Petrified Altar Boy

I believe that most people who are afflicted by an anxiety disorder have at least one situation that they dread. Constant concern about the situation can lead to generalized anxiety. For me it was fainting. Several times prior to when this incident actually happened, I felt like I was going to faint. When it actually did happen, it was, no doubt, as a result of dehydration. And, it was in an environment was about as awful as I could imagine. I call the story, Petrified Altar Boy. When I was 12, another incident occurred that deepened voidance fear of social situations. It happened in church. As have I said, I was unusually religious, perhaps because religion seemed to offer some protection from all the things of which I was afraid. I was an altar boy and I loved it -- getting up at 5:30 in the morning, quietly slipping on some clothes, and running to get to St. Thomas Aquinas church by six it was all so secretly exciting. I liked it even better if I was the only altar boy to show up. There were so many interesting things to do. I loved lighting the candles that towered over the altar, and, even better, the achievement of blowing them out after Mass with a single puff from the mechanical candle snuffer (this took practice, and was much admired among us altar boys, even though we pretended that it was "no big deal"). I loved pouring the wine into the richly carved glass cruets before Mass, and during Mass, pouring it from the cruets into the priest's gleaming golden chalice. I loved giving the correct Latin responses to the priest's prayers.  I loved ringing the bells three times to announce the consecration of the host. Most of all, I loved the feeling of spirituality it gave me. I genuinely felt close to Jesus when I was kneeling in front of the altar in my cassock and surplice. Therefore, you can imagine how excited I was when I was picked to serve the eleven o'clock Mass on Easter Sunday morning. It was pretty unusual for the head altar boy to choose one of the younger boys for this honor. I thought about it for weeks in advance, and when I woke up that special morning, the first thing I did was vomit. Despite my mother's cajoling, I couldn't eat a thing. I was so excited, I ran all the way to the church, getting there at nine so I would be sure to be ready. I looked out through the secret "peep hole" just before the Easter high Mass was to start and saw that the church was jammed. People were standing in the aisles, among them two of my best friends from the sixth grade. At a special Mass like that, there are many additions to the usual ceremony. There was more than one priest involved in the celebration, each with a unique role to play, there was an incense boat to prepare and light at the right time, there were a lot of extra choir parts and prayers to be performed. I was scared silly that I would make a mistake. Though I was very nervous, I managed to do my small part correctly, until just after the reading of the Gospel. I began to feel light-headed, and sweat started rivuleting down my back. My hands got clammy and a powerful nausea swept over me. I remember only one feeling: irritation. I should have been in my glory, and this was a hell of a time to be coming down with some disease. Then the world began to go in and out of focus. It was obvious that this was something more than a bout with the flu. I had never fainted before, but at that moment, the image that came to my mind was of my mother fainting in church. Finally, as if I were dreaming it, my body gradually folded itself down onto the altar steps and the bright lights faded away. When I regained consciousness, I was back in the sacristy lying on one of the benches. At first, I couldn't imagine what had happened, and then I realized I'd fainted. One of the younger priests was sitting beside me, and asked if I were all right. In a weak voice that didn't sound like mine, I assured him I was just fine. A friend walked me home, and the priest called my mother to explain what had happened. When I got home, the family doctor was waiting for me (this was in "the gold old days" when doctors made house calls). He examined me and said there was nothing wrong. It was just that it was a hot day and I had become overly excited -- nothing to get upset about. I was upset, though. I felt that I had made a fool of myself while practically everyone in our neighborhood had watched. When I went to school Monday morning, I expected to be chided for my embarrassing collapse, but aside from a couple of friends asking if I were okay, nothing much was said. For a while, I thought people were looking at me strangely, but by the end of the week, things were back to normal. They were normal, that is, until the next Sunday morning when, as I was serving Mass, I began to feel like it was going to happen again. I started to feel the same symptoms, and left the altar during the middle of the Mass, before I could disgrace myself again. I went straight home, so I saw none of my friends until school the next day. This time, my schoolmates weren't so respectful of my feelings. "Hey, Dacey," one of them chided, "How come you took off during Mass yesterday? Whatsa matter, were you afraid you were gonna take another nosedive?" Another rested his cheek in his hand, rolled his eyes skyward, and immitated me crumpling to the ground. Needless to say, these antics got quite a laugh. I was mortified, and reacted in the typical adolescent way: I quit being an altar boy. I told myself that I really no longer wanted to serve at Mass, anyway, and hoped that that would put an end to this distressing period of my life. Of course it didn't. Increasingly, my fear of fainting in church began to spread to other situations. When I was called upon in seventh grade English class to stand up and tell an anecdote, I became extremely agitated. In our Health class, our incompetent teacher spent most of the period having the students take turns reading a paragraph from the book. Each day, he would start with the first person in the first row, and go right around the class. As I waited for my turn to read, I could not help imagining myself fainting. As I sat in the middle of the fourth row, I had plenty of time to work up an exceedingly clear image. Often I felt had to leave the room. Soon it became the case that whenever I expected I would have to speak in class, I would fake an illness and stay home. I became quite adept at massaging a thermometer with my tongue, producing enough of an elevation to alarm my mother and persuade her that I needed to remain in bed for the day. The most disturbing of these phobic situations to me was school assemblies -- that is, watching older students acting as master of ceremonies for the assembly program. I'm certain that I was much more frightened than they were. I couldn't imagine how they could do it, and I was absolutely certain that if ever I had to do it myself, I would die. Altar 2 Loss of control over body functions when we become fearful is an experience that most of us have had. The cotton-candy-mouth, the quavering voice, the quivering hands and shaking knees that may accompany a stint of public speaking are common. Fainting under these circumstances is rarer, but it is an even clearer example of loss of control. Fainting usually happens just when we are trying our best to stay in control, such as when we are very frightened. It first happened to me when I was 12. Unlike most of my male friends, I was an unusually religious kid, perhaps because religion seemed to offer some protection from all the things I was afraid of. At any rate, I was an altar boy and I loved it -- getting up at five in the morning, quietly slipping on some clothes, and running to get to St. Thomas Aquinas church by 5:30 to prepare for the six o’clock mass -- it was all so secretly exciting. I liked it even better if I was the only altar boy to show up, because then I could savor the magic without having to talk to anyone else. There were so many special things to do: lighting the candles that towered over the altar, and, even better, blowing them out after Mass with a single puff from the mechanical candle snuffer; pouring the wine into the brilliantly carved glass cruets, and during Mass, pouring it into the priest's gleaming golden chalice; giving correct Latin responses (mostly) to the priest's prayers; ringing the bells three times to announce the consecration of the host. Most of all, I loved the feeling of spirituality it gave me. I genuinely felt close to God when I was kneeling in front of the altar in my cassock and surplice. You can imagine how thrilled I was when I was picked to serve the eleven o'clock Mass on Easter Sunday morning. It was pretty unusual for the head altar boy to choose a 12-year-old for this honor. After he told me, I thought about it every day, and when I woke up that special morning, despite my mother's cajoling, I couldn't eat a thing. I was so eager, I ran all the way to the church, getting there at nine so I would be ready. I looked out at the congregation through the secret peep hole just before the 11 o’clock Mass was to start and saw that the church was jammed. People were standing in the aisles, among them two of my best friends from the sixth grade. At a special high Mass like that, there are many additions to the usual ceremony. There were several priests involved in the celebration, each with a unique role to play. There was an incense boat (a metal bowl that held the smoking incense) to prepare and light at the right time. There were a lot of special prayers to be recited. I was scared silly that I would make a mistake. Though I was very nervous, I managed to do my part correctly, until just after the reading of the Gospel. I began to feel light-headed, and sweat started winding its way down my back. My hands got clammy and a powerful nausea swept over me. I remember only one feeling: irritation. I should have been in my glory, and this was a hell of a time to be coming down with some disease. Then the world began to go in and out of focus. It was obvious that this was something more than a bout with the flu. I had never fainted before, but at that moment, the image that came to my mind was of my mother fainting in church. I had seen this happen on at least six occasions, and had wondered if I might have inherited this weakness from her. I heard a voice -- mine, but it didn’t sound like it -- say, “No, I don’t want to!” Finally, as if I were dreaming it, my body gradually folded itself down onto the altar steps and the bright lights faded away. When I regained consciousness, I was back in the sacristy lying on one of the benches. At first, I couldn't imagine what had happened, and then I realized I'd fainted. One of the younger priests was sitting beside me, and asked if I were all right. Weakly, I assured him I was fine. A friend walked me home, and the priest called my mother to explain what had happened. When I got home, the family doctor was waiting for me. He examined me and said there was nothing wrong. It was just that it was a hot day and I had become overly excited -- nothing to get upset about. I was upset, though. I felt that I had made a fool of myself while practically everyone in our neighborhood had watched. I had completely lost control of myself in a way that I identified with my mother, and saw as a female weakness. When I went to school Monday morning, I expected to be chided for my embarrassing collapse, but aside from a couple of friends asking if I were okay, nothing much was said. For a while, I thought people were looking at me strangely, but by the end of the week, things were back to normal. They were normal, that is, until the next Sunday morning when, as I was serving Mass, I began to feel like it was going to happen again. I started to feel the same symptoms, and left the altar during the middle of the Mass, before I could disgrace myself again. I went straight home, so I saw none of my friends until school the next day. This time, my schoolmates weren't so respectful of my feelings. "Hey, Dacey," one of them chided, "How come you took off during Mass yesterday? Whatsa matter, were you afraid you were gonna take another nosedive?" Another put his hand on his head, rolled his eyes skyward, and imitated me crumpling to the ground. Needless to say, these antics got quite a laugh. I was mortified, and reacted in the typical adolescent way: I quit being an altar boy. I told myself that I really no longer wanted to serve at Mass, anyway, and hoped that that would put an end to this distressing period of my life. Of course it didn't. Increasingly, my fear of fainting in church began to spread to other situations. Soon it became the case that whenever I knew I would have to speak in class, I would fake an illness and stay home. I became quite adept at massaging a thermometer with my tongue, producing enough of an elevation in my temperature to alarm my mother and persuade her that I needed to remain in bed for the day. I had developed a serious social phobia. The most disturbing of these phobic situations to me was school assemblies. It terrified me even to watch an older student acting as master of ceremonies for the assembly program, standing there all alone, being judged by 1,400 other kids. No doubt I was more frightened than they were. I couldn't imagine how they could do it, and I was absolutely certain that if ever I had to do it myself, I would die. One of the curious things about most phobics is our popularity with other people. As Claire Weeks, author of several widely-read texts on phobia, puts it, "Most of the phobics I have met are unusually nice people!" Whether we are nice or not, it is clearly true that most of us badly want to be liked. Perhaps it is a result of our sense of vulnerability. Our fearfulness tends to spread from one type of situation (public speaking) to others (parties, interviews), and soon we feel we'd better be especially nice to other people, since we never know when we may need them to help us if we begin to lose control. At any rate, throughout my junior high school years, I found myself being elected to several class offices, and in my final year, was nominated for graduating class president. I was horrified. The president also served as assembly MC. As I walked home from school that day, I remember banging a stick against the side of a fence I was passing. I found myself cursing the Lord for making me the kind of person who had to suffer this terror. I thought about the first assembly for which the president-elect for the spring term would be the MC. It was the worst one, the one when the Christmas season was celebrated. The first thing the MC had to do was read the Christmas story from the Bible. The reading took about five minutes. For five minutes, I would be all alone on that huge stage, with 1,400 pairs of eyes watching me, 1,400 pairs of ears listening to me describe the birth of Jesus. Thinking about Him, I found myself picturing Him at His "sermon on the mount." Thousands of people hanging on His every word. He must have been mighty scared as He started that speech. I know it sounds egotistical, but suddenly I felt inspired. Maybe I was meant to do this thing. Instead of copping out, I should run for the presidency, and if elected to it, maybe I would be able to be the MC. I was elected and one day in the middle of December, found myself sitting in the large chair on the stage of West Junior High. I waited there with the Bible under my arm, the words of the Christmas story printed in large type on sheets of oak tag paper inside. The students began to fill the auditorium, both the main floor and the balcony. Soon they got settled, and I rose and walked slowly to the center of the stage, hoping to make it through. That's all I remember. They tell me that I read the story well enough and that the assembly went well, but I have no recollection of it at all. For a long time, I had a suspicion that maybe I had fainted again, and no one was willing to tell me, but I think someone would have told me by now, so no doubt that didn't happen. One of the curious things about most phobics is our popularity with other people. As Claire Weeks, author of several widely read texts on phobia, puts it, "Most of the phobics I have met are unusually nice people!" Whether we are nice or not, it is clearly true that most of us badly want to be liked. Perhaps it is a result of our sense of vulnerability: we feel we'd better be pleasant to other people, since we never know when we may need them to help us if we panic. Another common trait is a highly developed sense of humor. No doubt we like to laugh, and to make others laugh, because it helps to dispel fearful thoughts.