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My First Psychiatric Disorder

Circa 1986, at the age of 10 or 11, I became an avid consumer of prepubescent girlporn such as Tiger Beat and Teen Magazine, all those rags which featured interviews with and soft-lit portraits of the pretty long-eyelashed teenage male stars of the hour. Though there is no excusing this sort of behavior, I hope that I am at least somewhat redeemed by the fact that I was always embarrassed to buy them. I think my real motivation was to emulate my best friend's much admired older sister, she of the attitude, satin panties, teal eyeliner, and tumultuous love life. In an attempt to absorb some of her cool through imitation, I decided to paper the walls of my bedroom with glamour shots of my idols, never mind that while she had selected objects of adoration with at least a touch of lasting chic (chiefly members of Duran Duran), I limited myself to choices which have not stood the test of time so well, street cred-wise.

Kirk. Corey. Corey. Keifer. Wil. Ralph. With loving care, I removed the staples and trimmed the pages and set about creating a shrine of nonthreatening cuties. Dozens of pairs of doe eyes gleamed from above my dresser; coy smiles and pensive gazes mingled next to my bed. Stonewashed denim and the ill-advised use of pastels abounded. And for a time, all was good in the Land of Puberty-Driven Poor Taste.

In order to understand the transition from "dorky yet content" to "possibly someone should look into institutionalizing this girl," you must have insight into my childhood mindset. If I think of myself as suffering from a touch of the social anxiety disorder now, I was a full-on mess circa Grade 5. Afraid to talk to people. Seeing insult in the most innocent comment. Prone to living in a dreamworld. Add to this an inability to feather my hair or coordinate slouch socks, and a fondness for writing poetry about cats, and you have the perfect recipe for a self-made preteen outcast. As a result, I had plenty of free time and a strong tendency towards daydreaming about my sparkling wit, fly dancing skills and conquests of the male sex, instead of working on making these things a reality. And since ample fantasy fodder adorned my walls, that's where I started.

It started innocently enough: dinner with one teen idol, a movie with another, a ride in a convertible with a third. The romantic picnic atop the cliff with Ralph, my heavy raven-black hair* flowing in the wind, my sea-green eyes** glowing with happiness, his confession of undying love? That kept me going for weeks. All was (strictly PG-rated) bliss.

There was a problem, however. I was doing well with my settings, characters and props (a red rose, a single tear, etc), but the lack of a realistic premise was starting to get to me. There was just no way I could wrangle an introduction to any of my faux beaus. Once I was within range, I was sure, nary a matinee star could resist the imaginary me, but how was I to get a foot in the door? The objects of my affections were all the way across the country and I had no money for a plane ticket. This detail was really bringing me down: I was not the kind of girl who could just plunk herself down in the middle of a love scene, no questions asked. I needed buildup. I needed an in.

My imagination quickly supplied what I thought, at the time, was a neat solution. Through some act of magic, I decided, the pictures on the walls would create a sort of portal into my bedroom, giving my crushes a vision of me at an opportune moment, such as when a fire was starting to engulf my room as I slept or while I was overcome with despair and sobbing on my bed after a tragic act of betrayal. Through a murky process of deduction, this photo-telepathic actor would be able to figure out where and who I was, and notify the fire department or make the morale-saving phone call as appropriate. Once he was made aware of my existence, Love's Baby Soft-scented ecstasy was sure to follow.

Pleased with this clever twist, I went about my business of reading Anne McCaffrey novels and putting the finishing touches on my trysts during math lessons. It worked out beautifully.

A little too beautifully, as it turned out. I began to take the idea that the subjects of the pictures could see me a bit far. If I invented a particularly fine dance step, the pictures saw and approved. Although I was not allowed to wear my lavender-and-blue eyeshadow artwork out of the house, it was noted and admired by the pictures. Witty commentary on my homework was appreciated by the pictures.

My overinvolvement in this fantasy became problematic when I started worrying. If the pictures could see my triumphant moments, then were my poor fashion choices, zit popping, nose picking and snoring also up for grabs? I started to become self-conscious in my own room, feeling that every act was performed before a clear-skinned, blowdryed audience. It seemed to me that my former beaus were slowly turning on me, becoming more and more cruel and distant in their judgment as they got to know me through observation. And since this little psychodrama was taking place entirely inside my head anyway, it was just a short leap to the horrifying notion that the pictures could not only see me, but read my thoughts as well. There was no time or place that I was safe from their scrutiny.

Using my own special blend of low self-esteem combined with narcissism, I assumed that my imaginary audience of movie stars was deeply interested in, and critical of, the details of my life. I started hiding behind my bunk bed or the closet door to change clothes, and questioned my every move. How could I gain their approval? Were my thoughts cool enough? Would my facial expressions pass muster?

A girl can only take so much. When I ripped all the pictures off my walls and threw them away, I made sure I had a plausible reason for doing so. I sure as hell wasn't going to say "Well Mom, I'm taking these down because I've developed an obsessive belief that they can see and judge my every thought and action!" I mean, I knew it was crazy even though it continued to haunt me. I was painfully aware of the separation between fantasy and reality, even if that separation was doing little to protect me from the disparagement of a bunch of make-believe Peeping Toms.

Today, I am still aware of that separation. I am a functional, capable adult with a job, a mature emotional life, and a successful romantic relationship. I have, for the most part, moved beyond those adolescent days of feeling like I absolutely had to be someone, anyone, other than my awkward, uncool self.

All of this growth, however, does not change the fact that I refuse to hang family pictures in the bedroom, and exercise caution in selecting bathroom reading material: no books with portraits of the author on the cover, thanks.

I mean, what would they think?

*My real hair? Blonde, wavy, fluffy.***

**My real eyes? Blue, with gray. Plus what the hell are "sea-green" eyes anyway? Anyone ever seen this? Yet, for a number of years, all my heroines in all my stories had goddamn sea-green eyes.

***At the time. Now, thanks to chemistry, it is red, and straight.

Posted by hilatron at March 19, 2003 06:32 PM