A drop of blood on my psyche

I can't be certain, I've done a lot of shows in my life, but I think I've bled for just about every one of them.  Tonight made R&J no exception.  Please don't think this is a brag.  It is very definitely not.  I'd love to not split myself open on a show.

Nearly every time this happens its my own damn fault.  Tonight made R&J no exception.  While rehearsing the Romeo kills Tybalt death scene, I marked myself wrong.  Instead of faking smashing my head into the platform, I went ahead and smashed my head into the platform.  Now there's a nice little slice on my forehead where it appears someone made a small but accurate scalpel incision.

It doesn't look so bad.  Adds character to the character.  In true head wound fashion, it bled like a motherfucker.  At the time there wasn't much pain...certainly nothing I couldn't deal with.  Now there is a little bit of throb underneath it.  There will probably be bruising.  No biggie really.  Just...of course...the blood.

I bring this up not for attention.  In fact, to illustrate a point of pretty much the exact opposite.  For someone who has spent nearly his entire life on stage, someone who is a nudist to almost but not quite the point of exhibitionism, someone who excels at public speaking, and has no problem being at the center of focus...I actually have an incredibly hard time being the center of attention.  I think there might be a difference.  I'm not sure, but I know this...I really REALLY do not like when the attention is on me.  It makes me very uncomfortable.

So when this happened, of course the actor playing Romeo felt bad.  If he ever finds himself reading this, I can't reiterate enough how this was completely my fault.  I did it to myself, because I dropped focus, and I got stupid.  He felt bad though.  The stage manager was running around looking for band-aids.  The producer to gather ice.  All this stuff for me, that made me feel more out of sorts than the actual wound itself. This is not to say I wasn't grateful.  Of course I was.  I suppose in that specific moment, I was in need of some at least moderate attention.  I just hated that.  A lot.  And of course in true "me" fashion...I had to go into my head and analyze what exactly was happening, and in my moment of trying to escape the outside me, with the inside me...I hit upon a realization.

I am shy.

I have spent decades of my life, training myself to perform.  Teaching myself how to be in front of people.  How to handle large groups at a time.  I can do this.  I have no fear of it, in fact an enormous love for it.  I can sit in the safety of my own room, behind the sanctuary of glass, plastic, and lettered keys, and say anything in the world.  I can even talk one on one with most people on any topic they choose.  Even if I know nothing about that topic.  In fact, if I know nothing, that's usually better...because then I can just ask what how why questions and let the other person keep going.  I can't however let it become about me.  Oh sure...surface shit is no problem.  I just can't let it become about ME.  The me.  The me part of me.

I don't mind attention on any character I may be playing.  I don't care about attention on any surface emotion, or event.  It doesn't bother me how much of the physical part of me may or may not be on display. None of that matters.  It's what I do.

I do mind however, giving even the tiniest glimpses of what's going on underneath it all.  Typically when questioned about it, I will do every damn thing in my power to divert attention somewhere else.  To flip the conversation as quickly as possible to something...anything...else.  I can't handle scrutiny.  Which when I think about it is kind of funny, because I've nothing to hide.  I just feel the absolute need to.

I do, and am very much capable of love.  Its just that whenever I say it, it always sounds so hollow.  So shallow.  Because the words don't connect to the emotion.  The emotion is VERY much there...but I can't make it come up and out properly.  As soon as I feel, that the other person may also feel it as well...in the same way I do, on the same level, to the same degree, I feel like they have touched a part of me that I don't want to be touched.  The attention becomes reality.

I wish I could tell you properly, how much you mean to me.  But when I do...if I do...then you'll not have heard the words, but felt them.  We will connect on a level that quite frankly, I'm not very good at dealing with.

So yeah, I'm shy.  I have dedicated most of my life to learning how to cover it up, but not a single second of my life to learning how to actually overcome it.  And its not the kind of shyness that people think of when they hear the word shy.  I can function just fine in public.  I have no problem interacting with people, either in groups, or individually.  I just can't accept attention.  Focus yes.  Attention no.  I'm still working in my mind on the difference, but I know there is one.  I am a master of changing the subject.  So subtly that it will not even be realized.

I naturally keep almost every single person I know at a distance.  Some are much closer than others, but no one gets close enough to actually touch.  Maybe a couple get to touch...but absolutely no one gets in.

I honestly don't know why I'm like this.  Some may call it a defense mechanism.  Maybe, but defense against what?  Loss?  I am no stranger to loss.  Pain?  I've had my share of that as well.  I recognize that unless I wake up dead tomorrow, I'll probably experience both again.  I am not unaware that they both come as a price for breathing.  I accept that.  So accepting those as eventual facts, there is really nothing to defend against.  Maybe I am anyways.  Maybe I'm simply hedging my bets and lessening the blow now, before it can happen later.  I don't know.  I honestly don't.  That seems like a possibility, but I don't accept that its the only possibility.  There very likely could be something else as well.

The only thing I know for sure is that tonight, when the attention was on me, even for just a short time, to take care of something that needed to be taken care of, my skin was crawling.  My guts were in knots.  I hated that shit stopped because of me, and felt overwhelming relief when we all moved past it, and I could safely slip into the forgotten background again.  And please don't get me wrong.  It wasn't traumatic on any level.  It wasn't anything that ten minutes of solitude with a cigarette couldn't resolve, but for those few moments, it absolutely was the most uncomfortable part of my day.