The time I missed seeing Jerry Seinfeld live and in person

And how I accidentally turned a night at the theater into a test I kept failing over and over again.

I could’ve seen Jerry Seinfeld live at the Buddy Holly Hall for free, and instead, I let my anxiety talk me into staying home, and hating myself for not being courageous enough to go enjoy the show.

Which, if this was the only time this has happened to me, it might be easier to overlook. But this has become a pattern that I don’t want to repeat anymore.

It’s one of the ways I use secret self-sabotage to keep myself stuck in isolation, so I won’t have to explore what it could feel like to be free to do the thing I really want.

Because “doing the thing I really want” apparently still comes with a lot of qualifiers:

• Is it going to be safe?

• Am I going to be comfortable?

• Can I maintain control of myself?

• Can I possibly control the environment, or the other people?

• Will there be any unanticipated threats or consequences to doing the thing?

• Will I lose my mind? (This one HAS happened, though it’s extremely rare — and it’s never happened at the Buddy Holly Hall.)

• Will I like the people I encounter while doing the thing?

• Will the people I encounter like me?

• Will any part of doing the thing trigger painful memories I don’t think I’m ready to be reminded of? (This has happened at the Buddy Holly Hall, but I got through it, and lived to tell the tale.)

• Will I become so dysregulated I have to be hospitalized? (This happened once in outpatient therapy, and I didn’t like it at all! But it turned out to be exactly what I needed… so in the end, it was a positive. But it didn’t happen at the Buddy Holl Hall.)

The thing is, I’ve volunteered at the Buddy Holly Hall probably dozens of times.

I started volunteering the first week I was in Lubbock.

And, yes, every time, I get anxiety. And a lot of the time, my anxiety gets so high, I back out, cancel my sign-up, and stay home, and despise myself for not doing what I really want to do.

But sometimes I don’t give in.

Sometimes, I go to the show, and I enjoy volunteering, and I enjoy talking to patrons, and I enjoy interacting with the staff, and I enjoy the live entertainment…

And most of all, I enjoy being there, by myself, doing something I want to do, for no other reason than, “I just want to be here, enjoying this.”

So it’s not like I can’t make it to the show. I have multiple instances where I did! And, yeah, some of those experiences were frightening, at first. And some of them were draining.

And some of them were intensely emotional — sometimes during a play or a concert, I’ll burst into tears and weep silently in my seat, only a few chairs away from the nearest patron, afraid that people are going to see me but knowing that it’s just dark enough that no one can see me… and none of them are paying attention to me, anyway; they’re too busy enjoying the show.

But even in the times I bawl my eyes out…

I still have a positive experience.

I’m still glad I went.

I still enjoy the show, and I still come home with wonderful memories of the time I let myself do the thing I wanted to do.

But then another show comes through town, and I get excited and I sign up to volunteer, and then two days before the event, my anxiety kicks into overdrive, and my fibromyalgia acts up, and I start wondering if this is the show where I’m finally going to go and lose my mind in the middle of the performance, surrounded by hundreds, if not thousands, of attendees… and I’ll have to be hospitalized and I’ll make such a dramatic scene I’ll never be allowed to volunteer at the Buddy Holly Hall, ever again.

Which… if I’m realistic about all this… if that scenario was going to happen… I’m more inclined to believe it already would have…

Because each time I do successfully volunteer, I’m more comfortable in the theater than the time before.

Even if I do burst into tears during the performance, I’m still more comfortable crying during the show than I was the last time it happened.

The first time I ever volunteered really was my trial by fire.

I had just moved here; I didn’t know where anything was; I didn’t know how I was going to spend my free time; I didn’t even know, on the day I moved to Lubbock, that there were volunteer opportunities at the performing arts center.

But the moment I found out, I wanted to be part of that crowd.

And the first show I went to, coincidentally turned out to be the first time in my life I ever took an Uber. I had to figure out how to Uber comfortably, just so I could get to the theater, to find out if the experience of volunteering would be good for me, and something I enjoy… or if it would trigger me, and send me into a tailspin.

And what’s interesting is I don’t even remember, now, what that first show was. I don’t know if it was a play, or a concert, or what. I guess it doesn’t really matter at this point.

What matters is that I showed up, and I did the thing I wanted to do — without knowing if I could even survive the thing, or not.

And now, three and a half years later, I’ve spent more time convincing myself to avoid the thing, than I have allowing myself to just go and enjoy an evening of live entertainment.

Literally, probably four out of five times, my anxiety wins, and I talk myself out of going to volunteer.

I’ve missed some shows I really wanted to see! (And, to be fair, some shows I really couldn’t care less about… but was more interested in just getting out of the apartment for a night, and being around other people.)

I missed the Beach Boys, for crying out loud!

And I missed The Book of Mormon. Which, I can live without ever seeing… but as a practicing Mormon myself, it would’ve been interesting to observe that particular show…

And now, I’ve missed Jerry Seinfeld. And I’m not a huge comedy fan. It’s not like I sit and watch all the comedians on Netflix and like, “Man wouldn’t it be cool to see them live?”

But, I mean… Jerry Seinfeld? He’s practically a national treasure.

Everybody I’ve ever known grew up watching Seinfeld.

And I could’ve seen him, in Lubbock, at the Buddy Holly Hall, for free… and my stupid self talked myself out of it because I was having “high anxiety.” Like the anxiety just creeped up on me, out of nowhere. “Gee willickers! I didn’t know that was going to happen! How ‘bout that, Wally?”

As if.

The truth is, I hate myself for not going to the show.

I know, no matter how thoroughly it can all be explained away by science and modern medicine…

I know it’s my fault I didn’t go.

I know I’m the reason I wouldn’t allow myself to do the thing I really wanted to do.

And I hate myself for it.

Not because “I missed seeing Jerry Seinfeld live and in person.”

But because I keep running the same program, over and over and over again.

I want to go to the show…

And I talk myself out of it for reasons that should have been anticipated and planned for… and not “I waited until the last moment and then pretended like it hit me out of nowhere and I don’t have any control over it now and the only option left is to stay home and suffer through the pain and the guilt of once again backing out and missing out on what I really want because it’s easier for me to keep being a little baby and give into the fear and the pressure and tell myself I can’t do it.”

And I know there’s more to it than that. I know that mental health is complicated, and there aren’t always easy solutions.

I know that even though I’m aware of the pattern, and I’m not taking steps — yet — to break the pattern… I know that the pattern that’s happening isn’t my fault. But that doesn’t stop it from happening, does it?

And I want it to stop happening. That’s the part that I hate. That’s the reason I tell myself, “I hate myself because of this.”

Because somewhere, I think I should be able to make it stop happening, simply by wishing it away. I “should” be able to just man up; just go face the fear one time and prove that I’m stronger and overcome it all in one glorious moment and then… never be bothered by this particular fear, ever again.

That should work, to resolve this pain — and it’s not.

The only solution I can think of, that I can point to and say, “This should solve the problem,” isn’t solving anything at all.

And that leaves me feeling helpless, and out of control, and incredibly small, and weak, and vulnerable.

So here’s what I think is actually behind all of this (and this is just a working hypothesis):

When I moved to Lubbock, I had just spent 14 years in Mom and Dad’s house, avoiding anything that made me uncomfortable. And I wanted to break out of that. I believed moving to Lubbock would break me out of that.

When I signed up that first time to volunteer at the Buddy Holly Hall, that was proof that I had broken out of it. Because if I was still terrified of doing anything uncomfortable, I wouldn’t have gone and volunteered, that first time.

But I did go. And I loved it. And it “proved” to my mind that I wasn’t afraid anymore, and I was ready for this new chapter of my life.

And then one time, I signed up to volunteer, and I had a panic attack, or a fibromyalgia flare-up (or maybe both; who really knows at this point?) and I didn’t go to the show.

And suddenly this new thing in my life (volunteering at the performing arts center) stopped giving me proof that I had broken out of my old routine. And somehow, that made me afraid.

And then I started feeling afraid every time I volunteered, because, “What if I’m not out of the woods, and what if this time becomes the time I lose my mind in public and everybody judges me?”

And the Buddy Holly Hall was supposed to be the place where I could go and not be afraid of losing my mind — because I’d already proven to myself that I’m safe there.

And then… any time I signed up for a show, and had to cancel due to anxiety, or chronic pain… I told my mind, “See, I’m avoiding doing the thing that makes me uncomfortable, because I know I’m not safe if I go there…” and my mind started to believe that story.

And the Buddy Holly Hall became:

Every time I go, I feel less anxious and less afraid, and experience more comfort and more pleasure. But every time I volunteer, I’m afraid to go because I expect I’m going to lose my mind, once I get there.

And from there:

I HAVE TO GO, because I have to prove to myself that I’m not a little baby who keeps giving into my pain and my anxiety! Only to cancel my sign-up, the day of the show, due to elevated pain and anxiety.

I tried to make the Buddy Holly Hall a much bigger ordeal than it was ever intended to be.

I tried to take something that I sometimes enjoy… and make it part of my therapy, and my “healing journey,” and the place where I could make myself go and learn to push through discomfort, until I’m capable of enjoying myself, enjoying being around other people, and occasionally even enjoying the live entertainment.

But get this:

I already enjoy myself, and the other people, and the live entertainment, every time I do allow myself to go.

Even if I’m in pain, or facing extreme anxiety, before I go.

So what in the world is making me so crazy when I do get so anxious, or have so much fibromyalgia pain, that I legitimately do need to cancel my sign-up, and just stay home?

I’m not sure I really know, anymore… but I think it’s from trying to expect the Buddy Holly Hall to be part of my therapy, rather than just, “I wanna get out of the apartment for a few hours, be around other people, and take in a show.”

Because whenever that’s all that I want out of the Buddy Holly Hall… nine times out of ten, I make the show… and I enjoy every minute of it! Okay sometimes I don’t enjoy having to take an Uber there and back… but that’s hardly the same as not enjoying the Buddy Holly Hall…

Every time I do make it to the show, I’m glad I went. I’m glad when I’m there, and I’m glad when I go home.

But the times I don’t go… man it’s like something just takes over in my brain, and I start telling myself what a disappointment I am… and I hate myself for not being tough enough to just power through, and make myself go see the show anyway.

(Because I know, deep down inside, that if I do, I’ll enjoy it. And still, I’m choosing to not… and I hate when I do that.)

And I guess, I’d rather talk myself out of going to see a show I’d probably really enjoy… than sit with myself and examine why it makes me feel so weak and vulnerable… and what I might be able to do about it, so that the next time I do want to do the thing… I can just relax and give myself permission to go and do it, and not worry about what “might” happen… but just accept and appreciate, what is.

I wish I would’ve done that before I missed seeing Jerry Seinfeld. I’m really not happy with that outcome.