Friday, 22 January 2016

#whimword - Confidence

Your palms are sweaty, your hands shaking. There is the taste of bile in your throat and if you get through this without vomiting it'll be a fucking miracle. You don't need to look in the mirror to know you look like shit; you already know that your face is pale, your fringe stuck to your forehead with perspiration.

You have never been so fucking nervous in your whole life.

There's a knock on the door and a voice telling you it's time.

As you walk through the backstage area you hear people calling out to you, reassuring you, telling you it'll be fine. You wish you could believe them.

"Good luck out there."

"You'll do great."

"Break a leg!"

You're not ready for this. You know it in your heart. Not for the first time you wonder why you were chosen for this when so many others must have been better candidates. What could they have possibly seen in you that made them choose you?

You try to think back, try to remember what happened that day that set you on this path, but you can't remember. The only thing in your mind is a blinding white terror and you know that you're going to fuck this up. How can you not? This isn't meant for you. You shouldn't be here. You don't belong.

Not for the first time you consider running. If you bolt now they'll be disappointed in you but at least then they'll hate you for running, not for fucking up this wonderful opportunity you should never have been given in the first place. The only reason you don't run the fuck away is because your knees feel weak and you're not convinced your legs will be able to carry you any meaningful distance.

You're down to two choices then; go out there and do what is expected of you and probably fuck up, or pass out. Passing out feels like the more attractive prospect but somehow you know you won't be able to.

There's a buzz in your brain now, a strange fizzy feeling in your limbs you know is adrenaline. Fight or flight response has kicked in and since you've already ruled out flight there's only one option left. Fighting means going out there and doing your thing, no matter the consequences. You're still not convinced you'll be able to pull this off without screwing up and letting people down, but the only option left is to try.

The lights go down and you're out of time.

The sick feeling has disappeared completely, though you're not entirely sure when. You feel... excited? You're ready. How on earth did that happen?

There's a murmur of anticipation that sets your blood on fire. You wonder why you were even nervous in the first place; this is what you were born to do, who you were born to be.

The audience applauds as you step out into that spotlight and you realise, you were ready after all.

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