Waiting for the doors to the auditorium to open, I skulked in the corner of the theatre’s foyer, hoping to be invisible. It was late January 2006, and I hadn’t worked as an actor for several weeks – with nothing on the horizon either. Only for the fact that the show’s leading lady was one of my closest pals, I probably would have given the event a wide birth, ill-equipped to enter into small talk with fellow thespians where I’d be forced to conjure up different ways of convincing them that I, too, was busy. Granted, I wasn’t proud of being so yellow-bellied, but I took comfort in the fact that being down at heel was only a momentary blip and, soon enough, I’d be back to my gregarious ways once again.
While these "resting periods" were as common as old rope, being just two years out of acting college and full of ambition, I'd little interest in falling into a pattern of sleeping late then watching back-to-back repeats of Oprah every afternoon – heck, I wanted to be on Oprah every afternoon!
When the ushers finally directed us into the auditorium, I felt confident that I’d gone unnoticed – therefore being saved from having to call upon my inner Pinocchio and fabricate some hectic schedule for myself. However, as the last few members of the audience took their seats around me, I felt a tap on my shoulder. With great reluctance, I turned around and discovered an old acquaintance – and well-seasoned actor – sitting behind me.
“So, what are you up, Domhnall?” he asked, straight out of the gate – a line of questioning that was the norm among actors. Knowing that he’d just finished a high-profile tour, my fragile ego was reluctant to confess my idle status.
“I’m writing,” I boldly lied, well aware that the thank you card I’d recently sent an elderly neighbour for her beautiful Christmas present didn’t quite qualify for such a boast.
The chap smiled and gently touched my shoulder.
“Unemployed like the rest of us, huh?”
And with that, the curtains were drawn, and the performance began, rendering the auditorium into darkness. Just as well because, all of a sudden, I noticed that my cheeks were redder than the seats on which I sat while the sweat cascading from my brows would surely rival the rain that fell outside. Even though my peer had attempted to save my blushes by insinuating that – quite rightly – a lack of work affected us all, I was surprised and extremely concerned, to learn that my body was deciding that this brief, and mostly inoffensive, exchange warranted such a heightened physical reaction.
Unfortunately, this episode began what was to become a continuing cycle of unreasonable responses to stressful situations that would culminate in me being so panicked and fearful of everyday life, that I had to rush myself to A&E at 4am, positive that my lungs were going to collapse.
It would take three doctors and six months before receiving a diagnosis. It wasn’t asthma or hay fever or coeliac disease or any of the other long list of possibilities initially suggested. I was being held to ransom by something that my 23-year-old-self didn’t even realise could be classified as a condition: anxiety.
For the guts of two years, an avalanche of horrible situations filled my daily routine. Heart palpitations. Light-headedness. Unable to shake people’s hands without having to apologise for their drenched state. Failing to fall asleep, too preoccupied reassuring myself that I wasn’t being thrown off a cliff. Battling embarrassing spirited bowel movements – in private and in public. And, rather ironically, becoming one of the few actors to wish their agent wouldn’t phone them with an audition.
By definition, anxiety is a feeling of worry, nervousness or unease about something with an uncertain outcome. For some, it is a natural reaction to a threat or danger, which soon passes; for others, like me, it can be so debilitating and excessive that every move, every action comes with a sense of heaviness and dread. According to St Patrick’s Mental Services, Dublin, anxiety affects an estimated one in nine people – more alarmingly, only a fraction of these people pursue the numerous and life-changing treatments available to them.
Anxiety can come knocking at your door as a result of genetic and/or a multitude of environmental factors; for me, it was that feeling of having little or no control over my career or destiny. The life of an actor is extremely precarious with scarcely any security, certainty or stability. Rejection and disappointment are daily occurrences. We’re endlessly being asked to impress others to gain employment – but, as the failed auditions begin to outweigh the successful ones – we can often become overwhelmed by it all, convincing ourselves that we haven’t the means or ability to carve out a consistent and fulfilling career.
More frustratingly, the industry appears to make a clear distinction between the actor and the artist. On the one hand, it is demanded that the actor is as tough as old gumboots, able to withstand all the aforementioned hardship that is thrown at them; on the other, the artist is expected to be emotional, open and sensitive – traits that can be called upon in the rehearsal room or on set.
Knowing that I was in a quagmire, I quickly educated myself about the disorder and started to embrace many of the tried-and-tested treatments and techniques recommended to me such as exercise, breathing, visualisation, meditation, and hypnosis. A healthier diet became the plat du jour while alcohol and caffeine intake were limited.
Despite all of these amendments, I still suspected that my quality of life was being compromised. Yes, I was no longer drowning, but I felt at sea. Perhaps it was time to throw in the proverbial towel and pursue another – less pressurised – career?
No. Instead, I decided to return to that fateful night in 2006 and make good on that lie that I’d told my peer: I began to write.
What followed was a return to college to pursue a Master's in screenwriting, a position as assistant editor with Irish Tatler Man and now, my first novel, Sister Agatha: The World's Oldest Serial Killer. Better again, every time I found myself in an audition, I felt fortified. That disempowered actor of old, riddled with nerves and desperate to book a gig, was just a memory. Now, I was merely pursuing one of the many creative outlets available to me – a confidence that allowed me to secure a leading role in TG4's flagship series, Ros na Rún – from whose set I currently write this.
It took me quite a long time to realise that my anxiety wasn’t freeing me from my woes of tomorrow; it was stealing my strength of today.
Until I decided that the jig was up.
Sister Agatha: The World’s Oldest Serial Killer is released through Tirgearr Publishing
