Honesty

It's officially been over a year now since I've been sharing my thoughts and opinions with you. What's interesting about internet communication is that it makes everything more and less intimate at the same time. It's easy for people to write things that they wouldn't normally, because the interaction isn't immediate. The consequences of your response aren't tangible. There's no accountability. It's interesting how the written language- how the art of writing is evolving as a result. The goal of any artist is always to break down barriers- to challenge. Sometimes we set out to challenge a particular thought, opinion, or view of our society. Other times we set out to challenge ourselves. Many artists take themselves far too seriously to ever admit that any part of what they do is for self-gratification. But of course that plays into it. No one would do it if there was nothing in it for them. The possibility of fame and fortune drive many to LA- hoping for a chance at making it big. But for others, it's a way to express the voice that drives us. The inner monologue of the writer, the endless string of scenes in the actor's head, the images of the sculptor.. Inevitably one day we are forced to confront what terrifies us most. And it's different for everyone.

The adrenaline an actor feels as she steps on stage is related to survival instincts. Your body reacting against the public exposure which is about to take place. You can't help but reveal yourself. Your issues are laid out for all to see- and this is the gift the actor gives to the audience. The gift of honesty. All the masks are laid aside as the actor presents himself to you. It's our instinct to keep our weaknesses hidden, however. To dance and distract from them as though no one will notice how cleverly we hide aspects of ourselves. The goal is always absolute honesty.

Here I am, back in Montreal. A 150 page account of my travels stares me in the face and I realize I'm at a crossroads. For a year, I've written weekly about all that I experience in my adventures in a different country and culture. Back at home, I lack external inspiration. Now it's coming from within my head. Within my relationship. Within my family, my home. There are topics I've avoided writting about this year- things that hit a little too close to home, aspects of myself that I've never wanted others to see. But now these subjects seem unavoidable. I've never been able to admit to vulnerability, always wanting to seem invincible. Yet here I find myself unable to ignore the fact that Fred and I have been together four and a half years. Somehow I have trouble acknowledging that it's real- that it's love, and it's serious. After a year in different countries- on opposite sides of the world, a year of daily phone calls and loneliness, I suppose I can't hide it anymore. It is real.

Last week, after only two weeks back in Montreal, Fred and his mom and I met with a transplant specialist at the Royal Victoria Hospital here in Montreal. Ironically the last time I was in the building was when I was born- the memories are a little fuzzy. The surgeon, apparently incapable of reading not only his own writing, but the entire chart itself, gave us the options available to Fred. After an hour and a half of discussing timing and the importance of waiting for the right moment for a transplant- the surgeon realized that he had missed a test result and that Fred's kidneys were not in fact functioning at 45%, but at 25%. Ooops! So with that, Fred was officially marked down on the transplant list- making him the third AB blood type waiting on a kidney and a pancreas. We left the hospital in silence. I had nearly passed out in the doctor's office- a reaction brought on by my engagement with my own mortality, I suspect. Or perhaps just my inherent distrust of the medical profession rearing its ugly head again.

And so, for the next six to twelve months, Fred and I will jump at every phone call until he gets 'the call'. He'll have one hour to respond. As someone who's never been hospitalized (knock on wood) and who's only visits to the hospital have been for sports injuries- a transplant is huge. If they were my organs, I'm fairly certain that I'd tell the doctor to shove it. My experience has always been that bed rest and an ice pack cures everything. It's so hard for me to wrap my mind around what's happening right now- it's all just so foreign to me.