TheBanyanTree: When I read

[Monique Colver]

You did fabulously well Dave. And for the record, we all spew gobbledygook
-- I myself am quite accomplished in this. Speaking to a group is one of
the most feared of activities for a reason -- because it's damn scary.
There was a time I couldn't do it, but I knew I had to fix it. I haven't
been keeping up with it, but I need to get used to it again.

The first time I did stand-up Stew was with me. Or was it the second time?
I don't remember, but it was his first time, and by the time we got to the
club he was sort of a wreck. He'd been slowly crumbling anyway, the mental
illness beginning to take hold of him and entwine its spiny tentacles into
his mind, making him so unsure of himself he had trouble getting through
the day.

"It'll be fine," I told him, "It'll be five minutes, and then you'll be
done."

So much for my pep talk. He then refused to get out of the car. He was
shaky, and nervous, and said he just couldn't do it, there was no way he
could get on that stage.

"It's okay then," I said, "You don't have to. Just come in with me, because
I'm going to. But you don't have to if you don't want to. You could even
stay here, if you really want to."

That was my strategy back then. Tell him what I wanted him to do (come
inside), but then give him an out, because no matter how I tried, I
couldn't tell how much terror he was feeling at any given time. At first he
didn't want to go inside at all, he didn't want to be in there where there
were, gasp!, people, and we sat in the car for a long time and talked.

And when I went in, he came with me.

He was much more relaxed, knowing he didn't have to go up and do his bit.
He could just sit in the audience and watch, be one of the faceless. That
suited him.

When I got up on stage for my five minutes I couldn't see a thing. You
really can't see people at all, because the lights are all on you, and in
front of you is a sea of black space, with the occasional sound from the
audience, maybe someone shifting in their seat, or saying something to
someone else, and that's the only way you know there are people out there.

And if you don't make them laugh, the silence will continue, and five
minutes will seem like an eternity, nothing but silence while you talk at
the blackness.

So I started, and as I went along it got easier because people laughed. I
need feedback for my performances, whether written or on stage, or I stop.
I'm not entertaining to myself, and by myself I'll stop because there's no
point. But give me some feedback, and I'll continue, hungry for more of it.
I love attention.

After my five or ten minutes I sat down in the audience again, happy to
have that over because even though it was a lot of fun, more than I'd
expected, it was still an effort.

And then Stew said to me, "I think I'm going to go up after all."

And so he did. He went up and he stood at the microphone and he did his
bit. He was funny, and people laughed, and he sat down feeling as if he'd
conquered the world.

It wasn't the entire world at all, of course, and the illness would
continue bearing down on him more and more until he felt he couldn't go on
anymore, but for that moment, he had conquered his fears. His oncoming
illness was laid aside for a few minutes, long enough for him to take a
breath and know that he could do whatever he wanted.

Sometimes we have to jump out of our comfort zone even knowing we're
jumping right into a frightening world where everything can go wrong, but
that's how I define success -- making that effort, despite our fear.





Monique Colver




On Thu, Feb 16, 2012 at 3:53 AM, <dseaman77 at gmail.com> wrote:

> I think I will do okay. But about halfway through the anxiety sets in and
> becomes apparent in my voice. I can't see the crowd. Just the lights
> shining in my eyes, and the microphone. I step up. There is no way to
> monitor the sound so I just speak in good faith. Hope that I am being heard
> cause I sure as hell cannot project worth a damn.
>
> My throat tightens up, like I said, about halfway through. It was the same
> thing in communications class. Whenever it was my turn to speak I would
> start strong but at around the halfway point my throat would dry up and my
> voice got all wonky.
>
> Luckily I have the copy of the poem in front of me. A smarter person would
> be able to recite from memory. A smarter person would have a bottle of
> water with them on stage. But I read. Hide my eyes in the words. Wonder why
> the hell I even wrote them. What does this mean anyways? I think I just
> string words together that sound good but then when I read them it just
> sounds like gobbledygook spewing from my mouth.
>
> But then it is over and the people clap. The applause is loud even though
> perhaps forced a little, out of kindness for the bell shaped old fart with
> his grey whiskers and goofy hat. And poetry that makes no sense.
>