While in hospital, we were offered drama and art therapy several times a week. I was in a few plays as a small child but never did any acting again. I played a string instrument and was heavily involved in music in and out of school, but I never did anything using my body to express myself, or indeed being playful with my appearance and personality. I lacked the self confidence to be flexible like that, and became very rigid and ashamed, even though many of my friends were the exact opposite, artists and dancers by profession. They used to tease me a little for being so stiff, which would make me deeply uncomfortable. I was yearning to break out and express myself somehow, but I felt entombed.
Now I realise I didn't know myself very well, and the shame and self-loathing I had was overwhelming. And yet to a large extent I didn't even know it was there, I was blind to how constricted I was by hang-ups, and punitive self-talk. It was just how I had been brought up, I didn't know any different.
But by the time I was in hospital at 30 years old, I was undergoing something of a revolution. I had dynamited my marriage - which for many years had been my security blanket, my lifeline - and I was in the process of understanding fundamental truths about my childhood and upbringing that explained much of what had happened and the choices I made.
So when it came to drama therapy, I let loose. Some of it I actually found tedious, like the warm-up exercises. We would stand or sit in a circle, passing around an everyday object and briefly pretend it was something other than what it was. So a box of tissues would turn into a massive mobile phone with one person, or an outsized comb with the next. I gathered these were standard exercises to get us into a creative or expressive mindset and I guess it did the job.
We would then usually continue with constructing a scene. Sometimes one person would begin with a movement, repeating it silently. Anyone who thought of a movement to add to this could jump in, until the whole group was silently acting out a repeated pattern, with each person making the same movement over and over again. One scene I remember started off with people standing at a bus stop in the rain (I was the rain, and very convincing too) . The bus came splashing the waiting passengers but then the sun came out and everyone was happy again. Simple but sweet.
It felt lame, a little bit embarrassing, but I chose not to care. Another time we did a similar exercise, except we stayed still, as if putting together a painting. What emerged was a mountain, river, temple at which someone prayed. Somehow all the patients had grasped the same idea, even though it was all done silently. We were all moved because it showed how much we were all yearning for peace of mind and tranquility. It also really formed a bond between us. It sounds odd but it did. I played a pilgrim, hiking up the mountain. When I came across the river (played by a male patient who had tried to kill himself and was self-harming) , I stopped to rest and wash my hands and face.
Afterwards he said he felt it had been a really powerful experience for him, to imagine being a river and being able to provide something for a traveller, a moment's respite. It was a good moment and we warmed to each other a lot during that session, a rapport that lasted beyond our time as co-patients.
I also saw that other exercises that left me unmoved really did something for other patients, bringing out unspoken feelings or loosening up some even stiffer than me. We also did some drawing and writing, which would often see me go a little bit off the rails. I found it hard to contain my writing and produced non-sensical letters or speeches, angry in tone. It was not badly received by the therapist but because we were in a group we couldn't explore it much. Perhaps that is just what I had to express at that moment, incoherent anger.
I stopped going after a while when I ran out of energy because of the medication I was taking. I could barely stay awake, and jumping around a room with a bunch of other patients didn't seem very appealing. But the times that I went I think were beneficial.
I lost the fear of acting, and I feel am a lot more flexible in how I conceive of myself today. Also to have been in an environment where I was able to just let go, where it didn't matter what came out of me, was liberating. But I did have to make some effort to take advantage of that. A little inner push, a little courage, and soon you realise you have nothing to lose.
Now I realise I didn't know myself very well, and the shame and self-loathing I had was overwhelming. And yet to a large extent I didn't even know it was there, I was blind to how constricted I was by hang-ups, and punitive self-talk. It was just how I had been brought up, I didn't know any different.
But by the time I was in hospital at 30 years old, I was undergoing something of a revolution. I had dynamited my marriage - which for many years had been my security blanket, my lifeline - and I was in the process of understanding fundamental truths about my childhood and upbringing that explained much of what had happened and the choices I made.
So when it came to drama therapy, I let loose. Some of it I actually found tedious, like the warm-up exercises. We would stand or sit in a circle, passing around an everyday object and briefly pretend it was something other than what it was. So a box of tissues would turn into a massive mobile phone with one person, or an outsized comb with the next. I gathered these were standard exercises to get us into a creative or expressive mindset and I guess it did the job.
We would then usually continue with constructing a scene. Sometimes one person would begin with a movement, repeating it silently. Anyone who thought of a movement to add to this could jump in, until the whole group was silently acting out a repeated pattern, with each person making the same movement over and over again. One scene I remember started off with people standing at a bus stop in the rain (I was the rain, and very convincing too) . The bus came splashing the waiting passengers but then the sun came out and everyone was happy again. Simple but sweet.
It felt lame, a little bit embarrassing, but I chose not to care. Another time we did a similar exercise, except we stayed still, as if putting together a painting. What emerged was a mountain, river, temple at which someone prayed. Somehow all the patients had grasped the same idea, even though it was all done silently. We were all moved because it showed how much we were all yearning for peace of mind and tranquility. It also really formed a bond between us. It sounds odd but it did. I played a pilgrim, hiking up the mountain. When I came across the river (played by a male patient who had tried to kill himself and was self-harming) , I stopped to rest and wash my hands and face.
Afterwards he said he felt it had been a really powerful experience for him, to imagine being a river and being able to provide something for a traveller, a moment's respite. It was a good moment and we warmed to each other a lot during that session, a rapport that lasted beyond our time as co-patients.
I also saw that other exercises that left me unmoved really did something for other patients, bringing out unspoken feelings or loosening up some even stiffer than me. We also did some drawing and writing, which would often see me go a little bit off the rails. I found it hard to contain my writing and produced non-sensical letters or speeches, angry in tone. It was not badly received by the therapist but because we were in a group we couldn't explore it much. Perhaps that is just what I had to express at that moment, incoherent anger.
I stopped going after a while when I ran out of energy because of the medication I was taking. I could barely stay awake, and jumping around a room with a bunch of other patients didn't seem very appealing. But the times that I went I think were beneficial.
I lost the fear of acting, and I feel am a lot more flexible in how I conceive of myself today. Also to have been in an environment where I was able to just let go, where it didn't matter what came out of me, was liberating. But I did have to make some effort to take advantage of that. A little inner push, a little courage, and soon you realise you have nothing to lose.
No comments:
Post a Comment