How Slam Poetry Challenges My Social Anxiety
I traveled recently to slam in a competition. It was still within the state of Texas but three hours away. It also was right after my birthday, the day after, but I decided this would be a gift to myself. The only problem was that I fought against my social anxiety every time I competed.
The nerves cause my stomach to feel like someone is punching me and twisting my intestines. Anything I eat hurts immediately within minutes of consuming food. So, I go to events fasting without drinking too much water because I don’t want to keep vanishing into a bathroom.
I started slam poetry when I was a teenager. We had a small competition at my local college and thought it was an exciting movement. I got the award for my most unique poem. There were only three of us competing, so it was a small event. I remember I didn’t use the microphone because I was afraid of what my voice might sound like to everyone. I also didn’t like the sound of my voice, so I opted instead to try to project my poem over the whole cafeteria area.
I fell in love with a slam but fell out of competing in it. Writing was always my passion, my way of figuring out what I wanted to say after the fact. There is something about taking to a stage, standing in front of an audience who doesn’t know you, and telling your life’s experiences to them.
My first poetry was covered in metaphors. I knew what it meant, but I doubted anyone else did. I purposefully kept the meaning, the names, and family out of my work. One reason was that they would find it and get upset about what I had written. The other reason was that I didn’t think I could survive them finding out about many things that I secretly dealt with, one of which was anxiety.
I decided that my poetry would speak to the truths I live. Suppose my poetry doesn’t hit some people, or the audience, that my poetry isn’t for them. But my anxiety doesn’t want to listen to reason. It doesn’t want to listen to logic. It doesn’t matter how often I say that the wolf of anxiety is looking to hunt me, and I see it, but that knowledge still comes for me.
I appear calm, at ease, and not easy to bother. I’m hard to rattle or get upset. I am near impossible to spook or scare. I’ll stand and stare at you. Underneath this impossible-to-shake persona, anxiety is a constant in my life.
I couldn’t sleep at night because I’d replay the day in my head. I could have said what I should have said, how I should have dealt with my bullies. I would worry about those rare times my words felt too harsh. I doubted what I had done. I apologized for things that weren’t mine to take on. Until my late twenties, I started to stop overanalyzing every mistake I perceived I made.
When I slam poetry, I have to remember my poem if it is memorized. I have to gauge the audience, the audience’s energy, and who the judges are. I have to feel if the poem I have lined up is a perfect fit for the crowd or if I should mix it up. There are so many variables going on, and my anxiety likes to see the potential problems before they ever show up.
I’ve just started to tame pedaling my feet when performing a poem. It’s an anxious act that I didn’t realize I was doing until I saw playbacks of my performances. I try not to worry whether people like or hate my poems. After performing the piece in a slam, it’s given to the people who need to hear it. And those who don’t? They can forget what I said or not have it affect them in any way.
I do slam because it is one of the biggest challenges I can take in my life. The slam I did three hours from home was one of the favorites I’ve ever done. I took a chance because that’s what I’m trying to do now. And if I fail? It’s more reason to evolve and get better at my craft.