It's my party.

Playin' my records, keep dancin' all night
But leave me alone for a while
'Till Johnny's dancin' with me
I've got no reason to smile

It's my party and I'll cry if I want to
Cry if I want to, cry if I want to
You would cry too if it happened to you

After I got out of my bath I tried to get dressed. I did the typical girl thing where one tries on a whole bunch of things in an effort to make sure that one looks gorgeous/skinny/appropriately professional/sexy/enviable. I put on my best red dress, the one I save for Big Dates or events, but decided that it was too sexy and not professional enough.

So I tried to take it off and the zipper broke.

I struggled with the zipper for half an hour. TDI called.

"Hey, my friend that I was bringing tonight canceled on me..."

"...oh, I'm sorry."

"...so I'm going to grab happy hour with some folks and try to convince someone to come with me."

"Uh. Okay. Great. Free wine and chocolate. Tell them that."

"Okay."

"I'm stuck in my dress."

"Really?"

"Uh. Yeah. I gotta go, I'm sorry. Zipper."

I hung up and, after a brief struggle, resigned myself to wearing the red dress. At least if I was going to be stuck in something, I was stuck in something fabulous. I accessorized and started walking to the theater in the light rain with sucking dread in my stomach.

When I got there, I tweaked the set-up of the open space of the lobby where the bar and cabaret will eventually be when we finish construction. Unfortunately, there's art there.

As Managing Director, I am responsible for curating what will eventually be a rotating art gallery in the lobby. I'm excited for when we actually have the means to do this, i.e. proper lighting, etc. However, someone (I don't know who, which is probably good) let a company member who shall remain nameless put their work up on the walls without my permission.

Something I left out of my earlier post about my breakdown is how I walked in, saw the art, stopped, decided that I literally couldn't look at it again without losing my shit, then continued walking. Enter Charles, the hug, and losing my shit anyway, as told in my previous entry.

It's all black paint or thick pen on white butcher paper, except for the sketchbooks (sketchbooks!) propped open. As Sylvia said, the pieces look like a fourteen-year-old goth created them. I've been blocking them out of my head as much as possible, since just looking at them made my breath shorter. Not because it's emotionally affecting art, but because having such humiliating art on our walls for our grand opening makes us look so terrible that I can't deal with how people will perceive us because of it. I had invited Krysztof to the gala but I'm glad he couldn't make it because I was so dreadfully embarrassed by the mind-numbingly bad art.

Anyway. I ignored the art and hung around the theater, talking to various cast and crew floating about. Eventually Kaitie pulled me aside and I told her about the previous day. I had planned on coming to opening night (the Benaroyas were to be there and Jake wanted a full house for Donna, plus it's my fucking theater too, even if I felt depressed and empty over it) but Sylvia kindly told everyone that I wasn't feeling well, thank you, and that I would try to be well enough to make it to the gala. Kaitie called me in the morning to ask how I was and I told her that I'd give her the whole deal later that night, if we could find a few minutes.

That afternoon at the theater, I told her what had happened and my good session with Jaime (she referred me; we have the same therapist). I think we might have been interrupted, because the house opened shortly afterwards.

Ava Fiasco was the first of my people there. I told her to get there early since we were oversold. I got a row of seats by the entrance so I could scurry out if I needed to but the others would still have good seats, and she quickly designated one for Mr. VNRS, one for herself, and one for Devon Rocketship (of Junk Mail fame). A few minutes later, the Intellectual arrived with his friend who I had met yet who didn't remember me. The friend had been drunk at the Rendezvous a couple of weeks back and we had a good-natured argument about Charles' theory of masculine versus feminine dramatic structure. I think I won, but I'm not sure, but it was fun.

We eventually sat everyone that was to be sat and the show started.

Halfway through the first act, TDI, who was sitting in a different wing of the theater from me got up in the middle of a scene, peeked into a backstage exit near his seat, got focused on the proper exit, and simply left, taking his friend with him, leaving me distracted and anxious for the rest of the first act.

The second act of Caryl Churchill's Cloud 9 is meant to be acted naturalistically, as opposed to the farce in the first act. Ryan was cast as Betty/Edward and, as I watched the second half of the play, I felt sad and alone in our concrete bunker theater. His dialect was wretched (Long Island Mick plus middle-class Brit just comes out as a speech impediment) and he was feminine and queer but all of his own mannerisms were there, as intimate to me as they had always been, and all I could think of was that I had lost my best friend and my lover and our baby and it was all blood and I wanted to run away and be sick and I wanted to hurt him very badly and I wanted to stop being so angry. I wanted to tell him that every day I wake up and wish that he was dead, or wish that I was dead, or wish that life was different somehow, and that I'm sorry and I had never missed anyone so much in my life but I hated him. I was aching and raw and I wished that I were anywhere else.

And it was over then, and I could skip the curtain call and go out and work and forget what I had just seen on stage in the bar rush.

Kaitie found me after things had calmed down. I let Shannon spell me at the bar and we took a break in the empty theater. She gave me half of her bouquet of white roses and told me that the party was amazing. I cried in her arms and told her that I missed her and that I loved her and that I wanted to die, and then we sang songs until I had to go back to work.

How could a night so frozen
be so scalding hot?
How can a morning this mild
feel so raw?

Without you
The tides change
The boys run
The oceans crash

The crowd roars
The days soar
The babies cry
Without you

The moon glows
The river flows
But I die
Without you

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain.

When that I was and a little tiny boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
A foolish thing was but a toy,
For the rain it raineth every day.

The week had been ramping up for Balagan's "gala": the open house after-party on the Friday after the new theater opened, and I was almost done with everything that I needed to do. My weekend had been good and I felt a little better for it, but weight was building on me. I felt if I could just get through opening weekend, get through the gigantic party that all of our most important donors, patrons, and colleagues were invited to, I would be okay. Sam had given me a couple of comps to Twelfe Night for Wednesday, and Mr. VNRS and I went. It was a beautiful production; it's arguably Shakespeare's most complex and troublesome comedy (it was written just before Hamlet) with a spectacular cast of local actors (including my friend Curtis Eastwood!). I had forgotten how bittersweet the denouement to that one is. Mr. VNRS is quickly becoming one of my favorite people to see a play with; he came to Cloud 9 and the gala, too, but that's getting ahead of myself.

The next day, Thursday, I got up and worked on my last-minute plans for the gala with Sylvia. No matter what I did I couldn't feel right that day, and nothing lifted me out of wherever I was going inside. Syl and I eventually parted ways to get various things done and I dropped by the theater to see if Jake was there, since I had a few questions for him. He was out, but Charles, our Artistic Director and the object of much ambivalence on behalf of the company, was gaffing down runners on the walkways around the seats, and he looked up at me and smiled. I hadn't been expecting to see him; for some reason. I hadn't been expecting to see anyone.

"Hello, darling! It's been so long!" He stopped short. "What's the matter? No smiles?"

I mumbled something about how I'd been "going through some things". I've been practicing that on the recommendation of my therapist. Charles put down the gaff tape and stood up.

"Well, you and I have really got terrible chemistry, haven't we? I must have tried five different cocktails of medication before I got it right; once I thought I got it right until something happened and I went suicidal. And I never know when it's hormones or something real."

He didn't say anything more, just walked over to me and and held me for a long time. I breathed. He let go of me.

"Well, Jake went out shopping, he should be back in a half an hour -- less, actually. You can wait here for him."

I thanked him and said I'd come back later. I couldn't get out of there fast enough. October was squalling outside and I didn't know where to go, so I quickly walked home, my breath getting shorter and shorter. I put on huge dark glasses and tried not to be so obvious about openly weeping while walking down Pine Street. That was as far as my caring went. Let them stare, I thought. Who cares.

I got home and threw my jacket off and collapsed, coughing and crying and lost at home and not able to stop my heart from racing. I don't know how much time went by, but I couldn't find any quiet. Although I don't know when or how I made the decision, but I managed to call Sylvia. I'm pretty sure I was incoherant and I know I kept apologizing, but she got to my place as soon as she could and stayed with me until the worst had passed. She called my therapist and my sister and left messages with them both. I can't typically use the phone when I'm that upset. Syl's stage managing Cloud 9 and had to leave to run errands, but neither of us thought I should be alone. I went with her to Vivace so she could use the internet to e-mail Charles. She didn't want to talk to him.

I couldn't look at anyone as we went. I kept my head low and my eyes down and did not look to either side. My breath was still shallow and my muscles felt frozen. I absently drank hot milk and tried not to think about how loud everything was at the cafe.

There was an explosion outside, and then another, small and bright white and red. The power went out, and people stood up from their chairs, chattering and looking out the windows. A transformer outside had blown, leaving everyone with only the weird yellow Northwest October late afternoon light.

"We should have gone to the library in the first place," grumbled Sylvia, packing up her laptop, "It's quiet there anyway." She watched me carefully. I had jumped when the explosions happened, and I was gently hyperventilating again. She slipped me a milligram of lorazepam before we left.

Lights were out on Broadway for five blocks in either direction and all the print shops that Sylvia needed things from were closed now from the power outage. "I need to take you somewhere. Who can we call?"

I thought about this. My sister still hadn't called back, and I was worried about going there anyway because of my nephew, as though I were convinced that my sadness and fear were somehow contagious or something. Almost everyone else I knew was either building a theater or working hard at their own problems and I didn't want to bring them mine. I finally mentioned my friend, the Dashing Intellectual, as the only person I could think of.

I'd been seeing The Dashing Intellectual for a little less than a month and I found him very interesting. He's very stimulating, intelligent, and exciting and always gets me out of my routine, although we don't always see eye to eye. He was nice enough to let me come over and we watched Fishing With John until the tranquilizer really hit me and I fell asleep for a while.

I dreamed about August Wilson, and when I woke up, the numbness of the lorazepam had worn off and I felt sad and quiet again. TDI was watching a collection of films by Kenneth Anger. I watched with him for a while, but the surreality didn't help my mood. I felt calm enough to use the phone again, so I called my sister and Mr. VNRS and let them know that I was safe and not alone.

Caitlin said I could come over any time if I needed to. I told her that I was worried about Roscoe and exposing him to moody scenes like I had gone through earlier.

"I've lost it in front of him before," she said. "I've collapsed on the floor crying, and he's confused, but he does fine. He's very resilient. I think it's good for him to know that it's okay to feel this way. We weren't taught that."

I thought about that for the rest of the night, and eventually I fell asleep again. In the morning I had an emergency session with Jaime, my therapist. He has a long red ponytail and glasses and wears Tommy Bahama shirts. He also works at Seattle Mental Health with in-patients as an addiction specialist and takes sliding-scale clients like me in his office for "relaxation". He's probably the best therapist I've ever had, though this is only my fourth session. My first session, I walked in, signed my paperwork, and immediately burst into tears. When he didn't stare at me as though I were speaking in tongues -- you'd be surprised how many psychologists do when something like that happens -- I knew that I was safe with him.

I had talked with Jaime briefly on the phone the previous day when we set up my appointment. I was still hyperventilating a little but had gotten to TDI's place so I felt safe and calmer. I had a good session, mostly about grief and holding that inside, and I told Jaime that I wanted to go back to the hospital when I had my attack, but I had no health insurance so I didn't. I also told him about the lorazepam. It's terrible that I love benzos and painkillers so much because they're really quite bad for someone like me, but I'm glad that I had the opportunity to not feel anything for a while. Afterward, Sylvia picked me up and we ran a few more errands for the gala then went to our respective homes to wash up and get dressed.

Jaime keeps telling me to take hot baths. I love baths, but I really hadn't wanted to sit still for long enough to take one. When I got home, it was the first time that I'd been alone for more than a day and I was frightened of the silence. I felt tired and cottony and sad, and I ran a bath.

I have a wonderful bathtub. I read for a few minutes, but eventually I put the book down and just sat. I sat I and wept, and I let myself feel that I had lost something, which is different than just feeling pain. I stayed like that for as long as the feeling lasted, like waiting for a fever to break, then I shaved and washed and got out.

For the rain it raineth every day.