On the Saving Grace of Writing

     How many articles and interviews do we read about comedians or actors known for their comedic genius, in which the journalist expresses surprise at the celebrities' real-life personality? How many times are we told that So-and-So is actually quite shy and retiring, nothing like the So-and-So we see on the stage or the screen? The journalist usually goes on to say that the celebrity was painfully shy as a child, but found humor to be a useful sort of mask behind which to hide his shyness. He became the "class clown" in high school and college, and that image helped forge a career, got him out into the world in a way he otherwise might not have done. Yet he remains, at the core, shy. He may very likely suffer from social anxiety disorder.

     Speaking as one who has long suffered from S. A. D., I have found writing to be my saving grace; not a "mask," but a means through which I can reveal who I really am, whether it be on this blog, in my journal, in my poetry, or in letters and even on Facebook. Leticia in person may appear to be quite different. She may not have much to say for herself, may be a poor conversationalist, may even retire into a defeated silence. But that's not really Leticia. Only her family and very closest friends can know the real Leticia in person.

     In Elizabeth Taylor's short story "The Letter Writers," a man and woman who have for years known each other only through correspondence finally meet at the woman's house. She is pathetically wracked with worry, knowing how much he enjoys her beautifully written, lively letters, that he might find the writer to be quite ordinary and dull, not at all what he imagined. Indeed, when he arrives at her door, her cat has just upset the lobster she intended to serve for lunch; she is unkempt, harried, and completely distraught. For the rest of the afternoon, she never recovers herself from that initial meeting. Moreover, the neighbor whom she had so colorfully portrayed in her letters shows up, and proves to be nothing more than a tiresome busybody. The visit is, in short, a disaster for both correspondents. But do they stop writing each other? No. Each has grown too fond of the other that leaps so vividly off the page; it is a peculiar kind of friendship, to be sure, and some readers might conclude it isn't a friendship at all, only delusion. I see it as a true friendship, because through writing, without the constrictions and tensions that a conventional, flesh-and-blood friendship can sometimes impose, they are free to be truly themselves.

     I know what it's like to be able to relax through the written word. I've poured out more of myself on the page than I have to any human being. I am grateful to be able to write.

    

The Anxiety-Ridden Chorus Master

     It is one of the greatest ironies of my life that I spent so much of it working with choruses, given that I've always had a deep-rooted aversion toward that job. I wrote before that I was enlisted at a very early age (third grade) into accompanying for school choir concerts; by the time I was in middle school, I was official accompanist and rehearsal pianist for our mixed choir and madrigal group. (It wasn't until seventh grade that my choir director discovered I also had a good voice and had me sing in all the a cappella pieces.) Had I known that being rehearsal pianist also meant actually taking over in the absence of the choir director, I would have turned tail and run.

     There was one particularly painful day in the eighth grade when Miss E. had to be absent and she asked me to take the class, with one of my classmates at the piano. My pianist belonged to that elite group of pretty, popular girls that lived in the richer neighborhood; they were already under the impression (thanks to the veneer of cool aloofness behind which I hid my social anxiety disorder) that I thought my musical gifts made me superior to everyone else. In truth, she and her group, many of whom were in the choir, intimidated me to the point that I was certain my nervous shaking was visible to all as I took my place that day behind the director's music stand. I had to stand there in front of all those "prove yourself to us" faces and the ill-concealed smirk of my pianist, push my anxiety as far down into my shoes as I could, and just give it my best. I got through that agonizing hour, but not without witnessing, after the bell rang, my pianist and her friends giggling and mimicking my nervously rigid conducting gestures. Perhaps anyone would have been hurt by this, but I was a hyper-sensitive child with low self-esteem; a more confident child would probably have shaken off the dust from her shoes and moved on. As it was, the wound they inflicted that day, perhaps unconsciously, rankled deep in me through my year as student director for our high school choir, and much later throughout my fifteen years as Assistant Chorus Master at the Houston Grand Opera. Not even the genuine affection and respect the HGO Chorus and I had for each other could quite cure my aversion for running rehearsals and sectionals.

     Behind it also were the high expectations of my teachers and elders, my own high standards (which grew more and more impossible with each passing year), an enormous fear of failure, and the equally enormous if irrational fear of being found out as a sham. For all my talent and training, and all my bravado, I was still at the core that awkward, inept, and insecure child.

     You might be asking why, then, I consented to be HGO's Assistant Chorus Master. Deep down, I knew I could do it, and do it well. I had all the necessary tools for what that job entailed, including, by that time, good conducting skills (thanks to lessons from two gifted and generous conductors, Ward Holmquist and Patrick Summers). And I had the unflagging support and confidence of the Chorus Master, Richard Bado, for whom I had, and will always have, tremendous respect. So I forced myself to ignore the sickening churning in my stomach before every rehearsal and sectional I had to run, and told myself (to quote my fellow S. A. D. sufferer, Mr. Darcy) "I will conquer this!" And conquer it I did. That terrified young girl who was mocked by her peers grew up to be a good Assistant Chorus Master (and, for some shows, Chorus Master) -- even if she never really liked being one.

    

Enter "Ms. von"

     When Peter Martinez moved away to graduate school, I had been studying with him for two years. It was now time for me to study with his teacher, one of the best piano teachers in the city, Myrna von Nimitz. I was then 11 years old.

     "Ms. von," a native Texan, had just moved into a large, newly built colonial style house on the north side of town. She and her Russian husband Igor filled their home with Louis XV furniture; valuable period paintings covered the walls and bronze statuary perched on every table. A Steinway concert grand dominated the front room. These surroundings were a bit overwhelming for me, as was the person of Myrna von Nimitz herself: I remember her as tall, though she might not actually have been; her slenderness and the white-blond hair sculpted smoothly into a high upsweep made her seem so to me. Large, expressive, almond-shaped brown eyes framed by precise, dark brows were the only things that lent color to her ivory face; the surprisingly small, pale mouth beneath the narrow nose was a mere textural element. Elegantly dressed, shoulders fashionably stooped, she would sit in a low Louis XV chair by the piano, one poodle in her lap and another lounging at her feet, a cigarette dangling from her long, languid hand. She was in her early- to mid-thirties at that time, though she could have been almost any age from any era. A true original.

     Peter Martinez's youthful maleness had exacerbated my social anxiety disorder, but Ms. von's flamboyant elegance and refined tastes fascinated me. Perhaps that was the beginning of my own Niles Crane-like fondness for the finer things in life; in fact, I know it was. Still, I remained mostly silent in my lessons, and Ms. von tried her best to draw me out those first few months, to no avail. Then one day, as I was playing the Bach G minor Concerto, I was suddenly and profoundly moved by the music; so much so, tears began streaming down my face. This was not the first time music affected me to the point of weeping, but I had always kept my tears to myself. Ms. von, perplexed and concerned, took me out to her wooded back yard and proceeded to ask me if I was having trouble at home or at school. When I didn't answer, she then began to talk of random things to put me at ease, until finally I stammered out, "It -- it's just the music. It's so -- so beautiful."

     Ms. von was not only relieved by my confession, she was delighted that I had a genuine love for music, and, as she told me afterward, a deep soul. From that moment on, I regarded her as a friend and mentor.

     The summer after my freshman year in high school, Ms. von took her piano students and a few college students to Europe -- a two-week tour of the continent, then a month in London taking music courses at Goldsmiths College. It was not only my first time abroad, but my first time flying. I might have known I'd be a bad flyer. To this day I cannot board a plane without first taking something for motion sickness. However, the half pack of cigarettes I smoked before boarding that day probably didn't help! I was only fourteen at the time, but my attire and bearing made me seem at least four years older -- and I don't exaggerate. People were always mistaking me then for a college student. My mother frowned on jeans and insisted that her children dress neatly at all times; Ms. von further influenced my taste in clothes. My social anxiety disorder, still very much with me, was the true reason behind my cool, seemingly composed and confident exterior. If I couldn't speak to anyone with ease, then I could at least give the impression that I didn't want to speak to them.

     My outer composure and mature appearance backfired, however, when one of my London professors began to have a personal interest in me. I was completely unaware of this until Ms. von told me she had had a word with him, telling him I was only fourteen. In my total innocence, I thought he took time to play duets with me just because he found it fun. I still saw myself as ugly and stiff, though Ms. von often told me I was growing up to be an attractive and poised young lady.

     Throughout my high school years, I competed in many competitions, always placing near the top, but never capturing a top prize until my senior year, when I finally won the San Antonio Symphony Young Artist Competition. Performing, too, became a frequent thing. I revelled in being onstage, though I did always suffer considerable nerves before walking out. Once I was behind the keyboard, however, the audience became a faceless, harmless presence, and I could lose myself, my feelings of awkwardness and inadequacy, in the music. For that short precious time, I felt accepted.

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. . . .