Running in Place-Chapter 2

RUNNING IN PLACE 

 Chapter 2 – Running in Place

The main reason I hated being a performer is Stage fright.

Not just a little nervous energy—I’m talking full-blown, paralyzing terror. Before, after, and especially during every show.

If I had a performance that night, the panic would kick in the moment I opened my eyes. The alarm goes off and I immediately think: “Oh no... I have to be onstage tonight.” From there, the anxiety would snowball. The entire day became a countdown to doom.

By the time I got to the theatre for half hour, I’d already be on my second- or third-bathroom trip.
The Stage Manager calls “15 minutes!”—and I feel like throwing up.

“5 minutes!”—gotta pee again.

“Places!”—straight back to the bathroom.
It was like my body was trying to escape by any means possible.

One night, a friend backstage thought he had a solution. During an offstage break—our characters were out of the scene for a few minutes—he offered me a hit from a joint.

Desperate for anything to dull the fear, I said yes.
We returned for a big, highly choreographed number. The lyrics synced with the movement, so there was no room for error.

Suddenly, I froze. Panicked. I whispered to him, “I feel like everyone’s looking at me! ”Without missing a beat, he shot back: “They are, you dumbass.”
Not helpful. But fair.

Auditions weren’t any easier. Honestly, getting the job was sometimes harder than doing the job.

Imagine this: a room packed with 300 of the best male dancers in New York, all fighting for maybe five roles. Everyone’s sizing each other up, eyes locked on you, analyzing your every move.

Choreography was always hard for me to pick up. My brain would... rewrite it. I'd learn it one way in the mirror, then spin around to face the table of casting directors and suddenly, everything fell apart. Left was right, up was down, and panic was screaming in my ears.

Then, of course, they'd make you do it again—in groups of four. On display. Every time, I wanted to light myself on fire and roll offstage.

It wasn’t until I was 55—yes, mid-fifties—when I was finally diagnosed with ADHD, OCD, and severe anxiety.

And suddenly, my whole life made sense.

Once I started medication, it felt like someone had turned on the lights. I could finally see and understand what people were saying. I could follow dance combinations. I could grasp song lyrics. I could even leave the house without touching doorknobs in a sequence or counting floor tiles.

The OCD explained so much. I needed everything in its place. Nothing could be out of order. Everything had a “home,” and if it didn’t, I was a wreck.

Even as a child, I was obsessed with order. Everything had to be aligned—squared, symmetrical, visually pleasing. If a painting was crooked, I fixed it. Furniture got rearranged constantly. I color-coded, alphabetized, packed and unpacked like a seasoned Tetris master.

I drove roommates insane.

Imagine coming home from work for the third day in a row and finding the entire apartment reorganized. Again.

Now, if you’ve ever worked in live theatre, you know: nothing ever goes as planned. Some people thrive on that chaos.

I didn’t.

Lights blow out. Sets collapse. And yes, sometimes people get set on fire.

That happened. On tour. A wig caught fire from an overhead light. We were somewhere in Europe. But I’ll get to that later.

Now, I think we need to start at the beginning.
My beginning.

Because if you want to understand why I am the way I am...We must go back to where it all started.

Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writing "Up my Rain Barrel." It cannot be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.