I quit improv a couple of months ago. I couldn't be happier.
I think about improv now and I have physical reactions. A friend posted a link to an improv retreat, and the headshots of all the instructors made my esophagus fill with stomach acid. Reading the descriptors for the classes made my eyes cross and my heartrate sped up. I think I have PISD.
Post Improv Stress Disorder.
It can only be helped by long naps, reading crappy sci fi fantasy novels, and taking your time walking your poor dog who was alone during all those hours of driving to and from rehearsals. It can also be helped by using real objects in your home, as your muscles may be trained to mime a salt shaker in a restaurant with imaginary menus and cutlery. Cook real food and actually chew things.
If a flashback is really bad, I recommend balling up a long sleeved flannel shirt and throwing it and your Converse into the back of your closet.
Make sure and do something fun on what would have been your show nights. This past month, I had pizza with my parents instead of leaving work early to haul ass down to the theater, scarfing down Burger King on the way so there would be something in my stomach before I bled imagination all over the floor of a dingy black box theater while some asshole dragged his foot through my life blood by negating my every offer.
I don't miss improv.
I'm thankful that I quit when I did. The surgery went well, other than a slight infection after the fact that I am going to check out with my doctor. Had I been working and doing improv? I probably wouldn't have been able to do it, let alone afford it.
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