutting the
parts our teacher had deemed unnecessary (it could only be fifty
minutes long, sadly), when I came across the page on which a lot of
bullying is taking place, Chadwick is being made to wear a
classmate's lipstick and is relentlessly teased by my character's
boyfriend, then I saw I'd have my very first onstage kiss* with this
poor boy. I called him and we laughed about it over the phone.
*not
that shocking, as my only onstage experiences before this were high
school Christmas pantomimes in which I played dancing apples and
surfer chicks.
I
was having one of those bullshit 'student review' appointments with
my idol/teacher in her office, while my cast mates rehearsed next
door in the dance studio. The magical lady told me I had infinite
potential and needed to let myself dream; she also said I just needed
to put a rocket up my arse before the final performance. Having taken
inspiration from this, I marched back into the studio, threw my
script dramatically on the floor and as the pages scattered all over
the place because I hadn't stapled them together yet, I rehearsed the
dreaded kiss scene for the first time. Big moment. One of the things
I took from this, was that it's very hard to kiss someone who can't
kiss you back. And on the night, the most important thing to me was
that I didn't slip and fall in my rolled-up pleated skirt as I strode
confidently across the entire breadth of the stage. Also, more
importantly perhaps, I realised what I could do and the kind of
person I could be. I didn't need to be consistently invisible, put
myself in a box and just get my grades; I could let myself go and
always reach a little higher. Although I ditched the dream of
becoming a full-time actor and writing alongside as soon as I walked
into my first Drama lecture at uni, deciding instead to stick with my
guns and write forever while acting occasionally for a giggle, I
still wouldn't change the experience for the world. Any dream, even a
dream that fizzles out eventually, mustn't be ignored.
Something
I've learned recently, too – it's okay to revisit pleasant
memories, and to dwell, just for a little while. I can also always
inject a shamelessly cheesy moral at the end when telling stories.
Dear
Performing Arts Winchester, please do right by that excellent play,
and make it a rich and beautiful experience for the cast – maybe
they'll come away with some awesome stories, unlikely friends and
enlightened perspectives just like I did.
I
leave you with my favourite line of Cissy's.
'Teachers shouldn't have sex. They're too old. I find it really unnerving. The idea of it. All that old skin... Wobbling about.'
'Teachers shouldn't have sex. They're too old. I find it really unnerving. The idea of it. All that old skin... Wobbling about.'
The good, the bad; The bright, the sad.
3 September 2014 • brain, bright side, happy, hospital, life, operation, postop, the bright side, the tumour tale, tumour
Something I've learned recently, among a heckton of medical terminology and physiology paraphernalia... Let yourself feel whatever comes to you, but look for the bright side wherever possible.
Bright Side #1.
My surgery left me bed- (or rather, sofa-) ridden for a few weeks, and I was on some mighty steroids before and after the op - both of these combined led to me gaining weight, so now I have the most immense and unshakeable feelings of insecurity and even hatred whenever I look in a mirror, be it the cute cupboard mirrors in my friends' bathroom or the full length monstrosity in my bedroom. The bright side of this? Yes I have got a little bigger but it's made me want to work harder and eat healthier - it's a project, if you will. 'Project Back to a Ten'! Size that is, not rating, because let's face it, that won't happen any time soon or at all.
Weight gain also makes me that much more aware of my body, whereas a few months ago I was poisoning myself in more ways than one and not caring in the slightest. I can only get better, now. I'm well on my way already, being back in a very hilly city, living a fair distance from town and working like a demon at two jobs, plus eating fairly sensibly every (other) day... My steroids are slowly but surely wearing off, too. People are commenting on my drug-chub face slimming down, which makes me want to dance madly.
Bright Side #2.
I've had to come off my contraceptive pill, and am currently looking into going back on it. Coming off for three months obviously brings on ALL of the unpleasant girly business; for instance my pill banished breakouts and shrunk my waist as well as calming down the dreaded hormones, and now I'm spotty, swollen, sore, chubby and grumpy.
My doctors' surgery I've been registered with at uni saw me last week. The receptionist was dismissive and a little bitchy when I arrived early and asked whether anyone could see me a little before my scheduled appointment slot - then when I gave my name, panic crossed her peachy complexion and she flustered all over me, apologising for her utter failure in finding me a doctor who could see me a few minutes prior to my allotted time, asking if there was anything else she could do, if I needed anything while I waited... That has to be my bright side. Being greeted with respect and perhaps the cutest little dose of fear when I cross the threshold of my doctors' surgery, home to the doctors who didn't believe me several months ago when I first told them about my twitchy useless arm or take me seriously when I showed them my half-frozen face... Oh, if only they'd been right. Still, this little victory is stupidly exciting for me.
Bright Side #3.
'No, I can't remember that... It must have been taken out of my head!'
Bright Side #1.
My surgery left me bed- (or rather, sofa-) ridden for a few weeks, and I was on some mighty steroids before and after the op - both of these combined led to me gaining weight, so now I have the most immense and unshakeable feelings of insecurity and even hatred whenever I look in a mirror, be it the cute cupboard mirrors in my friends' bathroom or the full length monstrosity in my bedroom. The bright side of this? Yes I have got a little bigger but it's made me want to work harder and eat healthier - it's a project, if you will. 'Project Back to a Ten'! Size that is, not rating, because let's face it, that won't happen any time soon or at all.
Weight gain also makes me that much more aware of my body, whereas a few months ago I was poisoning myself in more ways than one and not caring in the slightest. I can only get better, now. I'm well on my way already, being back in a very hilly city, living a fair distance from town and working like a demon at two jobs, plus eating fairly sensibly every (other) day... My steroids are slowly but surely wearing off, too. People are commenting on my drug-chub face slimming down, which makes me want to dance madly.
Bright Side #2.
I've had to come off my contraceptive pill, and am currently looking into going back on it. Coming off for three months obviously brings on ALL of the unpleasant girly business; for instance my pill banished breakouts and shrunk my waist as well as calming down the dreaded hormones, and now I'm spotty, swollen, sore, chubby and grumpy.
My doctors' surgery I've been registered with at uni saw me last week. The receptionist was dismissive and a little bitchy when I arrived early and asked whether anyone could see me a little before my scheduled appointment slot - then when I gave my name, panic crossed her peachy complexion and she flustered all over me, apologising for her utter failure in finding me a doctor who could see me a few minutes prior to my allotted time, asking if there was anything else she could do, if I needed anything while I waited... That has to be my bright side. Being greeted with respect and perhaps the cutest little dose of fear when I cross the threshold of my doctors' surgery, home to the doctors who didn't believe me several months ago when I first told them about my twitchy useless arm or take me seriously when I showed them my half-frozen face... Oh, if only they'd been right. Still, this little victory is stupidly exciting for me.
Bright Side #3.
'No, I can't remember that... It must have been taken out of my head!'
Sometimes, in fact a good ninety-something percent of the time, I'll joke happily at my own expense partly because it's hilarious (ofc), and really to remind everyone it's a-okay to giggle - Tumour Humour is encouraged.
Honestly, it's better than fawning sympathy or one too many intimate questions; while I'll go on forever telling my story and throwing in amusing anecdotes for those interested, poking fun and bringing about some laughter is always going to be the preferred approach to my insane issues. I'll laugh along when someone makes their own joke, every time. Make the most, people! Because I don't take much fun-making about anything else; for years my love life, my accent, my hair or my driving have been the subject of barbs and jests, and I'd actually rather hear a comment about my 'defective' brain be met with uproarious laughter.
My friends also actively encourage me to 'play the tumour card'. Whether it's just for when I get tired and need to sit down, when I don't fancy going to a party or night out, when I don't want to have sex (a ludicrous thought) or even can't be bothered to do a shift at work.
Now, I've used it twice and immediately regretted it - but it has got a few laughs. Once, my best friend pointed out that I hadn't gone to his birthday party; I responded with a panicked shout of 'I was in hospital!!' He then thought for a second and then said 'No, you weren't! This was months before!' All our friends standing with us laughed so hard it echoed, and I felt awful but relieved it had gone down better than expected.
Last night, I didn't like a card I'd drawn from the pile in a game of Cards Against Humanity, so I put it back and picked another, which is technically flouting the sacred rules - my boyfriend caught me, reprimanded me, and I timidly said 'Oww, my head hurts...' And brought a hand up to my scar. I was excused, and laughed at.
So while funny at times, and maybe even deserved, I will not play the Tumour Card. I'm off the sofa now, and able to walk again, people shouldn't have to make crazy allowances for me - letting me off work or fetching cups of tea for me whenever I want.
Bright Side Wanted.
'It's just The Sads. Nothing to worry about.'
Bright Side Wanted.
'It's just The Sads. Nothing to worry about.'
Now for the most frustrating (and apparently taboo) effect my operation has had, the one that took its time to take its toll...
I get The Sads. Every now and again I am seized by this agonisingly slow-moving, most unwelcome overhanging black cloud... I loathe the likening of sadness to a cloud, it doesn't do justice to the more elegant cumulus beauties or the superb violent stormy badboys, but in this instance I am forever in lack of a better word. It happens over the course of an hour or so most of the time, although sometimes it will last a few tearful minutes or a slump-filled day. I'll go quiet, most unlike me as I'm a champion chatter, shrink away from social atmospheres whether that means inching up the sofa a little or leaving a building completely; I concentrate on my breathing and any mundane everyday thought possible, I hang on to something comparatively concrete - myself. My mind is only so-so, it's vulnerable, flawed and weak, so despite my total lack of body love right now, sometimes running my hands over my ribs, feeling one leg shift against the other, or connecting my chin to my chest... It all helps.
It could be because I've thrown myself back into work at two jobs and distanced myself from my secure family home - apparently pushing yourself too far one day can set you back two weeks, and I've been pushing just a little too hard, maybe. I admitted to a physio recently that I may have 'jumped off the sofa too early'. In my defence, I love my jobs and the sofa life drove me mad with cabin fever.
I've been told to 'find my feet' which helps relax you; I've heard soaking crystals in water and drinking will release the positive attributes of the stones; I've been advised that we are always in control, we humans. Sure, sometimes something comes along and knocks you over pretty damn hard, but at the end of the day the way we deal with it is all in our control, and can make it all better. It's naive, a little too simple, but ultimately it works. Remember whatever happens happens, and it's all meant to be. Take solace in the fact that you can embrace what you can control. You can turn a situation around.
I sometimes worry that my life will become an endless stream of this stuff. Everything will be hashtagged #postop.
It could be because I've thrown myself back into work at two jobs and distanced myself from my secure family home - apparently pushing yourself too far one day can set you back two weeks, and I've been pushing just a little too hard, maybe. I admitted to a physio recently that I may have 'jumped off the sofa too early'. In my defence, I love my jobs and the sofa life drove me mad with cabin fever.
I've been told to 'find my feet' which helps relax you; I've heard soaking crystals in water and drinking will release the positive attributes of the stones; I've been advised that we are always in control, we humans. Sure, sometimes something comes along and knocks you over pretty damn hard, but at the end of the day the way we deal with it is all in our control, and can make it all better. It's naive, a little too simple, but ultimately it works. Remember whatever happens happens, and it's all meant to be. Take solace in the fact that you can embrace what you can control. You can turn a situation around.
I sometimes worry that my life will become an endless stream of this stuff. Everything will be hashtagged #postop.
Then I realise that this little blip on my radar doesn't define me, not by any means. I'm not having an almost-quarter life crisis. I still have so much of my life to look forward to, so many incredible experiences that haven't happened yet, and some of the best days of my life still lie in wait. All I have to do is make it through this tricky stretch, and it'll be worth it. It's the same with anything - guys, have hope!
Okay, pep talk over. I promise I won't dedicate this blog to this one big thing, and my next few posts will be much more upbeat. Cool? Cool. Coolcoolcool.
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