Published in Mocha Memoirs Magazine, Oct 2003, Volume 5, Issue 19
My parents always knew that I was going to be shy. I started clinging to my mother’s long, beige coat as soon as I learned how to walk.
In nursery school we painted. The teacher carefully arranged the different colours along the large table where the kids sat.
My seat was at the end, by the red paint.
The other kids brought home beautiful pictures of rainbows and colourful flower gardens. Their mothers were proud and they hung the masterpieces on the fridge.
My paintings were all in red.
Those other colours were so far away – past so many scary faces.
Red was enough. You could do a lot with just red. You convince yourself of that.
At school I never saw the inside of the bathroom until I was in grade three – and then, only very rarely. I don’t know what I was afraid of. Being attacked while sitting on the toilet, my skirt around my ankles? Being kidnapped on the way? Letting my classmates know that I was that kind of girl – the kind who periodically had to relieve herself? In class I would sit with my crotch on the edge of my chair, holding it in. As soon as the school bus dropped me off at the end of our long laneway I would sprint to the toilet.
I was a very fast sprinter.
In Kindergarten I was offered the lead in our class play. We were going to depict the story of the Ugly Duckling. I know I would have been the best ugly duckling our class could produce, but I bashfully refused. My best friend played the lead instead. Everyone loved her. She was a success. I looked on from the sidelines, my potential as an actress forgotten.
Even in high school my shyness prevented me from becoming the star I knew I was inside. Our choir director asked me if I would like to sing a solo for the Christma concert. Again, I politely refused. Julie Verbeek willingly took my place while I sang softly in the chorus. After the concert everyone whispered about how beautifully Julie had sung. I pretended not to hear.
My confidence rose during university when I learned that I possessed some attractive qualities and skills, but my shyness has never really diminished. Even now, I often get Shyness Attacks. They come on suddenly and I think that I shall never be able to leave the house, answer the door, or pick up the phone for fear of having to speak to someone.
I have become pretty good at faking it, but there are those who can see through me. I feel them pointing at me, saying, “Ah! There’s a shy one. She has the sickness. Poor thing.”
It’s stupid when people tell you not to feel shy. I think they know that it’s stupid, but they keep telling you anyway. And it has to be stupid, because there must be some reason which is not ridiculous or unfounded for why you feel that way – if you feel that way. Maybe it’s just that only shy people can feel it – whatever it is.
It’s an unenviable skill.
I am approaching thirty now, and I have resigned myself to the fact that I shall never recover from this skill. And I don’t really believe that it is possible to fully recover.
And so I am working on the antidote.
I take a dose of it every time I feel a Shyness Attack coming on. It doesn’t prevent the attack; it just helps me deal with it. I remember that shyness is a part of me. I can’t escape it. It is like a gift. It makes me more intuitive. It makes me feel special when I’m alone in a crowd. It makes me the star of an on-going movie in my mind. It may even make me intriguing to others.
I am proud of my shyness.
I embrace it.
As Wordsworth wrote,
“Soft is the music that would charm forever;
The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly.”