It wasn’t very far into the Oscar-nominated movie Black Swan that it became apparent something was very wrong with Natalie Portman’s character, Nina. An overachieving ballerina with a mother who is borderline infatuated with her daughter, her beautiful but extremely fragile facade begins to crack almost as soon as we are introduced to her.

She practices her dance, obsessively and frantically, to the point of injury; she sees things that aren’t there; she vomits repeatedly; and she harms herself with picking and scratching. As these things are happening in the movie, the audience in the theater where I am sitting gets a little vocal. They gasp, they murmur, they all seem to share the same opinion of the crazy girl. I nod and murmur, as well. Vigorously. Perhaps a little too vigorously. I pull it back a bit.

But I’m uncomfortable. Some of those “crazy” things that Nina does, I also do. And the gasps feel like stinging judgment.

I live with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, which presents as both Body Dysmorphic Disorder and Dermatillomania. This basically means I am preoccupied with my appearance in an unhealthy way — often having a distorted view of that appearance — and I scratch at myself.

I’ve always known that I was a little bit off. Of course, most teen girls are critical of their own looks, but I was extreme about it. I would become fixated on tiny flaws I would find with myself, mostly on my face.

“I don’t see it,” friends would say.

“Right there!” I’d reply, completely frustrated, “The skin is a different color. It’s disgusting.”

Coming from a family with roots in Scotland, there was no shortage of freckles to point at, be consumed by, and scratch at. “That shouldn’t be there,” I’d think, and try to remove it. I’d stare in the mirror for long periods of time, making me seem vain or insecure. But it was more than that.

When I was in my late teens and early twenties, BDD morphed into bulimia. I spent a few years vomiting, obsessing about imperfections, and scratching. I weighed myself several times every day and misused laxatives, and tiny blemishes (and, sometimes, nothing at all) turned into scars. I lived in a house with giant, sliding mirrors for closet doors and could stand in front of them for hours, nose almost to glass, tormented by every imperfection. I stopped leaving the house except for desperate runs to the grocery store so that I could feed my family and the void in me — food which the void would send back a short time later into the toilet. Plus there was the seven-day a week trek to the gym. Since gyms tend to put mirrors on every flat surface in the building, I could stare at myself while I chased perfection (which I wouldn’t know even if it existed and I had achieved it). While the other gym users would watch TV while they worked out, coming and going around me, time would stand still as I watched a distorted version of myself climb a staircase to nowhere for hours on end. Then I would quickly run home for more up-close inspection and scratching. At some point, the scratching became subconscious, and I could be be doing something as simple as watching TV and end up with blood on my face and hands, not remembering hurting myself. That was one of the hardest things for me to watch in the movie — Nina seeing the damage she’d done without even realizing it, and looking confused. Add a look of disappointment upon realizing she’d been doing it, and that’s the most I have ever looked like Natalie Portman in my life.

Today, I’m healthier. I’ve been through years of therapy and tried several anxiety medications, but I’ve settled on meditation and visualization when my brain starts whirring with destructive thoughts. I only have a few mirrors in my house and limit my time in front of them. On bad days, that means setting an alarm for 15 minutes so that I can apply my makeup and brush my hair but not get lost in my reflection. I still scratch at myself, especially when I am under a lot of stress, but usually realize it before too long and find another way to deal with what’s going on.

So, I related more than some people to Nina as she danced with madness and, ultimately, was consumed by it. It was a month ago, and I’m still having nightmares. Not about the movie, but about the experience of seeing the movie. And the disgust of the audience. Of course, I’m not ripping all the skin off of my hand or pulling feathers from my back and, objectively, I know that the behavior is shocking and their responses were normal. But objectivity has little to do with things when you have my condition. If it did, I wouldn’t have all these scars.

I once dated a guy who was a 35 year old virgin. He had learned what little he knew about sex from pornography which, in theory, seemed totally endearing and somewhat hot. In practice, though, it left a lot to be desired. And it took a long, long time to get to the practice. You know, because of the whole “virgin” thing. When we finally got to it (my suggestion, naturally), I ended up the sadclown in a 3 ring shit circus.

We headed upstairs in his parents’ house, which was where he lived (hey! how ’bout them stereotypes?), for my first glimpse of his bedroom. It smelled musty, like an old man’s pockets, and was covered in stacks of comic books. Like, every square inch had not just a comic book on it but at least a foot of them. Also, Toy Story sheets.

He tried to undress me in a sexy way but I wasn’t having any of that. I had waited two months and it felt like this might take two more months, so I hissed, “Stop it! Just take off your clothes!” You know, because I’m a lady. Also, we all know that there was no way a virgin was going to figure out a bra clasp his first time out, right? Right.

So, we’re nude. He’s ready. I’m ready. We’re standing next to the bed. I’m a cowgirl and I’m trying to figure out how to get this guy to lay down. He’s standing there, awkwardly grabbing my breasts and kissing me, but in a weird half-mouth/half-face kind of way. Like he missed his mark but kept on trucking like a little trooper.

“Um, hey, you wanna lay down?”

“No, I wanna slide my throbbing love muscle into your beautiful flower.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I want to bury my throbbing cock in your secret garden?”

“No talking, okay?”

“Okay.”

I finally got tired of standing there, naked, staring and kissing in a way that was making my semi into a bye-bye and climbed up on the bed. He was 6′ 7″, I am 5′ 6″. It really was a climb. I laid there as he sort of hung over me on all fours, unsure of what to do.

“Really, if you’ll lie down, I’ll take care of this.”

Still hovering. No laying. Just looking at me.

“Are you going to join me down here?”

“Can I talk now?”

“Yes. What is it?”

“I want to snake my tongue deep into your hot, juicy pussy…”

“I gotta go.”

“Please stay.”

I did. For thirty more minutes of Cirque du MakeMeGay. Porn had taught him such valuable lessons as “girls can climax from just intercourse”, “sixty-nine is fundamental so climb on up there and dangle it in her face”, and “hey, she’s got another hole, fill it!” The acrobatics rivaled those of a Russian gymnast and felt desperate and sad. Any attempts I made were half-hearted, at best. In the end, neither the throbbing love muscle nor the hot, juicy pussy met their bliss.

Not even I’m horrible enough to break up with someone after that shit show, so I hung in for another month or so. We never again attempted what he called “lovemaking”. Barf. We still talk from time to time. He says he lost his virginity with me but I contend he could still claim virgin if he wanted to. I don’t think he does. The good news is, I think he’s got a promising future with Ringling Brothers, should he choose it. Me? My future’s in the rodeo.

In my life, I’ve tried out many a ‘do on my Little Miss Don’t. For the first 25 years or so, she roamed free. Like a gazelle. Or maybe a porcupine. Then I found porn and realized that everyone didn’t look like me down under. Up until then, I had only seen other cooches in anatomy textbooks or National Geographic magazines or in my college dorm room. Every one I had ever seen pretty much looked like mine, give or take a few tufts. This world of partially hairless love pillows intrigued me. A snoozy sex life (I was watching the porno alone so, uh, yeah) lead me to try to jazz up my vageezy. I took a little off the bottom at first, as sort of a fuzzy version of training wheels. Or, at least that was the plan. But, for some reason, I couldn’t get it right. I couldn’t get it straight. I tried again and again to make a neat triangle, taking off tiny bits at a time. The triangle got smaller and smaller. Narrower and narrower. Soon, I was left with Hitler’s mustache, staring back from the handheld mirror. No, I supposed that wouldn’t do. I went full tilt boogie, cleaning up until all I was left with was a mound resembling a hamburger bun, split and all.

While it took a little getting used to, visually, I wasn’t really looking at it all that much. What I WAS doing was feeling it. It. Was. Awesome. I felt free, I felt sexy, I felt itchy. Okay, yes, it was a little itchy. But free and sexy! I vowed to never go back to the jungle!

But, time and two kids lead me back. I wandered away from the clean shaven muffin of yesteryear. I got busy. I got hairy. Then I got a job showing my business on camera. I went back to completely bare down there. But it seemed like a chore. It was for work, so I automatically resented it. It was a uniform for my pussy. As soon as I went back to wearing clothes for a living, I went bushy again. In fact, I’ve gone back and forth most of my adult life. My poor ladyfriend is a schizophrenic in a hall of mirrors.

So, back to this morning. I didn’t have time to fix her up right then and there in the shower. Once you get to the stage where it looks like you are smuggling Rip Van Winkle in your panties, it takes a while to right the wrong, if you know what I mean. I was late, as always, but drove extra careful on my way to work, lest I have an accident and have to be stripped naked in a hospital, only for them to find Richard Simmons’ fatter twin between my legs. I also tiptoed around at work, sure this would be the day that I amputate my arm in the flower chopper or one of my excoworkers comes in all disgruntled to settle the score. Not with me but, you know, sometimes there’s collateral damage. “Please don’t let me die today,” I prayed, “Not this way. Won’t spontaneously voiding my bowels be punishment enough for my misdeeds?” What I secretly DIDN’T reveal in the prayer was the fact that spontaneously voiding my bowels is not unique to death and, instead, pretty much a daily event for me.

So, I made it through the day without incident and am finally safe at home where I can makeover Wednesday Addams and take her from slightly frumpy to totally humpy. But it’s late. I had a hard day. I am tired. And the Berenstain Bears are on. Tomorrow, though, tomorrow… doubleprayers and then double blades. Probably.

The thing is, I was sure I was going to be an actress, and everyone knows that actresses don’t have to care about other people, but thought that training to do so could only benefit me (duh) in case I needed to play someone who was empathetic. I practiced making concerned faces and sympathetic eyes in the mirror and really selling the whole caring bit. I decided that frosty pink lipstick really brought out the “I’m here for you, friend”-ness in my mouth and always wore Love’s Baby Soft, in case I wanted to go in for the hug with a little extra squeeze at the end for authenticity. I worked on crying on cue, but couldn’t master it. I hadn’t yet experienced enough tragedy in my life. Now, I’ve got more than enough material to draw from and nothing to fake cry for. Thanks a lot, life.

In the end, I think I saw a total of 10 clients all semester and never anyone more than once. Turned out, I was TOO superstraight for peer counseling. I had to ask my fellow counselors things like what a joint was or if lesbians were from Lesbia and, if so, where on the globe I could find it (yeah. that happened). No one wanted to tell their secrets to the girl who was like “Oh, I totally know about that. I read about it in Judy Blume’s ‘Forever’.”

But, before all this. Before the tattling and the fucking around and concerned face and sympathetic eyes and the confusion about drugs and sex, we had…

Peer Counseling Camp!

That’s right, folks. That, there, is a picture of me. And some other people. But definitely me, too. I don’t remember what we were singing, but I’m 100% sure it was inspirational and Up With People-y.

So, internet, now you’ve seen me. And my poor fashion choices. My anonymity just went out the window, along with my pride. Which is great because I was starting to feel a little bloated.

I am the creative type, I am whimsical, I am a flibbertigibbet; I can’t be bothered to recognize the signs of impending urination. Biology means nothing to a daydreamer. So, I am caught completely unaware each time my tinkle comes knockknockknocking on heaven’s door, just about to let itself out. In fact, I don’t know how I manage to hang onto my chubs when I am a such frequent sprinter. To the bathroom.

When I was in elementary school, I was consistently the best speller in my class. I’ve always had a knack for hearing something and being able to visualize the letters it takes to make that sound happen. Someday, they will find some kind of tumor growing at the base of my brain and it will explain spelling genius in what is clearly a non-genius person. But, when I was a kid, it was the one thing I had that made me unique. In fourth grade, this anomaly took me to the school spelling bee.

Four contestants from each grade sat on the stage of the auditorium/cafeteria in front of the whole student body, who was psyched because they were getting out of class but not psyched at all to be watching a damn spelling bee. There was a constant buzz of conversation, even though the principal periodically reminded everyone to quiet down. As my competitors got fewer and fewer, I was thrilled to have a bigger audience to myself and was trying to figure out how to work a song and dance number from Annie (The movie, not the musical. Aileen Quinn 4 lyf!) into my next turn at the mic. As Eminem says, “You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow. This opportunity comes once in a lifetime yo”. I was loath to miss my chance to blow and was considering ways to shine like the top of the Chrysler Building when I heard my name called. At the same time, I realized I really had to pee. Or, more accurately, was starting to pee. All over myself.

I approached the microphone as I felt my pants soak through with urine. When I finally arrived at my destination, I realized I wouldn’t be the star of the show, after all, and the only song I would be singing was the blues. And there was nary a harmonica in sight. I stood and finished what couldn’t be undid as I was given my word. It was “aquarium” and I couldn’t, for the life of me, figure out how it was spelled, even though I’d studied it. My mistake was not having studied it while standing in a puddle of what was only a few hours ago two cartons of chocolate milk.

I was called out and made to sit back in my seat because I wasn’t really out until the next person spelled their word right. I prayed that they did. And that they didn’t notice the small golden pond of piss they were standing in or the strong smell of hobo emanating from me. Thankfully, the next girl spelled her word right and I made a sad face, while simultaneously being thankful that the whole thing was over.

But it wasn’t. Fate, cruel mistress that she is, had it that I wasn’t going home after school that day, but horseback riding with the Girl Scout troop full of popular, pretty girls that my mom was trying to force me into. Good news: I had brought extra pants for the occasion. Bad news: For some reason I had chosen a pair of red sweatpants that hadn’t fit me in years. They were way too short, the elastic around the “ankle” hitting me at mid-calf, and rolled down under my chubby tummy. They looked like spandex leggings, before spandex or leggings even existed and should NOT have been worn without underwear, which I had to do because I’d ditched my pee-soaked pants and underwear in the school bathroom when I changed. Camel toe, much? Yes. Just picture a ten year old fat girl with a bowl cut and visible labia clomping around clumsily on a horse, while five Farrah Fawcett lookalikes tossed their feathered hair and flaunted their Jordache jeans, which didn’t smell like pee, by the way, and bounced as gracefully as if they had been born into the saddle by pregnant mothers who rode a little too far into their ninth month.

When Charlie’s Angels and I finished riding, I rolled my pants back up over my belly and finally took my sore ass home. I never told anyone what had happened to me but I did notice that my keds smelled like pee and am not sure how the subject of missing pants/underwear never came up. I DO know that I didn’t learn any sort of lesson, whatsoever, and have wet myself maybe hundreds of times since then. In fact, unless I’m at work, I’m almost exclusively a dress/skirt girl primarily so I can shave a few seconds off of my peemergency response time. Plus, it makes it easier to ditch wet panties in a wastebasket and still seem fully-dressed. Even without a smile.

This post was inspired by this over at Sara Swears A Lot. I would hold her vagina, any day.

Ah, 2006. I was an idealistic young lass dating a wannabe rockstar with a band who played music that sounded like the soundtrack for mass-murder, more guitars than books, and penchant for all things German. Apparently, the wall-eschewing Eastern European utopia has the best beer, the best food, and the best death metal. And I just thought they had the best regimes. Anyway, I gamely nodded when Rockstar said these things, because he was good in bett (German for bed, because that’s how I do), and, well, a musician. I was mad about him but he was casual about me, saying his last breakup had really turned him off of true love. So, I did things that would make me seem true love-worthy, like making my eye rolls look like flirting and singing songs from the Annie soundtrack in my head when he wouldn’t shut up about how he couldn’t wait to live in Germany. Someday.

Then came June of that year, and, suddenly, Rockstar was all like “I am so psyched for the World Cup! I totally love soccer, don’t you?” and I was all “I do if you do!” We started frequenting the same dark, crappy bar day after day to watch men run around a grass field for an hour and a half, not scoring. But people were excited. Drunk and excited. Even about tie games. Even when that tie was 0-0. After a while, I didn’t hate it. In fact, I kind of liked it. The camaraderie, the beer, the guys in tight shorts and jerseys. I was enjoying the rare time with Rockstar when he wasn’t abusing something with strings and I was becoming a bandwagon soccer fan. At least, until SHE came around.

Fräulein Soccerpants waltzed into the bar one night, looking plain and a little tired. She was makeupless and bespectacled. Her skin was fair and ruddy, with frizzy hair that matched the color. Now, when I tell you these things, it’s mostly to juxtapose the fact that I am a shiny, sparkly, perpetually-overdressed, cleavage-baring bombshell. This girl was my exact opposite. But, when she stepped up to the bar within whispering distance of rockstar’s ear, she let let loose with “Bier, bitte!”* and all the shiny, sparkly, overdressed cleavage in the world couldn’t have gotten his attention.

“Excuse me, are you German?” he asked her.

They talked for the next thirty minutes or so and, after five of them, I finally stuck out my hand and introduced myself in a sort of ugly way. She wasn’t interested and he didn’t bother with so much as an “Oh, yeah, this is my date”. I went from girly pout to downright pissed as time went on. Finally, I faked an “I’m leaving” huff that went unchallenged. I sat in my car in the parking lot, waiting for him to come after for what seemed like forever before realizing he wouldn’t be making that Hollywood-style gesture for me. My heart broke a little.

That was it. Our last date. I waited for him to call and apologize. Then just for him to call. He dumped me by text message three days later with a very honest “Sandi and I have decided to date. She doesn’t want me seeing other people and I don’t want to.” No “I’m sorry”. No “I hope you’re not mad”. No “When can I pick up my cd’s?” I guess he wasn’t really sorry, concerned if I was mad, or interested in getting his stuff back. His bold honesty felt like salt in a wound that was still only a few days old.

Rockstar and his Fräulein married soon after that. I ran into one of his bandmates at a party and he told me he wasn’t sure if it was true love or the fact that her green card was expiring in two months. Either way, he said, they seemed happy. The wound was a scar by then, but still had a weird sensitivity. Because he couldn’t commit to me, didn’t mean that he couldn’t commit. What a hard lesson to learn.

I’m zen about the World Cup now. I don’t pretend to love soccer, but I really like when people come together for things and the world feels like a Coke commercial. I can look at my life and realize that it is not ruined but I can’t think of him, her, that time, and that lesson without feeling a very real pang. Heartache is the same in any language.

* I don’t know what her exact words were. There was a soccer game going on with quite a bit of drunken cheering. But she got a beer and my computer’s English-German dictionary says that means “Beer, please!” so it’s gotta be close. If you were there and know what she said, feel free to contact me. Danke.