[45] TOURNELLE DU SOLEIL • VENUE, BROOKLYN • MAY 31, AFTERNOON (Patreon)

All my muscles are clenched. I try to slow my heart rate with breathing exercises. Gotta relax, buddy. This ain’t gonna help.

I try to manage the rush of adrenaline that wants to dump out into my veins. Pace yourself.

Like so many other times I’ve found myself in a moment that feels as big as this, I’m reminded of my fighting days. Now, like then, I’m convinced that success doesn’t just come down to being physically prepared. It comes down to who can manage their stress best on the day. Comes down to being able to mentally train yourself to sit in the pocket: not allowing excitement to take the reins and gallop off like a runaway horse; not soothing yourself so much that you can’t pour on the heat when it’s time to crank it.

I do not succeed at finding the pocket.

Adrenaline wipes my brain clean of the dress rehearsal anyways. I’m doing it, we’re all doing it, and then it’s somehow, instantly, over.

I'm left with a foggy, dreamlike awareness that my act goes…pretty good. The maillot costume doesn’t shift around during the number. My hip yelps in one of my final transitions, towards the end of the act; I’m already on my hands and pressing into my handstand, though. I can hide it.

Somehow, despite Herculean concentration, I nearly miss my walk-out cue in the finale costume. I don’t walk perfectly in the fucking heels. I don’t have to see Matthew’s face to know he’s wincing.

I have a good cry afterwards as I change back into warm, comforting sweatpants and layered sweaters in the upstairs bathroom. Dry my face. Splash cold water on it to dull the redness. Pick myself up, limp down the stairs. Most of the others have already packed themselves up for the day, headed back to the hotel. Good.

I do my forward folds, my ab exercises. Walk back to the hotel slowly enough that I don’t have to limp. Maybe I can just fool my brain into confidence that it’s fine.

Back in my room, just as slowly, just as carefully, I shave my head. My legs. My arms. Moisturize. Take two more Advil.

I lay in bed and Edesia’s post-rehearsal speech replays in my head. This is why we do the dress rehearsals. We do them to figure out what we need to figure out.

I let my mind play babble in positive loops. It’s true. This happened so that tomorrow can be good. And we’re going to do a run-through with the music again tomorrow afternoon.

It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be great. I’m going to do a great job.

I can do this. I’m a great performer. That one doesn’t feel honest, so I repeat it a few more times until I’m tired of my own doubt and move onto the next one.

Does it really matter if you’re lying to yourself if it tricks you into being a better version of yourself anyways? I pour on the hubris.

They chose me because I’m amazing at what I do. I’m a good actor.

I shift my attention to tomorrow.

I’m going to do a good job as this character. I’m going to do more than survive. I’m going to perform. I can do more than survive. My hip is going to be fine. My knee is going to fine. I’m going to shine out through every pore. They’ll be happy they hired me. I can perform. It’s going to be good.

At some point, I drift off into an uneasy sleep.

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Until then, stay strange and wonderful - XO, ess