So.  Long night.

Bryan actually got out of his rehearsal/parents’ night relatively early.  I was in a really crappy mood (read: REALLY crappy), so I took my time to get there.  He, God love him, was chipper as all get out.  I was not.  So we sprawled out on the couch and he talked for (quite literally) hours while I nodded.  This was fine; I really had very little to say.

He talked about his show, his sets, his students, his tech kids, his non-magnet kids.. and I hated him for it.  Not because it was him, and not because he did ANYTHING wrong (he most obviously did not), but because that’s what
I  wanted.  And now, I didn’t have that.  I had nothing to look forward to, no goal to move towards, and no applause waiting.

I really don’t think I said two words for several hours.  I was blinded by anger.

And I really wasn’t mad at Bryan.  He was just sitting in front of me.

So finally, we went to bed.  And he held me, because he knew, and I finally let go.

I cried for about five minutes, which is more than I’ve ever cried in front of him, and talked about how frustrating it’s all been.. thru Marg, the Reality Queen, JoRocksMyWorld, AnonymityisaGift, and the many other “people” who all came down to one person; the letters from lawyers; the rumors and the constantly having to explain the ludicrousness of them; the “anonymous” emails.. how tired I am of fighting.  And how incredibly angry I am, and how embarrassed, and how I don’t want to be seen in theatre anymore and I don’t want to go to the many upcoming award ceremonies and I don’t want to be the girl that’s whispered and pointed about all because I’ve been the adult, taken the high road, stayed silent, and prayed that it would stop.

He listened to me, breathing deeply, and I bawled.

I should say here that Bryan can count on one hand the number of times I’ve cried in front of him.  I’m just not a cryer.  I’ll get upset, or mad, or irritated, but I almost never cry.  And I was sobbing.

“I wish there was something I could do,” he said, quietly.

“Fix it,” I said, between sobs.  Again, this is not typical.  I’m not the type to run to others for protection or problem solving or even advice.

So he left the bed, briefly.  I saw lights flicker off and on in different rooms, and I rubbed my eyes dry.  He returned with what only he knew would console me: a children’s book.  And he read me one of my favorite stories, and we found the part that made me feel much better:

And he’s right.  Dr. Seuss usually is. 

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m still mad.  I’m still horribly embarrassed.  I’m still humiliated and livid and disappointed and saddened and a million other things, but it’ll pass.  I’ll hole up in myself and recover.  I’ll stay quiet and still remain the adult in the situation, no matter the wrongs put upon me.  I’ll still be Sarah.  Because Dr. Seuss is right..