Lessons on Freedom

“Being around you, the constant texts and calls, it just gives me so much anxiety. I have panic attacks whenever I think about spending time with you.” I felt horrible saying the words and I wished that I could have rephrased to soften the blow, but my thoughts and heart were already racing. I had to get it over with.

“I just… need a break. I can’t keep up this friendship anymore.”

His words are a blur to me, but I remember the tone in his voice: indifference. If I had listened more closely, I would have likely picked up the hurt and anger hidden underneath. He used to say that the person who wields the most power in a relationship is the one who cares the least. I know now that that was what he was still trying to do- wield power over me. However, at that moment, my shock at his cool and unemotional response was too great. He said something along the lines of understanding my need to care for my mental health, and that he would give me space. We said our goodbyes and I ended the call. I looked down at my cell phone, slippery in my sweaty palms. I had finally done it. I stood up for myself and confronted my fears. I was free.

Junior year of high school started with a big change for me. The orchestra teacher had been quite intimidating to the intensely shy girl that I was, so after years of playing violin, I had decided to take drama instead. I had dreamed of acting since I was introduced to it at a young age by my father and my grandmother. They both had been part of small community plays, and they played Broadway show tunes or watched movie musicals often. I had no idea how I would manage being on stage when I was so introverted, but I hoped it would bring me out of my shell. On the first day of school, I nervously picked a seat in the back of the classroom and hid behind my long curtain of curls. Many people in the class seemed to know each other from the year before, and no one paid much attention to me. With previous attempts at making friends leading to bullying and torment, I was in no rush to speak to anyone.

The bell rang and the new drama teacher bounded in. The previous teacher had retired the past spring and the school had hired a man fresh from the theater, with a promise to complete his teaching certificate that year. Bradford Garrison was a bright ball of energy, exuding style and confidence with every breath. Only ten years older than his students, he knew how to connect with us and how to connect us to what he taught. He could enliven any weary, angsty soul in that high school. His passion was palpable, and we drank it in from that very first day. He taught not only acting, but the history of theater, art, and culture. Garrison believed in us and encouraged us to be capable. In his class, we learned to build our own sets and program the lights and sound. We ran the box office, and we were the stage crew. Every part of theater would be embraced, every bit a welcoming invitation into Garrison’s world.

For the first few months of the school year, I was only known as the “kinky-haired girl” in the drama class. I hardly ever spoke, and it was most often to recite lines. I do not know if Garrison remembered my name and just chose to give me a nickname, or if I was such a forgettable person. It would have stayed that way if not for Garrison’s group projects idea. He announced excitedly that we would perform a group scene from a musical. Garrison would cast the scenes, thereby assigning the groups. Auditions were mandatory. And, because it would be “fun” and “spontaneous,” Garrison decided that auditions were that class period. He told us for each person he would pick a song and play it. You would simply have to sing the song he picked. If you didn’t know it, you were to fake it. This was an acting audition, after all. He wasn’t looking for the best singers. My brain froze all thought at this information. I had no time to prepare. I had no way to be able to perfect my performance. Plus, I was a lullaby and shower singer. The few times I sang in front of people, it was so quiet as to be almost imperceptible.

I do not know who had gone before me, but I had had enough time to become very warm and to feel sick. My turn came, and I shuffled up to the small platform stage at one end of the classroom. I tried to keep my breathing steady as I was beginning to panic. The music came on and it was Wicked. I could do this! How many times had I belted Elphaba’s words in the shower? But then, my brain registered the song. I would not be singing about feeling alone and misunderstood. I would not be auditioning as the character I related to most. The song was “Dancing Through Life,” and I was to be the cocky and handsome Fiero.

Standing stock-still, I sang the words, though having no idea if anyone could hear me. After a few moments, Garrison walked out of the room. He had seen enough. I had completely failed this audition. He left the music playing, however, and I continued to sing while begging for help with facial expressions. Seeing my humiliation at driving our drama teacher from the room, a boy that I had worked with for a previous project jumped up to the stage with me. He gave me a quick wink and began singing as Glinda. We started dancing, and my voice grew more sure. I did my best to pull off Fiero’s swagger while twirling this boy who was almost a foot taller. The music suddenly stopped, and I saw that Garrison had reentered the room. He thanked me for my audition and had the boy and I sit down. I was sure that he hadn’t seen any of the dancing, and even if he had, Garrison could not forget how that audition started. So, when he cast me as one of the leads in my group scene, I was floored. Garrison would later tell me that that was the day he saw something in me that he was going to bring out into the open.

I became Garrison’s newest project. Training me to speak up, stand out, and be heard was his mission. Under his tutelage, my spirit grew. What began as a shadow hidden in the background became center stage material with his molding. Garrison believed in me and my abilities, and my self-esteem flourished. The much-coveted extra attention Garrison gave me also allowed for my popularity to spike. By the end of the year, every student of drama and music knew my name. Being Bradford Garrison’s star pupil made me a celebrity of the high school. When elections for the Drama Club Presidency took place, Garrison encouraged me to run. I did not believe I would win. After all, many more students had been part of the drama department for far longer and had much more acting experience. A part of me will always wonder if Garrison rigged the votes in my favor. But, senior year would start with me as the historian for the Drama Club. I had been fully ingratiated into Garrison’s world.

The Drama Club Presidency was the elite, those closest to Garrison. We were allowed to bask in his glow and were the first to be given the sacred invitation of his friendship. We were not just his students, we were his trusted friends. Phone numbers were exchanged, officially as a way to communicate needed drama club information, but unofficially to be invited to movie nights and other hangouts with the coolest teacher ever. Garrison began to teach us not just about theater, but about life. His Bohemian philosophy of love echoed in our hearts. The lessons he could teach were more poignant than anything we had experienced personally. At lunch, we sat on the floor of his office, hanging on his every word as if he were Jesus Christ preaching his Sermon on the Mount. Garrison was so wise, and he had deemed us worthy of his companionship. Until, of course, we weren’t.

Tests of friendship and loyalty were frequent and varied with Garrison. Receive a text that he needed emotional support, and you must immediately respond. Even at 3 am. Come to school early and bring his favorite tea to prove you know him. Field calls from his wife when he doesn’t feel like answering his cell phone. Allow him to tickle or hug you whenever he wants. Let him play with your hair and give you makeover tips. And, if you were male, always remember that his advances were flirty jokes. We all had to accept Garrison for who he was, and protect our friendship by keeping secret any untoward behavior.

Nearing graduation, the demands put on me grew too great. Garrison had always pushed me to be better. He had made me the person I was. But, he kept pushing. He pushed until I broke. He demanded that I eat, sleep, and breathe theater. My whole life was to be his. I was going to college at his alma mater. He already had plans to visit in the fall. Then, during one of our movie nights, Garrison kissed my boyfriend and asked that I not be upset. The next day was our end-of-year award show, and the Drama Club was to set up. I had already asked for permission to come late since there was a meeting with my senior trip tour group I needed to attend. Garrison called just as the meeting was ending, screaming that I had let everyone down. I wasn’t loyal or a true friend. He couldn’t believe how selfish I was being.

After hanging up, my body was wracked with uncontrollable shaking and tremors. Wrenching sobs worked their way through my chest and up through my mouth. Tears poured so heavily that I was blinded. All I had ever done was to live up to Garrison’s expectations. Yet, I was not enough.

Once the shaking stopped, hours later, I became numb. Numb to everything and everyone. I functioned without really seeing the world around me for months. Pictures of graduation day show me standing next to Garrison, and smiling with him. I have no recollection of those moments, or any other, from that day. My mind had shut itself down to survive the brutal attack from the man I had worshiped. I had given him my loyalty, my time, my everything. I had been one of his best friends, and then he ripped it away.

College allowed me to wake from the sleep I was in. I no longer had someone telling me what to wear, how to act, or what to believe. I cut my curls into a bob. I wore t-shirts and jeans. And, I changed my major to English instead of Theatre. My eyes were opened to the manipulation and control I had lived under for so long. The texts continued, though. Garrison wanted to keep in close contact with me. Each text would beg for details of my life. As soon as I would see his name on my phone, I would begin to shake again. It could not continue. When he called to tell me he would be in town that weekend, I blurted out exactly how I felt. Garrison really could not be surprised that I was using the voice he had taught me to use.

I cut off all ties, to the point that I only found out he died by suicide weeks after his funeral. Yet, even though I thought I was free of him, he always found his way into my dreams. Each time, I would be on stage with the lights blinding my vision of the audience. The crowd is applauding and cheering. I bow and exit to the darkness backstage. And there he is. Garrison just stares at me, his eyes welling. I feel his long nails dig slightly into my arms as he grips my shoulders and tells me how proud he is. Though I remember with clarity all the torment he caused me, I still feel a thrill of excitement to receive his approval. He embraces me and I feel like I belong.