Dark Depression Meets Vaginal Discharge

The one-two punch of my agent's casting couch and Stripper Pimp's gamesmanship hurled me into a pit of despair so deep and so dark that nothing could penetrate it.

I still tried to go through the motions of building my acting career – sending out pictures, meeting with managers and agents, auditioning for any and every crap part I could get seen for.

But I felt like a loser. A stupid loser. A stupid loser who had been had. A stupid loser who had been had sexually, and now had nothing to show for it.

I was completely broke, except for what I could beg, borrow or steal from my 88-year-old alcoholic great aunt. And even though I was wholly dependent on her – or perhaps because I was wholly dependent on her – I hated her. I hated the pitter-patter of her tiny little feet; the high-pitched, mournful whine of her voice; her never-ending befuddlement; the way she barged into my room without knocking; her constant (and I do mean constant) interruptions.

I knew I needed to get a job, but I couldn't figure out how to work during the day and audition during the day at the same time. Or how to work at night, and be available for play rehearsals or casting workshops at night. Acting was an expensive, full-time, nonpaying, soul-destroying job, but it was the only job I ever wanted.

I was screamingly lonely. I missed my family, especially my three-year-old niece.

Loser, loser, loser was my mind's constant, taunting refrain.

I tried to combat the voice, but I felt defeated.

I restarted The Artist's Way.

I wrote affirmations. My dreams come from God, and God has the power to accomplish them.

I tried to pray. God, why doesn't anybody love me? Why don't I have a man? When will my life get better? Please, please, please help me.

I bought tarot cards and started teaching myself how to read them. This new hobby was the only bright spot in a pitch-black month.

I binge-ate Hostess fruit pies and ice-cream sandwiches and jelly doughnuts, all the while worried about my "weight problem," defined back then as being a size 8 in a size-2 world.

I had marathon four-hour phone conversations with my best friend in Detroit, resulting in a $286 phone bill.

And I tried to ignore the smelly, yellow discharge that was oozing from between my legs. At first, I called it a yeast infection. I squirted myself full of Monistat and hoped it would go away.

It didn't.

I went to my chiropractor, who gave me some naturopathic stuff that was supposed to help.

It didn't.

The psychic damage caused by sexual exploitation was no longer invisible. It was now a smelly, real thing that dripped down my thighs for weeks (and eventually, months) on end.

(Stripper/Casting Couch Diaries Part 15 of 17: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17)
(Stripper/Casting Couch Lessons Learned 1-2: 1 2)

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