The preschool class had an annual performance at the end of the school year. I remember mine. We all shuffled across the stage, shyly looking out at the dim figures in the audience. Bright lights illuminated our faces, and music pushed through the speakers. My classmates began to sing and mime the movements demonstrated by the teacher.
I went solo and covered my eyes.
Newly five-year-old me had never been onstage before. She’d never had to hear that soundtrack so loud, never had light shone on her, never had to stare directly into the eyes of hundreds of people, all the while being expected to perform.
My parents laughed.
I started getting into theater around second grade. First, I was a mouse in a day camp production of The Tortoise and the Hare, though I’d also read for the snake during rehearsals when a friend was sad. Next, I was a horse in my school’s production of Charlotte’s Web. I’d wanted to play Charlotte, but all the roles had been decided by popular vote, so there was little chance of that happening. Still, it was so exciting to be in a play, to be someone else for just a bit.
I continued theater through a few Christmas productions at my church, even scoring the lead in one. However, by the time middle school came around, I was too old to participate, so my acting days were on hold until I found my local theater at age 15.
There was always something so comforting about acting. You could be someone else while always knowing exactly what would happen. Everyone had to do well in order to make a play work, though each individual person got to add their flair. And once you’d had a few dress rehearsals, even the lights, sounds, and audience were no longer an issue.
What was becoming a problem though was the way people expected me to be after I became an actress. Since I seemed to do so well playing certain roles onstage, those around me thought it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch for me to do it in real life – all day, every day, in any situation. “You’re an actress,” I remember my mom telling me once during a meltdown. “Why can’t you just act like you’re okay?”
That’s just the thing. It’s impossible to keep it up. When you’re upset and in pain, there comes a point where all of it’s too much to bear anymore and the mask shatters. In shows, you’re all right. You’re protected. But as soon as you step away, there’s no way to predict the future and no way to control how your brain is going to react to every stimuli. With the exception of preschool, I’d never had stagefright in a production. However, I had it all the time offstage.
“We need to focus,” the director of the most recent play I was in used to say. Every night, she’d remind us that we needed to concentrate. And every night, I kept my eyes and ears glued to my surroundings.
However, that all faded when places were called. For reasons I can’t explain now, that was a very difficult show for me. I would try as hard as I could to focus during rehearsal, but everything felt dreamlike. The words I heard wouldn’t process. I’d stand up, and the lines I’d spent weeks memorizing and was so sure of before evaporated into mist. I couldn’t help but worry about my expressions, since I would just zone out and forget about my face. At times, I could barely remember where I was supposed to go.
“Concentrate,” the director said. She hit her legs, one after the other, then snapped one hand at a time, all while chanting and looking around at all of us.
“What is this supposed to be?” my friend whispered to me and some others, completely bewildered by the instructions of the game.
“I don’t know,” I replied, looking around at the rest of the circle. I tightened my jaw, staring down at my hands. I was already on thin ice. I had to make this work or else I’d be doomed.
“I’m autistic,” I muttered nervously to another friend. “My coordination is all messed up.”
“Well,” he said good-naturedly, “that’s where the ‘focus’ part comes in.”
I’m sure he didn’t mean it that way, but the words still stung. I was doing the absolute best I could with what I was given, and yet it would never be enough. My body just wouldn’t cooperate with my brain. Come on, I begged my hands. Just do what you’re supposed to do!
The game went along. I watched my castmates catch and toss the words effortlessly between each beat. My heart pounded as I silently begged for no one to call on me.
“And that’s it. We’ll try again another day. Five minutes.”
“Thank you, five.”
We dispersed throughout the auditorium. I looked down at the floor and caught my breath, still shaking from anxiety. There was no one I could tell about what was going on. If I played the game again, I’d seem completely inattentive, and if I asked to quit, I’d seem whiny. Either way, I’d look disrespectful and rude, especially since I’d had to have so many accommodations for that show already. Whether or not it had been intentional, I was set up to fail.
I left that play that night for that reason and many others. There was so much going on and I couldn’t handle it anymore. I couldn’t stand the pressure to perform, especially with more and more being piled on me behind the scenes.
I’ve decided I’m not going to take it anymore. I know what I can and cannot do. I have a will and I deserve to exercise it. No one is going to tell me how I need to respond to life. It’s mine and I will do what I please with it. No more pressure to perform.