Learning To Act: Having Parkinson’s

I’ve learned to act,

each morning

when I open my eyes

and remember

the body I live in

is not the one I used to know.

Out there in the world

I rehearse my lines,

“Good morning,” “I’m fine,” “You too.”

I practice how normal looks,

the handshake steady,

the smile controlled,

the tremor tucked into a pocket

of stillness.

Early Parkinson’s,

the invisible performance.

No stage lights,

no audience that sees the cost

of holding steady.

“How are you?”

they ask,

and I answer like a reflex,

“I’m good.”

And I am, for those few seconds,

an actor convincing myself

as much as them.

Inside, the scene runs differently.

There are slips and stillness,

slow motion thoughts,

a brain whispering uncertain cues

to limbs that miss their mark.

It is a wholebody script,

rewritten daily,

mental and physical,

and I am both the playwright

and the confused understudy.

We learn to act

every day,

to merge with the crowd,

to walk like everyone else,

move like everyone else,

speak like the body isn’t

a heavy instrument

we can no longer tune.

Sometimes I say,

“I feel great.”

Sometimes I almost believe it.

I don’t want to be that person

with the subtle shake,

the slowed speech,

the extra thought before each step.

But I am.

And so,

I’ve learned to act.