Panic Attacks

It is my turn.

I'm 15 years old.

My legs are literally shaking. My palms have turned ice-cold. I never sweat when I’m nervous. I just go glacial.

I have always been SCARILY, almost disturbingly good at faking it.

I walk to the front of the church and stand in the center. I smile at the audience, willing them to see someone poised, confident, and completely calm. I nod to my accompanist and position my bow.

Breathe.

Sniff and lift my violin in time with the pianist.....

I begin my All State audition piece, "Praeludium and Allegro" by Kreisler.

I finish the first page without any problems.

But as I approach the much more difficult Allegro molto moderato section, I begin to have a panic attack.

It isn’t the first time.

Suddenly, my bow arm feels heavy. My chest tightens. I cannot catch my breath.

I am going to die up here in front of everyone.

My inner monologue, some version of demonic jargon spews forth its ugly volcanic shit....

I suck.

I suck.

I can’t do this.

I am going to mess up.

I look like an idiot.

I’m failing my teacher.

I’m failing myself.

I’m having a heart attack

I’m going to suffocate

I can’t.

I hate myself

If I fall over or faint who will catch me?

I'm a failure

I look ridiculous

I am pathetic!

Everyone else is simply watching a young girl struggle through a few difficult passages—stopping, starting, and fighting her way through a section.

Inside my head, it is the worst disaster of the twentieth century.

I have gone nuclear.

I will never play again.

My brain is on fire.

Finally THANK GOOOOOOOOOD the last notes ring out.

I feel physically spent. My violin arm drops heavily to my side as I smile. I bow. I pretend I am a competent musician, completely unfazed by what has just happened. My cold, clammy hands manage to hang onto the violin as I walk toward the exit.

I need a moment. I mean, I almost died!

So instead of returning to the pew to sit with my family, I walk out of the sanctuary. I find a quiet corner where I can teach myself how to breathe again.

I sink weakly against the wall.

What just happened?

Am I going to live?

Nobody checks on me.

Nobody asks whether I’m okay.

I take care of myself in that moment.

I cannot express how utterly exhausted I felt and so defeated as I listened to player after player after me totally nail their beautiful pieces.

I genuinely loved this piece of music.

I could play this piece front to back at home when nobody was watching.

Performance anxiety was ruining my life.

I wanted to play well; I LOVED my violin & I loved these hard passages!

What. The. Fuck.

Why did I have to suck so bad?

What was actually wrong with me????

Oh, how I wish I could go back in time and sit beside that frightened fifteen-year-old girl.

I would hug her. I would stay with her. I would remind her of her worth. I would tell her that she is not the sum total of every performance.

For starters, I would explain that she had just experienced a panic attack.

She didn’t know what those were.

I would help her understand why it happened. She had been so busy caring for her siblings and being the strong oldest child that she had barely had time to practice for the performance.

She carried so, so much inside of her.

Alone.

But she was stronger than she knew.

She could handle everything that was headed her way.

• 
  

Music is full of difficult passages.

So is life.

When I think about the process I teach my students for working through a difficult section, I realize it is not all that different from the advice therapists have given me over the years for surviving difficult moments in life.

1.) Select a small portion to work on & go slowly

2.) Take it note by note, working each shift, intonation & dynamic

3.) Use a metronome.

4.) Eat. Sleep. Shower. Be active

5.) Gradually find a steady tempo

I love the way music teaches us. It breaks overwhelming things into manageable pieces and gives us a practical way to build confidence, patience, and self-mastery.

At the same time, I hope I never forget that music is also a healing balm; there for the days when we do not have it all together. On those days, we are allowed to sit quietly and receive the beauty.