What being socially rejected in improv comedy classes taught me
In improv, you’re forced to show your true self, like a magician pulling colored scarves out of their mouth, turning yourself inside out to be scrutinized.
One year ago, I performed as part of an improv comedy troupe in front of an audience for the first time, after being part of a beginner’s class for several months.
Getting to this point was a massive accomplishment for a middle-aged woman scarred by a lifetime of shyness, fear and social anxiety.
I enjoyed the experience and I think I did pretty well. I recall that at least a few of my lines and my physical humor got a handful of laughs. The biggest laugh I earned was when I was pretending to be a surgeon fixing a man up in an emergency case, and I pantomimed spontaneously ripping his heart out and eating it.
I was 52, as much as twice the age of some of my co-players, but to me that didn’t matter. Getting older doesn’t make a person any less funny, and in fact, in my experience it has made me funnier.
Unfortunately, something extraordinarily hurtful happened inside the comedy club immediately after our student showcase. I quickly left, drove home sobbing, and cried for days afterward.
The incident was so devastating to me that -- despite falling in love with improv comedy and desperately wanting to make it a big part of my life -- I no longer felt comfortable there, and before long I dropped out altogether.
What happened wasn’t anything criminal, and wasn’t the fault of the comedy club owners or managers. Yet it was so painful that I never posted about it on social media, and I never mentioned it to anyone beyond close friends and the two or three people at the comedy club whom I felt close to.
Even now when I reflect on it a year later, trying to explain it still feels raw and complex.
To give some background, my foray into comedy came during a time when I was just starting to lose my decades-long fear of being seen and heard.
Those who come from traumatic backgrounds will understand how intense this terror can be. I had gone through life nearly mute from social anxiety and a fear of annoying people, fear of being too loud, fear of taking up space.
I was chronically afraid to show my real personality or speak up for my needs and desires in every area of my life, including friendships, family relationships, dating, and the workplace.
In my career, despite my hard work and talent, I’ve been passed over for promotions repeatedly in favor of those with better schmoozing and self-promotion skills. I’ve been repeatedly left out of big meetings and projects, and I have often had my ideas stolen by aggressive colleagues.
In my social life, especially in groups, I tend to be overlooked, talked over, and left out of inner cliques. Once, a woman I’d just met cruelly mocked me because of my soft tone of voice.
A man I used to date --