Thursday, June 30, 2011
Juliet: I don’t want to do it.
I have to do it.
I don’t want to—
I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe.
I can. Juliet, you can do it, you’ll be okay, I tell myself.
You’re not dying, it just feels that way. It’s just a panic attack.
Wiping cool sweat from my brow, I hit the space bar on my laptop, waking it up. Open Safari, sign in to Youtube. Open iMovie, and I’m almost ready to record.
I don’t want to do this, but I have to because I can’t breathe and it helps when I’m someone else, performing, playing to my fans but also revealing something from deep inside, my voice--
I am a star, I whisper inside, afraid of what I might say if I dare to speak -- that it might be the wrong thing, that someone’ll get hurt if I even breathe.
Pulling my hair back, I stuff it into the piece of black stocking I use so no one will recognize me. Sometimes, all I wear is the stocking. Sometimes I pull it down over my forehead, eyes and nose.
Today, I put on a snarled Hannah Montana wig from when I was ten and loved Hannah Montana and loved to parade around pretending to be her and now I don’t know who I’m pretending to be anymore or if I’m pretending at all.
Next, a Mardi Gras feathered mask over the upper half of my face. Then, get my wastebasket. At last, with the tap of a key, I am recording. Show’s on!
Sticking a finger down my throat, I throw up for the camera.