Improv, Pain and Invisible Conditions
“I started improv classes as a distraction from emotional pain. What I hadn’t expected however was that improv would also change my relationship with physical pain.”
Gem Carmella is a screen actor, voice actor and comedy writer-performer. Recent work includes upcoming ITV series No Return, BAFTA nominated Gangs of London (Sky / AMC) and BAFTA nominated game Heaven’s Vault. Gem has taught comedy and creative writing with various organisations including BBC History and The Ministry of Stories and she runs the BIFA qualifying The Shortest Nights film festival.
In 2020 I found myself in A&E needing two emergency blood transfusions. While I lay alone, crying in pain and trying to distract myself with Pixar films I started thinking about improv...
When people meet me they almost always see a high-energy, enthusiastic (probably annoyingly so) smiley person who loves to laugh. I am these things.
What they rarely see is a scared, anxious person in fear of their own body. I am these things too.
In 2017 following a series of bereavements I started improv classes as a distraction from emotional pain. What I hadn’t expected however was that improv would also change my relationship with physical pain.
As a child following surgery for appendicitis I began experiencing bouts of severe pain in my stomach and bowels. It was an ambush with no obvious trigger and no warning. Sometimes it would last hours. Sometimes days. Sometimes I’d feel the twisting and ripping sensation for weeks to the point I was sure my stomach would be torn in two.
Then came the shame.
I don’t know why, but I hid a lot of what was happening. I recall escaping to bathrooms at school, in restaurants and at friends' houses, to hold my tummy against cold tiles or scream into a sleeve - anything to try and relieve the onslaught without being ‘found out.’ Then along came puberty and with it an aggressive artillery of additional pain. When the battle between stomach, guts and uterus seemed it would never end. When I couldn’t walk, I couldn’t sleep and those terrifying times when I couldn’t even breathe. When existence was reduced to nowt but poop, puke and periods.
And more shame.
It shocks me to think how much of this I’ve successfully camouflaged with smiley faces and white lies. Improvising excuses to stay at home and laughing off those times I’ve been ‘caught out’ in public and had to be busted out of toilet cubicles by concerned friends.
Humiliating shame.
However, when I started to do improv something odd happened… at times I struggled to be mentally present in scenes. I’m an experienced actor and comedy performer, so this startled me. I’m used to rehearsals and to having a script and I hadn’t realised how much this had helped me cope on those days my symptoms attacked. With improv I was being taught to listen and concentrate at all times; to be alive and reactive in the moment without the crutch of a pre-existing character and the path of familiar dialogue. At times when improvising I couldn’t think through the brain fog, pain and fatigue and I feared that my ability to play at a high level would remain at the mercy of my symptoms. The fear that I would let my team mates down in a show and that they would be disappointed in me was always on my shoulder.
Maximum shame.
Then during a rehearsal that our team booked with FA teacher Chris Gau, he imparted a pearl of improv wisdom that’s stuck with me. It was something along the lines of: “in a scene you may find yourself backed into a corner with a bag of dicks on your head, but you can always get out of that corner by owning the bag of dicks and justifying why they are there.”
Shame elbowed out of the way by a lightbulb moment.
The idea of that bag of dicks came to me while I lay in hospital having my transfusion and a smile of understanding followed. Invisible illnesses and many chronic conditions are not something people can see physically and with that comes the worry (and very real experience) of not being believed and the shame of people thinking we are being melodramatic. However, in improv we learn that ‘what isn’t said isn’t known’ and I realised the shame had stopped me admitting I needed rest, or needed help, or even feeling I could question doctors when they’d fobbed me off with platitudes. My conditions are my bag of dicks and the fact that they are invisible has meant a lifetime of not owning them, of not always being present and honest with the people around me.
No more.
I am slowly learning to be more open about when I’m in pain or when my fatigue is overwhelming. What comes next is learning to trust others to listen just as I trust my scene partners in improv to hear, to ‘yes and’ and to not ‘block’ what I’m saying.
At times life throws us all in the corner with different bags filled with different dicks, but pretending they aren’t there means missing potential offers that can help you step out again. Because no one knows to ‘have your back’ if your back remains invisible.
If you want to hear more about our improv classes - click here for info on our next term! We offer diversity scholarships for every level, so money is no object.
If you have an interesting story on how improv has helped or is helping you in the real world, please complete the form at www.thefreeassociation.co.uk/improv-in-real-life
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