I should be working right now.
I should be writing a pitch document to a major arts grant organisation basically begging them to let me use some of the funds we were awarded to do something slightly different than our original pitch. I should be socialising with my parents friend who came over for dinner or tucking my darling daughter into bed.
But I’m not.
Because I’m sat here in a million little pieces. And I don’t know what to do.
Just over two weeks ago a series of unfortunate events transpired. Which one tripped up which exactly is still a bit of a mystery but regardless the dominos fell. My show, the “thing” that I have been working on for two years, which I have sunk my separation settlement into, which contains my blood, sweat and tears, my creative DNA, for which I sacrificed my time with Maisie, my sleep, my life for, was cancelled two weeks before going up.
To say I’m a wreck is an understatement. I cried for 48 hours straight. I didn’t sleep more than four hours a night for a week, less than six hours in one 72 hour period as I desperately combed through budgets and schedules trying to pull together some scenario, ANY scenario that would let us move on. But I couldn’t.
I have failed.
I’ve failed the people who came on this journey because they believed in me, or the project or both. I’ve failed the venues who booked us fully expecting us to actually show up with a show. I failed Maisie for everytime I said “one more email, one more minute, one more page, one more day”, I’ve failed mums in the arts, I’ve failed women with post partum depression for not being able to show how it is, I failed the me who risked everything, I’ve failed to secure Maisie and my future, I’ve failed our cast and crew, our cheerleaders, our team, I’ve failed all the mums who feel alone who the show was supposed to reach out and touch, to show that there was another way. I have failed those near and far. No matter how you look at it I. Have. Failed.
I feel like there has been a death. I want to punch the people who say “it’s not so bad, no one’s died!” because someone HAS died. I have died. The me who actually gets to achieve this, achieve something, to accomplish something important, who rose out of the suffocating pitch black swamp of post natal depression and psychosis to do something good. That person has died. She went down in a fiery inferno fighting like hell but she’s dead and what’s left of her right now is not what you would call “pretty”.
I literally do no know what to do or how to move forwards at the moment. There are still a lot of things that need to be cleaned up. I need to be propped up. I have returned to my family & friends in Canada for a few weeks to attempt to recover, to try and be gentle with myself, to find my center. To try and shift this bowling ball of knots I have anchored in my stomach. Nothing’s worked yet but it’s early days. So I’m grateful for a place to plant my words. Once again.