Tonight I will be late for rehearsal.
Over three weeks ago when we received our schedule, I noticed the call time for today and told the stage manager that we would be arriving nearly two hours late (at the usual time) due to Muad'Dib's work schedule and the likely event of not having a babysitter.
I did not remind him and he did not remember.
I don't like feeling like a child caught in trouble.
When he called I tried to push the feeling aside as, "Well, I told you and it's your fault you didn't remember." I'm not sure that's far from the truth and yet . . .
I have a chilling fear, a throbbing anxiety that is slowly (over the last hour and a half) gaining strength: blurring my vision, my hands are shaking and it feels like a heavy wet blanket is hindering my ability to breathe.
Over and over through my mind replays an old memory: Me walking onto the "Deck" at Bonneville on the day of the last Tapestry performance. No one would look at me. No one would talk to me. Okay, one girl who said snidely, "Nice of you to show up."
Then I got reamed. I can't recall many moments in my life where I backed down from an argument, even with an adult. My defenses are up, armed and "fire when ready" quicker than anyone else I know. But this time. All I can remember was the sensation of spiraling into shame. Physically, emotionally and mentally. When i called my mother to pick me up, she could barely understand me between the sobs.
I feel like that scared little girl again.
I didn't do anything wrong the first time, I'm not so sure I did anything "wrong" this time . . . so why am I so consumed with fear that instead of getting ready for rehearsal I have to sit down and blog about it, hoping to cleanse the wound: hoping it will heal faster.
I don't want to go to rehearsal afraid. But I am afraid: afraid that in the short time between 5:15pm and when we arrive at 7:20 pm everyone will have turned against me. They will all hate me. Moreover, they will all just look at me sideways, with anger in their eyes: accusations I would not be allowed to answer because they would not be voiced.
I can see what these two situations have in common so far, but I sincerely hope they turn out differently. Why am I so afraid? What could any one of them possibly do to me?
I don't know.
Yet I fear. Yet my head spins with the cotton-ball-like numbness that is my defense against anxiety: Overload of feeling, must disengage.
Perhaps that's the answer: disengage.
Because truly, all I can control is my behavior when I walk in, and my reaction to anything anyone says. Nothing more. I can decide now what manner in which I will behave . . . and yet even these things, these ideas of control do not comfort me.
I am still afraid.