However, I was forced completely out of my comfort zone this past week when my professor asked me to perform a certain poem that is extremely personal to me. He kept pushing me to make the poem deeper with every draft, and the more I wrote and deeper I got into the poem I could feel my mood shifting into a dark place. When Tuesday finally arrived I was an emotional wreck...I was having difficulty eating and focusing, the entire day is a blur. After sending my final draft in a few hours before the performance my professor told me that I didn't have to get up there and read it if I didn't want to. At that point I had spent countless hours dreading getting up in front of an audience without my paper shield and the thought of not having to perform was a huge relief. I wish I could say I knew I was still going to preform despite my professors gesture, but I seriously contemplated not going through with it.
It is now 8 PM and the room is packed with people in chairs, couches, on the floor, and in the adjacent hallways just listening. I was on the schedule to go last in the first act. I had buried myself in a couch between Tracee and a Pevato twin, fellow English graduate students. As my turn steady grew nearer I could feel myself beginning to shake and sweat...I kept telling myself I didn't have to get up there and read. Before I knew it I was walking up to the podium and was arranging my poem on the stand. I had to set my hands on the podium to stop the shaking, the room was shaking. I was supposed to introduce myself...maybe I did; maybe I didn't...I don't remember. I begin to read. Pause. Breathe. Keep going. Pause. Breathe. Speak up and don't make eye contact. Pause. Breathe. Regain balance. Breathe. Two more stanzas. Fumble over line...once...twice...third time is a charm. Almost done. Pause. Breathe. Read. Done. Numb.
As I walked back to sit down between my friends there was applause the sound grew overwhelming in my sensitive ears as voices began to carry on conversations. I hopped, tripped and slipped out of the room. I needed quiet and fresh air even if only for a moment. I sat on some stairs outside of the building and focused on breathing and not shaking. I had done it. I had stood up in front of a room of peers, professors, and strangers and removed the paper shield and let my audience see me emotionally naked. It was terrifying; it still is terrifying. As I walked back into the room I was careful not to make eye contact because I didn't want to see that look I dread in anyone's eyes. I reburied myself in the couch between Tracee, a Pevato twin, and added a pillow as an extra measure of protection and let myself listen to the second act.
That was the night I got my voice back.
It is now 8 PM and the room is packed with people in chairs, couches, on the floor, and in the adjacent hallways just listening. I was on the schedule to go last in the first act. I had buried myself in a couch between Tracee and a Pevato twin, fellow English graduate students. As my turn steady grew nearer I could feel myself beginning to shake and sweat...I kept telling myself I didn't have to get up there and read. Before I knew it I was walking up to the podium and was arranging my poem on the stand. I had to set my hands on the podium to stop the shaking, the room was shaking. I was supposed to introduce myself...maybe I did; maybe I didn't...I don't remember. I begin to read. Pause. Breathe. Keep going. Pause. Breathe. Speak up and don't make eye contact. Pause. Breathe. Regain balance. Breathe. Two more stanzas. Fumble over line...once...twice...third time is a charm. Almost done. Pause. Breathe. Read. Done. Numb.
As I walked back to sit down between my friends there was applause the sound grew overwhelming in my sensitive ears as voices began to carry on conversations. I hopped, tripped and slipped out of the room. I needed quiet and fresh air even if only for a moment. I sat on some stairs outside of the building and focused on breathing and not shaking. I had done it. I had stood up in front of a room of peers, professors, and strangers and removed the paper shield and let my audience see me emotionally naked. It was terrifying; it still is terrifying. As I walked back into the room I was careful not to make eye contact because I didn't want to see that look I dread in anyone's eyes. I reburied myself in the couch between Tracee, a Pevato twin, and added a pillow as an extra measure of protection and let myself listen to the second act.
That was the night I got my voice back.
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