I went to a play he was in. I sweated through it in the London heatwave. I wanted to be supportive.

What I’d forgotten was that actors, even civilian ones who do it on the side of other things, are the most selfish kind of creatures you’ll ever meet. I forgot that “supportive” means standing around like a lemon watching them soak up praise from adoring members of the public afterwards. I forgot that they think it’s perfectly plausible to bail on the drink you were meant to go on after because they’re “too tired”. I forgot that nobody else’s problems matter when there’s a performance to do. The audience gets the love first; we get what’s left over.

And I do need help. Right now, I do need support. I feel so lost I find myself crying intermittently at various points in the day. I find myself unable to sleep for the nightmares. I find that I’m losing who I am and what I want. I feel that I’m carrying around a great weight that I can’t put down.

I wanted to confess these things to him. I wanted a moment where he would take my hand and tell me it would all be OK. That I was strong and brave and clever and would win out, even though right now I feel like such a loser. I needed some external support, but appatently that was too much to ask.

There’s a moment in Les Mis that I love; it’s one of my favourite moments in the show. Strangely, it lasts only a few seconds and involves no singing at all. After the factory worker Fantine has been thrown out on her ear, with everyone scorning and laughing at her, there is a brief intermediary as she stands with her back to the audience, illuminated by a spotlight. She slowly removes her cap and lets her long hair tumble down her back. Then she glances over her shoulder, looking into her past as her future sits so uncertain, as the first chords of I Dreamed a Dream begin.

I love that moment.

Today I thought back. I thought of the truly magical weekend with Wilt that I shared before he headed home to America, mere days before I was to be fired. By boss, one of the most wicked men I’ve ever known, must have already been planning the lies he would spin. It seems that Fate, in her cruelty, decided to give me just a taste of the purest happiness before she threw me down into a cesspit of worry, fear and doubt.

From this horrible blackness where I now squat, unsure of myself and not knowing what will happen in an uncertain future I don’t know if I even want, I look back on those 3 days – the golden memories that I always knew they’d be – and wish I was back in that blissful ignorance. Back holding his hand on Shaftesbury Avenue, where we saw Les Mis together, back in his arms at night, warm and safe. Back with his laugh and his gentle eyes.

I see it all so vividly in my mind.

Then the harshness of reality crashes back upon me, with a blow do deep and painful I feel as though I’ve been physically struck. Then I feel so terribly alone, with nobody there to save me.

I went along last night to support the man I’ve been seeing, silently seeking his help as I feel my world collapse. And instead I found a tantrum-throwing, attention seeking threatre child. As I fought back tears on the way home, I thought of how much more of a man Wilt was. Truly and simply, there was something so delightfully solid about him – mentally as well as physically. But now he is gone and I don’t know to whom to turn.

My own fear cripples me. The weight of it pulls me down until all I want to do is lock the door to my room and sleep. I cannot, because I have freelance work (most of which I detest) which must be done, then I must chase them repetedly for money they promise to pay. It should make me feel spirited and motivated, but it just tires me further. And the money is not enough. I still watch my bank account trickle down.

There are people living a much worse hell than I am, I am well aware. But right now all I want is someone to help pull me out of the one I find myself living.



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