It’s not just because I’m in love with Ian McClaren.

Although I am, of course, in that (mostly) unthreatening, deliciously agonizing way that straight girls are, with certain boys.

And I did try Bikram again, after one horrifying and nauseating experience, because of Ian.

I arrive in the “hot room,” a sterile, enclosed space heated to 105 degrees, with about 40% humidity, and come face to face with a wall of mirrors that we’re apparently supposed to calmly gaze into for the entirety of the 90 minute class.

Let me stop right there.
I’m supposed to look into a mirror for 90 minutes?
At this point in my life I was spending as much of the day as possible avoiding mirrors.

And yet.

I was more shut down on stage than I wanted to be.

I had discovered this after finding Black Box, which happened six years after I quietly ducked out of the industry. I remember the second I quit acting. I did it because I could no longer deny that I felt fake.

I’d quit because I felt like a fraud and an indicator in all the work I’d been doing – the performances and auditions alike – and it felt physically repulsive.

After six years of contorting myself in various ways trying to make my day job fulfill me, and becoming miserable in the process, I decided to take a class.

I found Black Box. And about 10 minutes into the first day of Laura Hooper’s B1, I felt something deep and old inside me just relax. And I knew I was home. What utter, indescribable relief.

I was quickly convinced that Black Box would help me work with who I really was, and lead me to a place where I no longer would have to feel fake on stage. What I hadn’t counted on was the sheer weight of the armor I’d built up in the six years that I tried to “pass” in the “real” world.

I was impenetrable. I couldn’t let anyone’s behavior affect me. I was terrified of being seen.

We were told in class over and over that we would learn to “own ourselves without apology.” I barely understood what that meant. I certainly wasn’t able to do it. I felt like there was a block of ice around my heart.

This frustrated me to no end, but of course it was a survival skill I’d cultivated for years. And it had served me well.

Except that I was shut down, on stage (and in life, though I wouldn’t discover this delightful fact until later).

And I was utterly unable to look at myself in the mirror.

So, I’m in Bikram.
I face the wall of mirrors, screw my face into a mask of determination and focus – one thing I know how to do, after all, is work hard – and watch my body as I’m led through two sets of 26 poses and two breathing exercises. And I watch myself sweat.

Not like sexy, glistening skin. Ugly, messy, drops flying, puddles of sweat.

Oh –
and then I feel high.
Like, Less than Zero high.
So, naturally, I went every day for 60 days. Usually at 6:00 a.m. before work.
(No one has ever accused me of being sane.)

And the thing about Bikram is that in many ways it directly correlates with Black Box.
Work Hard – stay in the room. Commit to every pose.

Be Honest – No one really cares if I’m doing my best to do the pose correctly, or if I’m “cheating” and sacrificing form for depth, because I want to look cool. But I know. I know.

Bravery – Having to see myself, as I am, not as I wish I were, not as I think I should be, not as I can pretend I am under layers of clothing – the willingness to look at myself in the mirror for 90 minutes while I work hard, get messy, succeed and fail – yes, this takes bravery.

And as the days go by I’m more often able to calmly meet my own eyes in the mirror, and to see myself.

Actors who hide on stage cheat us out of our chance to live through them vicariously, so we can experience something human in the theater that we can’t let ourselves, in our lives.

I found that being forced to look at myself for 90 minutes a day, in fewer clothes than I would even comfortably wear to bed, in fact let me be more honest with myself. I knew when I was tired, I knew when I was competing with another student, I knew when I was holding my breath so as not to feel pain.

It was that Black Box integrity-barometer, following me into Bikram.

As it turns out, spending years of running from who I was and using a variety of things to get relief from myself (and from the running) left me very, very guarded on stage. Because I was guarded in life.

Before I could let myself be deeply seen on stage, I had to go through the process of deeply seeing myself – as I was – with nowhere to hide.

So I still see every line on my face, every skin imperfection, every pound on my ass I’d like to relocate to my chest, every gray hair, every crease under the perpetually puffy eyes that make me look like an insomniac – but I know (on good days) that this makes me human and relatable.

Just like every emotion I used to exert all my effort to hide in life I see now makes me relatable on stage – the desperation, and the fury, and the insecurity, and the hunger, and the passion, and the awkwardness, and the grief – this isn’t neat or pretty but at various times it’s truly how I feel. It is who I am. It’s the raw material I’ve been handed with which to work.

So… I have a choice.

I can either look squarely in the mirror and see who I am today, and let you see me, or I can avert my eyes, deflect, and go through life hidden and half asleep. Numb and protected.

Well. I don’t know about you, but I want access to all of it on stage.

I honestly don’t know how you all learned how to own who you are without apology, but I learned it at Black Box – and, unexpectedly, in Bikram.

It definitely doesn’t mean that I like who I am all the time. But it sure beats pretending I’m someone else.