Post Dramatic Stress Syndrome

copyright 2005 Dale Hansen - no reproduction without permission

In case you’ve been following Chelsea’s Blog on the making of the 3-act play she’s been directing (and I was in), the single performance was Saturday.

It went very well, and was generally well received. The point of the production, of course, was to raise money for the church youth, and that goal was certainly accomplished.

Chelsea ran the team extremely well; I have to say how proud I am of her and her efforts. I must also add the unadulterated envy I have for the patience she displayed when the chaos was overwhelming.

For the last month, every waking moment has been dedicated to the play. All our energy, all our time, and a not insignificant amount of funds have all been channeled into the production.

Now, it’s over.

I am so relived. The relief and happiness I have at getting my life back after the amount of time dedicated to this single task is matched only by the immense sadness I have about it all being over and the wonderful (semi)controlled chaos, the camaraderie, the feeling of true teamwork in the pursuit of a common goal is no longer a part of my day-to-day existence.

It’s true I have my life back now. Yet, in comparison to the last month, my normal life seems somehow less – not so much diminished - but more that I didn’t realize how routine and staid my staid routine had become.

I have time to go back to the gym, now. I’ve missed that terribly. I have time to work on the yard, to wash the dogs and do all the countless little things I’ve put off to concentrate on the play. These are important things, they are the little things on which modern life is based, but there is a melancholy to this too, in that none of these things will ever hold the excitement and roller coaster thrill of the months of preparation I’ve just been through.

The men and women (and teens) that have gone through this with me, the faces I’ve seen three and four times each week are gone now. There are one or two I may never see again, as one moves away, others go back to their jobs and the countless little things on which their lives are based. For two months, we forged ourselves into a single unit, and in a single night, our cohesiveness is retired.

They tore the set down that same night. The crowd was still on their way out the door when the drills and hammers demolished the stairs of the “stately british cottage” and converted it back into the platform for the choir. The kitchen was removed and became the band’s area; the couch and coffee table were taken away for room for the minister to give his sermon the next morning.

Normal life reasserting itself.

I am exhausted, though it’s the sort of exhaustion that comes from accomplishment, the sort of thing you would feel from climbing a rock face or running a race, or whatever way you would choose to press yourself - finding a way to break out just a little from normal life.

And though I may be a bit diminished, though my days are not the whirlwind they have been, the memories and friendships I made as part of this team will be with me for a very long time.

Perhaps the me who is now diminished is more than the me I was before this began.

I can’t see how it could be otherwise.