When I was in high school, before social media existed, my friends and I would fill out silly little surveys (“favorite color,” “number of pets,” “weirdest friend,” “funniest friend”) and email them around to each other. In one survey, one friend pegged me as the “most outgoing” person she knew, and another friend named me as the “shyest” person she knew. It contributed to years of existential identity confusion. (“Am I outgoing? Am I shy? I can’t be both! I kind of am, though!”)
Lately I’ve been reading about social anxiety and comedians. A study from 2009 noted that a lot of (stand-up) comedians are introverts, which surprised the researchers, because what’s more traditionally extroverted than a someone who wants to be loud and funny in a spotlight?
The study speculates:
Perhaps comedians use their performance to disguise who they are in their daily life. Comedians may portray someone they want to be, or perhaps their act is a way to defy the constraints imposed on their everyday events and interactions with others. Further study needs to be done to clarify the apparent contradiction between their true personality and on stage persona that they choose to present.
In short, comedians are (often) extroverts on stage but introverts in real life.
Like most people, I have a public persona and a private persona.
The public persona, fueled by adrenaline rushes (like the thrill of meeting people for the first time), is loud and funny and charming and enthusiastic and likable. Maybe a little annoying, but it feels great to wear her. Unfortunately, it takes a shitload of energy to maintain her, which I do not have, so she’s unsustainable for any length of time.
The private persona is an asshole. I hate her. Probably everyone else does too. So I try to hide her from public eyes as much as possible, which means if I don’t have the energy to be Miss Outgoing, I tend to withdraw from society.
I start most relationships as Miss Outgoing, and then gradually slide down into Withdrawn Asshole.
I don’t tend to hold on to friends very long, because the more time we spend together, the more withdrawn I get, as the rush of novelty fades and I lapse back into being my own private shut-down asshole self.
I quoted a Jimmy Carrane piece last month, that “Improvisers think they need be in a certain ‘positive’ mood to do improv” (oh good, I’m not alone feeling like this) and offered suggestions to take your negative emotions and turn them into improv.
The problem is— or one of the problems is— that I’m burning out. It feels like less of an emotion thing and more of an energy thing. I no longer have the energy to be Miss Outgoing, and Withdrawn Asshole is screaming I don’t want to be here, why am I here, I want to be at home, alone, watching TV, or quietly staring at a wall, or doing anything but interacting with people here and now! How do you play that? Apathy and “I don’t want to be here” are THE WORST in improv.
I get my adrenaline rushes from novelty, from new excitement, from the thrill of the honeymoon period, from the joy of having the means to be Miss Outgoing for a while.
But my honeymoon with improv is over.
So the question is: do improv and I have what it takes to maintain a mature, fulfilling, and mutually beneficial relationship? I don’t know.
I think taking a break from improv— or at least not doing it 4+ nights a week when I don’t live nearby— is a reasonable solution. People take time off, that is a legitimate thing!
I dunno. I like it when improv and I can just be playful, and I just can’t seem to find that right now. Improv, baby, c’mon, where’s the love?