If a picture paints a thousand words, here are 10,000 and then some.

Photo credit for all pictures: Victoria Johnson

Here are some photos that tell a truth or two about a person like me. I’ll bet you’d never imagine that I’ve spent most of my young adult life afraid of my voice being heard. I mean this literally and figuratively. I have been afraid to sing or play an instrument in front of others – even my family and friends. I have been afraid of sharing my writing, even though I won several honorable mentions in a poetry contest when I was twelve. Notice that I said most of my young adult life. As a child, I would happily sing and play piano around whomever. I proudly showed my mother everything I wrote. It was only as I grew into that dreadful stage known as teenage-hood that I began to have serious reservations.

I can’t say where exactly I got the idea. It was nothing anyone said to me, as far as I can recall. Maybe it was because of realizing the difficulty I had making close friends after moving from my childhood home. I don’t know. Somehow, though, I found out that people don’t like those who think too highly of themselves – who are conceited. Like most people at some point during their lifetime, I began to compare myself to others. I decided that I really should stop thinking so well of myself: I didn’t measure up. I started devaluing myself and the things I used to think I was talented at.
When I was fifteen, I panicked because I didn’t know what I wanted my major to be in college. I didn’t think I was good enough at anything to pursue it and make it into a successful career. I stopped writing because I didn’t think I had any stories worth telling. When my band (consisting of me, my brother, and my brother’s friend) asked to see the song I had written, I let them read the lyrics but then tore the piece of paper up afterwards and refused to sing it. I stopped learning new songs on the piano. Why bother? Someone else would always be able to write better, sing better, play better. I stopped even wanting to excel at anything; I just felt the need to be good, even okay, at something.

If I could give advice to my fifteen year old self, I would say, “Feeling bad about yourself won’t get you anywhere.” Clearly, it doesn’t. It didn’t help me make friends, or keep them, and it certainly didn’t make me more skilled at the things I enjoyed doing. Feeling good about myself wouldn’t necessarily have fixed everything, but at least it wouldn’t have made things worse.
It’s not that I’m especially confident or have particularly high self-esteem now. Sometimes, I still think to myself: “Why bother trying when I’m only going to fail/embarrass myself/waste someone’s time/whatever?”

But I’ve found, over the years, that I more often regret the things I didn’t do than the things I did. I regret the opportunities I’ve passed up because I was scared to put in any real effort. The thing is, l feared rejection of any sort. And if I tried my best at something and was still not “good enough”?, then it would mean to me that I was as worthless as I suspected. But if I never bothered trying, I would never have to see my fears confirmed.

Why would I speak up if my voice was not worth being heard? Why talk if no one would listen?

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Earlier this semester, there was an open mic night scheduled. The night was getting on, and I was sitting in my room debating whether or not to go. I was getting over a cold. Everyone knows you can’t sing when you’re sick. But after much deliberating, I hauled my Yamaha in its heavy secondhand guitar case over to Chapman’s Argyros Forum, and picked a seat in the very back of the room. I tried to enjoy the free M&Ms that were offered, but the sugar didn’t especially help calm my nerves. After the scheduled band performed, the host of the show asked who wanted to go next. Nobody said anything, so I volunteered. I walked down the aisle and clambered up onto the makeshift stage. I pulled out my guitar and positioned myself carefully on the stool I had asked for. Blushing (an occurrence that began only lately, when addressing an audience), I asked for song requests. I was happy when someone suggested an artist I actually knew how to play. I gripped my pick tightly and started strumming. I didn’t know if anyone could really hear my guitar, but nonetheless, I started singing loudly into the microphone.

I never loved nobody fully
Always one foot on the ground
And by protecting my heart truly
I got lost in the sounds
I hear in my mind
All these voices
I hear in my mind all these words
I hear in my mind all this music…

I only misplaced one line of the lyrics. Regina Spektor’s “Fidelity” is one of my favorite songs.
I asked who wanted to perform next, but no one spoke up. So I sang two more songs, one of which I had written myself.

Drowning, drowning in my mind
If I’m lost, what will I find?

I didn’t regret it a bit. I remembered how good performing felt. I received numerous compliments on my performance, both that night and in the days after. Heck, I even made it into The Panther, Chapman’s newspaper.

So, what’s my point? I’m not trying to say that I’m talented and confident and everything is easy now. That wouldn’t be the truth. I still have my share of failures, like when I played guitar for hours in the Orange Circle and didn’t get a dime. Or when I submitted two poems I was proud of to a literary magazine, and neither were accepted. My point is that it still doesn’t help to feel bad about myself. I’ve just got to keep trying, that’s all. If I keep writing, someone will understand what I want to say.
If I keep singing, someone will listen.