The Third Person
It has been so long since I last drafted a post I had to struggle with logging in and navigating through wordpress menus which have changed.
With my therapist on a month long vacation and I now coming out of a very bad cold I now attempt to do what was suggested: I am writing a bit about myself as of now. Now is Monday May 14, 2012. I am 45 years of age. I am in a strong relationship with a man I love. I live in San Francisco right near the ocean and am currently encased in a bank of fog.
Fog both literal and metaphorical.
Mentally, I am working through a process which will either be a form of adaptation toward functioning with DID — or, more hopefully, functioning without that label. But after a couple of years of working and learning to understand DID and why I have it has spent a great deal of my energy and positive outlook. PTSD used to be called Shell Shock for veterans and survivors of war. But, coming through a childhood like mine is on many levels almost the same. The difference is that the minefields, the bombings and shots fired were hidden. Hidden near the railroad tracks. Hidden near a ditch. A sort of friendly-fire that a child either grows from into a lost soul or a functioning soul with splinters of him/her “self” taking over as need be.
It is a bit like actually living in The Third Person without knowing it. And, then, when this intellectualized form of survival begins to fail him, the curtain starts to blow apart. Against stage direction the curtain might even lift or close at all the wrong times.
Leaving him, or me, the actor standing in a situation unknown and unfamiliar. With other characters unknown and dialog off script that tosses our lead actor into a state of confusion. At times, the confusion might be entertaining and strives toward performance art. But, most times, the confusion is just messy and bewildering. The actor is left without any idea of plot or narrative.
Gaps begin to show.
The Lighting Director appears to have left the house. The actor scurries to find the light. He searches for the elusive Stage Manager for answers. He stumbles over and with actors with whom he has not rehearsed. All the acting exercises in the world will not prepare him for the challenge of this Theatre Gone Mad.
So, as he begins to try and sit with the other actors and the other characters he has unwittingly created he finds some pieces match. Some of this puzzle is beginning to form. And, just as he feels he comes to a place almost near to harmony the curtain falls or the set morphs into something all together different. His alliances and friendships sometimes feel alien. And, sometimes they feel so very intimate that he wants to hide behind another character. Imagine the Director’s frustration when it it dawns to the audience that the actor does not even know the name of the character behind whom he attempts to hide or get what he or some other unknown character needs or wants.
Imagine his dismay. …The actor’s dismay — when all he values and understands about his life and himself begin to crumble into saw dust.
Sometimes he wishes the curtain would just come down for the season. But, that’s the thing: The show must go on. And, so, he picks up as best he can and tries to form a scene out of the mess that has become his life. Art is not easy. The house is not even half full but the lights have been left on and he has no choice but to carry on — and participate in life. As he works toward finding his plot, his narrative — his purpose.
He seems stuck. He is waiting for a signal. Stage left or stage right? Where have all of his lines gone?
He smiles to himself and decides to tell the critics to fuck off and tosses himself into this moment of free wheeling performance art. He pretends to not care, but his vulnerability is showing.
The Third Person cares. He cares very much. And, he waits…