About a month ago, I performed in a burlesque show. I took a course where I learnt some moves and took some general advice from a professional, and then I picked a song, choreographed a routine, made my costume (well, I made the dress. My garment making hasn't progressed to corsets yet) and performed it onstage to a crowd of screaming people at a beautiful cabaret venue I've been to as a spectator several times.
I still can't quite believe I did it, because I was convinced I was going to drop out before the date rolled around. I was terrified. I was terrified of picking the wrong song, the wrong name, the wrong costume, the wrong moves, the wrong level of eventual nudity. I was convinced I would be the only one who was terrible. I did almost nothing but freak out about it for a full month beforehand.
My boyfriend kept saying to me, "Everything's going to be fine, you're going to be amazing." Which did not help. Not even a little bit. But what if I'm not amazing? What happens then? What happens if my jerkbrain is right about everything, just like it always tells me it is? Remember all those times when I thought everything was going to be fine and then it wasn't?
It was a week beforehand, when I was weighing up whether it was worse to completely bomb a burlesque routine or to pull out a few days prior, mess up the scheduling and let down all my friends who'd bought tickets, that I responded to "Everything's going to be fine, you're going to be amazing" with "No, don't tell me that. Tell me it doesn't matter if I'm a little bit shit."
"It doesn't matter in the slightest if you're a little bit shit," he said, without missing a beat, "it's a graduation show. Everyone who's bought a ticket knows they're there to support you, not to judge you. Especially since all the judgy people will be out of the country this weekend."
I didn't really take it in, though I continued asking him to tell me that instead when he told me it would all be fine. I showed up to tech on the night basically too terrified to speak and having visions of myself shaking so badly that the crowd could see it, wobbling on my heels and losing my balance. I was absolutely convinced that this was how my act would fuck up. I was the second to last act, and I am the WORST at anticipation. I knew it was all going to go wrong.
Then they turned off the main lights and the audience started filing in. My boyfriend offered me a glass of pink champagne. I took it.
"Oh, I'm not going to drink til afterwards," said one of the other performers, "I don't want to run the risk of messing up."
"Who cares about messing up?" said Amber Moon from somewhere inside me, gesturing with her champagne glass. "These people are basically contractually obligated to applaud whatever the hell we do."
"...yeah," she said weakly, and left.
I hadn't known who the hell my burlesque persona was up until that point. I'd picked the name on the day of our final submission deadline by looking at a list of cocktails, and choreographing my routine hadn't really given me any ideas. Who was Amber Moon? Some chick in a red dress and octopus pasties. But as I finished my champagne and dug one of my smuggled-in whisky drams out of my handbag, it became obvious to me who she was. Amber Moon doesn't give a shit. Amber Moon is cheerful and unconcerned and does exactly what she wants. Amber Moon doesn't worry about what other people think because she knows, at her core, that it doesn't matter.
Very shortly before my act, I passed my teacher backstage.
"Don't worry," she said, "it'll be fine. You'll be great."
"I'm quite tipsy!" said Amber Moon happily.
"Oh, me too," said my teacher, looking ever so slightly confused.
Amber Moon performed, and honestly I have no idea if I screwed it up. I changed about 40% of my choreography on the spur of the moment and I'd had two glasses of champagne, a gin cocktail and a glass of whisky. But nobody was filming it, so I can't watch it back and pick it to pieces. All I know is that I took my clothes off in front of a roomful of people and they all cheered. I shook my ass and they whooped. I turned my back, whipped off my bra and held it up in the air and there was a BIG DAMN NOISE of approval. It went well. It went well because Amber Moon did not give a shit. Amber Moon did not give a shit because she knew it didn't matter.
I've thought a lot since then about trying to harness Amber Moon in situations that aren't me stripping off on a stage. I know I can't just go "right, now I'm Amber Moon" because it's not always appropriate to drink copiously and shout at near-strangers. But maybe I can work on this as a method of dealing with anxiety. Instead of "let's think of every possible thing that could result from what I'm doing right now no matter how ridiculous" or "let's pretend that NOTHING IS HAPPENING" I could maybe try "so if the major cock-up happens, then what?"
I haven't worked through how this might work in less surreal situations than Burlesque Graduation Show, but I do not have the words to tell you how freeing it was to realise there is nothing my anxiety can say to me here and to ahead and do a really scary thing with no nerves or fear whatsoever. It has to be worth looking for.
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