my whole heart

  I do not remember a time when I did not want to be an actor. My love for story-telling goes as far back as my memory. As a child, I would create new worlds for my friends and I to inhabit.  Limitless joy was found in putting on a costume and transporting myself, my audience and fellow players to worlds of endless possibility and adventure. I was eccentric and dramatic and, if I’m being honest, totally weird.

  I wore my underwear over my pants, quit ballet because I couldn’t wear a mickey mouse unitard, took my eight imaginary dachshunds to the actual dog park, yelled at my teacher for sitting on my friend Kerby ( a frog who also happened to be a figment of my imagination) and recited monologues at my parent’s dinner parties. There are other occurrences and behaviours which are frankly, too numerous and embarrassing to recount.

   Given that today I am only left with vague recollections of the thoughts of my eight year old self (and a diary entry that says “I am writing this now so when I am a mother I will remember to only feed my children macaroni and cheese or else they will hate me”) I cannot be certain if the motivation behind my love of “play” was an unstoppable creative force and an innate need for self expression, or simply the child’s desire to be seen.

   Whatever the case, as childhood drew to a close, it became apparent that this penchant I had for storytelling and play would need to take a rain check if I had any chance of surviving the cut-throat world of adolescence.  The child’s need to be seen was replaced with the pre-teens need to fit in, so I relegated my dramatic outbursts to the stage. Under the guise of a character I could let my inner weirdness out to play, but in real life I learned to act normal. I did my best to mimic all the necessary behaviours, outfits, and attitudes of the in-crowd so that I could feel like I belonged. I became the consummate actor, doing whatever it took, being whoever it was that I thought people needed me to be. But no matter how hard I have hustled to fit in, I have always felt on the outside. Because I have never been at home in myself.

   I discovered this little problem in my first year of theatre school. If I was going to cut it as a professional actor, I had to stop acting and get real. The only thing I could bring to each character I was to portray was my self. Which, intellectually made perfect sense, except that I had no fucking clue who exactly that “self” was. And now, six years of running away from the art that I love later, I realize I still don’t have a clue. But today, I am choosing for that to be okay.

  I am all the wrong turns, all the excuses, all the lies I’ve ever told. I am all the drugs I’ve used to numb the rough edges, all the people I’ve used to hide from the truth. I am the honour roll that felt like failure and the F’s that made me feel alive. I am the black sheep and the golden child. The “pretty but crazy one”. I am “thank god I’m not boring”. I am filled with light and love and So. Much. Rage. I am the critic and the peacekeeper, I am on land and at sea. I am the words I’ve spoken, and the silence that I should not have kept. I am the secrets whispered in the stillness of a summer’s day. I am the blood I’ve spilled. I am the accident, and I am here on purpose. I am all my memories, I am make-believe. I am here if you want me, I am here if you don’t.  I am the child’s desire with the grown-up needs. I am an unstoppable creative force and I am ready to be seen.

I have always wanted to be an actor-ever since I was a little girl. Not because I sought fame and fortune, and not because I liked wearing fancy costumes (although I assure you, I do). I wanted to be an actor because I wanted to share with you the story of who I am. I wanted to share it with my whole heart so that maybe, if I were really lucky, you would share your story with me.

 

 

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