I know I have mentioned, from time to time, that I am the reigning drama queen. Today, it’s time to talk about how I know — the supporting evidence, as it were. Over the course of my adult life, I have, on occasion, shown such diverse royal behaviors as sobbing with my hands over my face, moaning, “Why, why, why?”; stomping and fuming and refusing to listen when talked to; running, either figuratively or literally, at the first sign of disagreement or argument; yelling at the loudest volume my voice can reach, even when I have nothing to say. These are simple examples — I have many, but they are too complex to include in a post.
Being drama royalty was a defense mechanism in my childhood and teen years, and by the time I reached my twenties, I was far too immersed in the character to stop. Truth is, I don’t know that I would have left her behind, anyway. She’d taken her place as part of my self, my being; the chances were 50/50 that I could even have survived without her at times. She was strong when I was weak; she could turn up her nose at people who made me cry; she always said what she felt — said too much, when I couldn’t talk at all.
So when I got the message this morning, to “…say goodbye to…drama,” my first reaction was as strong as if someone had asked me to cut off an arm. How could I possibly say goodbye to this queen inside me, who acted when I was paralyzed, and shouted when I was mute? As with every other decision I’ve made lately, I had to decide to put her to rest. Easy to say, not at all easy to do; in fact, while I have put my own personal Norma Desmond in a box, I can hear and feel her banging on my brain every day, trying to come out for her performance.
I wish I could say I’ve put her out of my misery, as it were. But she lurks within, simply waiting for her next line: All right, Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up.