Falling Down

I am a shy, anxious person. I was as a kid and probably still will be the day I die.

This blog has been very therapeutic. This blog is a tremendous ice breaker. The comments and outreach and kind words from friends and readers are priceless.

Coming from a hardworking and industrious successful family, it appeared to me that the only way to make it through life was to power through everything. Work harder. Push through the times of self-doubt. The only problem with working harder to get through things is that one pushes themselves further away from their worst fears rather than facing them head on.

This past year came the vow to quit forcing things and step outside of the comfort zone. Why be shy? Why be anxious? Why fear rejection?

The stories on the blog seemed the perfect avenue. The reception of “The Cousin Eddie Camper” was incredible. A plan was hatched to step way outside of the comfort zone and go open mike and tell that story before a live audience.

However, old habits are hard to break and coming from hard working and industrious successful stock, getting up on stage at a local coffee shop or bar with six or seven people in the crowd just wouldn’t do. Living off-the-grid my main source of outside entertainment is radio, and public radio has a wonderful storytelling hour. I vowed to appear on that stage hosted by that national organization that feeds into that nationwide radio broadcast. Go big or go home. It takes a mighty sword to slay demons.

“The Cousin Eddie Camper” story was honed down to the required time limit. I enlisted my sister’s professional help in public speaking and then labored for weeks reading the story before my reflection in the patio door. Every word was carefully recited, every pause carefully thought out, every inflection carefully placed for maximum drama.

Driving from a back country trail side cabin in the snowbelt down to a venue in the shadow of the State Capital in Madison to tell that story was about as far outside of the comfort zone as one could possibly get. Despite that, I went up on stage. The white-hot stage lights beamed upon me, but it was dark over the audience. I could hear and feel them but could not see them. The telling of that story received the highest score for the night and won the storytelling competition. Mission accomplished. My confidence surged.

That surge in confidence coincidentally helped me out a few weeks later at an opportune time with a long-range project at work, but deep inside I was still shy and anxious and feared rejection. The core issues remained.

One of my later blog posts was much more personal. It tells the story of standing before fate bare and hand in hand with an unlikely love, only to realize that fate had other ideas. A decision wsas made to return to Madison to tell that story. The crowd would love it, victory would once again be mine, and inevitably my worst fears and insecurities would magically disappear. True to fashion, the story was rehearsed and edited and parsed to perfection, even though there were second thoughts about even telling it.

The host that night was a well-known personality from a cable comedy network, which was somewhat intimidating.

My name was drawn to go up on stage and tell the story. The lighting was a little different and everybody in the audience from the front row to back of the mezzanine could be seen.

The story began well, and while exhaling came easy, inhaling did not. Once out of air, my mouth moved but no sounds exited. Stage fright! I managed a gasp and apologized to the audience. Anxiety! The lights got hotter. The next word escaped me. What the hell was that next word? Panic! A massive vise crushed my chest while another squeezed my head. It physically hurt to be up on that stage. My ears rang and the universe seemed to implode. Was I having both a stroke and a heart attack in front of a live audience?

A kind woman’s voice from the audience said something about hearing the rest of the story. A man’s voice shouted, “you can do this, man!”, and it then occurred to me that perhaps I could. The first step was to breath, which had been simply forgotten. It was a very wobbly restart, trying to continue the story, trying to breath, and what was that next damn word? The continuance of the story had no rhythm or rises or falls or pauses. But none-the-less, that story was a very human story, and the audience leaned into those very human portions despite my delivery being very panicked and mechanical.

At the end of the story the audience applauded warmly. I wanted to tell the producer that my score should be zero, as this was a story telling hour and my telling of this story was a miserable fail, but instead simply exited the stage, humiliated.

After the show about a dozen people offered kind words.

One young woman said how much she enjoyed the story. I mumbled something about being shy and nervous and apologized for such a poor telling. “It made me cry”, she said.

With both hands she reached out and clasped one of mine tightly and drew in closer. By outward appearance I judged her as having never been cast aside. She was attractive and stunning and exotic and could certainly bring any lover to their knees with a mere a snap of her finger, such was her beauty. How could anyone dismiss a creature so beautiful? How could she relate to this story? Her eyes were dark and misty and for just a fleeting moment offered a glimpse deep into her soul. It was clear that she too had stood before fate bare and hand in hand with one that she loved, and fate had different ideas for her as well.

“It was a beautiful story”, she said softly and then walked away.

There is no joy in lost love. Failing, coming up short, not delivering a best effort, or not even trying will always be unpleasant and will never be fun. But in that fleeting moment a soulful young woman taught an old man a long overdue lesson in the commonality of the human experience and the dignity in getting back up after falling down.

Bless her.