They say that when you love something, when it’s really in your bones, in your soul, that you can’t NOT do it —

That every day you don’t do it, you die a little inside.

I don’t know who “they” are, but they were right.

Last November, I announced my retirement from theatre, and I was relieved.

I was burned out. Frustrated. Stagnating. And the production I’d just finished had emotionally and mentally eviscerated me on a level I’d never experienced.

It was a clusterfuck, from beginning to end. Not only did incompetency run rampant, but It was such an unhealthy environment that it triggered off a mild mental health crisis that I’m still trying to get past.

What, specifically, tripped it off?

Welp, let me be frank.

I’m a fat actor. And not just a “ha ha, I’m bloated today, and I wear a size 18” fat actor.

I’m a ‘department stores don’t generally carry my size clothing, people don’t want to sit next to me in airplanes, size 30-32’ fat actor.

In shows, I’m the comic relief. The bumbling, affable fatso who shakes her ass and makes people laugh. The over-sized villain whose size is the butt of jokes, whose love interest in the boss is a punch line, not a plot line. The lazy, middle aged, always slightly angry mother. The “exotic eccentric” supporting role.

I’ve been acting for almost 30 years, since I was about 10.

And that’s the way it’s always been.

The world of theatre and film is filled with fantastical ideas – there are flying nannies, spongebob comes to life, entire savannas full of animals sing and dance to soaring melodies….and yet, there seems to be no room in that world for a fat woman as a romantic lead.  To be honest, there’s hardly any room in that world for a fat woman at all.

Almost every show I’ve ever been in has been a battle — a battle to find costumes that not only fit, but look like everyone else’s, a battle to speak up for myself when directors want me to do something that will be painful, or embarrassing [like sit on a chair or a stool that is so rickety that it’ll probably give way at some point — good for a laugh, bad for my mental health], a battle to be seen as anything, ANYTHING, other than the ‘funny fat girl’.

The last show I was in was awful, in all respects. The costumer kept coming to me with costumes that were 6 sizes too small, responding in frustration when I held them up and refused to even try them on. The director insisting that I sit on a stool that I knew wouldn’t hold me, and then responding in frustration when it, lo and behold, did exactly what I expected and broke. The other cast members, snickering backstage and saying, thinking I couldn’t hear, that they should just double cast me as both my character and the prop cow, because I was already the right size.

It was torture.

I almost completely stopped eating. For. Six. Weeks.

I had anxiety attacks before curtain every night, and cried myself to sleep after each show.

I was so distressed by the end of the run that I’d made a decision. I was quitting theatre.

Not because I didn’t love it, but because I finally realized that it couldn’t love me back.

So, heartbroken, but relieved, I hung it up. Gave away all my stage makeup. Donated old costume pieces.

And I started dealing with the mental fallout, especially the anxiety.

That was November.

In March, I stood on the stage at the Schoenfeld theatre in NYC, poking around after the night’s show with my partner and a friend, and my partner asked me, as I stood center stage, looking out at the theatre, if I felt a pull to go back to acting.

Nope.

Nothing.

I was standing center stage in a Broadway theatre, and I felt….nothing.

The joy was gone.

I was pretty vocal about being done with doing shows, so I was a little shocked when a friend messaged me and asked if I’d be interested in joining the cast of a show she was putting on. Out of mild curiosity, I asked what show it was.

Cabaret.

Possibly the least-funny show ever produced. And also one of the most body-forward/risque shows out there [besides Hair, of course]. Certainly there was no place for me in that show.

Again, out of sheer curiosity, I asked, “what role?”

Fraulein Schneider.

Wait, what?

Frau. Schneider isn’t funny. She isn’t the villain. She isn’t anyone’s mom. She’s not exotic at all.

She’s one of the two female romantic leads, and is possibly one of the most complex, heartbreaking characters I’ve come across….and you want ME to play her?

My first inclination was to say no, but then I told my friend I’d think about it.

Over the course of the next week, I had a series of very frank discussions with her, and with the show’s choreographer, about my reservations, my fears, my anxieties, what had happened in the last show, what I could and couldn’t do on stage…..and at every turn, I was met with “we can handle that.”

It took me a solid week, but I finally came to the realization that they didn’t want to cast me because of my size, or in spite of it. They wanted to cast me because I was right for the part. The thought that I’d be right for a romantic lead dumbfounded me. It was so far outside the realm of anything I’d ever done.

And then I proceeded to totally overthink it, like I do.

At the end of the day, I decided to say yes.

Yes, because this show, at this time in history, is important.

Yes, because I want to honor the Jewish portion of my heritage.

Yes, because Nazis are bad, and we need to help people remember that.

Yes, because, GODAMMIT, REPRESENTATION MATTERS.

Yes, because, maybe this time, maybe this time, MAYBE THIS TIME, the world I love will love me back.

We open in a little over two weeks, and I’m nervous as hell. Not that I won’t be ready. I’m always ready. I’m nervous about how a crowd will respond to a fat woman on stage, loving and being loved. How will they respond to a fat woman being both bold and vulnerable?

I don’t know how they’ll respond, and I have to be okay with that.

I may get applause, and I may get laughed off the stage. Who knows. What I do know is that this experience has been different than any I’ve had in a theatre so far. This woman – Fraulein Schneider – is occupying a part of my heart and mind like no other character I’ve ever played. I feel such complex emotions about her, such tenderness for her, such heartbreak for her impossible choice.

And there is, more than anything, gratitude. She’s slipped on like a second skin, like a character tailored just for me. She FITS. And I am so incredibly grateful.

For more about why representation matters on the stage, please read this wonderful piece by Freddie Miller: https://www.theodysseyonline.com/what-representation-in-theatre-means

If you’re local, and want to come see Cabaret in an immersive environment, you can get tickets at http://www.harrisburgarts.com