I’ve always dealt with nerves differently than most other people.
I will agonize over problems, perhaps to the point of torture, often far in advance of the point which I should really be thinking about them.
Growing up, it used to work. In my theatre class, my stage fright would manifest itself during rehearsals and in the months before a premiere or a contest. When showtime came, I never faltered–I showed up on stage, on cue, and on line. I taught myself that worrying about these things ahead of time prevented me from screwing up when it mattered.
This lesson was further driven home to me when I moved away to college. I didn’t think about things like making new friends, living in a new and communal environment or being several hundred miles away from home. This resulted in me actually having a breakdown during orientation weekend: it all hit me as I stared at the prisonesque cinderblock walls of the old dorm we were bunking in, donated pizza on my lap and the realization that my grandmother wouldn’t be there waiting for me. I started to panic and mourn the years I had so thoughtlessly taken for granted, and thought how badly I wanted them back.
This panic came back the moment I officially moved into my dorm and lasted for nearly two straight weeks. It launched me into a sort of post-partum depression for pussy boys.
What that experience taught me was that if I don’t prepare myself for a new situation, it’s going to do that to me.
In two months, I will be moving away from everything I’ve known, moving to a new city and living with Tyler officially.
And tonight more than any other night, I’m having the worries and the panic and the teary eyes.
I know it’s no good acting this way, but in a strange, bizarre way, I feel that if I get it out now, just like in theatre class, it won’t affect me as badly when it really comes time to haul butt in a Penske truck.