...and terror struck.

Yesterday was a hard day.

It goes like this:

Earlier in the week I was asked if I could join the local orchestra percussion section - they were short a player. Great stuff. This means somebody has faith in me, but also that they were desperate for players. I should be jumping at the opportunity since the section leader plays for a top level orchestra. I could learn a lot from him. So I said yes. But talk about last minute! First rehearsal for me was yesterday. First performance was also yesterday.

I could have joined the orchestra at the beginning of the year, in fact I aimed to. This year was supposedly The Year of Being More Involved in Local Music. Ha. Enter the hazy filthy dark cloud of terror that is The Ex. The square-arsed turtle-necked pretentious homewrecking cunt that I one day said I would marry and meant it. The sight of her sends this irrational fear ripping through me and I end up like a small animal caught in the headlights. I've got absolutely nothing to say to her, yet I am a ball of locked up anger and frustration and hurt that cannot be expressed publicly. My mind starts screaming, caged, animal and outraged.

So there's a few things I avoid because she's in them. The orchestra is one of them. I give myself the luxury of avoiding her, even though a few people have pointed out to me that this behaviour on my behalf indicates that I have let her get to me. I guess it does, but I am far safer as an individual to avoid that confrontation and lead a life seperate from dealing with her personally - rather difficult to accomplish in a small town, but I've done fairly well so far.

So Vic turns up to the rehearsal yesterday, fully immersed in Fear Of The Unknown mode, with a less than healthy amount of Doubting My Own Ability thrown in, to find that not only do I have to perform in the same ensemble as the source of this fear and raw pain, but I have to stand directly behind her and see her arse crack for the entire time.

I get to the performance, a little nervous, but surrounded by friends beforehand so I was coping okay. Until I got out there. I started shaking. It was all I could do to stand up. My rational mind was telling me to calm down, breathe slowly. To centre myself and feel the floor supporting me as a constant. It was there going through all the techniques I've learned to deal with panic attacks and calming myself. You can do this, Vic. However that rational mind was speaking in a whisper and being drowned out by a screaming overwhelming litany of oh fuck why won't you stop shaking just keep counting good on you complete fuckup you miss a cymbal hit there you won't be able to make it through good on ya there she's going to judge you on this again the entire town is going to judge you on this...

Which is shit. Utter shit, and I know it. But it was terror overriding everything else.

I made it through. I missed some important bits but I'm able to joke about it, which is cool. I was the person in the cartoon that has one important cymbal crash, standing there with those two big fucking things in my hands, waiting, waiting, counting... and then I missed it anyway. The worst is that I knew exactly where I was up to on the page, I saw the symbol to go for it clear as day. But then it was past and I was standing there with a pair of cymbals in my hands, now totally useless and to anyone that was watching me, plainly obvious that I hadn't done what I was meant to do. I am laughing at that image, which means that I am okay with this experience.

But it was a hard day. The next one will be easier.