I performed in a Physical Theatre class showcase at my circus school last night: my first performance in about a year and a half. The days before the performance were, for me, filled with countless nervous thoughts about how it would go, what could go wrong, would I be terrible? Would I just blatantly suck? Would I let down my amazingly talented classmates and, in a fit of terror, attempt to run off the stage and out of the room as I had during many a class period? Has this year-and-a-half of performance anxiety–nay, personal anxiety– ruined every chance I have for delivering a quality performance ever again in my life?!

As performance time drew closer yesterday, I found myself centering into a rather tranquil space. Was it the eye of the storm? Backstage I watched my cast mates go through their preparations. I am always amazed at the ways different performers prepare for their moment onstage. Some sit still and are pensive. Others are running this way and that, making damned sure everything is in its proper place and that all potential disruptions are quelled before the show begins. Still others are chattering nervously, and others are as chill as can be, completely unaffected. I have different stages. The first stage is the energy stage, where I wake up my body and buzz buzz buzz until I feel like every inch of me is living. Then comes focusing. Nothing else matters but the moment happening onstage. Then I tend to obsessively apply and reapply makeup, do and redo my hair, and go through all sorts of mindless, repetitive motions. First, it keeps me from thinking too much; and second, it allows me to be alone. Last night was a tad different because our wonderful sound guy, also an actor in the show, really needed someone to cue him for music (the music was being run with no visibility of the stage) and the ex-Stage Manager in me tried to help as much as possible. So add that in.

Last night, though, the calm in me was eerie. The little voice in my head, the one that has been saying to me endlessly for the past year, “You suck. You’re not worthy of watching. No one wants to watch a girl like you do anything. It’s hopeless. You should be ashamed to exist.” was suddenly stifled by a much clearer, wiser voice. And it was basking in the familiarity of standing behind a curtain, ready to shoot off onto the stage like a bullet. I left my home at 13 years old to study theatre because I felt an inextinguishable need to be a performer. To act, to feel, and to invite others to come into my world and have a unique and genuine moment with me there. Last night, that same fire was set alight in me again. Except now, I’m not 13 with no knowledge whatsoever. Now I’m 20, with 6 years of rigorous acting training under my belt and a deep actors ‘toolbox’ I can dive into when I need help fleshing out a scene. Of course, none of that REALLY matters when you’re onstage, and last night I dropped into moments onstage deeper than I’ve ever let myself before. Perhaps it is that finally I was allowed to tell my stories without the hindrance of words– I despise words in theatre. When I speak onstage, I feel like I’m lying. The words feel foreign, they gum up inside my mouth and I’m instantly yanked out of the scene. My body doesn’t lie, and this is why I’ve chosen this path to performance. But yes. In the moment. With my scene partners– who were all there right with me. As long as we held onto that magic, I knew our rehearsal work would not be in vain and that we would not send our lovely audience screaming and running out of the theatre. (Though I love it when people walk out of my shows!) It’s not my job to worry about whether it was a terrible or a wonderful evening of scenes. It was my job, my life’s f*cking passion actually, to be on that stage and give it 100% of what I’ve got. I did it– we all did it. My cast mates and director were endlessly inspiring and I’m grateful for how supportive they were throughout the process (I win the “most frustrating artist to work with ever!” award)

I also learned a valuable lesson last night about how I relate to others. I am an in-tro-vert! Say it slowly– and say it quietly. Loud voices frighten me.  My struggle lies in this notion that I’ll never fit in– that my circumstances, my story, and my self are so extreme that I am rendered incapable of connecting with a majority of the people I see every day.  Constantly an outsider to the groups I think I’d like to be a part of, I’ve found myself without friends, without conversation, and feeling incredibly alone. When I was onstage, it finally felt like I was sharing myself! Openly! A huge moment in this struggle. But the second the show was over, when the audience meet n’ greet started, I started feeling that fragile discomfort again. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate that those folks came out to see the show– but those moments of flattery that often come a performers way after a show to me seem unnecessary.

I didn’t perform because I wanted you to think I, Haley, am amazing. I performed because there was a story to be told, and a space to tell it and I’m compelled to be a vehicle of it. To be romantic about it, I’m a servant of the story– not its star. So when I disappear after a performance, it isn’t because I don’t appreciate you, Mr. Audience Member. It’s because I just gave you the gift of me for the duration of the performance, and I really don’t want anything in return. It’s also because I  don’t like to speak. I want you to do your part, and walk out of the theatre having changed just a little bit, having come to understand something new, and having thoughts about that. Sure those things seem a little grandiose for a 45 minute performance we gave to about 20 people… but hey. This isn’t the end of my line. I’ll move on to bigger things, but I can’t let my integrity fade due to a lack of production value.

I’m grateful for everyone who made last night happen. My return to the stage has been marked with an overflow of passion and enthusiasm– I am excited for what happens next. Taking my act to the street? Sending in my first Cirque application? Bring it. I’m ready.