Mr. Darcy, Me, and S. A. D.

     Mr. Darcy was so very misjudged and misunderstood. But then, that was partly due to the times in which he lived (yes, I know he's fictional; just indulge me for a moment). It is my belief that Mr. Darcy suffered from what is now known as social anxiety disorder, or S. A. D., an affliction which was unheard of in Austen's day -- and I believe this because I, too, once suffered greatly from it, and still do, to a much lesser degree. Mr. Darcy had all the classic symptoms: difficulty making friends, difficulty holding conversations not only with strangers but even with acquaintances, avoiding said acquaintances in the street or other public places (and going to ridiculous lengths to avoid them), and generally shielding himself behind a veneer of composure which was invariably mistaken by others as hauteur or pride. Plus, I suspect that he, like myself, sometimes broke out in a sweat or was suddenly convulsed by uncontrollable trembling when pressed into conversation.

     Yes, Mr. Darcy, I understand and empathize.

     The foundations of what I perceive to be Darcy's social anxiety disorder are quite clear to me. His excellent mother died when he was still at a vulnerable age; he had to share his father's affection with an annoyingly gregarious and comely companion who grew up to be an unprincipled scoundrel; after the death of his father, and while himself still a very young man, he was charged with the care of his sister who was very nearly seduced by the aforementioned scoundrel; and all his life he had to deal with the likes of Caroline Bingley throwing themselves at his head solely because of his wealth, handsomeness, and position in society. No wonder he withdrew into a distrustful shell.

     I first became aware of social anxiety disorder when I read an article about it in Parade magazine back in the late '90s. Reading it was like reading my own life story -- accounts of people ducking into bathrooms at work for fear of having to speak to an approaching colleague; or spending parties tucked in a corner, shaking nervously behind a potted palm. Far from being disheartened at recognizing myself in this article, I was immensely relieved that I was finally able to put a name to my life-long suffering, though at that point I had already made great strides toward conquering it. More about that later.

     In 2002, I began to see a therapist, mainly to explore my then current recovery of my religious faith and the inexplicable pull I was feeling toward monastic life. As all therapists deem it necessary to delve into their patients' pasts, I told her that I was the youngest of six children, that the sibling nearest me in age was four years older, a gap that seems much larger when young. Consequently, I spent much of my very early years alone at home while my sisters and brother were in school. My only companions, besides my mother, were Captain Kangaroo, Lucy and Ethel, and my stuffed animals; there were no children my age nearby until the Taylors moved into the house next door. I made a sort of friend of their youngest, Caroline, but constantly listening to everyone around me praise her prettiness and lively personality only drove me further into the shell that had already begun forming. I became convinced that I was ugly, inept, and absolutely no fun to be around; I found it increasingly painful just to speak to people and preferred solitude to shrinking into silence in the company of others. "You had social anxiety disorder!" my therapist exclaimed. So my self-diagnosis had been correct.

     When I started going to school, I found myself far ahead of my classmates, thanks to the home schooling my sisters had given me, but my intellectual advantage put me at rather a disadvantage in making friends. Having crushes on boys who only had eyes for blue-eyed blondes didn't help either. It was then that I forged my life-long preference for keeping a very few close friends whom I could trust completely. A couple of those childhood companions are my friends to this day.

     Since I showed a love and natural bent for music, my parents decided I should take piano lessons. I began studying with a Mrs. Woliver, a very capable neighborhood teacher, shortly after my seventh birthday. My lessons were mostly silent on my part, as talking was not my strong point, but Mrs. Woliver managed to pique my interest and encouraged me to practice at least a half hour a day. I progressed very quickly, and at my second public performance at age eight, a recital featuring all of Mrs. Woliver's students, I met my future primary piano teacher, Myrna von Nimitz. After hearing my insightful and technically brilliant renditions (I'm being sarcastic) of Beethoven's "Für Elise" and a jaunty little number called "Haydn-Go-Seek" which was based on themes from that composer's "Surprise" symphony, she announced to me and my parents that I had the makings of a concert pianist, and she would be glad to take me as a student, but I'd have to wait a few years. In the meantime, she would place me under the care of one of her college students.

     I was elated by this news, of course, but I also felt oddly vindicated. The awkward, brainy little nerd that all the cute boys and popular girls scorned had found an outlet through which she could ease her loneliness and feel admired and respected, if not liked. She could hide her painful shyness in public, as it were, by displaying her musical talent before an audience she didn't have to look in the eye.

To be continued. . . .