In the fall of 2017, I suffered from a few palpitations. I chalked it up to severe exhaustion from participating in the development of a new broadway-bound musical. There is no excuse for art that breeds this level of exhaustion, other than the promise of a bottom line I will never see.
A few weeks ago, in the midst of yet another broadway-hopeful musical, the palpitations came back. In those moments when “symptoms” appear, the ghosts of diseases past whisper “did you miss us?” While my heart pounds pitter-patter in my throat, I worry the fairy tale is over—Prince Charming was a beast all along who can never be loved, changed, cured, or remedied. Miracles do not happen. I will always be broken, and the disease never left at all. Just another set of lies I like to tell myself in moments of doubt.