The last thing I remember was hearing my name being called. What I have in my memory is a blur of memories that mix panic, laughter, the voice of my interlocutor, embarrassment, applause. It lasted half an hour for those in the audience. For me it will last forever.
Failure is part of life. Who doesn’t collect failures is because they haven’t lived or passed through here hiding, huddled, dodging changes and challenges, ignoring everything that appears again. I’m like that with the TikTok guy. I opened an account months ago, they convinced me that I didn’t need to dance, but that I should keep an eye on trends. I think that’s the name. The trends. Take a trend and do the same. Failing on TikTok may even be a trend, you end up going viral and becoming a success. The sense of failure on social media is not what we are used to, when we are not able to do what is expected of us.
I would rather have experienced defeat when I went viral with one of those ridiculous little dances that should only be allowed for kids who still can’t write properly. Starring in a fiasco doing what I love most wasn’t my worst nightmare. And when they doubted that I couldn’t handle it, I didn’t. I failed miserably.
It was an event designed by women, made by women and with about 300 women in the audience. In the audience some of the most important professionals in the country in the area of communication. Thinking back, maybe that was it. I’m not easily intimidated. From the president to Cidão do Zap, it’s hard to get me out of my head. But in front of a battalion of very powerful women I dwindled.
Think. He thought? Maybe I didn’t think. My assignment was far from the worst challenge I’ve ever had. I should take my place, make an introduction and conduct an informal chat with a successful actress. Simple? It seemed. He was someone I had worked with before, he had a certain intimacy. It was to serve as a ladder for her to shine. When I took the stage, darkness came.
I remember looking at the clock that kept time. Fourteen minutes. If they tell you today that I told a joke, which I don’t know how to do, I’ll believe it. But it couldn’t have been funny. My interviewee’s expression also stuck in my memory. She looked at me with the face of someone who didn’t understand what was happening to me. I have no idea. It wasn’t the panic that I’ve been intimate with for years, that comes and gets my emotions out of control. Anyone who lives with the dread of being invaded by a crisis knows how it arrives. I know the symptoms so well that I know until the time I have to reach for the medicine, find a quiet corner, get the rhythm of breathing right, and stay in a fetal position until it passes.
Didn’t have it. It was a blackout. My heart didn’t get out of rhythm. My hands weren’t sweating. I didn’t even notice that feeling of death coming. Maybe it was death itself. When the timer struck 22 minutes, it was as if I looked
That whole scene from above, detached from that scenario. I kept hearing the laughter provoked by the actress, the applause. It was over. Outside, acquaintances said “it was wonderful”. Sisterhood when it appears is a very beautiful thing.
It took about ten days for me to name what I had experienced: a resounding failure. I told a friend. She disdained. I spoke to other people. Everyone thinks I’m just being myself: exaggerated, dramatic. When I pressed the point, I finally heard something that didn’t sound like a pat on the back: burnout. Excessive physical and mental fatigue, insomnia, change in appetite, difficulty concentrating, feeling of defeat. Failure. I don’t know if it’s burnout. Maybe I just need a week’s sleep, a less chaotic work schedule, and a new country to live in. Maybe I should record a little dance on TikTok showing how difficult a woman’s life is.
Today, I just wish I could go up on that same stage, look at the same people, hug my interlocutor, the person who entrusted that moment to me and say I’m sorry, I can’t, I’m sick, I’m tired. Don’t judge me. hug me.
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