A Personal Journey from Darkness to the Stage
By V Cate
This essay is provided in partnership with The Unusual Suspects Theatre Company, which commissioned Stage Raw to write and edit a series of articles for its print magazine, Devise, to be distributed at theaters region-wide.
Growing up in the picturesque enclave of Malibu, one might assume that my childhood was a sun-soaked dream. But the reality was far from idyllic. In a family that struggled financially and emotionally, my journey was marked by challenges that extended far beyond the ocean views and celebrity homes that surrounded me. My refuge, my salvation, ultimately came in an unexpected form: theater.
Rather than go into explicit detail, suffice it to say that no child should grow up in the physical or emotional environment that I did. Trauma was my teacher, instructing brusquely from the shadows of a house that held unspeakable horrors. In many ways, I was my own parent. I tried to raise and protect my younger siblings as best as I could in the shadow of an abusive father and an abused/absent mother.
Isolation was a bitter companion during those early years, an unwelcome consequence of the darkness that enveloped my home. It was in the realm of fiction — through books, television, and the magic of films — that I sought solace. Escaping into imaginary worlds became my lifeline, a means of connecting with idols, friends, and kindred spirits who existed beyond the confines of my reality.
For reasons far outside of my control, we moved to Simi Valley, where I had an important choice to make: which high school to attend. Simi High was the default choice — stratified in the same way most high schools are, with normcore classes, popular kids, and a strange emphasis on sports. But there was another option — Santa Susana, a small performing arts/magnet/technology high school.
It was here that the transformative power of theater would reveal itself. The thing that most stood out was the improv comedy troupe. These were older kids, full of confidence, deftly weaving in and out of scenarios as though they were psychics. Their performance stirred a newfound curiosity within me. The glimpse of unbridled creativity and apparent joy seduced me immediately.
Embracing theater as my lifeline, I embarked on a journey of self-discovery that would shape the trajectory of my life. I enrolled in theater class and found myself standing before my peers, delivering a monologue. Nervous, I performed with as much sensitivity and daring as I could muster. It was wading into a new pool of water, slowly.
When I was done, I received something that changed my life forever. Applause.
V Cate (photo courtesy of the author)
That was the moment that firmly cemented my path ahead. With one simple monologue, I was able to stand taller, to feel more confident, to take up greater space than ever before.
The stage became my refuge. The once-isolated child now center stage, thriving in an environment that embraced authenticity and celebrated individuality. Musicals, dramas, children’s theater, Shakespeare — I was hungry for it all. I even auditioned for the exclusive improv comedy troupe. I wasn’t naturally gifted at improv, but with effort (and kindness on the part of the teacher) I got in.
There are so many beautiful memories from those days. Unencumbered self-discovery. Laughing with friends for the first time in my life. Show crushes. Getting ready backstage. Breathing in the energy from the stage lights. Late night runs to Denny’s after a show. I had finally found my life, and I was slowly finding my voice.
Of course, not everything was good. When I went home, things were worse than ever. As theater helped me learn more about myself. I started to question my father. Punishments increased. I was getting whiplash, my view of life oscillating each day between possibility and dread.
But I continued to pursue theater with unwavering determination. I honed my skills and stretched my artistic boundaries. Each role became a portal to self-discovery, a canvas on which I could paint my emotions and vulnerabilities without fear of judgment.
When I met my first boyfriend, everything changed. Sometimes it’s easy to be trapped in a current, and in many ways this boy couldn’t have been more like my father. In the few years with him, I wound up dropping out of high school, losing touch with most of my friends, and staying isolated in my room. He didn’t like me to leave.
Still a child, it took me a very long time to extricate myself from the grips of both my father and my boyfriend. One of the first ways I did so was to secretly sign up for an improv class at the nearby community college.
I was 17, younger than all the other students in the class. This was a room full of adults. The teacher was uninspiring — an ex-soap star who wasn’t particularly funny and didn’t give much instruction. But sneaking out to that class once a week carried me through until I found the strength to run away. When I did leave my boyfriend — at the same time my father finally moved in with his girlfriend — I felt ravaged. Empty, but strong. And ready to fill the blank slate that was left.
I signed up for beginning acting class and auditioned for a Shakespeare play. For the audition, I had to wear an awkward cast for my broken clavicle (long story). During the climactic moment of my monologue, my beaded bracelet inexplicably and dramatically broke, shooting jade beads all over the stage. It was like a nightmare scenario. But I stayed in character. I was cast as Lady Macbeth.
When I stood behind the stage curtains waiting for an entrance during my first Macbeth rehearsal, I silently danced with joy. I was so thrilled to be there.
Later came Hamlet. I remember vividly the view from the floorboards in the closing scene, watching sweet Horatio deliver his final lines as he stood over me, snow falling.
This is it. This is beautiful. This is everything.
As those abundant years passed, I craved more theater, but got distracted by the thing that brings so many of us down: making a living. I cycled through a surprising number of jobs and despaired from a lack of purpose. I was working all the time and no longer performing.
For a time, I got into martial arts, and became so skilled that I was encouraged to become a full-time teacher. Ultimately, it was my longing for theater that stopped me. I knew that the regimented lifestyle of a martial arts instructor would never allow for the chaos inherent in the life of a thespian.
In the end I chose theater.
I auditioned fiercely and worked with various companies before finding my way to Zombie Joe’s Underground Theatre Group, which was unlike anything I had seen before. The performances were highly stylized — a sort of fusion of grand guignol, butoh, and camp. If theater is a beacon for dreamers and misfits, there was a haunted quality of ZJU that made it particularly enticing for outcasts, the abused, and the especially odd.
ZJU split me open as a performer, pushing me to physical, mental and emotional limits that I had not known existed. Its energy reverberated inside me. I became addicted to it and spent about three years of my collective weekends performing in the cult classic Urban Death. In that show, I bared my naked body. I died and lived and died again. I emerged baptized in blood. I transformed into monsters and creatures beyond imagining. I howled, I wept, I danced.
“Urban Death,” a production of Zombie Joe’s Underground. (Photo courtesy of Zombie Joe’s Underground)
Zombie Joe gave me my first opportunity to write and direct, and I was ravenous at the thought of a new theatrical challenge, which was to open up countless future opportunities, there and beyond.
Yet, as life’s pendulum swung, I found myself facing new trials. Homelessness, heartbreak, and personal trauma cast shadows that threatened to engulf me once again.
At the end of 2015, I was living out of my car. For a time, I would drive to Lake Arrowhead to crash at my father’s place. Imagine how well that went over.
I would still find ways to do theater – at ZJU, with my own company, with friends. I was putting on vampiric cabarets every week at a bar in Beverly Hills. I was avidly reviewing theater for Stage Raw, as well as working as posting editor, assigning editor, and ultimately managing editor up until the Pandemic. This is how much I needed theater in my life, despite (or perhaps because of) feeling so lost at sea.
In 2017, I finally landed in an apartment. It felt like a moment of relief – coming up for air. Then, a few months later, I was raped.
And everything broke.
I had been sexually assaulted before. But this time, the absolute overpowering that occurred… it was the straw that broke my back. The CPTSD that developed had me feeling that my brain had broken open. I was shattered into pieces. I was afraid to go outside. People around me didn’t understand why I was more reclusive than usual, more sensitive. I self-soothed however I could and gained weight like armor to protect myself from any more unwanted advances.
I started performing primarily in my own stylized dance shows, dancing out the trauma, dancing out the pain, dancing out the loss of me.
In 2018, ZJU gave me another gift. The company decided to take a small, select group of performers to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival to perform Urban Death.
I had to go.
I recommend that every earnest theater lover experience the Edinburgh Fringe Festival at least once. It is the third largest event in the world, behind the Olympics and the World Cup. Imagine a theater event that big! Small theater dreamers from all over the world made their way to Edinburgh just to express themselves and be a part of something brief and big and beautiful.
It was one of the best, most life-affirming things I had ever done. Sharing a flat with my cast mates was an indescribable joy. I have deep love for my younger siblings, but a functional family is not something I ever had. This felt like family. Waking up, making tea and toast. Talking about our days ahead. Heading out to explore the city, experience everything the Fringe had to offer. Then busking, performing every night, and partying until sunrise.
And Urban Death, by the way, enjoyed a wonderful, nearly-sold-out run.
I returned home with a renewed sense of self. Then, 2020. We all know what happened in 2020.
A quarantine situation was not ideal for me. When you’re locked inside your room, it’s like a cell. It’s like Plato’s cave tricking you into thinking that thoughts are reality. It’s an incubation tank for doubt and madness and despair.
They say that if you put fleas into a jar, they will leap out with ease. But cover the jar and their escape will be barred. However, if you remove the jar’s cover once more, the fleas will have learned how to be contained, and will never again jump past the height of the jar’s rim. They’ll stay there, confined and diminished, of their own accord.
I went a little insane during that time. Luckily, art and madness work well together.
In 2022, Animal Show — a playwriting group I had been a part of for about a decade which was an offshoot of the Padua Playwrights — decided it was time to start doing in-person theater again. We had been meeting over Zoom, but it just wasn’t the same. At the time, many public COVID restrictions were still in place. So we put on The Backyard Plays festival.
As planes roared overhead and dogs barked next door, I once again found myself immersed in the raw, unfiltered energy of live performance. It was in those moments, under the open sky, that I rediscovered the healing power of theater. Connecting with a creative community and allowing myself the freedom to express myself breathed life into my spirit once more.
Now, as I stand on the precipice of a new chapter, I am filled with gratitude for the transformative journey that theater has made happen. Healing, inspiring, uniting, it’s revealed to me how the human spirit, through art, can summon the power to soar.
