When I go, I'm going like Elsie...

Now, I'm determined not to post one of those dramatic 'I'm leaving cabaret' type statuses. I don't want any drama and I certainly don't want any sympathy. But I'm not going to just fade away either without (at least personally) noting how wonderful and important my cabaret life has been.

Soon I'm about to embark on an exciting new job. In less than two weeks I start rehearsals for 'Beautiful' - The Carole King musical going to the west end. Our hopes are high for this to be a hit. On broadway it's doing exceedingly well. But, let's be honest, the west end doesn't have a great track record for new musicals at the moment. Still, fingers crossed and all being well, I will be in this musical for at least a year.

Due to this (and also some unfortunate behaviour that I have experienced), I am running away from cabaret for a while. And although it feels scary and strange, it also feels exciting and freeing and new.

I fell into cabaret. Almost by mistake. While on my cousin's hen do five years ago, I decided that the singer that I was hearing was not using the space well enough and due to my champagne-induced cockiness I went marching up to the host and told her that they needed me. I came back the following week to 'live audition' and the rest, as they say, is vaguely-well-known cabaret history.

I was a body-insecure girl. I was always veering to the wrong side of chubby for my liking and put myself through treacherous crash diets and the like all the way through my teenage years. But about 4 weeks into my new life as a cabaret singer I found myself wearing stockings and suspenders ACTUALLY IN FRONT OF PEOPLE and not feeling too bad about it. Actually, feeling really fucking excited. I learnt to be a woman in cabaret. (No, I'm not saying that wearing stockings makes you a woman) I'm saying that I slowly stopped being awkward and trying to hide my boobs or slim my hips, I started to embrace my curves. I discovered Marilyn Monroe, vintage clothing, high waisted pencil skirts, beautifully curled hair, high heels, red lips - ALL of which the emo hippy child from Glastonbury had never even thought of before.

I became a compere. And I was terrible. TERRIBLE. Not least of all because I hated it. But when you've left drama school and you're a full time waitress and an email pops up in your in box saying 'do you compere too?' you of course say 'yes indeed I do, when do I start?'.

Over the years my confidence in my compering grew. You write your schtick and you create your character and your branch out from your usual cabaret clubs. I found myself on a UK Tour hosting in theatres and then The Hurly Burly Show on the West End. I couldn't believe it. Little nervous me stood front and centre in a beaming spotlight talking to an audience of 400 - 2000 people all on my own and making them laugh. ENTERTAINING them. Madness. I once even performed my entire routine in italian to 2000 in Milan's massive theatre.

Anyway, this isn't supposed to read like a CV.

The people I have met in cabaret are the most incredible people you could ever wish to meet. I am welling up as I write this. I was thrust into a world of the most hard working people. Night by night a different venue. Creating every act and skill from scratch. Sewing on sequins, glueing on rhinestones, sewing until their fingers bleed. People who go out and create, who throw around electric carving knives and bowling bowls, people who set their tongues on fire, who hang upside down from a pole and plunge themselves to the floor. Beautiful burlesque dancers who taught me what it is to feel sexy, to embrace the tease, to immerse oneself in glamour and sexual resplendency.

I have made real, long life friends. I have talked about periods and anal sex in a corridor with women as they stick a merkin on their vagina. I have seen real heartbreak, I have seen real drunkeness, I have lost myself in the underground world of gin and dancing and nakedness. I have sung songs and looked into the audience begging my poor lonely heart to love. I have looked into the audience and seen my love. I have passionately sung 'Cabaret' a gazillion times and believed every word with every fibre of my being. I have spent too much money on corsets and long dresses. I have hung from the ceiling of a strip club singing Shirley Bassey. I have laughed until I can't breathe and my corset forces out a little wee. I have cried, I have been angry, I have shouted and screamed.

I have loved you cabaret. And my goodness I shall miss you. The people mostly. But also that part of me that I found that I didn't think was there. Coco, the girl who gets up and makes people laugh, the entertainer, the clown, the part of me that says 'yep. I'm going to sing a classical song and strip out of a reindeer onesie' because why the fuck not? Life is too short. Things come to an end. And I feel like this may be our end, Coco.

Sometimes, you have to close a door in order to force yourself to move on. I have given nearly five years to cabaret. Five incredible years. But now I must become the actress I've always wanted to be and become the writer that I know I can be. New adventures, new roads to drive, new places to see.
New people to meet.

But. To the people I have met along the way, the people that have made my life so very full and beautiful, THANK YOU. You mean more to me than any blog can ever explain.
And Holy Crap, we made some memories.

"What good's permitting some prophet of doom to wipe every smile away?
Life is a cabaret, old chum, so come to the cabaret"

Robin Williams

Something happened last night.

As I came back from the bathroom, my boyfriend told me that Robin Williams had died. And then my boyfriend probably felt a bit awkward at how upset I got.

I tried to hold it together. I mean, it’s very sad but come on, I didn’t KNOW the guy. Turns out, none of the people on my facebook and twitter KNEW Robin Williams but the outpour of devastation was everywhere. Some people were upset, some people were simply saluting his genius, some people had moved past the shock of the death and onto the comforting of others spouting out the reasons we should be happy. And I just felt angry. I couldn’t get my head around my feelings. I still can’t. Hence the writing.

This man, this talent, this person with the ability to make you laugh and cry in the space of a second had got himself to a point where the only option of moving forward was to end it all.

Just over a year ago - after a lifetime of crying on my own, of feeling like the whole world was bunched up inside me, of black dog, black cloud, utter helplessness – I finally went to a doctor to talk about the fact that I was depressed. I had of course known I was depressed for many years. I knew that cutting oneself and starving oneself were not normal habits of a fully functional human. I had suffered in silence for a relatively long time. I had, on many occasions planned how I would end it and would any one know and then slapped my own wrists for not having the courage to go through with it. The other thing I didn’t have the courage to do was TELL ANYBODY.  I could lie there next to a boyfriend, sit silently next to my mother, pant and wretch at trying to form the words to tell a friend to no avail. I couldn’t pick up the bloody phone to tell a complete stranger on the other end of the line how I was feeling. The best I could do was email the Samaritans to say something along the lines of “No biggie. Just feel really suicidal. And every time I have to get onstage and make other people laugh I feel like I’m burying more of myself.”  So, to actually get myself to go to the doctor last year was pretty monumental and the sigh of relief that washed over me as I scuttled back to my bed clutching anti-depressants and a therapy referral form was like a waterfall of calm and excited apprehension.

Over the past year or so I took the pills for about 6 months (the recommended time) and came off again. Cognitive behavioral therapy was not the one for me so I jacked that in and stuck to the pills. I also in this time met the love of my life who, without him realizing it, became all the support I’d ever need. I mean, I only had to look at him and this big beaming smile would come over me. I went on to do a west end show and thankfully in the big group scenes I’d stopped bursting into tears silently in the back shadows. Everything felt pretty good. I was nervous that I would feel ‘numb’ on the pills. After all, I am an actress, I don’t want to lose any of the spectrum of my talent DAHling! But all seemed well and good and eventually I decided I was ready to come off the pills but was not adverse to the thought that I would probably have to go back on at some point. And I did. With some health scares and such, I very quickly rushed back onto the pills but only for a short amount of time. I discovered a thing called mindfulness and I helped myself for a while with no need for chemical enhancements.

Now, over the past few months I have felt the return of an unfriendly but oh so familiar cloud. Slowly, I can feel it pulling down on my eyelids and weighing down on my body causing me to stay in bed for hours and then return to bed many times throughout the day. My eyes want to close and I forever want to fall asleep, at least until something better or more interesting distracts me, as it’s safer to be asleep than to be left with my own thoughts. Despite all of these feelings, I have once again not been honest with myself. I’ve been brushing it off. Excusing it. Convincing others and my loved ones that I’m just being melodramatic, that I’m ‘really tired from the gym’, that I’m fine it’s just this, that and the other. The truth is, it is none of those things. And the death of Robin Williams last night brought me right back to myself and the realization that I’m not OK. 

I took myself into another room. My boyfriend went to sleep with work in the morning. And the tears flooded over me. Big, fat, galumphing tears took over my face. I felt SO ANGRY that this man had taken his life. That no one had helped or stopped him. But what can people do? What can anyone do for us? All I could see was endless unhappiness and torment and a big sign in front of me that says “You will always feel this shit”. I sat alone on the floor and those familiar old sentences crept back into my brain. Those scary thoughts that asphyxiated me before.  The idea that nobody really knew and nobody could help and that it would be far easier to just not ‘be’ anymore.

My boyfriend awoke, shocked to find me so upset about the death of an actor I’ve never met and eventually all of my emotions came flooding out to him. “I just don’t want to be the 63 year old comedian who kills himself and everybody says ‘oh that’s sad’, I just don’t want that”. I sobbed into his arms and he held me close. I felt a mixture of pure love for Robin Williams and complete and utter devastation at the world. If someone THAT LOVED can get away with killing himself than everyone can. Everybody who feels this way can just end it. And it will be sad. And that will be that.

Now I’m not claiming that my thoughts made any sense. In fact, I was mostly just shocked to realize that I had once again got to this point and not even noticed. Me, spiritual goddess always trying to help others. Me, always posting facebook statuses about appreciating life and how we should all look out for the signs of depression and help people. Turns out it was all a big fat cry for help.

I was calmed by my boyfriend and eventually my hyperventilating rendered me exhausted and I fell asleep. And now I’m writing to you. I’m not sure what I’ve learnt really, except that I’m not ok. And I’m not sure how to move forward. Do I return to the drugs? Do I seek other help? I’m not really sure and I’m not really asking for advice. I just knew I needed to write. To let my emotions come out somehow. To admit that I’m not OK. And that I need my friends. And that I don’t want you, or me, or anybody else to be the person that was loved by the whole world but couldn’t love himself.