The Echo.

There is something about being backstage. 

I love and hate the feeling.

Everyone is waiting for you.

Everyone in the whole world is waiting for you.

Here I stand, wobbly unshaved knees.

Limited Too attire.

Twelve years old.

Holding (or not holding) a deep, empty pit in the cave of my stomach.

I feel hollow inside.

Trying to keep my mouth from going dry, I swallow nervously.

I look down at the floor a couple of times.

They need to sweep back here, I tell myself.

OMG! What do I do with my hands?!

A silent cry goes off in my head, like a fire alarm.

Kids racing outside.. light-up Sketcher shoes from Payless rub and screech against the mismatched tile floor.

“Is it real? Is it real? Is it real?!” they ask.

Teachers hurry them along.

I wonder if I will be able to see my Mom in the audience.

And if so... 

Will that make all this better or worse?

Ya know, this whole being on a stage thing is new for me.

Do I crave this kind of attention?

I know some people do.

I don’t think I do?

I mean, yes.. I did grow up performing for my mom and her friends, belting out “Tomorrow” and “Hard Knock Life” from the Annie movie, standing behind that ugly hunter green, potato chip-stained couch, (the one with the pink fringe at the corners, on purpose).

And I did tend to impulsively run outside to the front yard when I had a new song lyric in my head. I wanted to see what it felt like to sing my new hit with the breeze in my hair and the hand motions I had just made up to go along with the words. My first song was about a blue jay. My right palm would paint the sky above me, and I would shake my hips a little bit, like the girls always did on television. That memory still tugs at me from time to time, taps me on the elbow and whispers, “Remember?”

Oh, and I did stay up for hours on end learning every single word of the Dixie Chicks hits, “There’s Your Trouble”, “Wide Open Spaces”, and “Cowboy Take Me Away”.

But those moments were Pretend.

Not the same, right?

I could mess up, laugh about it, shrug my shoulders, and keep going. 

Something about this whole stage thing, it felt… 

Well... 

Fake.

This was different. 

And I wasn’t ready for it.

I wasn’t made for it.

Mom or no Mom in the audience.

My name is eventually called. 

I walk out on the stage, not able to see a thing under those bright lights, I wrap my small fingers around the microphone, my lips trembling.

What was I doing?

This isn’t me.

Words finally stumble out of my mouth, my voice sounded decent, I guess, but I could do better.

I was internally judging myself in real-time, my increasingly cruel inner dialogue becoming the constant echo to my voice.

I just wanted this 3 minutes to be over.

This Sara Evans song Needed.To.End.

No more proving anything to myself after this.

No more bright lights or fluttering heartbeat, it's too painful.

What am I even wearing?

Again, a silent cry goes off inside my head.

The echo.

I am embarrassed.
I am so embarrassed.

Please let this song end early.

Can the sound guy hit the wrong button in the back and just turn my microphone off? 

Is that possible?

Please, God.

Get me off of this stage, back in the comfort of those dark corners where no one can see me. Give me those hallways with the unswept, dusty wooden floors- Back where I belong.

…….

Has that ever happened to you?

On the outside you are performing, words leave your body with ease or unease.

You put on a smile and a happy face, like a preteen playing with makeup.

You play the part.

You do the thing.

But inside?

Inside the basement of your thoughts, you are tearing yourself down.

Constantly cursing at yourself.

Constantly talking down at yourself.

You shame your outfit and every single ounce of your being.

Like a cat clawing away at your very own soul.

A nightmare inside.

What is that?

If the audience could hear that...

Would they still clap??