I'm Sorry

Yesterday I trod the boards of the Antelope Valley stage for the last time. Yesterday I said goodbye to a part of my life that has profoundly shaped me over the last 12 years.

Yesterday I cried.

It's not the first time I've cried on this journey. It's not the last time I'll cry, either. Tears seem as much a part of this journey as smiles are, though most people only see the smiles; I mostly cry alone.

Not because I'm ashamed to be seen crying or because I worry what people will think; I couldn't care less whether or not people see my crying or judge me for it. The things and people I'm crying over deserve every teardrop. It's just that right now, the moments when it hits me are solitary ones.

That'll change.

Today I said goodbye to the stage, which is important and worthy of tears. But too soon I'll say goodbye to the people I've met through the theatre—what I call my theatre family—and that's going to leave a mark. I think that the tears I cry over them will not be solitary ones.

I'm leaving people I love and who I think love me. We're all losing someone important to us. We've all got cause to grieve.

I do think, though, that in some ways it's easier for me. After all, while I'm losing people I love, it's because of a decision I made; it's the consequence of my choices. My family and theatre family and friends are losing someone they love, but they didn't do anything; this loss is being imposed on them. I, at least, inflicted my loss on myself; the catch is I'm also inflicting their loss on my loved ones. It's my doing.

I think that makes it harder for those I'm leaving than it is for me. I'm not saying it's not difficult for me—it is—I'm just saying that it's easier for me than it is for my friends and loved ones.

That realization sucked, by the way. To realize that this choice, which hurts me so much, may be hurting my friends and loved ones more...just sucked. And to realize that all of it—my pain and theirs—is my doing is just about enough to break my heart.

So let me say I'm sorry. I am sorry to inflict this on you.

I won't—I can't—take it back. I must and I want to move ahead. It feels right. It feels good.

But it hurts, too. It hurts me to be saying goodbye to you (and you know who you are), and it hurts me to know that my leaving hurts you more.

No wonder children throw tantrums when they can't have two (mutually exclusive) wishes at the same time. That's what I want. I want to have my cake and eat it, too. I want to do what's best for me and do what makes you happiest. But I can't have both.

This pain is not going away any time soon.