Stephanie Says.. Take a walk inside my head

This time, it started with Elphaba.  You know Elphaba, don’t you?  Elphaba Thropp?  Green of skin, black of clothing and just a little bit “Wicked”?

See, “Wicked” is my favorite musical.  Ever.  Of all time.  Future generations are going to have to work hard to come up with something to surpass it. (And yes, I have the book and know that my musical isn’t REALLY how Gregory Maguire imagined Oz, but just LISTEN to “I’m Not That Girl” or “As Long As You’re Mine” and then tell me how far fetched it all is.)

“Wicked” is so good, in fact, that I’ve seen it three times.  This is a record for me.  Besides the ever popular, always around performances of “The Sound of Music”, I’ve never seen any musical more than once.

So, when I saw that it was coming to Nashville this fall, I was excited.  Galinda.  Fiyero. Nessarose.  ELPHABA.  Just a few hours away.  Wouldn’t it be exciting?  I could listen to my soundtrack.  I could bone up on my songs.  I could pretend to Defy Gravity.  “Wicked” IS, after all, the best musical EVER.

I forgot I can’t drive.  I forgot that I’m married to a wonderfully sweet, generous man who HATES MUSICALS.

HE doesn’t think “Wicked” is the best show ever.  HE doesn’t care about seeing Elphaba again.  HE is not going to shell out money for the tickets.

The answer was no.

The answer remains no.
And so it began.

This time.

See, I’ve known that I’m depressed for years.

I can’t tell you when it began.

There are stories of overwhelmed grandmothers and great aunts in hospitals.  There are incidents of the women in my family being unable to leave their beds.  There are drawn curtains and homes left unrung with the sound of the laughter of friends.

But for me.  For me, it probably began with adolescence.

I know, I know, I’m a walking cliche.

Blame the hormones.

Blame the move to another continent.

Blame the introduction of junior high school popularity contests.

Whatever it was, I got it.  My diary entries (which are probably filled with oh so ordinary teenage problems now that I look back on them) speak of headaches.  Many many headaches.

Eventually the headaches gave way to naps.

Naps gave way to withdrawal.

And withdrawal…? Well we’re still gestating on that.

While we’re gestating, the clouds are circling.  Anything can cause them.

A friend suddenly begins backing out of a relationship?  There comes a little puff of wind.

Someone breaks plans only to dine with another couple? The first little patter begins to fall.

My name is called in the exact same inflection as it had been during childhood sessions of “What did you screw up NOW?” The sky begins to darken and the thunder announces its presence.

I try to help a customer or take over a new task only to be told that someone else will be performing said service because I would only mess it up anyway?  KA-BOOM.

The little group I sometimes hang out with used to call me a “social butterfly” because I was always making plans to go somewhere.

It’s true, I suppose.  I don’t like being in the house if I can help it.  Kenny keeps it dark.  Kenny doesn’t mess with the temperature.  But mostly, THERE ARE NO PEOPLE THERE.

My phone doesn’t ring.  My bell doesn’t chime.  I’m not what you would call “popular”.

It’s my fault, I suppose.

I can be curt.  I can be weird.  How many other people do you know who have to leave stores at the mall because the music makes them cry?

I don’t like talking on the phone.  It makes me twitchy.  I can’t read facial expressions and I’m too poorly able to read nuance to really be able to tell what the other party is saying.

I tend to talk about myself. ALOT.  If I’m not talking about myself, I’m talking about Kenny.  I try to be a kind, empathetic person, but sometimes I come across as cold and uncaring. At best, I appear disinterested.  At worst, I’m perceived as egotistical.

And don’t even get me started on my compulsions.  I drive my husband crazy with my inability to “take a break”.  I either have to see a task through or not start it at all.

I’m constantly washing my hands.

I can’t leave a doll in a face down position and all toys have to be neatly put away before I’ll leave the preschool area.

I’m strange.  I’m weird.

I’m more alone than I’m not.

It hurts of course, but I don’t know how to change it.

I don’t know how to MAKE the phone ring with party invitations.

I don’t know how to go back in time and teach my husband how to stand the summer months so that somewhere between my “Touch me, hold me, love me, PLEASE” and his “People born to Depression Era babies don’t show physical affection and besides, can’t you feel how hot and sticky it is today?” we can find SOME kind of happy medium.

I don’t know how to talk myself into staying in a crowded area without the panic that the massive amounts of people will somehow…okay, who am I kidding?  It’s not the people, it’s the strangers.

I’m friendly.  I really am.  I like people.  For the most part, I LOVE my church friends and shop customers.  I like hearing people’s stories and living vicariously through their adventures.

But I’ve been told over and over again that people don’t like me.   Er…okay, no one has ever said those exact words, but the implications are there.  “Don’t ask so many questions.”  “You get too personal too fast.”  “Can’t you just let people BE?”

So, I’m scared of strangers.  The people closest to me seem to make…allowances?  adjustments?

I’m often treated as if I’m a child or some sort of pet.

Jobs are done before I can get to them.

Remarks are explained away as being just my “way”.

I have translators and explainers and it’s just easier to play with the preschoolers rather than having to try and make my way through yet another conversation. It’s easier to play with paints and colors and posterboard, with puppets and music and dances than to face ANOTHER social situation that ends in my inevitable mockery.
And my heart grows dimmer and dimmer as I hide it away.

And the clouds circle.

And I join the long line of women in my family who can’t get out of bed.

Even for my babies.

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It’s not always like this, of course.  I have a good life.

The first ten nightmare years of our marriage are behind us and we’re doing so much better.

I have three classes at church that I love and I get to learn new songs, new slang and new missionary techniques.

I have wonderful customers at the shop, some of whom even greet me with a hug.

Nothing’s wrong.  Not really.

Nothing’s wrong enough to take to my bed for.

The migraines are fading.  The hormones are lessoning.

I have the occasional lunch with the girls and movie date with the husband.

But the clouds still circle.

My phone doesn’t ring.

My last three therapists have moved out of state, one after the other.

I’m terrified to make a move on anything out of my “comfort zone” for fear of harming some customer’s important documents.

Nothing’s wrong.  Not really.

Kenny says I’m fine.  He says we’re busy anyway.  We work afternoons and evenings.  Church is enough, we don’t need other people.

But it hurts.

It hurts to be a joke.

It hurts to be a failure.

It hurts…right now it hurts…to be me.

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In my dreams, of course, I’m Supergirl.

I clean up messes.

I set things right.

I’m fun.

I’m charming.

I’m beautiful.

I’m not real.

Because really, right now what I am is hurt.

And broken.

And withdrawn.

And always, ever

Alone.

As some of you may know, aside from -Pop Up Video-, my favorite non fiction show is the interview program known as -Inside the Actor’s Studio-.  (Yes, we can debate the “facts” on -Pop Up Video- as being true or not, but that is for another post.)  -Inside the Actor’s Studio- is actually the culmination of a series of classes taken by aspiring artists working on graduate degrees in everything from script writing to stage acting.  An established actor (or ensemble, as in the case of “The Cast of -The Simpsons-“) spends four hours or so being questioned by the Dean of The Actors Studio.  Topics range from “What elementary school did you attend?” to “Why did you agree to be in that music video?” The four hour session is edited down to one (or two in the case of Robin Williams) and aired on the Bravo channel.

I have always wanted to be interviewed like that.  I used to want to be on -This is Your Life- but a)It’s not on anymore (how many of you reading this even know what program I’m talking about?) and b) I don’t like surprises all that much.  I mean, would I REALLY want my first grade teacher appearing in public to talk about what a brat I was?  I don’t think so.

I do, however, love to talk about myself.  I’m not a complete egocentric, but I am my favorite subject (Poor Toby Keith would have written “I Wanna Talk About ME” much earlier if I had been in his life).  The chances of me being on national television (not a star, not famous, not the crime committing type-too scared of the police) are slim to none.  But I do have this blog.  And it is my birthday.

So (not that you asked) here are the answers to some of the questions asked on one of my favorite shows.  Imagine me fidgiting around on a chair and someone at a table with a pile of blue cards in front of them.

WHERE WERE YOU BORN?

The short answer is that I was born in Alabama.  The longer answer is that I was born in Decatur, Alabama.  My parents were living in Moulton at the time and that is where I lived for my first two years.

WHAT WAS/IS YOUR FATHER’S NAME AND WHAT DID/DOES HE DO?

My father is Stephen Frederic Hall.  The “Stephen” is where my “Stephanie” comes from.  My dad has been a minister of all kinds of things (education, singles, youth, senior adults) but his main title is “Minister of Music”.  Some churches call this position  a “Choir Director” and some label it a “Worship Leader”.  Daddy plans the hymns, arranges the solos, leads some of the small groups, teaches some of the Bible Study Classes, takes the Senior Adults on “Mystery Trips”, picks out the cantatas for Christmas and Easter and sometimes introduces special guests from other churches.  He’s written his own songs and has dabbled in writing stories as well.

WHAT WAS/IS YOUR MOTHER’S NAME AND WHAT DOES/DID SHE DO?

My mother is Claudia Rose Estes Hall, from Dickson, Tennessee. (The “Rose” in “Stephanie Rose Hall Sims” is in honor of her.  I love my name.)   Her degree is in kindergarten through eighth grade education, but she has mostly worked in preschool, kindergarten and first grade.  She has supervised field trips, taught low functioning kids how to read and write (she is especially interested in early childhood reading), fallen in love with Disney characters while searching for “clean” movies and heroes to introduce her children to, shocked her classroom by appearing in places such as Wal*Mart and Pizza Hut (teachers don’t REALLY live behind their desks, you know), explored pumpkin patches and petting zoos, watched caterpillars become butterflies and sung “I’m gonna be a part of it/First Grade/FIRST GRADE!”.

WHAT ELEMENTARY SCHOOL (S) DID YOU ATTEND?

First I went to Caldwell.  It was sort of down the street from us when we lived in Alabama.  Across the street was a playground that, when I was little, I thought of as “mine”.  I was apparently upset when fall rolled around, classes resumed and “my” playground was invaded by the big kids.

I don’t remember much about my academic life in Alabama.  I know I met a dark haired, dark eyed beauty named Beth whom I now call “Beth From Alabama” who taught me “When I Survey The Wondrous Cross” in sign language.  I learned to write in cursive and wanted to write “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” on everything. I also did a report on the state of Idaho, but I wouldn’t be able to tell you anything about it now.
After Alabama, we moved to Tennessee.  We lived in Sweetwater and I attended Brown.  At Brown, I learned such poems as “Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening” and passages from the Psalms.  My friends and I acted out scenes from “The Three Investigators” on the playground.  I believe I was someone named Bob since he had glasses.  In a couple of classes, I was allowed to read some of my little stories out loud.  My favorite was about Joan of Arc.  I loved  writing about Joan of Arc.
At one of the schools (I can’t remember which), I had a teacher who read us a chapter of the Bible and a chapter of a novel before class began.  It was an introduction to Trixie Beldon and her friends which I couldn’t get enough of.  Years later, when e-bay came around, I had Kenny get the Trixie Beldon books for me.  I still have them on a shelf.

DO YOU HAVE ANY SIBLINGS?

I have a brother, Clayton Frederic Hall.  I was three and a half when he was born (also in Decatur).  I recommend that all ministers who might be moving from one church, one missionfield, to another have more than one child.  Clay was the only kid I knew during my times of being “the new girl”.  We bonded over songs we learned (“You Get A Line And I’ll Get A Pole, Honey” comes to mind), pop stars (Madonna was in her early stages at that time and there was that band who sang the word “Highway” over and over) and games (though he had much more patience with Monopoly than I ever will have).  Clay was the outgoing one and I was content to let him do the talking.  He was my buddy, my “Bubby”, my partner in crime and I was lucky enough to be along for the ride.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE WORD?

I don’t know if I have one, really.  The ones I use the most are “Anyway…” and “Hey Babe?”  The former is used when I want to return to a previous topic.  The latter is when we’re at work and I want my husband/boss to do something for me or explain something to me.

WHAT IS  YOUR LEAST FAVORITE WORD?

I have two: The word is “later”.  The phrase is “Let’s take a break”.  To me, both mean “Whatever it is you want to do (or whatever it is that we are doing) we are about to stop/halt/never get back to/never start/leave unfinished.” Both of these raise my hackles instantly.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE SMELL? (Note: This is not something that James Lipton asks, but he should.)
Apple Cinnamon, Mint Chocolate, Lemon Zest…but not all at once.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE SOUND?

My cat purring.  She’s usually up and investigating something (or jumping on counters that she shouldn’t be jumping on) so I love it when she sits in my lap and watches TV with me.  I also like when my husband’s phone says “Droid” at random times.  It always makes me laugh.

WHAT IS YOUR LEAST FAVORITE SOUND?

Animals yelping in pain.  Even if an animal is “the enemy” in a TV show or movie, when it yelps, I cry.  This doesn’t, however, explain why I won’t read animal BOOKS.  There are no sounds in those.

WHAT PROFESSION (OTHER THAN YOUR OWN) WOULD YOU LIKE TO TRY?

I have decided that my dream profession is to be the research assistant to a traveling professor.  That way, I can see the world.  I can learn interesting facts.  I can be nosy.  But I DON”T have to be responsible for compiling any of the facts.

I’d also like to be a professional doll.  Not a doll like a toy.  But someone who lets other people mess with her clothes, hair and make up.  I like to be played with.  I just don’t like to put anything together myself.  Though I do like the color blue.
WHAT PROFESSION WOULD YOU NOT LIKE TO TRY?

I wouldn’t want to have anything to do with math.  But what I would really not like was a job in which I was responsible for any important outcomes  of people’s lives.  I couldn’t be a doctor, for example.  I couldn’t be a teacher.  I couldn’t work in insurance.  I couldn’t be a clown and be the reason little kids have nightmares.  I couldn’t…well, you get the idea.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CURSE  WORD?

Well, besides that brief “Bad Bad Leroy Brown” period, I’ve mostly made up my own language of anger and frustration.  When my husband half irks and half amuses me, I say “silly rabbit” (yes, I totally ripped that off of Twix).  When I haven’t been at work in a while and someone has misfiled an invoice I say “Work with me, people” or “Come ON, you guys!”

When I was younger, I would say “Frudabaga!”  And as children my brother and I would call each other “You Noun” because we had learned that it meant “Person, Place or Thing”.

But mostly I just hiss “Shoot Fire”, prompting whomever is nearest me to declare me “country”.  Well, I’m part Alabama, part Tennessee, part Kentucky.  I don’t reckon I have a choice.

IF HEAVEN EXISTS WHAT DO YOU WANT GOD TO SAY WHEN YOU REACH THE PEARLY GATES?

First of all, people, heaven is real.  As is hell.  God is love, but there IS a division as to where we will spend eternity.

As to what I hope God will say?  Well, there is a song called “This One’s With Me” that expresses my thoughts on the subject perfectly.

Look it up.  You’ll be glad you did.