Anxiety (2): Speaking Through It

What will happen when I mess this up? When I’m at the front of the room, and my hands are sweating, voice is shaking, messing up? What will happen when they find out I don’t belong here, that anyone else would be better, because anyone else would at least be able to stand up here and speak, as normal humans do, without the shaking, tenseness, tasting of fear?

What might happen is I might be humiliated. Embarrassed. Unable to show my face again. Which means I directed my entire adult life toward something at which I’m an utter failure. 

I think people will be disappointed in me. I will surely be found an imposter. People will realize I’m not worthy of their time, and they will ask me to leave, or they will leave me behind. They will see the redness on my face, the stiffness of my body, the shaking of my arms, and realize: this person is not capable of being here. They will sit quietly as the sides of their mouths curl up into a polite smile and they'll think, "poor girl," as they turn their attention to the next one.

Forget about the content of my speech. The humiliation of my body language will be enough to discredit me. Why would anyone listen to my words? Maybe that’s good; I'm not sure I have anything  to say at all.

In fact, I know I don't. And I will have to stand there and endure feedback from all the men in the room who would have said it differently, who think my perspective is too soft or nice, who think what I’m saying is shallow or not well informed. I forgot to mention Kant, or misunderstood Kierkegaard, or disregarded Foucault, etc. I will have to hear the disappointed correction in their tone, which will make me feel like a thousand pieces on the floor.

And maybe they will be right.

It’s not that I don’t believe in criticism or correction. I want to be challenged to improve. I want to be able to stand with the best of them, and say what I mean, and feel the integrity of that, even be called out for what I missed. But getting there will mean countless days like this, weeks like this, months like this, where all I can think about is getting to the front of the room and feeling like the world is about to collapse on top of and beneath me.

There are mornings I wake up and think: that was melodrama; I feel fine. And then two days later I dig my fingernails into my fists so hard they bleed, and get two hours of sleep per night, and have a 10 hour migraine after a 20 minute presentation.

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