Wakeful

When I was 19, a boy broke my heart, as is traditional. I began dating him in my second term at drama school, and enjoyed 3 giddy months of doing everything together, in a ritual of over-commitment that I was too naive to recognise as great folly. IDK, it’s like I’d paid no attention at all to Romeo and Juliet. On the last night of everything being ok, the two of us and our housemates went out for a curry, and he delighted me by asking a waiter if we could take some ice for our drinks home with us, in a plastic bag. We all walked home together, with his ice, and I remember the feeling of pride, and belonging — of security, of joy. He seemed so grownup and confident (he was a year older than me because he’d stayed on at 6th form for an extra year to re-take his A levels). His father had been a Paratrooper who now lived in Oman, and this seemed to be just about the most glamorous thing in the world, to 19 year old me. Never mind that he wasn’t a Paratrooper, only a drama student. He’d been to public school, which gave him a shiny glaze of apparent sophistication, like a Teriyaki salmon. I was sure I loved him, and he’d told me he loved me. That meant we’d get married. That’s how things went. It didn’t occur to me that drama school might work a little differently from the religious cult I grew up in.

The next morning, he didn’t love me any more. I tried to tell myself I was imagining this, but there was nothing wrong with my 19 year old self’s intuition — two days later I discovered that I was correct. He’d fallen in love with the beautiful half-Lithuanian girl he’d been cast opposite that term, instead. He broke up with me sometime after midnight on a Saturday just before Easter. I was still dressed in my Wetherspoon’s uniform after a shift of serving cheap beer to lustful elderly men. He worked at a smarter pub in a more expensive bit of London, where the pints cost almost twice as much, and where he didn’t need to wear a uniform. Of course he didn’t; he had family connections. I worried that he was breaking up with me cos I wasn’t posh enough. I worried it was cos I looked flat-chested in my Wetherspoon’s uniform. Because I’d not read any gossip magazines yet, I didn’t know that some actors always fall for the people they’re cast opposite, as though kissing someone onscreen worked a bit like an arranged marriage. That’s why he’d wanted me, and that was why he now wanted Audra.

Everyone gets their heart broken — of course we do. I wasn’t especially well prepared, as the child of people who’d met in their first year of college and had been together ever since, and as the sister of someone whose wedding was just two weeks after her 20th birthday. I hadn’t expected any false starts. I was very very sad, and then, after a few weeks, very very angry. I discovered ‘I Dreamed a Dream’ from Les Miserables, followed shortly after by ‘On My Own’, from… Les Miserables. Les Miserables made my pain feel valid.

I was trapped; graduation wasn’t for another two years, and the school was small. What if we were cast opposite each other again? I needn’t have worried — we weren’t. What if he dated every other student he was cast opposite for the rest of our time there? This was an admirable prediction — that’s exactly what he did. Maybe his ex-Paratrooper father hadn’t brought him up to be especially sexually discerning. If you can imagine that.

By the time we returned to college for our second year, I’d found somewhere else to live — I obviously couldn’t go back to the house we’d shared. I couldn’t even visit Tooting Broadway, where we’d lived — all the memories were too loud, too sharp. I steeled myself to go to school each day, by means of rehearsing beforehand. How I’d cope if we ended up in the same room, what I’d do if he spoke to me, how I’d manage if anyone asked how I was. I tried to cover every eventuality, because I was beginning to crumble, and it was unbearable, sharing a building with him every day, but I couldn’t discover myself to be the sort of person who had to drop out of college because of a breakup. I noticed that my friends rebounded far more robustly from their breakups than I did. I thought I should work harder at my recovery, in order to learn to be emotionally sturdy, like them.

Gradually, my mental rehearsals filled up all of my spare mental bandwidth. I rehearsed How To Manage on the way to college, and on the way home. I rehearsed whenever I was alone. I sang On My Own. I created an imaginary boyfriend, called Jerry, who was a member of the SAS. I’d learned that the SAS was even better than the Paratroopers. Obviously, I didn’t tell anyone about Jerry. I was aware that would have been insane. I just fantasised about him beating up my ex. And maybe my ex’s father. That seemed perfectly mentally healthy. And then, I started waking up early. At first it was just at 5am instead of 7am. Then it was 4am, then 3am. It was novel. I’d always slept easily before. I liked the way my central London bedsit was almost silent at that hour. I didn’t think there was anything wrong — I felt splendidly adult. I didn’t really need sleep any more. Maybe I soon wouldn’t need food much, either. I could get loads of work done, in the silence. I could get to school before anyone else, on the early train with the real adults in suits. I could study harder than my ex-boyfriend. I could be a better student than him, a better student than all the girls he dated after me. I could keep track of his conquests’ achievements easily — there were only 100 students in our year, and he dated them all. I might be lying. Maybe I’m just telling you how it felt.

I became a very good student — it was one thing I could control. I became the student representative for our year. I always knew my lines, I always had my homework finished. I learned how the cameras worked in the school’s TV studio and volunteered as crew when it wasn’t my turn to act in the scenes we were shooting. I started assisting our stage fight teacher. I wrote scripts for any classes that required student input. I wrote enough for everyone, because most of us didn’t like writing, and most of us weren’t awake at 4am. I sailed closer and closer to a breakdown, with no realisation that I might be heading towards crisis. I thought I was IN CONTROL. In Voice class, we took it in turns to recite I Get Along Without You Very Well, by Hoagy Carmichael. My rendition may have been a little more invested than average. I’d had plenty of time to rehearse, after all. “Yes, but can you recreate that intensity?” asked our tutor, skeptical. But of course I could. I could have done a thousand takes; manufacturing intensity wasn’t an issue. I was fueled by it; that and sleeplessness. It wasn’t good acting. It was something far more dangerous.

I was saved by finding a new boyfriend, which is just as traditional as having one’s heart broken in the first place. The relationship was a genteel catastrophe — alcohol (him) and abandonment terror (me). But it distracted me enough to get me to graduation. I sang I Dreamed a Dream for my final musical performance. Because of course I did. And then, finally, I didn’t have to see my ex any more, and my brain started to mend. I began sleeping through the night again. I grew up. I learned, eventually, to fall in love more judiciously.

Now, I’m back to waking up in the middle of the night, feeling wonderful. Fully IN CONTROL. Ready to work. Cheery and overstimulated and full of ambitions to prove myself better than a procession of imaginary people in my mind. But now, I’m older and cleverer. “Is this because something’s wrong?” I ask myself. What am I rehearsing for? Who am I trying to protect myself from? Or is being wakeful, this time, just a coincidence? I do hope so. I don’t want to be 20, ever again. Jesus, would anyone?