Paralysis
When I was a little girl, I was terrified of ordering pizza.
I know it sounds utterly ridiculous, but I have a very distinct memory of sitting near the telephone in our kitchen with a phone book in front of me open to the "pizza" listings, a sheet of paper in front of me with written details of exactly the kind of pizza we wanted (size and toppings, my earliest use of talking points, if you will), and the cradle of the phone sitting in my hand, my other hand pressed on the receiver to prevent the obnoxious and distracting buzzing of the dial tone. In my head, I silently rehearse exactly what it is I want to say. "I'd like to order a pizza? Yes, a large pizza with sausage and extra cheese." I say it over and over again. Then as I lift my fingers to dial, the shaking begins. My whole body quivers as though I am standing alone on a stage, in front of an auditorium of thousands, suddenly realizing that the eloquent soliloquy I had so expertly memorized has left me, and all I can do is gape ignorantly at the faces staring back at me expectantly. I slam my hand back on the receiver again, trembling as I rehearse again in my head, building up the courage to call.
Yes, yes, of course, I got over my fear of talking on the phone and now I can order a pizza without a second thought. But I stumbled onto a realization today, sitting in class, that the real fear underlying that whole embarrassing incident has never really left me.
I am terrified of taking verbal risks.
I don't really know, maybe it's because my earliest exposures to speaking in front of people often involved school plays and family reunion skits, where I was on stage to speak only the words and ideas prepared for me in advance. Follow the script, recite the lines. No problem.
Or maybe it's because of my tendency to have more of a writer's brain. Throughout my life, I've "scripted" millions of imaginary conversations in my head. Planned eloquent arguments, passionate pleas and virulent arguments. I used to spend hours on my bicycle, circling the driveway and living out my interactions with life in my head.
But for some reason, I have always had trouble actually vocalizing those thoughts, those ideas. There's something comforting about writing out your thoughts; you can edit them, you can change them. You can make them as lyrical and powerful as you like. You don't have to show them to anyone if you don't want to. But speaking your mind, out loud, off the cuff, can have incredible consequences.
I remember one time I did take the risk as a child and speak one of those comebacks that had been festering in my head. One of the boys at school had been teasing me, following me around, trying to show me that he "liked" me. I wanted none of it, I simply wanted him to disappear. I plotted the response in my head, and the next time he came around to bother me, I blurted it out, hurriedly and nastily.
"You're like a virus that won't go away!"
The look of hurt and disappointment on his face was so raw and immediate that I never forgave myself for treating him so poorly.
Once you speak out loud, people have an immediate impression of who you are. For certain, it may be a completely wrong impression, but we are all quick to judge based on what other people say. I can look to my own thoughts about other students who volunteer in class; more often than not, once I get to know the student on a more personal level, I find my initial thoughts were quite off-target. But we can't help ourselves. We need to identify ways to categorize, to divide up, to assess the people around us. Sometimes what comes out of our mouths is the easiest way to do that.
And I am still afraid of being assessed in the same way. To this day, I sit in class, reflecting on what the professors and my classmates are saying. Thinking of my own ideas and examples. Writing a script in my head of the perfect thing to say and then remaining completely paralyzed, unable to dial the numbers and let the order come tumbling out to the impatient teenager on the other end.
The bitch of it all is is that there IS no perfect thing to say. No script, no talking points, no ideas that just come straight from the depths of either heart or mind can ever be perfect. Maybe that's what is most terrifying to me--if I can't say "the perfect" thing, how can I even ensure that what I say has value? It's almost as though I dread the idea of saying something irrelevant. Because there is some small part of me that fears being just that--irrelevant. Dismissible. Judged.
The rational brain in my head (what little there may be, anyway) tells me that making progress involves taking a step forward. I may have made it (successfully) through high school, college, and even the work force living in fear of the sound of my own voice, but if I am to live a successful life, I know I must overcome my fear. If I am to change it, I must start with opening my mouth.
Today, a question. Tomorrow, a fact. The day after, an opinion and even an original idea. Somewhere it has to begin. And I am resolved to do it.
Of course, I always have the pizza man to practice on.
I know it sounds utterly ridiculous, but I have a very distinct memory of sitting near the telephone in our kitchen with a phone book in front of me open to the "pizza" listings, a sheet of paper in front of me with written details of exactly the kind of pizza we wanted (size and toppings, my earliest use of talking points, if you will), and the cradle of the phone sitting in my hand, my other hand pressed on the receiver to prevent the obnoxious and distracting buzzing of the dial tone. In my head, I silently rehearse exactly what it is I want to say. "I'd like to order a pizza? Yes, a large pizza with sausage and extra cheese." I say it over and over again. Then as I lift my fingers to dial, the shaking begins. My whole body quivers as though I am standing alone on a stage, in front of an auditorium of thousands, suddenly realizing that the eloquent soliloquy I had so expertly memorized has left me, and all I can do is gape ignorantly at the faces staring back at me expectantly. I slam my hand back on the receiver again, trembling as I rehearse again in my head, building up the courage to call.
Yes, yes, of course, I got over my fear of talking on the phone and now I can order a pizza without a second thought. But I stumbled onto a realization today, sitting in class, that the real fear underlying that whole embarrassing incident has never really left me.
I am terrified of taking verbal risks.
I don't really know, maybe it's because my earliest exposures to speaking in front of people often involved school plays and family reunion skits, where I was on stage to speak only the words and ideas prepared for me in advance. Follow the script, recite the lines. No problem.
Or maybe it's because of my tendency to have more of a writer's brain. Throughout my life, I've "scripted" millions of imaginary conversations in my head. Planned eloquent arguments, passionate pleas and virulent arguments. I used to spend hours on my bicycle, circling the driveway and living out my interactions with life in my head.
But for some reason, I have always had trouble actually vocalizing those thoughts, those ideas. There's something comforting about writing out your thoughts; you can edit them, you can change them. You can make them as lyrical and powerful as you like. You don't have to show them to anyone if you don't want to. But speaking your mind, out loud, off the cuff, can have incredible consequences.
I remember one time I did take the risk as a child and speak one of those comebacks that had been festering in my head. One of the boys at school had been teasing me, following me around, trying to show me that he "liked" me. I wanted none of it, I simply wanted him to disappear. I plotted the response in my head, and the next time he came around to bother me, I blurted it out, hurriedly and nastily.
"You're like a virus that won't go away!"
The look of hurt and disappointment on his face was so raw and immediate that I never forgave myself for treating him so poorly.
Once you speak out loud, people have an immediate impression of who you are. For certain, it may be a completely wrong impression, but we are all quick to judge based on what other people say. I can look to my own thoughts about other students who volunteer in class; more often than not, once I get to know the student on a more personal level, I find my initial thoughts were quite off-target. But we can't help ourselves. We need to identify ways to categorize, to divide up, to assess the people around us. Sometimes what comes out of our mouths is the easiest way to do that.
And I am still afraid of being assessed in the same way. To this day, I sit in class, reflecting on what the professors and my classmates are saying. Thinking of my own ideas and examples. Writing a script in my head of the perfect thing to say and then remaining completely paralyzed, unable to dial the numbers and let the order come tumbling out to the impatient teenager on the other end.
The bitch of it all is is that there IS no perfect thing to say. No script, no talking points, no ideas that just come straight from the depths of either heart or mind can ever be perfect. Maybe that's what is most terrifying to me--if I can't say "the perfect" thing, how can I even ensure that what I say has value? It's almost as though I dread the idea of saying something irrelevant. Because there is some small part of me that fears being just that--irrelevant. Dismissible. Judged.
The rational brain in my head (what little there may be, anyway) tells me that making progress involves taking a step forward. I may have made it (successfully) through high school, college, and even the work force living in fear of the sound of my own voice, but if I am to live a successful life, I know I must overcome my fear. If I am to change it, I must start with opening my mouth.
Today, a question. Tomorrow, a fact. The day after, an opinion and even an original idea. Somewhere it has to begin. And I am resolved to do it.
Of course, I always have the pizza man to practice on.
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