By
Lisabet Sarai
People
who know me now may find it difficult to believe, but when I was
young, I was painfully shy. Talking to strangers terrified me. My
parents urged me to get out and “make friends”, but I was far
more comfortable with my nose in a book than interacting with people
I didn’t know well.
I
recall being almost overwhelmed by anxiety when I had to take a
public bus by myself to get to Girl Scouts. High school parties found
me huddling alone in a corner, squinting to try and figure out if I
recognized anyone. (I’m severely myopic, but didn’t want to wear
my glasses to social events.)
One
of the most extreme demonstrations of my shyness involved a library
book. With my tenth grade English class, I traveled to a school in a
neighboring town for a performance of “Twelfth Night”. I slid my
school books under the seat during the play. Only when I got home did
I realize that I’d left a library book behind.
My
father and mother instructed me to telephone the other school to ask
if the book had been found. I absolutely could not do it. The very
notion paralyzed me. I went into hysterics when they pressed me. I
would have rather reimbursed the library for the lost book from my
meager weekly allowance than make that call.
Somehow,
though, along the way to my current self, I’ve lost that
debilitating shyness. People who meet me now, I think, come away with
an impression of a self-confident, assertive individual who’s
comfortable with the unknown. I greet people on the street, in shops
and in restaurants. I can get up in front of a crowd of strangers and
lecture extemporaneously about almost any subject you might choose. I
can even telephone commercial establishments to ask questions or make
reservations (though I still dislike using the phone—partly
because my hearing isn’t as sharp as it once was).
How
did this happen?
Very
gradually.
My
first lover (during the late sixties) had a major impact on this
aspect of my personality. P was six years older than I was and the
quintessential hippie, with flowing blond hair, peace signs on his
tee shirts, and the sweet face of a fairy tale prince. A college
student and amateur photographer, he was contagiously friendly. He
used to start conversations with everyone: the cashier in the
supermarket, the old lady waiting for her bus, the other members of
the audience at a concert. He seemed to assume that everyone in the
world shared his somewhat innocent and benevolent view of humanity.
I
must have absorbed some of his spontaneous friendliness. I started to
become less afraid of others. Then he disappeared from my life and I
descended into anorexia (the two events not in my opinion related,
though my mother thought differently). For several years I lived in
the dark cave of my own distorted perceptions.
I
spent a lot of time with my therapist during that period. That, too,
helped me let go of some of the fear. Unlike the stereotyped Freudian
psychiatrist, Dr. R encouraged and nurtured me. As awful as my years
of self-starvation might have been, I count myself fortunate to have
had the chance to sort out some of my emotional issues at a pretty
early age.
During
my last year at university, I worked Friday and Saturday nights as a
waitress in a restaurant where the local party crowd would go for
breakfast, after the clubs closed. This might seem like a strange job
for a shy, skinny college girl afraid of her shadow. When I put on my
bright red, form fitting uniform, though, it was like donning a
costume in a play. I became someone else, a cute, sassy young woman
who smiled, joked and flirted with her customers—and did
surprisingly well in tips. When I got home at three AM on Sunday
mornings, I felt as though I were coming out of some kind of dream.
I
was still somewhat shy when I went to graduate school. My next
serious boyfriend helped to further unwind some of my anxieties. J
was an easy going Midwestern guy with none of my hang ups. In his
company, I hitchhiked halfway across the US and slept on the floor
of a New Orleans church during Mardi Gras. For J, life was an journey
of adventure. The new people you met along the way were part of the
fun.
Each
experience, each relationship, has made me more self-confident and
open to other people. Working as a teacher taught me how to speak to
strangers. It took a while—when I first started, I created detailed
notes that I more or less read to my class—but now my lectures are
far more natural. I use my slides mostly to keep me from wandering
too far away from the topic.
Traveling
with my DH has also contributed to the loss of my shyness. In a
foreign country, if you’re not willing to communicate with
strangers, you may starve! At very least, you’ll miss some of the
most memorable aspects of the experience.
Moving
to Southeast Asia was a final positive influence. People in my
adopted country are far more sociable than many Americans. It’s
normal to talk to people you don’t know, to greet shopkeepers, to
smile at strangers. (P would fit right in here.) I’ve absorbed the
local customs, to the extent that when I visit the U.S., people look
at me oddly because of my overly exuberant friendliness.
I
started life as a shy little girl, scared to step outside her limited
circle of friends and family. Over the years, bit by bit, I have lost
that fear and social awkwardness.
I
definitely do not miss it.
