2002-11-20 at 5:30 p.m.
'Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't all out to get you.'
"It isn't your technique, Michelle" said my teacher in our lesson today. "You have more than enough skill to play these pieces. Your problems are all in your mind".
Well, no shit, Sherlock.
I have my final recital in five days, 20 hours, and 50 minutes. Not that I'm obsessing about it or anything. My current problems with my repertoire, as my teacher pointed out, are not physical ones. It's all the fault of that big lump 'o squishy grey stuff lodged between my hair and my eyeballs.
You see, I tend to get nervous about performing. This nervousness causes me to rush my pieces when playing them. This causes me to get frustrated. This causes me to yell, rant, rave, bitchslap the keyboard, and attack and bite total strangers for no good reason.
This causes me to get nervous.
So, my primary focus at the moment is calm. I am calm about the fact that my recital is in five days, 20 hours, and 50 minutes. I am calm about the mistakes I'm making. I am calm about the fact that I'm ARGH HELP ME HELP ME I'M SO SCREWED ARGH no. I am calm. Calm. Calm.
With this added pressure on my already precarious mental state, other aspects of my psyche have decided to come out and play. Namely, paranoia.
-My hands. Since I really, really need them to play the piano, I've become very obsessed with taking care of them. I will not eat vegetables in the week prior to an exam, because of the possibility I may cut my finger with the knife whilst chopping them. (Not that I eat vegetables at any other time, but that's beside the point).
-Checking under my bed before I go to sleep. I don't know why I do this one. I have no idea what I expect to see, besides the usual plastic bags, dirty laundry, dust bunnies, and the dismembered corpses of my enemies.
-Someone breaking into the house and stealing my collection of Royal Doulton Princess Di Collector Plates. They're like my children, those plates are. (Sniff).
-Britney Spears' ambiguous breast size. What the hell is up with that?
-People staring at my butt. Just quit it, already. It's making me uncomfortable.
-People not staring at my butt. What? My butt isn't good enough for you?
-Someone working out that I'm not really a human being, but actually seven ducks in a realistic latex suit. And it would be a lot easier to keep up the charade if Gary (right knee) would stop quacking so loudly.
Only five days, 20 hours, and 50 minutes to go.
Argh.
