Pause. Breathe. Slam Poetry.

I was a nervous wreck for days leading up to my first poetry reading, actually it was an attempt at Slam Poetry. Up until this point I have been writing poetry and have been content keeping it on paper because it somehow separates me from it, like a piece of paper shields me from my audience.Writing it allows me to process the poem better and gives me the courage to write vulnerable material without it becoming too intensely personal.

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.