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My nerves are on edge, so I focus on the positives. Other musicians begin showing up, and I finally decide to join them. People greet me, but no one brings up the obvious of me being gone for weeks, which helps me relax. Mr. Moody enters and greets me with a kind smile, but that’s as far as the conversation goes. As everyone arrives, I sit and begin warming up, and I realize how off I am. I’m already struggling.
We start at the beginning of our set, and within the first few measures, I miss a note, then another, then another. By the time we’ve played through two songs, I’m so damn frustrated with myself that I can barely concentrate. The mistakes I’m making are stupid, novice mistakes, not professional ones. Anxiety nearly slaps me in the face, and I worry that coming back was a bad idea. The confidence I once had when I play has disappeared.
By the time we take our midday break for lunch, I’m nearly in tears as I walk to my car. It’s as if Mason knows because I get a text from him.
Mason: How’s it going?
Sophie: TERRIBLE!
Mason: Oh no. I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do to help?
Of course, his thoughtful words make me smile, always trying to save me. Only he can’t save me from this.
Sophie: No. I think I’m going to go home.
Mason: Do it if you need to. You don’t have to rush into anything until you’re ready, Soph.
Sophie: Thanks. I appreciate that.
Mason: Anytime. Oh hey, I’m probably going to be staying late at work today, but we should watch a movie or something later.
Sophie: Deal.
Instead of returning, I take Mason’s suggestion to heart and decide to text my director and let him know I’m going home and will be back in a day or two. I feel like a fucking failure and so deflated. He doesn’t have any issues with it and tells me he’ll see me then. I’ve kept him in the loop of what’s been going on, and he’s been more than supportive.
Once I’m home, all I want to do is go into my room, crawl in bed, and bury myself under blankets for a week, but instead, I set up my music stand and chair. I’m more than determined to get this right, and there’s no excuse for how I performed today. Basic missed notes are unacceptable, even by my standards, and performing like that, even during a rehearsal, is means for replacement. I’ve worked too damn hard for this, and before I go back to work, I need to be more prepared. I’m pissed at myself for thinking I could just walk in there and nail every song. I’m good, but I’m no maestro, especially after not playing for weeks upon weeks. So for the rest of the day, I practice.
I practice until I’m fatigued.
I practice until I close my eyes and picture the music notes on the page.
I practice until my arms and fingers hurt.
I deserve this. I deserve to feel the pain.
Page after page, note after note, I repeat bars and measures until I nail each one. But I’m growing more frustrated with myself because I begin to make new mistakes. I stand, stretch, use the bathroom, then go back to my chair, and start at the beginning again.
At some point, I obsessively repeat one melody and play it over and over and over until a knock rings on my door. I ignore it, but my door cracks open.
“Soph,” Liam says cautiously, looking at me with soft eyes.
“What?” I snap. “Don’t you see I’m trying to practice?” I don’t mean to project my agitation toward him, but I can’t help it.
“You’ve been playing the same song for over three hours.” His voice is calm, and I can hear the concern behind his tone.
I’m nearly shaking when I let out a breath. “So what? I have to do this, Liam. I’m fucking up too much. I felt so damn stupid in there today making mistakes I haven’t made since I was fourteen years old. It was ridiculous and embarrassing.”
He walks inside and crosses his arms over his chest. His demeanor grows more serious as he takes the violin from my hand and sets it on the bed. I’m ready to punch him in the face for pulling me away, but maybe he’s right.
“Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result is the definition of insanity…I think.” He chuckles. “If you keep on, you’re going to send yourself into a nervous breakdown. Hell, you might send me into one too. If I hear those notes played one more time, I’m admitting myself into the psych ward.”
I swallow down the lump in my throat and groan. I became too focused. “I’m sorry. I just—”
