Improv and the Three A's

They say that Improv is all about the "Yes, and..." which is true. As I have taken a few Improv classes, I now think it is more about the three A's.

When Pedro went to treatment for anxiety and depression, the family also had to go to therapy school along with him. "Your child didn't get here alone," said Hector, the family outreach director told the parents at an outreach weekend. "If you aren't in therapy, you need to be." 

In the course of recovery from my own mental health issues*, I have learned about the three A's:

1. Awareness
2. Acceptance
3. Action

These are in order for a reason. We need to be aware of a situation first, before we can accept it. Without acceptance, we react or try to force solutions. As we accept, we become open to different options and respond accordingly.

I had my first Improv performance a few weeks ago, which placed me firmly in my discomfort zone. After the performance, I was talking to my friends who attended, who were giving me all sorts of high-fives and you are so cool, etc. I was feeling great.

Then the instructor came by and gave me a low-down on the show. The dude has been in Improv since the 1980's and was trained initially as an actor. Improv is his life and he knows a lot.

"You guys dropped the ball on that scene with the foot," Matt said. Stacy launched the foot into the sky to where the giant lizard were.** "She gave you Godzilla and you missed it."

At first I was annoyed that he was throwing cold water on the warm feelings from my friends who were amazed. I was basking in the glow of my performance and here comes the teacher telling me what went wrong. Seriously?

When I got home, I kept thinking about Godzilla. Matt had hit on a very important point, something that stuck with me. When I was on the stage watching Stacy hit the foot into the air with a gold club to the land of the giant lizards, I had thought "I need to go on stage as a dinosaur."

I didn't act on my instinct, impulse or intuition. I knew I needed to go on stage as a dinosaur, but I was worried I wouldn't know what to do as the dinosaur. The thing is, I didn't need to. I needed to trust my instinct, trust my gut and my intuition, and most importantly, trust my team that we would find the next indicated step. As I imagine the scene now (in slow motion and ten days later), I see myself walking on stage with a royal British accent, sharing the delicious foot with my handsome partner, Tyrannosaurus Rex. I would have been Tyrannosaurus Regina, begging Rex to go to the village below to get more feet for the dinner party with the Dragons.

I've had the intuitions and impulses before. There was another scene where I felt like a pregnant woman in labor, and other where I was in a soap opera where I needed to hire a hitman to kill my father before he gave away my inheritance of a collection of Vogue magazines.

Improv is really about the three A's: 

1. Awareness of the scene played before you. What are the other actors giving you for the next scene?
2. Acceptance is where we understand what is before us, and open ourselves to options.
3. Action is where we step into the scene, ready to go and be willing to respond to what is before us, and move the narrative forward.

I signed up for another round of Improv starting this week. In the first three courses, I was developing my awareness of what is going on in the scene, which is no small task. 

Acceptance is the next level. As improvisors, if we don't accept the premises we are given, we leave our team and the audience frustrated. No one is having fun, and the story we are telling doesn't build. Once I see the scene built before me, I need to agree with what I have been presented with. I let my soul/subconscious/intuition/right-brain take over from there. 

I am finally getting the intuition of what needs be done next. Now I just need to step on to the stage and act on it.

* As I have gone on this journey, I think everyone has some form of mental health issues, giant or tiny. The degree to which our issues impairs our connection with others or our ability to function varies greatly. The people with the greatest hurdles to overcome are those who are outwardly successful. 

** You had to be there. Improv can be a little wacky.

Discomfort Zone

Since I've been divorced, I have been diving into my discomfort zone. I am trying lots of new things where I completely suck at first and it is painful and a struggle. I've been taking Improv classes since the spring, and I had my first performance last weekend, which was both terrifying ad thrilling. I did standup comedy at an open mic night hosted by one of my friends, which was also terrifying and thrilling. Pilates isn't terrifying, but it is a struggle at first. Now I am used to that discomfort. I had my first Pickleball team game last week. It is fun and I am not that great, but why should I be great? I've only played twice ever. I got my ego bruised last year learning to Contra Dance, but it was fun. I took an oil painting class a year ago where I was the only person in the class who has not previously studied art. I can't say I got my butt kicked there because it wasn't competitive, but let's say I was humbled by the talents of others.

I feel like a kid again, and in the terrible way that we as adults don't recognize how awful childhood can be at times. I remember Claire-Adele's first dance recital. She was five and petrified of performing. WE as adults say, sure go up there, you will be fine. But you know what? How many random adults would want to go up on stage in a tutu and spin around in front of their families? Yet, we nudge our kids in that direction, shoving them out of their comfort zones all of the time. I bet more than half of childhood is getting pushed out of our comfort zone.

So here I am, choosing to try to new things. I am learning that the fun and growth and self-awareness I am gaining far exceeds any and all of the discomfort.

Journals

I have several dozen journals that I have collected over the years. They are in boxes and bags around my apartment, collecting dust. Some have writing on every page. Others are mostly blank, with less than half of the pages filled. I often will re-use these half filled books, with differences in months and years between the pages. I treat journals and candles the same way -- I buy way more than I use. Just when I think that the last thing I need is another candle/journal, I buy a new one.

I was going to recycle my old journals, get rid of them. They served their purpose, the end. I was talking to a friend who has been divorced for several years, and she said to keep those journals.

"They will remind you why you left," she said.

Divorce is the death of a relationship where both people live on. It is easy to look back with remorse and regret, especially when the other party so easier and happily has moved on. It is easy to look back at the good things, the highlights, the things I miss.

I don't want to be bitter and angry about my ex, and think he is evil. I want to hold the good and the bad. I have an easy time remembering the good things, the times he was kind and supportive. My mind remembers the good, whereas my journals have the bad, the struggle, the confusion. I wrote and wrote, hoping to find an answer of how to fix him, how to fix myself, how to break the cycle of our dysfunction, but none came.

Instead of disposing of my journals, I put them in storage. I dug through the ones to see which were full and which were blank. I came across some heart-breaking entries, easily found on the front page. I found one from September 2004, the day we moved to Seattle, packing up from the Midwest to move to the West Coast. I found the turquoise blue Moleskine from April 2019, with the meeting notes from when we were initiating the process to send Pedro to treatment. I remembered sitting in Kristin's office, ripping the plastic wrap off the journal. I remember her commenting that I was starting a new page, a new chapter.

This weekend, in the depths of some misery, I looked at the front page of the journal I was writing in. Filled in from December 2021, "Reasons for Divorce" was the heading. It was sparse, but it reminded me of the pain and struggle I was in at the time.

Et tu, Brute?

 

Fox Dog, aka Brutus

My dog knew my ex had a girlfriend before I did, and the dirty, rotten, little rat bastard didn't tell me. 

Et tu, Brute?

Jack watched my dog several times this year while I was out of town, which I very much appreciated. I was at the old family home dropping Fox off before I went to Idaho to fish with my son Pedro in Bonner's Ferry.

Jack seemed happy to see the dog, and he volunteered to watch the dog again in August when I was going to see my dad in Ohio. The catch: Jack was on call for one of the weekends. 

"I can get a fellow or resident to watch the dog for those days," Jack said. He seemed flummoxed and I thought it was really weird to ask one of his underlings at work to dog sit. I offered to find another dog sitter, and he said, no, he'd figure something out. Fine with me. This was going to save me a ton of stress for finding a dog sitter.

He didn't get a fellow to watch the dog that weekend. He got his new GF to watch the dog.

I actually kind of feel sorry for his new GF, in a way. What did he tell her? "Hey, I gotta work. Can you watch my ex-wife's dog for the weekend? By way, I haven't told her about you yet, so stay in the shadows." Or, did he come up with some whopper of a lie to her, too?

Did I mention that my daughter and I are going to Brazil next month to see Taylor Swift in Rio? Yeah. Why I am letting this crap bring me down when I have a trip of a lifetime coming up in a few weeks? 

If the Shoes Doesn't Fit...

So I met my ex-husband's girlfriend tonight, which was a deeply unpleasant experience. Jack and I coordinated me swinging by his house to pick up some of my mail. I texted and called and confirmed when would be a good time, and low and behold, his GF is sitting on the couch drinking a beer when I arrived. He claims he didn't know she would be there. Really? 

I also went to pick up the Ada box as yesterday was her birthday. I was going to sort through the box and leave some stuff for Jack, but I didn't feel like sorting through pictures of my dead infant with his girlfriend witnessing me revisit the absolutely, most unequivocally, worst day of my life. So I took the box with me and when I got home I texted Jack pictures of Ada.

I realize how much of my life I was trying to make the wrong shoe fit. I kept trying and trying to make a relationship work that didn't. It wasn't going to work and I kept banging my head against the wall instead of letting us both out of our misery much sooner. 

I am done wearing the wrong shoes in my life. I am so done. If it doesn't fit, it is gone. I deserver better, and so does the shoe.

The other question I have is why did I like a shoe that didn't fit? Why did I love a shoe that didn't fit? What is wrong with me? Why did I love someone who didn't love me back, who didn't have the nerve and courage to tell me he no longer loved me? Why did I so many years of my life to this man who probably never really cared for me? He blamed me for the divorce, saying I asked for it, absolving himself of all responsibility. Why should I cry for a man who never cried a tear over me?

Why did I try to keep trying to make the shoe fit when it didn't?

I need to let go. Part of it is that since I asked for the divorce, I felt guilty about hurting him. I felt terrible. Here I was feeling guilty, and he has moved on. I wish he would have told me he had a gf earlier and in not such an insensitive and cruel manner so I could have be released from my guilt. 

Instead, I needed to release myself from this guilt.

Instructions & the Butcher

My Uncle Bob once said, "Money doesn't come with instructions." I love that expression because it is so true. The idea is both freeing and terrifying.

I think of all of the other things that don't come with instructions, like our bodies, marriage and children, and how often I've tried to find instructions for all of those. I've read countless books and articles, trying to find guidance, insight, wisdom, perhaps. But no definitive instructions.

Recently, I've been trying to find instructions for my body. After I had my ovary whacked out in March, my core turned to mush, along with lots of other muscles. Where are the instructions on how to get it those muscles back? Where did they go? How to find them?

I didn't realize how much I lost my core until I hyperextended my knee a few weeks ago. I am convinced this knee injury is indirectly related to my surgery. I was probably compensating for some weakness somewhere, and then tweak, there goes the knee.

"Surgeons are butchers and you are a piece of meat," said my new pilates instructor after I told her my woes. She is right, and yet the problem isn't that my surgeon is a butcher--she did a fabulous job of getting out the cyst--but no one in the medical system warned me that once I recovered from the wound, that I would need to rebuild. Being able to walk around is a low, low bar. I want to dance again. I want to play pickle-ball and hike and bike.  I wish someone would have told me I needed a rehab plan to return to all of the activities I just to do, not just get back to the simple activities of daily living.

So here I realize my body doesn't come with instructions. I would I have thought I would have figured this out years ago, but alas here I am, trying to make care of this machine, this bag of meat, that before took care of itself.

Worry = Love?

Claire-Adele and I are planning a big trip to South America in the near future. It should be lots of fun, but when I tell people about it, they freak out.

"Promise me you will stay in a safe area," H said. "Please. Some of the countries are dangerous."

My hairdresser warned me about jaguars. "Those cats cat crush your skull. Please be careful." He also warned me that Brazil is run by the mob.

Another friend wasn't worried about my trip to Brazil, but rather driving in Seattle. "There are crazy criminals out there who are rear-ending women driving alone, and then attack and rob them when they get out of the car to investigate. Promise me you'll watch behind you when you drive and keep going in case you get rear-ended. Don't stop, just go to the police station."

Oh dear.

These friends mean well when they dump their worry and fear on me, I am sure they do. 

I was at first annoyed at their worry, but they I reframed it. Perhaps instead they are saying, "We love you and don't want anything bad to happen to you."