I must be crazy.

I was thinking off and on that it would be nice to go back, not to when I used to often imagine going back to, but to when it was awful. I want to go back to when it was awful. I’d go back and be in that windowless, underground classroom and sit with my head on my arms and I would be listening to these songs and feeling like the ache in my chest would probably kill me and my muscles would all hurt because I was always so cold and so exhausted that, after a while, I would start shaking and couldn’t stop, so I would tense up bit by bit to try and subdue it. And I could not. And then I would go next door and key in my code for the radio studio (which I still know), and spend the next four hours in that dim, musty room, playing Goth tracks and watching the lava lamp. Or reading Shakespeare and critical essays on Farewell to Arms when I was behind. And on the worst days I would leave a voicemail and the ink would run on my writing paper.
At least it was better than when I couldn’t cope anymore and came in early to show I was there, loaded the cues, and pretended to sleep at the lightboard until it was actually time for show setup, just because I wanted to be around people and couldn’t bear the idea of interacting with them. They knew I wasn’t really a theatre person, but they were kind to me and that’s really all I cared about.

And I feel now and then like it would be nice to go back.

I guess I have always been crazy.

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