Performing - a mental health crisis?
By Hattie Butterworth
For as long as I can remember I have loved practicing. The place to explore, alone, all the possibilities of sound and watch as technique and emotion revealed themselves to me. There’s nothing more serene for me than being in the zone of learning a piece. Problem solving and piecing together sections until it starts to make sense to you. The composers that understand the cello - those that make you work for it, and how different they all are. It’s a divine mystery that I dedicated most of my early life to.
And then I couldn’t anymore. I moved away, crying tears of relief as I rerouted my life into classical music journalism and stopped playing the cello. But now I miss it. And as I return to playing the cello and practicing again after two years away, I realise that the practice space is where my joy in music really lands. It never landed in performance.
The performing mind
Performing was the first time I remember thinking darker thoughts. The complexity of preparation. The obsessions with hours, iterations of sections, of proving to myself that I really cared. Those days before a performance would be devoid of any relief or joy in case it meant I wasn’t using my time correctly. The stressful visulalisations, googling how to manage the emotions and reassurance seeking from my friends and family that I’d done enough.
And then afterwards - the depression of ‘failure’ could hold me hostage for weeks at a time. Following the hell of performance preparation, the aftermath might mean increased practice, reduced self-worth and total isolation. If it went well, the dread would pass on - albeit less intensely - to the next solo performance scheduled.
Sometimes, as a solo performance approached, my mind would wish for a terrible accident to happen to me. I’d wish for an injury, or extreme illness, ending up in hospital to escape the hell of being exposed on stage. Sometimes it felt like literally anything would be easier. Even now I compare every negative experience in my life to the mental pain of performing, and still little comes close.
The mystery of anxiety and running away
In all the self-searching I’ve had to do, that performance hell remains a mystery I want to uncover. Why has it been so horrifying for me, and other musicians? It’s juggling the complex emotions of self-trust in your ability, acceptance in yourself if it goes badly and a detachment from the opinions of others is a lot to contend with as a young person. It’s desperately seeking a love of music that can wipe away all the extraneous crap and allow for the solo space you hold to be free from mind noise. The desperation to experience the same level of joy and zone that you do in a practice room.
Performance anxiety is a mental health crisis that I wish I could heal in myself. It’s something I am escaping now, through interviewing, presenting and writing - still exposing myself, but in a way that serves others more concretely. Anxiety to interview is relieved when I remember to listen to the story of the person I’m interviewing. I believe I’m doing ‘enough’ because I haven’t been guided along the narrow path of journalism and writing technique - I’ve been trusted and encouraged to let it unfold.
Healing
But performing wasn’t all bad? Many of us will escape the intensity of anxiety in performance through putting energy into chamber music, or chorus/orchestral work. But behind each member of an orchestra is a potential history of performance trauma. A wound that I want to ask more questions about, both of myself and others, because it continues to restrict me. There’s a level of anxiety understandable in exposing, stressful work scenarios, and then there’s solo performing. I’m convinced it’s in another league.