A Lifetime of Embarrassing Events

Embarrassment or awkwardness is an emotional state associated with mild to severe discomfort. It usually happens when someone commits a socially unacceptable or frowned upon act witnessed by or revealed to others.

Looking back on my life, I realize I've had many embarrassing events. If I write my memoir one day, it will be called "I Didn't Think It Through." That's how embarrassing events usually happen. Someone acts, speaks, or engages before consciously thinking about the results of those actions. Welcome to my world.

One of my earliest memories was when I was a dancer and a member of the "Senior Line" in Little Rock, Arkansas's version of the Rockettes. My red velvet costume was covered in mirrors designed to reflect light as we high-kicked our way across the stage. The material around the bottom of my costume came loose, and "not thinking it through," I grabbed a straight pin, pulled the material to the costume's crotch, and pinned it as a temporary fix before going on stage. The first kick and up the pin came, and the pain was immediate.

My mother later described the scene from the audience as lights flashing and high kicks being performed in time with the music. However, there was a noticeable sag in the middle of the line as the dance team struggled to drag one poor dancer with them through the routine and finally off the stage. My mother said she knew instinctively that the sag had to be her daughter. She said the only saving grace was that no one could see who the culprit was due to the light reflected from the mirrors on the costumes. But the team knew and never let me forget it.

When I was in high school, my teachers reached out to my mother, not because I was not a good student but because, as they put it, 'Lizzie is a precious young lady, but we have never seen anyone more scatterbrained.' I could not keep up with anything. I lost everything and would even forget what time my classes started.

From my parents to my teachers, I hated it because I was just dizzy Lizzie or "scatter-brained." But no matter how hard I tried, I could not slow down enough to stop the behavior I hated so much. Sadly, not much has changed over the years.

I ask myself, is it undiagnosed ADHD, or is there something missing in my DNA that makes me the way I am? Some find it endearing, while others find it highly irritating. People who know me well at work and socially call it “pulling a Lizz.” I used to take offense to the phrase but learned to accept it over the years. The term 'pulling a Lizz' could mean anything from losing your driver’s license and talking your way through TSA with a Sam’s Club Card to hopping on a shuttle to the rental car parking lot and remembering you forgot to grab your luggage at the airport. Well, I think you get the picture. To those who find my actions irritating, imagine what it is like to be me. It is more than frustrating. It is maddening.

At 72, I finally decided to seek the help of a professional and went to a psychologist. She spoke with me and said, "Sorry, I can't help you." What? Was I that bad off? She said that my 'brain was on fire.' What in the world did that mean? I knew that drugs like Percocet and Vicodin put most people to sleep but made me want to clean the house or run a marathon, which people found odd. But 'brain on fire'?

I was referred to a psychiatrist, and after a couple of sessions, she recommended an antipsychotic! Okay, now I am psychotic. She explained to me that it would serve to slow me down just a bit. And to tell you the truth. It did! I am a different person.

I rarely forget things, can sleep, and no longer push my coworkers to the breaking point. I think if I were ever unable to afford the drugs, my entire office would pitch in and get them for me.

I am still a tad quirky. I speak many times before I think and occasionally forget things, but it is not debilitating anymore.

I have worked at the same company for 30 years, so the phrase 'pulling a Lizz' may always be used when a coworker does something out of character. But I know I am a better version of myself.

Why am I telling you this? Because no one should wait until they are 72 years old to seek help if needed. If you are struggling with depression, anxiety, or anything unique to you, reach out. The stigma for seeking mental health care needs to end. I only wish I had reached out 50 years ago.