A director, during an emotion memory exercise for a play I’m doing, asked me to remember a moment of rejection; to transfer myself back to the time and place when an offering of love was soundly put in its place as a desperate gesture by a desperate man.
Unfortunately, I have rather a few moments I can draw upon but I was surprised by how fresh and raw the sensation was even though the event in question is nearly a year old. I felt my breath quicken and become shallow, my chest falling and rising, my hands becoming fists, the dull sob of my heartbroken mouth as the humiliation of my feelings lay exposed like innocent bystanders caught in a terrible explosion.
As the tears rolled down my face and the pain made me bite my lip and dig my nails into the palms of my hands I felt all the trouble of the last year well up so profoundly in my soul that I thought I may split in two. Instead, I smashed my right hand into the hard floor and instantly felt foolish as my knuckle throbbed in pain.
“Men look so stupid when they hit things.”
I’m heartbroken. How can giving everything I’ve got not be enough? Why do people wake up to what they’ve lost only when its gone and not when its on its knees begging for attention? Why am I so weak?
I’ll be glad when this atrocity exhibition is over.