Tonight I am driving from San Francisco to Marin across the Golden Gate Bridge after my last performance in Paducah Mining Company's production of Paula Vogel's Hot 'n' Throbbing. It has gotten mixed reviews: "compelling," "overacted," "well-described," "erratic," but the experience of playing a battered wife and mother of teenagers in this dysfunctional family drama has been life-altering for me. And, most importantly, I hope it has been a valuable experience for our audiences.
 

Just the title itself has changed how people view me in my hometown of Novato. I work in the public schools and have a 15-year-old in high school. My friends and coworkers know me as "Lee's mom" or "customer" or "the school psychologist" or "committee member." When I tell them I am in a play in San Francisco, they are first impressed and then curious.
 

"What play?"
 

I pause before going forward. "Hot 'n' Throbbing by Paula Vogel."
 

Silence for a moment.
 

"Wow! What a title. Whoa."
 

I quickly explain, "Ah, yes. It's a very intense play about a family and domestic violence and, ah," (quickly now) "pornography and the sex industry and how they all relate. So, how are you? What time should I pick up Bill for practice?"
"Five would be fine. But what is it like to be in a play like that?"
Some folks are fascinated. Some keep their distance. Regardless, they know that I am OK with talking about domestic violence and pornography and the sex industry. These are things that don't usually come up in our day-to-day conversations, unless it's behind closed doors. And even behind closed doors this stuff is really difficult.
 

When I describe the play and what my role entails with a coworker in his office one morning, he had an obvious physical reaction. Usually confidant and upbeat, his face darkens and his body collapses slightly as he says, "I'm sorry. I could never go see that...my stuff with my Dad would make that too hard."
I nod my head slowly and say, "I know, I know. That's OK." Later I wonder if he, and others, are thinking, Annan does that kind of stuff. Annan can say those words.
 

I also became literally bruised and battered as we worked through the domestic violence scenes with our artful and patient fight choreographer. I coped with how I feel about my body, how my body feels, how my body looks. One afternoon before rehearsal, my Marin dental hygienist looks at my arm. "What is that bruise, Annan?"
 

I look up, "Oh, it's from a play I'm doing."
 

She looks doubtful.
 

"Really. It involves wife battering, and I play the wife."
 

She doesn't look much different.
 

"I'm OK. Really. We're doing fight choreography and this is what happens when he grabs me. I bruise easily...."
 

I smile and leave as gracefully as possible. But now I have a hint, just a glimmer, of how it must feel. To feel discovered and ashamed and nervous and protective. Now when I see a blackened eye or a man glare at his wife in the supermarket or hear of the Novato woman who shot her husband, I shudder more deeply, more personally.
 

But the greatest change in me, my most profound experience in this production, is due to the nature of my relationships with the director, cast members and technicians. They are mature and responsible and responsive. My stage husband, who can be so vicious and frightening on stage, is actually an extraordinarily kind and attractive man. My stage children (actually accomplished adult actors) are fun and sensitive. The actors who portray my inner voices are individuals with a soulfullness and wisdom I find intoxicating and comforting. The designers are women I trust implicitly. My director knows me well enough to call me on my shit and praise me for my growth. In rehearsal we went over beats, transitions, actions, emotional score, triggers, history. We researched the sex industry, erotica, pornography, domestic violence, restraining orders. I dealt with pushing, holding back, being subtle, going over the top, giving in, listening, shutting down. I have been confidant, frustrated, pissed off, jealous, inspired, surprised, tired, excited, moved, sick. With all this in the mix, the show grew from night to night in ways we would have never expected. And, in spite of the challenges, I am filled with a joie de vivre and a new sense of myself.
 

As exhilarating as all this is, I carry this familiar and seemingly never-ending guilt. I have been away from home a lot. For a mom and wife to be away from home a lot is tough. Tough for me, tough for them. I pay a price, they pay a price for this passion of mine. And just as I am familiar with guilt, I am familiar with these bittersweet realities: I looked forward to the production coming to a close; I dreaded its end.
 

The last performance has come and gone. We performed, visited and processed with the audience, struck the set, went out to dinner and hugged goodbye. I drove along the dark but lively streets of San Francisco: people lined up for rave clubs, opera goers walking to their cars, the homeless with their signs, motorized cable cars and drag racers. I smile when I think about where I’m headed: sleepy Novato at 1 a.m., where I will drive the streets alone to my quiet and comfortable home, where the only living things on the streets are deer and fox and skunks, where I am known as something other than "actress."