NO PRESSURE
by Nile Seguin

It's the early show. The crowd is pretty charged even for a Saturday night. There's an office Christmas party table of pharmacy employees that are ready for a good time and the rest of the crowd came to play as well. The emcee calls me up after a killer bit and it's show time.

For the first few seconds (maybe ten, fifteen? I don't know) I'm wobbly. They can see the wheels are working in my head. I'm not present and that registers for an audience and either makes them uncomfortable or just takes them out of the flow of the show.

The problem is that I'm thinking. I'm thinking about whether or not this is going to be one of the times I have an anxiety attack. Of course, with something like that, all you have to do is ask the question and it's on. It's like the Beetlejuice of mental luggage. Speak the name and it comes.

So I'm working out the opener. I know that it won't go as well because they can see I'm way off. But right now, the one thing I'm focusing on is maintaining the breathing. My brain has decided that the situation is untenable. It tells me that after the first bit I'll have to leave the stage. Apparently it needs me to do this at top speed because it's trying to get me to breathe as shallowly as possible to get the blood and hormones flowing and help the fight/flight thing. I've been here before though and at least know how to contain it. I launch into a bit with a long set up, taking one deep breath at the top and not inhaling until I'm done the setting up. The panic is still there but it's only in my head now. My body is cool but it feels like there is a lightning storm going on just underneath my forehead. I start to notice that they're actually with me and the panic lessens. I focus on the mic stand and how it feels in my hands. A few seconds later, it's gone. Whatever it was it's gone. The next thing I know I'm getting the light and a far cry from my previous self, I actually don't want to get of stage now. I'm ripping and having a great time. Shitty.

Leaving the club with a fellow comic and friend of mine, I ask him if he noticed anything off the top. He tells me he couldn't tell if it was just him or if I was being a scatterbrain. He's surprised when I tell him about the attack. He hadn't noticed. No one ever does.

The first time it happened was during my very first ever pro spot. I'd been ripping it on the amateur circuit at the club and had managed to get the okay to open a pro show in record time. I took to the stage ready to fly into the Bigs and promptly ate a brick. Not one laugh the whole set, and toward the end, I started having the attack. My breathing was probably out of control. I can't say for sure because I can't remember breathing at all. But what I do remember was the beginning of whiteness creeping in around the edges of my vision. Fortunately by that time, I was finishing up my closer. The manager came over to tell me not to sweat it and asked me if I still wanted to do the next show (this display of almost concern has always prevented from believing that club managers are just killer androids out to hamstring our entertainment industry as would seem likely). I said sure, and the next show, everything was hunky dory. But then, on and off for the next few years, just before going on stage I'd have to bite down hard on the inside of my cheek or pinch the inside of my arm and focus on the pain to keep me centered. I would only later find out that there were less painful ways of fighting onstage anxiety.

Eventually, they stopped. I would still get nerves before game time but nothing out of the ordinary and I came to write them off as "something that used to happen to me when I first started." But they would come back when I least wanted to deal with them. Usually during periods of stress or when things really weren't going well. It happened at a showcase for HBO I was on (during a year where my personal life was a bloodbath) and then again a few weeks ago.

This was prior to the Saturday show I just mentioned. It was a showcase for the Halifax Comedy Festival as well as for satellite radio. Also, the show itself was put on by someone who was interested in repping me, so there was the immediate pressure. Add that to the background pressure-- Just a week before, my mom had a stroke. It was a minor one and she's doing better now but at the time, the jury was still out and I didn't have enough money to go back home to check on her. I tried drinking a few beers to take the edge off. (Don't do that by the way-- a depressant plus a depressed state usually leads to bad things.) Not only ate a brick but had to weather an attack the whole set.

I decided then and there-- that was the end of that (both for me and showcases and not knowing what to do about these attacks). It didn't take much googling to find some helpful tips.

The victims of anxiety attacks do not typically seek counseling. But, like insomnia, anxiety might be a sign of depression and treatment is recommended. They can be dealt with pretty easily-- by lying down, for instance. (Not the best option if you're on stage though.) But there are many practical things that can be done and as I continued to research, I noticed that these tips can help fight regular pre-show nerves as well.

Firstly, try not thinking before the show. Not as tricky as it sounds, just give yourself something to focus on. If you can, get engrossed in a conversation with someone beforehand. If not, try focusing on one of your senses (For example, besides the emcee, how many sounds can you hear right now?). The trick is to give your brain something to do. A good standby is to focus on your breathing. Take a deep, long breath, making sure you expand the bottom of your lungs as well as the top and take at least ten seconds to inhale and ten more to exhale. It's called diaphragmatic, or yogic, breathing.

Once you're on stage and you feel an attack coming on, then is the time to start thinking. Tell yourself that this has happened before and trust your body will eventually regulate itself (like when you have a cold you don't assume it'll go on forever). Launch into a bit that has a longer set up. At the beginning of the bit, take a deep breath and slowly release it during the rest of the joke. Even if you're the type to take the mic out of the mic stand, don't for now and keep your hands on it. The sensory input will give your brain something else to deal with as well as give a feeling of stability. If it keeps up, take the stool (if there is one) and have a seat. I figure the absolute last option (and I've never had to try this myself, so if you do let me know how it turns out) would be to bring it up and riff on it. The big fear is having the audience find out but once they do and the sky doesn't fall, you should be okay.

In the past few shows I've managed to either fight off the attacks when they've show up which isn't often (one set out of seven) and in doing so I've noticed that fighting anxiety on stage has rules that are similar to stand up. The beginning is really important. It's also essential to be in control of yourself rather than try to control something outside yourself (the anxiety attack vs. the audience). You want to take your time and not rush through anything and also stay centered and present in the moment.

As comics, we walk a fine line-- performing has to be a controlled emotional outburst. You have to be into it, but still restrained enough to be in control. It can sometimes be tricky to keep things in perspective however and prevent emotions from overtaking things be they onstage or offstage after the show (the way you feel like you're a fraud if you tank or the greatest if you kill).

I can't say for certain if I'm done with anxiety attacks onstage (I figure if I do enough sets without the sky falling I'll eventually stop worrying) but at least I have options. I headline next week for the first time. Hopefully, I'll be able to walk away with good shows and unbruised arms.