LET THE BREAKDOWNS BEGIN – PART 31

 

LET THE BREAKDOWNS BEGIN – PART 31

Little by little, the madness began to take its toll. We all started to break down, one by one. The pressure was too much. Cast members would burst into crying jags—sometimes lasting hours, sometimes days. A knotted shoelace or an accidental misstep could bring a flood of tears. It was like we were all on the edge, holding it together just by sheer willpower.

People refused to leave their cabins. When asked what was wrong, the answer was always the same: “Everything is wrong.” It became a running joke within the cast—laughter was all we had left. If I could make someone smile, I would. In that moment, I felt like I had done my job.

One day, during rehearsal, my fellow cast member and I put on our invisible straightjackets, swaying back and forth as we sang “It’s a Small World” like two lost souls. It was a moment of absurdity in a world gone mad.

But even that little humor couldn’t mask the growing frustrations. No beverages at dinner unless we purchased tickets at the Human Resources desk during certain hours—which, of course, was impossible for us to reach because we were in rehearsal when the desk was open. One day, I managed to make it to the desk, bought $20 worth of tickets, and thought I was golden. I was ready to get some coke or a glass of wine to get through dinner.

I walked up to the counter, tried to order a coke, and was greeted with a grimace from the slop boy.

“No coke!” he barked.

I asked about wine, but he said, “No wine!”

Finally, I asked for coffee. Same response: “Get into the next line.”

I looked at the line that stretched through the dining room, into the front hall. It felt like it would take hours to get through. I lost it right there. I stood in line, crying. By the time I reached the table, I was sobbing uncontrollably. My spirit had cracked.

A couple of cast members tried to comfort me, asking, “What are we gonna do?” They were right. For the first time, I felt completely defeated.

Someone spotted Power Suit across the dining room and, without missing a beat, walked me over to her. When we stood before her, I tried to explain, tears streaming down my face, trying to hide my emotions.

“What’s wrong?” Power Suit asked, rolling her eyes as she glanced up.

I poured it all out—the frustration, the exhaustion, the impossible conditions. I wasn’t trying to make her feel bad; I just needed someone to listen. Tears kept coming, and I couldn’t stop.

As I spoke, I noticed the other producers scattered as soon as they saw me crying. Puppethead did a full 360-degree turn and dashed away like I was radioactive.

When I finished, Power Suit promised she would do something. But I knew better. She filed it away—I was just another “mental case” in her book.

That night, I stayed in my cabin, crying uncontrollably. We had an evening rehearsal, and I missed the van ride over to it. So, I had to walk five miles in the dark to get to the rehearsal space. When I arrived, my stage manager asked me if I was okay, and for the first time in a long time, someone actually cared.

But then came the irony—Useless had been informed that I hadn’t shown up to rehearsal. She spent the evening trying to coax me out of my cabin, but I wasn’t there. I was written up for the entire incident. As if things weren’t already bad enough, now I had to deal with the fallout.