Remember that concert and rehearsal I blogged about? Well, they're done. I had to really reach down and pull that gig out of somewhere...I was not interested in being there, in singing, in facing people, talking to them after. Just plain ungracious. That's how I was feeling. Trying to get my warm up kick-started, I made tea, turned on the lights to brighten up the shadowy house, and went to find my notes from a lesson I'd had with my teacher.  It took a lot of self-talk to get me moving, and after about twenty minutes of slogging, I got some energy moving around and my voice started to respond. I thought of both my parents, one who secretly loved my singing, and one who loved my work ethic--both seemed to kindle some internal motivation within me.

As I was getting ready, I kept thinking that I *had* to get through this concert. I'd agreed to do it months ago. I looked at the tattoo on my wrist (Courage), and plunged ahead with the tedious curlers, make up, gallons of hairspray and finally the gown.  I looked in the mirror, transfixed by the person in the reflection. Who was that? Certainly much prettier than I'd remembered, thinner, and one might not be able to read the grief still emanating from my pores. I tried out a smile. Then a bow. Both felt strange. Superfluous.  How could I possibly be thinking about how I look when things inside are so dire?

I've gotta say, it helped a little. It helped me get to the gig, sing it, and make it home in one piece.  The rawness of my emotional state was clear when people asked me how I was doing.  On stage, I was completely shut down, shut off. Robotic. A pretty robot.  I couldn't wait to get the hell out of there.

Afterward, back at home, I stood again in front of the mirror, and wondered. You know, all the questions we ponder in normal situations were there,  but superceded by this newer, bigger picture. Where does this image fit in to the new picture I am getting of myself, this woman without parents? The one who cannot sleep in her own bedroom and cannot touch her father's things? Who is this person called "beautiful" by her friends? For a "brief, shining moment" (Camelot) a saw HER. The woman I want to be, the woman I've pretended to be for so many years.

I am still becoming, I guess. Not fully cooked. I want to be strong yet vulnerable, compassionate and not combative, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound...

My social life is still very sketchy--still bagging out of activities, although I did hit a fundraiser with a friend yesterday. I wanted to find the Pretty Girl I saw in the mirror the other night, so I threw on a t-shirt and black skirt, with my most fun shoes--fushia patent leather--hoping to dress myself into a fun mood. It felt awkward to be consciously dressed up.  I felt awkward with one of my dearest friends. I *hated* that feeling. My stomach mutinied eating rich desserts on an empty stomach.  And so I navigated mindfully, noticing, and later realizing my mother's social fears in me. I own this now, as of today. She was always nervous at parties, gatherings, afraid of not being pretty enough, smart enough, --things many of us fear--but with her it was almost phobic. I have this tendency, too. My father had a charisma I admire, but a private, quiet side, too. My mother was very shy, and even more private. If you do the math, that makes only one quarter charisma...I don't even know if I have that. I can put up a good front, for a while, but at least now it takes a lot, too much, energy to conjure such a glamour.  

Will the glittery side of me be resuscitated? Was it ever an organic, authentic part of who I am? I kinda hope so. The concert persona felt like SUCH a facade to me, and I really hated it. I used to love the ritual of getting ready for a concert, and especially the "doing" of a concert. Instead, I am saying the word "hate" a lot. Probably an overstatement. It's just easier than running down my inner thesaurus for something more descriptive. Lame on my part, I know, but I'm at least putting it out there.

I'm putting myself out there as far as I can, and then withdrawing back into my cocoon. The cocoon of becoming.