Anxiety makes me very small. I crawl into a tiny box, shutter the windows, and tuck in my head. There is no room for anyone else to join me. There is no room for generosity, compassion, or deep breathing.
When I am anxious, I cannot think of anyone else’s needs. I can only count down the hours or days until whatever is making me anxious is over.
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When I am anxious, I have two possible solutions: duck out of what is making me anxious, or suck it up and survive any way I can until it is over.
I was supposed to give an art talk once at a fragile time in my life. I wanted very much to have given the art talk. But the anxiety I was feeling about the upcoming event sucked me into a dark hole. There was only one way out: cancel.
I did, and got depressed about that.
The next time I was supposed to give an art talk at the same gallery, I was on meds and doing a little better. I typed up my talk and thought I’d be OK reading from the script. My daughter came with me for moral support, but obviously she couldn’t read the thing for me.
I got through it.
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There are many times when I’ve enjoyed talking about my art in public, feeling confident and free, not needing a script at all.
One Lynne Taetzsch loves to stand in front of an audience and entertain them with stories about her art. The other Lynne Taetzsch wants to crawl into a hole.
One is large. One is small.
Which one will I be today?
Such are the patterns of my life: exuberant energy and confidence that make me at ease in public. Or shriveled fear and loathing that make me crawl into the dark.
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As an artist, I spend a lot of time alone in my studio, not seeing or talking to anyone. I like it that way.
Going out in public is like coming out of a cave into the bright light—too much glare.
I’ve always been like this.
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Adrian helped ground me. I wasn’t going out into the bright lights alone, but with him by my side. He went with me when I showed my work to galleries. He stood by me at opening receptions.
We traveled together, walked together, played tennis together. If there was a social event, we went together, of course.
Toward the end of his life, when his dementia made it difficult for him to function at social events, Adrian’s companionship became a burden to me. Not only did I have to deal with my own anxiety, but his as well.
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At the Ft. Lauderdale airport returning from a trip to see one of his sons, Adrian insisted on carrying my computer bag, even though it was difficult for him to simply get his own body to the next gate, no less carry anything.
As we started down a long escalator, I suddenly heard clumping behind me and looked back in horror: the computer bag, followed by Adrian’s body, was bouncing down the escalator behind me.
I instinctively grabbed the computer bag and got out of his way quickly, running down the steps, yelling “help,” as two young men who had seen him fall came running toward us.
They grabbed Adrian to make sure he was upright before he hit the bottom. Then they sat him down on a bench and soon there was an airport employee, an EMT, checking him out. He had cuts all over his back and arms, but nothing was broken. They bandaged him up and offered to take us to a hospital, but he said he was fine and wanted to make our flight.
We did. Barely.
Later I thought how much I had suffered that day, how stressful it was trying to travel with him, how I just couldn’t do it any more.
I wish I had a chance right now to do it again.
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I didn’t realize at the time that Adrian had been my anchor all these years. That he kept my anxiety to a manageable level when we had to travel or to do anything I consider stressful.
Now I’m on my own, getting small and climbing into that box.
