Fringe benefits

I booked 14 Festival related shows in 2024 and went to 12. Eight were comedy shows and four were theatre (one of each unattended). One was a BBC radio show taping and the other was a concert. I intended to see eight on my own but managed six. In total that’s 14 hours and 10 minutes of public entertainment.

I know this is small fry compared to many hardcore Festival goers. I’ve recently been watching countless video recaps with typical titles such as “Seeing 35 Fringe shows in three days”. One acquaintance of mine had around 55 shows booked and had crafted a shared spreadsheet so he and his friends could successfully navigate through the volume of commitment made.

The idea that I would attend 12 shows, let alone any, even as recently as last year, would have been inconceivable. For almost as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be the kind of person who goes to concerts, sees comedy, enjoys large group experiences (well, maybe not so much the latter). I like culture, I love music and I like hearing from inspiring people. But time and time again I would make plans and either be filled with overwhelming dread in the days leading up to the thing I was supposed to be looking forward to, or I would simply pretend to be sick or invent some other misfortune, so that I could back out of it when the time came.

There were multiple examples of the disconnect between intellectually wanting to go and the physical reality of doing so. With hindsight, many are pretty comical. One of my most embarrassing experiences was seeing Ellie Goulding at the (fairly small) O2 ABC in Glasgow. I was relatively close to the front and after being exposed to the strobing lights and pulsing bass vibrating from the floor through my whole body I experienced an intense panic attack. As I said, this was an Ellie Goulding show. I somehow managed to make it from the middle of the crowd (of young girls accompanied by their parents) to the side of the venue where I promptly collapsed on the floor waiting for my end. I was in my late twenties. I was conscious enough to clock that not a single person attempted to help me. Instead I soberly listened to their judgement and speculation that I had been drinking too much or on drugs. A few years later I had an intense bout of panic during a comical talk by Ruby Wax who was promoting her book on how to improve mental health and wellbeing. No, really.

These experiences made me wary. Why was I unable to participate in things I wanted to attend and that other people seemed to do with such ease and god forbid, actual enjoyment? I had no real way to understand what was happening.

Explanations centred around social anxiety didn’t really fit - I wasn’t actually talking to anyone when I was out. Claustrophobia didn’t quite work - yes, I didn’t like being trapped in the middle of a crowd but I generally felt more, rather than less comfortable in confined spaces if I was the one choosing the space. Hypochondria was closer - I had never done well with physical sensations in my body that were often so overwhelming that it was hard not to interpret them into some fatal symptom I had no control over. Panic and anxiety were the closest even though I still didn’t understand why the thing I desired to experience would consistently result in such an extreme result. It was embarrassing, it was shameful. I was disappointed in myself. I reasoned that I must need more practice. So I kept trying.

My best friend loves musicals. I don’t but I wanted to please him and despite the aforementioned issues, I still persisted. Perhaps it was a numbers game? Eventually, with enough time I would learn to enjoy it properly. Attending things with him unlocked another problem. Even when I didn’t become swollen with fear, like an overinflated tyre, I realised that he didn’t think I was having a good time, even if I actually was. I found myself being monitored. He’d look at me and decide that I wasn’t having a good time so frequently that I felt compelled to perform for him to convince him I was. And that was just as exhausting as not having a good time in the way I have outlined above. I began to resent this constant checking in so I stopped going to things with him to avoid it. At this point I reconciled to the fact that I just had to accept that there was something wrong with me. I simply wasn’t able to enjoy the things I should be in the right way or indeed, any way.

Very recently, after a period of intentionally not going to things, despite wanting to, I was presented with a reason for all the above. The reason was autism and I was now in my early forties. Despite the imposter syndrome I felt as a high masking, but pretty mentally unwell person, this reason gave me the best understanding of what had been happening to me. Although I had wanted to go to all the things, the reality of doing so was so overwhelming I was having meltdowns as a result. You’d think that accepting that explanation would mean I would have an excuse to avoid those experiences. And I thought that I would.

However, this year, the same year I had this new found understanding, I decided to book a few shows. Initially, my ambitions were small. I booked Hannah Gadsby, a fellow autist, Ashley Storrie, a fellow autist. Both shows with support people to help. However, I’d also gone a bit further. My first show was Mhiari Black and I was due to see this with my brother. He received the news that I was autistic by commenting that of course I’d passed the test because I was very good at studying. Nevertheless, I told him what usually happened to me when I attended things. And upon entering the fully sold out show I experienced the familiar anxiety twinges. My collar bone thrummed uncomfortably, I struggled to remain present. After a while though, these things passed and I managed to participate, even if I didn’t quite manage to stop wondering how much longer it would go on for.

Afterwards my brother told me he had booked a later show that he was attending solo. It meant he had some time to kill and he suggested we go and see something else. Due to feeling relatively brave given my comparative success we agreed to go and see a play based on little more than its name. Upon arriving to the venue, we failed to identify the correct area from a string of other similarly named spaces featuring the descriptor “belly”. We climbed more than three sets of tight, narrow stairs and I began to feel the panic rising in earnest. Eventually we located the right area and began to queue for our second sold out show. To my dismay, I realised that we were being led further and further into the literal belly of the building where we ended up in a tiny room that can only generously be described as a murder room. Cavernous, windowless and draped wall to ceiling in black with densely packed rows of collapsible chairs. I turned to my brother and muttered that I didn’t think I could do it. He brushed this off and we secured a seat as close to the exit as we could. In the moment I thought I might make it a few minutes before bolting. I was sweaty, dissociating and when the door was shut I couldn’t see my exit. Even if I managed to flee there was a good chance I would remain forever trapped, hyperventilating through murder corridors.

Yet somehow I was able to ride the waves of nausea and emerge, after only several minutes, to a state where once more I was able to participate. It felt like a turning point. That experience encouraged me to attend one final show, on my own. I cannot impress on you enough how out of character that choice was. Obviously I am not utterly unhinged so before committing I persuaded my brother to check out the space with me so I could confirm it suitable. This time, something stranger happened. Experiencing the show alone was the easiest yet. Was this because I already had two under my belt? Based on previous experience, this seemed unlikely - it’s now wild to me that I genuinely thought that I had to practice more so as to learn how to enjoy things properly. Perhaps it was because I was reassured to see that there were several other people attending solo? Or perhaps it was because this was the first show of the day that wasn’t sold out and thus wasn’t so densely packed? More likely though, I think it was because when I was alone I didn’t have anyone else’s reaction to worry about. No one knew me so I could claim my space and attention in any way I wanted. The pressure to enjoy myself had been removed.

After a few days I attended show number four, the Ashley Storrie radio show. My brother was late and I was worried about the timings. I had the tickets and the confirmation email had complicated instructions on how we had to get verified before we would be permitted to be enter. I did not have my brother’s photo ID. Even if I had, the fact that he was not there would have rendered my possession of it redundant. The queue was long and unmoving. The time kept ticking on. Eventually an usher approached me, to find me laden with ID, phone, water bottle, and my rucksack with all my safety items. He scanned both tickets without a word and without requesting ID. I was so stunned I turned to the woman behind me, motioning to the balancing act I had been doing with all my items and commented that I thought it would be far more complicated. She, having been in the same position as me, agreed. And then we made easy conversation, even after her friend and my brother both arrived to the queue. I cannot emphasise enough how this never happens unless I have a dog with me. I actively avoid any possibility of stranger interaction because I am usually so bad at small talk. My brother, who had told me of the many people he had befriended when he had been to things alone was unsurprised. You should book more shows and more people will talk to you, he said. This genuinely seemed like it might be a good thing. Again, if you know me, this is an incredible thought for me to have had.

So, I did. My original plan was to attend four shows. I had already added two additional dates to that total and in the following days I booked eight more, seven of which I was seeing alone. Initially, due to work, I went to one the day after Ashley Storrie and then had a full five days before the next booking, the concert.

The concert ran late and my sleep following it was disrupted. The next day, for the first time, it really seemed like it had been a bad idea to spend so much money on so many shows I was due to see alone. Despite this I persuaded myself to go my midday one woman play, which had been reviewed favourably. I was very uncomfortable. I spoke to no-one in the queue. Despite being in a very well known venue I appeared invisible to even the most aggressive leaflet givers.

I did not enjoy the play. I suppose I had booked it in the same vein as my previous logic - I don’t really enjoy plays and I thought that perhaps I just needed to see more in order to start doing so. Perhaps I booked the wrong kind of play. Solo plays are hard to pull off well. They are particularly hard for someone like me who just can’t seem to get past the fact that the person is pretending. I can see too clearly that it’s not real and it’s all I can focus on. The show was also uniquely triggering as it featured a recurring loud sound effect to replicate the sound of a heartbeat. By the time I exited the show the outside street sounds had started to warp. My ears were pulsing like a sub-woofer, distorting the sound like I was standing next to the engine in a ship. When I got home I had a tight band of tension wrapped around my skull. It didn’t let up. I decided not to go to my next evening play in a potential murder room belly.

The next day I had two more shows. After my first solo afternoon comedy show, upon emerging into the street, my tension headband returned. By the time I went to my evening comedy show, the level of the crowd noise in the venue was making me want to rip the skin off my skull. Still. I wasn’t having meltdowns even if it was clear I was starting to become physically affected by what I was doing.

It was at this point I realised I had been too ambitious. I was able to go to things, even enjoy things, but I still had to accept the limits of sensory overload. I found that wearing noise cancelling headphones, sometimes if necessary, even doubling up ear plugs with over ear, helped enormously with the tension headband phenomenon. More helpful still would have been the knowledge that I need more time between things to get back to a normal level.

However, by the time I reached my final day of bookings I had gained the ability to set boundaries by choosing not to attend my final show. I could accept that I had reached my personal saturation point. It’s not even that hard to frame this in a positive, as opposed to negative light. This was the first year I found a way in which I could get to go to things I wanted to and do so in a way that allowed me to enjoy them.

And that’s a massive fringe benefit if you ask me.