I Heart Pole Dancing

I've been told that I'm excessively dramatic once or forty-eight thousand times in my life. It's harsh and painful to admit, but it's very true. In fact, if you were to pick one all-encompassing word to describe me, it would definitely be "dramatic." I can't even help it. I just feel and see things very intensely. It's the only part of me that's absolutely black or white. It makes for great story-telling though.

My dramatic nature definitely has its drawbacks. When I'm sad, angry and/or upset, it feels like the end of the world for me. The worst part is that extreme measures always seem like logical choices. For instance, suicide undoubtedly feels like a viable option. Dramatic? Duh, where have you been? It's a selfish alternative, I know, but everything under the sun that causes pain in my soul never seems like it will end. I tend to ruminate on negative thoughts until I drive myself to the brink of madness. Take a look at my writing. That's a true indicator of my dramatic self. I can't even prevent myself from using spectacular words in both script and conversation.

While in college, at my theatrical peak, I experimented with drugs. For many, it's a great way to numb themselves from the pain. I don't suggest people attempt this, but I certainly tried to get myself addicted to something, anything. My thoughts were ruining me. I needed something to stop the words from trickling into my head like a growing epidemic. I actually felt my frontal lobe turning black.

I tried cocaine once. The taste it left going down my throat was like when you crush an aspirin with your teeth and then swallow it. Only, it numbed my passages a little. At first I felt hyper-focused, but then my heart started to feel like it was going to rip out of my chest and explode once it came into contact with the air. Back then, I could barely tolerate a cup of coffee or Dayquil, so I don't know what the hell I was thinking. The jitters lasted for hours, but it felt terminal. The worst part was that I began to obsess on how horrible I was feeling and since it's coke, I concentrated strictly on it. I never did that again. No, thank you.

Next was the acid. Everyone told me it would be a fun journey and I'd see all sorts of fantastic imagery. What people left out was that you need to be in an optimal environment for it to be a good time. My friend and I went to see a 3-D porn flick that a USC student made called "Lollipops." Holy crap. No one told me the ejaculation shots would be in 3-D too. It became an arsenal of Chlamydia bullets coming at me. People must have thought I was insane because I was the only one dodging the screen. I ran out of there in a panic. My acne-laden friend chased me. It only got worse. He looked like one giant whitehead to me. It was totally disgusting. I went back to my dorm and hid in my room. It took eight hours to come off of it. Avoiding withdrawals is what usually keeps people doing drugs continuously. For me, it kept me away from them. No more acid for this little lady.

Subsequently, someone suggested I try ecstasy. I had high hopes for this one. Just look at the name. I want some of that. I was done with sinking into my abyss of insanity. I downed a pill and about an hour later, my best gay friend and I were rolling around naked in his furry blanket. It felt good. The sensation against my skin was nothing short of incredible. The only problem was that we were rolling around uncontrollably and we had left his apartment door open. We spilled ourselves into the hallway via blanket waterfall. A lot of people saw our nakedness that night. The comedown was not as difficult as it was with acid, but I was mortified enough to never go there again. I lost control and that frightened me enough to think about it nonstop for months.

I experimented with mushrooms a couple of times in between. It was ok, I suppose, but the withdrawal symptoms were too intense, more so than acid. The high was fun though. I never did them back-to-back. At least three months or more passed between my 'shroom trips. Eventually, I just outgrew it after about four uses. They tasted like the cow dung from which they came and my stomach suffered each and every time.

More drugs were thrown at me such as heroine, Vicodin, speed, and "Special K," or Ketamine, but I passed. I felt doomed to actually have to deal with my emotions. I drank and smoked marijuana occasionally, but that still kept me in the realm of consciousness, well, unless I drank to excess. Blacking out is never fun and I chose not to visit there often. So there it was: A drug journey that ended with me still victim to my own demented cognitive processing. So what the heck was I supposed to do?

I started running. I'm not really sure where or how that began because I have abhorred running my entire life, and have avoided it like I had been avoiding my dramas. It felt unbelievable, more than anything I had tried. It wasn't necessarily the feeling I got while running, but the mean rush of endorphins that exploded after I was done. The only problem was that I still didn't enjoy actually doing it. It's painful, so it was hard to continuously motivate myself to get out. Consequently, I became sporadic with this exercise and I suffered mentally again.

It wasn't until I moved up to Oregon and went to a friend's bachelorette party that I discovered what would be my ultimate drug. We went to a female strip club (I have unconventional friends). I was watching this one dancer in particular with the most phenomenal body I'd ever seen. I sat at the rack while she seductively moved around. When she came by me, I put down several ones in hopes that she'd stay long enough to ask her questions. As she leaned over me, putting her pierced vulva in my face, I asked, "Do you do Pilates?" She contorted her fierce abs around me and said, "Hell no! I just do this all the time."

Something in me changed that day. My obsessive, dramatic nature took a crazy turn. For once, I was ruminating on thoughts that weren't negative. I absolutely had to start dancing too. I didn't want to be a stripper though because I'm certain that wouldn't have helped with my psychosis. Yet, plans were formulating and eventually, after a rough start where I didn't know if I would or could ever do it, I met Freya; my instructor and my drug-dealer.

Pole dancing turned out to be one of those activities I just can't quit doing. It's been almost three years now twirling around on a brass pole for me. It's absurd how extraordinary it can make me feel. I feel confident, undeniably sexy, and for once in my life, certain about the person that I have become. My self-esteem assembled itself, literally while I was hanging out. It courses through my veins like I'm certain a heroin injection would. When I don't do it because of illness or injury, I visit the dark side again. As a result, Freya has taught me to pole dance through and around those things.

My outlook on everything has altered. I'm still dramatic, no doubt. That's just never going to change. It truly is, what it is. However, the way my drama manifests itself has positively morphed. I still feel very passionately about things. For example, when I'm around people I love, friends and family, I feel deeply. I can see the layers in their skin that make them beautiful. I know every last detail that people's faces make when they showcase their emotions. Their exquisite individuality creates this song in my ears. In those moments, I always forget my own despair and the elation of knowing these people trickles in my ear like Vivaldi's Winter in the "Four Seasons."

If I had never encountered pole dancing, I'm not really sure where or whom I'd be. My whole demeanor has transformed into something very inspiring. It keeps me sane. I still take trips to the negative places occasionally, but it's not like what it used to be. Suicide has lost its appeal. It's definitely not as trendy as it once seemed. As dramatic and in character as this may sound, I do believe my pole dancing discovery has saved my life. "Grateful" doesn't even begin to illustrate how I feel.