Moving On?
So.... hi.
I don't know if anyone is even going to read this. Or if I want anyone to. Or if I'll even finish it. I just know I need to understand what I'm feeling right now, and the only way to do so is to write it.
Let's begin.
It's 11 minutes from July 10th as I type this. There's no significance to the date. The only recent significant dates have passed. June 21st was the anniversary of closing being announced. June 30th was six months since closing. Why I'm just cracking now? I couldn't tell you. But here we are, now 9 minutes from July 10th, and it feels like December 30th all over again.
Head Over Heels, which is Tanner's new show, started previews a few weeks ago. I've seen it six times since then. Eight if you count the two times in San Francisco. I love it. It's a beautiful show. Important. Groundbreaking in a lot of ways. I'll see it many times during its run. But it's no Cats. It's no substitute. I wanted it to be, I think. I told -- promised -- myself that it wouldn't be the same as Cats, that I wouldn't let myself become unhealthily addicted and reliant. I'm doing okay, all things considered. I've stopped myself from seeing it every time I've had the urge, which has been just about every day, so. All good things. Or so I'd like to think.
Connor tweeted some old videos from the show today, and for the first time in at least five months, I actually cried about Cats. It was just for a few seconds, there were only a few tears. But for a moment, it wasn't forced. It actually felt good. Cathartic.
Then, the moment passed, and I just felt empty again. Like I did sitting at a dirty McDonald's table until well after midnight on December 31st.
It's midnight now, on July 10th, and I miss Cats.
It's a terrifying and crushing feeling, like when you're swimming at the beach and a wave crashes over your head, and for just a moment you're trapped beneath the water and can't breathe. Then it's over, and you gasp for breath, and your brain tries to expel the memory and the feeling as fast as it can, because if you dwell on it, it's too much like trauma.
Or maybe that's just me. I don't know.
What I do know, is that it doesn't get any easier. I want it to. I know I spent the weeks leading up until closing hoping that I would cling to Cats forever, as if my pain would make me some sort of martyr in the fandom or something. I would do just about anything to make the pain go away now, though. As I said to Connor in a conversation after watching their videos, I almost wish it had never happened. The whole experience. But what good would that do? I might be happier. Or I might be in a much worse place simply by not having Cats in my life at all.
Cats did change my life. I think I can say that now. It's not a phrase I like to throw around lightly, because it carries a lot of weight. Very few things have actually made a lifelong impact on me. I know Cats is one of them. Earlier today though, I tried to say that Head Over Heels had changed my life. I couldn't bring myself to write it, because it just wasn't true. Maybe that makes me not as good a fan as some other people. I don't know. And maybe at some point I will consider Head Over Heels a life changing show. But I don't think so.
I've realized that nothing can replace Cats. And that's what I wanted it to be, a replacement. A coping mechanism as I said in my last post, yes, but also something to fill the void and mend the hole in my heart. I realize now that it can't be. It won't be. Because it's never going to be able to live up to the experience of Cats. The whole cast is never going to know and love me. I'm never going to see it that many times. I'm never going to be able to just go see it, or door, on a whim because I've had a bad day. I'm never going to be able to forge a connection with the cast from drawings, because real people are harder to draw than Cats -- and someone's already done that. My friend Kai, who I love, has already won their hearts with their art. I'm not jealous, or bitter. It's just how it is. It's... a wakeup call. A reminder that this isn't it. Cats was it. That time is over. I guess it's actually more of a slap in the face. That's okay though. I deserve it.
Probably, I should stop relying on Broadway musicals for the wellbeing of my mental health. I need a new hobby. I literally work professionally in the industry now, as a stage manager, in New York. I probably shouldn't be "stanning" something I could very well be doing for my job in four years. (A little optimistic, maybe. But ambition is good in moderation.) But for now, I'm content. It makes me happy, mostly, throwing all my love and adoration at Broadway. And if it makes me happy now, why stop?
It's 12:20am now, and I can feel the quality of my writing falter as I get more and more tired. Still, I know if I stop now, I'll never get it out. So onward we go.
I know I'm doing much better than I was when Cats was open. I've had many a discussion about how it was an addiction, and how I'm recovering. Getting healthier. It's a good thing. But if I could have it back -- if I could flip a switch and be back in the Neil Simon like nothing had changed, I would do it.
That experience can't be recreated. It can't be restored. It can't be forgotten, either. It's always going to linger there, a blur in the foreground of my mind for the rest of my life. Because despite the hardships, it was the best 17 months of my life. You don't forget something like that.
I thought I moved on. But I had only been suppressing it, forcing myself to think about other things until I was too alone with my thoughts. But there's a line in Head Over Heels where the character Philoclea says "pain's denial is the thief of joy". In allowing myself to mourn, even six months later, I will be closer to happier.
But moving on? No. There's nothing to move on to, because nothing will be the same. But maybe I can take the lessons learned from Head Over Heels, and learn from them. Maybe that's all I need.
It's 12:34am. I miss Cats. And I'm going to be okay.
"If you lose control
And burn a bridge too far
No matter where you go
Here you are"
I don't know if anyone is even going to read this. Or if I want anyone to. Or if I'll even finish it. I just know I need to understand what I'm feeling right now, and the only way to do so is to write it.
Let's begin.
It's 11 minutes from July 10th as I type this. There's no significance to the date. The only recent significant dates have passed. June 21st was the anniversary of closing being announced. June 30th was six months since closing. Why I'm just cracking now? I couldn't tell you. But here we are, now 9 minutes from July 10th, and it feels like December 30th all over again.
Head Over Heels, which is Tanner's new show, started previews a few weeks ago. I've seen it six times since then. Eight if you count the two times in San Francisco. I love it. It's a beautiful show. Important. Groundbreaking in a lot of ways. I'll see it many times during its run. But it's no Cats. It's no substitute. I wanted it to be, I think. I told -- promised -- myself that it wouldn't be the same as Cats, that I wouldn't let myself become unhealthily addicted and reliant. I'm doing okay, all things considered. I've stopped myself from seeing it every time I've had the urge, which has been just about every day, so. All good things. Or so I'd like to think.
Connor tweeted some old videos from the show today, and for the first time in at least five months, I actually cried about Cats. It was just for a few seconds, there were only a few tears. But for a moment, it wasn't forced. It actually felt good. Cathartic.
Then, the moment passed, and I just felt empty again. Like I did sitting at a dirty McDonald's table until well after midnight on December 31st.
It's midnight now, on July 10th, and I miss Cats.
It's a terrifying and crushing feeling, like when you're swimming at the beach and a wave crashes over your head, and for just a moment you're trapped beneath the water and can't breathe. Then it's over, and you gasp for breath, and your brain tries to expel the memory and the feeling as fast as it can, because if you dwell on it, it's too much like trauma.
Or maybe that's just me. I don't know.
What I do know, is that it doesn't get any easier. I want it to. I know I spent the weeks leading up until closing hoping that I would cling to Cats forever, as if my pain would make me some sort of martyr in the fandom or something. I would do just about anything to make the pain go away now, though. As I said to Connor in a conversation after watching their videos, I almost wish it had never happened. The whole experience. But what good would that do? I might be happier. Or I might be in a much worse place simply by not having Cats in my life at all.
Cats did change my life. I think I can say that now. It's not a phrase I like to throw around lightly, because it carries a lot of weight. Very few things have actually made a lifelong impact on me. I know Cats is one of them. Earlier today though, I tried to say that Head Over Heels had changed my life. I couldn't bring myself to write it, because it just wasn't true. Maybe that makes me not as good a fan as some other people. I don't know. And maybe at some point I will consider Head Over Heels a life changing show. But I don't think so.
I've realized that nothing can replace Cats. And that's what I wanted it to be, a replacement. A coping mechanism as I said in my last post, yes, but also something to fill the void and mend the hole in my heart. I realize now that it can't be. It won't be. Because it's never going to be able to live up to the experience of Cats. The whole cast is never going to know and love me. I'm never going to see it that many times. I'm never going to be able to just go see it, or door, on a whim because I've had a bad day. I'm never going to be able to forge a connection with the cast from drawings, because real people are harder to draw than Cats -- and someone's already done that. My friend Kai, who I love, has already won their hearts with their art. I'm not jealous, or bitter. It's just how it is. It's... a wakeup call. A reminder that this isn't it. Cats was it. That time is over. I guess it's actually more of a slap in the face. That's okay though. I deserve it.
Probably, I should stop relying on Broadway musicals for the wellbeing of my mental health. I need a new hobby. I literally work professionally in the industry now, as a stage manager, in New York. I probably shouldn't be "stanning" something I could very well be doing for my job in four years. (A little optimistic, maybe. But ambition is good in moderation.) But for now, I'm content. It makes me happy, mostly, throwing all my love and adoration at Broadway. And if it makes me happy now, why stop?
It's 12:20am now, and I can feel the quality of my writing falter as I get more and more tired. Still, I know if I stop now, I'll never get it out. So onward we go.
I know I'm doing much better than I was when Cats was open. I've had many a discussion about how it was an addiction, and how I'm recovering. Getting healthier. It's a good thing. But if I could have it back -- if I could flip a switch and be back in the Neil Simon like nothing had changed, I would do it.
That experience can't be recreated. It can't be restored. It can't be forgotten, either. It's always going to linger there, a blur in the foreground of my mind for the rest of my life. Because despite the hardships, it was the best 17 months of my life. You don't forget something like that.
I thought I moved on. But I had only been suppressing it, forcing myself to think about other things until I was too alone with my thoughts. But there's a line in Head Over Heels where the character Philoclea says "pain's denial is the thief of joy". In allowing myself to mourn, even six months later, I will be closer to happier.
But moving on? No. There's nothing to move on to, because nothing will be the same. But maybe I can take the lessons learned from Head Over Heels, and learn from them. Maybe that's all I need.
It's 12:34am. I miss Cats. And I'm going to be okay.
"If you lose control
And burn a bridge too far
No matter where you go
Here you are"
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