In this week’s episode, our storytellers confront their secret shames and learn to accept themselves.

Part 1: Comedian Amy Veltman doesn’t want to acknowledge her embarrassing gastrointestinal issues.

Amy Veltman is a New York City comic who’s performed across the country. She was the producer and co-host of podcast, 2 Moms on The Couch, which, like her comedy, features her edgy take on motherhood, marriage, and being an outsider in an insider’s world. Amy's in the process of transforming the story she shared with The Story Collider into a one-woman show PSA: PELVIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT, which premieres in December, 2023. She hopes the show, featuring music, characters, and multimedia, will raise awareness of options available for women and men to address pelvic floor health issues. Visit www.amyveltman.com to see when PSA: PELVIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT is appearing near you or to inquire about bringing the show to your organization or theater.

Part 2: Mike Lambert seeks a friend’s help to pick out new glasses, but his secret body dysmorphia threatens to undo him.

Mike Lambert is a writer and storyteller based in Studio City, California. He holds a BA in Theater from UCLA and, in an earlier incarnation, appeared in musicals and cabaret in New York and on tour. He has appeared as a stand-up comedian at the Original Improvisation in New York City and also worked as a joke writer for The Tonight Show with Jay Leno. Original story collections include Homo on the Range: Adventures at Oil Can Harry’s and Dear Mrs. Eddy: Letters from a Bad Christian Scientist. Mike currently works as the graduate advisor for the UCLA PhD Program in English. His credo: "If you don't like to read, for God's sake, surround yourself with people who do. It makes such a difference.".

Episode Transcript

Part 1

About five years ago, I was walking down the street and I tripped and a little bit of urine escaped. I didn't think much of it. It was one off, but then I started noticing that if I would go jogging without a completely empty bladder, the same thing would happen. And then I started noticing that even if I did have a completely empty bladder, the same thing would happen.

Still, I did my best to ignore this, and my best was quite good. There was another issue I wasn't discussing very much with myself. I was having some recurring gastrointestinal issues, GI issues, for about ten years, maybe more. I don't know, because, as I said, I was not discussing it with myself.

Amy Veltman shares her story at Caveat in New York, NY in October 2023. Photo by Zhen Qin.

But what I can tell you is that about once a month, I was having these epic, multi flush episodes of diarrhea, which would then aggravate my hemorrhoids, which share a birthday with my youngest child. They're both 17 and huge.

The worst thing about these episodes is that afterwards, I would have a sore tushy and I would feel really weak and terrible and trembly all day long. My sore butt and I could go through the motions, but these were lost days.

I found a correlation, eventually, between these episodes and eating too much rich food. Makes sense. But, also, they would happen when I ate too much kale, or garlic, or lentils, all the things doctors tell you you're supposed to eat, and the internet. I couldn't make sense of it.

But I was really reluctant to seek help because I didn't even really know what the question would be or who to ask it to. I didn't even share the extent of my issues with my husband, who's a doctor and who really loves talking about his own production or anybody else's.

I know it's pretty normal for a person my age not to go broadcasting every leak and roid, but I think my upbringing made me a little more ashamed. You see, we were brought up not that cleanliness was a virtue. Cleanliness is ‘the’ virtue. My mom says that the smell that reminds her the most of us as babies is Lysol. You know, the toxic foaming cleaning product.

That upbringing turned me into a pervert. I now find clean sexy. Nothing really gets me going like my husband straight out of the shower, just smothered in Speed Stick.

I thought for a long time why I was so reluctant to share with my very accepting husband the issues in my midtown tunnels. It wasn't that I was scared of what he would think. It was me. If I thought clean was sexy, then whatever was going on with my urological and GI systems was the opposite. I felt gross and I hated it. And if I fully admitted it to him, that would be fully admitting it to myself. So, I just kept my denial on blast.

Until one day, I was down for the count from one of these GI episodes and I literally did the math. Let's say my life expectancy is 85. If I'm losing one day a month to these episodes, I will spend more than a full year of my remaining time on Earth feeling embarrassed, uncomfortable. I'll have a sore tushy and I'll feel physically weak. Nobody has that kind of time to waste.

So, I made a New Year's resolution to deal with my shit. I finally Googled the pee stuff and leaking a little urine is not a natural part of aging for men or women. It's not a byproduct of menopause or of having two kids the old fashioned way.

I decided to get it all checked out. I made an appointment with a gastroenterologist and a urologist. Among other recommendations, they gave me a prescription for physical therapy for my pelvic floor muscle.

At my first appointment, I knew there would be Kegels. We all knew there would be Kegels. But what were we going to do for the rest of the hour? I had no idea.

Now, to my understanding, I was at physical therapy to address my stress urinary incontinence, which is the leaking of a little bit of urine involuntarily when I jump or cough or sneeze or laugh or bump my head. Imagine my surprise when the physical therapist pulled out the Bristol Stool Chart.

I never knew about the Bristol Stool Chart. How did I get to be 45 years old and have no idea that there's a perfect poop shape, let alone my actual age, 55? So, the Bristol Stool Chart lists the numbers one through seven. And next to each number is an illustration of a different poop formation, from numero uno, small, adorable pebbles, all the way to the shapeless masses of number seven.

Now, I'm a worldly woman, so I've experienced them all. But, I'll tell you, I'm mostly a number one/number two girl. My poop is cute.

I had always thought that all BMs were created equal, but my physical therapist informed me that, no, I was supposed to be shooting for a three or a four. She told me I was constipated and that was exacerbating the stress urinary incontinence by putting extra pressure on my bladder.

Constipated? I thought that was when you felt like you had to go, but you couldn't. How did I not know this stuff? I don't know.

Then it wasn't just the quality that was lacking. It was my frequency. She told me she wanted to set a goal for me of going nine out of 10 days. My husband and my dad do that, so I always thought that was a man thing or that something was wrong with them. No, it was me.

Okay, learning so much.

Then, the physical therapist, about halfway through the appointment, said to me, "Are you ready to do some internal work?" I had no idea what she meant, so I said, "Sure!" She meant myofascial release or MFR, which is sticking a gloved finger in each of the canals to diagnose if the muscles are restricted. Then, if one of the three layers of muscles is restricted, pressing on it gently to unrestrict it.

I'm very proud to tell you that only my third layer was restricted, meaning I'm mostly chill and only partially clinically tight assed. I could be a total drama queen and tell you nobody is ever ready for that kind of internal work but it, honestly, wasn't that big of a deal. It didn't hurt and I just kept telling myself, "It's medical, so it's not weird."

The day after my all wall probe, I had one of the easiest A+ on the Bristol Stool Chart movements in my memory. This stuff really worked. During my appointment, the physical therapist had given me a pamphlet from a company called Intimate Rose and they sold devices that could help you do your own myofascial release in the privacy of your own home. I was sold.

My nosy kids were out of the house at school, so it was the perfect time to get a device and it would be easy to keep it from my husband. My secret was safe, until I realized that my Intimate Rose package was going to be waiting for my husband and me and my oldest child home on break when we got home from a day trip. I knew I had to get out ahead of it.

“Guys, I just wanted to let you know that when we get back from visiting grandma and grandpa, I'm going to have a package waiting for me.”

“Why are you being weird, mom?”

“I'm not being weird. I just know you're really curious people and I wanted to let you know that I'm expecting a medical device in the mail that my physical therapist recommended.”

“And,” my husband said. He could finally tell I was hiding something.

“Well, it's a pelvic wand, a therapeutic pelvic wand, and I just don't want you confusing it for other similar looking devices that are not for therapeutic purposes.”

“What's the big deal?”

“I upgraded to the vibrating version, okay? You're supposed to buy things that have more than one purpose. I did it for the environment.”

My husband rolled his eyes. My daughter laughed. And as I said it all, some of my shame just evaporated. What is shame but the fear that when the people we love know our secrets, won't love us anymore. I knew they still loved me because they went right back to ignoring me.

My physical therapist also gave me some clothed exercises to do. She told me to drink 100 ounces of water a day, fruits and vegetables to eat more of, less of, to take a deep breath before I exercised, pooped, or ate. It was all doable and it all really worked.

But the reason I sought help in the first place was to address my quality of life. I was spending a lot of time chasing the perfect poopy, which was kind of its own type of restriction. So, these days, I'm just splitting the difference. Five or seven out of ten days is enough. If you see me on the bus, I'll be doing the Kegels. I'm healthy enough. I'm sexy enough. This has got to be enough.

Part 2

I shave in the dark. At the barbershop getting a haircut, I close my eyes a lot. At the gym working out, I focus mainly on the floor. And in a public restroom washing my hands, I focus on my hands. Only in my hands.

I see the people next to me looking at themselves, checking themselves out. No big deal. It's easy for them to do that and I'm amazed. It's like I'm watching Cirque du Soleil. They just amaze me.

I have a brain that distorts reality. That tells me things are very wrong when actually they're not. That tells me I am very wrong when actually I'm not. That tells me my appearance, my face, my skin are very wrong when actually they are not.

Doctors call this body dysmorphic disorder or BDD. According to them, it's a form of anxiety disorder that causes distorted visual perceptions. It's kind of like having a funhouse mirror in your head all the time. For those of us who have it, the experience of it is it's hard cold fact. It presents as reality. A certainty that a monster you see in the mirror is you.

So you learn to adapt, avoid reflective surfaces of all kinds at any cost. Mirrors become the enemy. It makes shopping for glasses difficult.

Mike Lambert shares his story at Crawford Family Forum in Los Angeles in June 2023 at a show sponsored by LAist. Photo by Louis Felix for LAist.

I had gone five years without buying new glasses. Have you been in a LensCrafters store? It's mirrors, all mirrors. It's more reflective surfaces than the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. There's mirrors everywhere, even the mirrors have mirrors.

But one needs glasses. I needed glasses. I was just a little bit at a loss. Frankly, the increasing fuzziness of my vision and the way it affected how I saw myself in the mirror was a plus for me. I actually saw it as a benefit, but the California Department of Motor Vehicles had another way of looking at things.

So I needed help. Therapy wasn't working. There's something called exposure therapy that is the treatment of choice for body dysmorphic disorder. That's when you look at the thing, you force yourself to look at the thing you don't want to look at. Face the monster full on.

They say it works. They say it's effective. I could never do it.

Then one day God appeared on my laptop computer in the form of an online eyeglass dispensary called Warby Parker. I just say at Warby Parker it's so soothing. Their mission statement says Warby Parker was founded on a rebellious idea with a lofty goal to provide fashion eyewear at revolutionary prices. And it doesn't get much more pretentious than that.

But I didn't care. I was grateful because Warby Parker was the solution to my eyeglass shopping problem. No mirror. No light. No store. You just go on their site, you pick your frames five at a time. They send them to your door. They show up on your doorstep free for you to try on until you pick one that you want to purchase. It just couldn't get better than that for me, so I was in for Warby Parker.

I went on the website and I picked out five frames and the frames had names. Eaton, Sterling, Knickerbocker, Fox and Prescott. It's very waspy. Sounds like a speed dating party at Martha Stewart's house. I picked them out and, three days later, they were on my doorstep: Eaton, Sterling, Knickerbocker, Fox and Prescott in a little cardboard box all lined up like little soldiers.

I was excited. I grabbed them. I ran inside. I went straight into the bathroom to take a look, turned out the lights so I could get a good look, and there, with just a hint of Illumination coming in from the hallway, I tried on all five frames. They all looked good in the ambient light.

They all looked too good. They looked so good that I couldn't make up my mind which one, so I started wearing them around and showing them to friends and co workers and getting all their different opinions. But as this went on, everyone had a different opinion. And as this went on, I became more and more obsessed with finding the exact right pair.

Suddenly, it was more than just vision. I was looking for the pair that was going to not fix just my eyes but fix me and make me whole and make me healed and make me fixed. I had never looked at glasses as holding this kind of power before. Just boyfriends.

And my boyfriend at the time, I remembered, was taking private Icelandic lessons, tutoring in Silver Lake with a woman named Unna Friedrich's daughter. Unna was a five foot ten, drop dead gorgeous Icelandic goddess with a fashion sense that Lady Gaga would kill for and a heart so warm and pure that it could melt the polar ice caps, if we hadn't done that already ourselves.

I called her up and I said, “Unna, could I invite you to dinner at a coffeeshop and bring my frames and have you look at them and have you pick the best ones for me?” And she said she would be honored.

I did not tell her about the BDD. I didn't want to burden her with that so I just left that off the table.

We met on a Monday at the Sunset Junction Coffee Shop. Oh, and she also makes handbags out of fish skins. I think it's an Icelandic thing. It's Iceland. I mean, you don't have to know much more about her to know she has an awesome fashion sense.

So she shows up at the coffeeshop. She's got her cod fish handbag. I'm there with my cardboard box from Warby Parker. We sit down and I order a bowl of chili and she orders the special, lobster, because it's Silver Lake.

I pull out the frames and I put on the first ones and they're the Eaton, E-A-T-O-N. I put them on.

She says, “Hmm.” She says, “They fit your face very well, but I'm not sure. Here, let me take a picture.”

And I'm like, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. I'm sorry.” Before I can say, “No, I can't do a picture. You don't understand. I'm troubled. I'm a troubled person. I can't do pictures.” I didn’t have time to say that.

She whipped the thing out, she takes the close up, she shoves it into my face and she says, “Here, look.”

Hah, when you have BDD and you see a photo of yourself, you see that monster. In this case, a monster with fabulous eyewear, but a monster. It's just very difficult.

Anyway, I didn't want to offend her so I pretended. I pretended that my heart wasn't pounding and I pretended that my breathing hadn't stopped and I pretended that I didn't want to dive under the table at that coffeeshop and disappear forever. I muscled through. I just held on for dear life.

The flashes kept coming and the camera kept clicking and the photos were coming. By some miracle, I survived it. I didn't pass out and I made it to the end of our little photo session.

At which point, Unna said, “I don't think we found the right pair yet. Why don't you order five more and we'll meet again next week?”

I meant to say, “No fucking way,” but the words, “Sure. Sounds good,” dropped out of my mouth, like quarters out of a slot machine.

Driving home on the 101, somewhere between Barham and Vineland, I had a breakdown. Not a Triple A kind of breakdown. This was an internal tsunami of Earth moving feelings of sadness and anger and dread and terror.

Now, granted many people experience these emotions when entering the San Fernando Valley, but this was different. This was different. Huge, heaving sobs were coming up from some place in my body I didn't even know was there and I made it off the freeway. Stopped the car and it went on for maybe 15 minutes.

Then I finally got home and when I got inside it came on again. It was like some kind of giant tectonic plate at the base of my being had cracked and shifted and sobs were coming up like magma. At one point, I remember thinking, “Damn, if I could do this on cue, I'd have a great acting career.”

Anyhow, it finally subsided. And when it did, I felt this great peace, this quiet, this calm, and I fell asleep.

The following Monday, I'm in the car going to Silver Lake for a round two. I have the new box of frames in my car. I tell myself this time it's going to be different. This time I will be very clear. I will draw a boundary. I've read Codependent No More 16 times and, damn it, I'm going to draw a boundary. I will tell Unna nicely that I can't do that. That it's just outside my comfort zone. That I don't even have a comfort zone. I don't even know what a comfort zone is.

So I get there. We sit down. I order a patty melt. Unna orders prime rib and soup and pie and a glass of white wine. At this point I'm thinking, “Maybe I should just cut my losses and go for Lasik surgery.” But we're there.

The food is coming and the camera is out. Unna is taking photos and she passes the camera to me and says, “Here, look.” And there's such love in her demeanor and in her voice and I don't want to step on that but, at the same time, I've got to tell her the truth.

I just say, “Unna, I'm really sorry but I have this issue around mirrors. It's difficult for me and I just don't think I can look at the photo. It's like an image in the mirror.” It's worse, really, because it's high def.

And she says, “Oh, sure, you can do it. Just pretend you're someone else.”

And as ridiculous as that sounded, I was so worn down by her goddamn kindness that I had very little fight left in me. And though I knew it wouldn't work, because nothing ever really works, I was out of options.

So a voice said in my head, it just said, “Just go with it. Just go with it and get it over with.”

So I go, “Okay.” I steel myself. I go, “Okay, I'm about to look at the monster, but when I see him I'm going to remember that the monster isn't me. It's someone else. The monster isn't me, it's someone else.”

So I open my eyes and the phone comes my way and I look. And I see a person, an imperfect person, but not a monster. And there's more. It's a likable person, a kind of friendly person. This is what I see. An untroubled person.

I hand the camera back and about half an hour and four eyeglasses frames later, I am finishing my patty melt. Unna orders a schnapps and we are done.

I drive home. No tsunami. As I lay in bed that night, I had this thought. Damn, I am someone else. I am someone else. In a real sense, not metaphorically or poetically or symbolically, but I mean materially and scientifically and factually. I am someone else. I am not Troubled Mike. I mean, I'm really not Troubled Mike. That means I don't have to get better. And that is a huge relief.

And don't get me wrong. This is not a miracle cure story. Troubled Mike still exists. Troubled Mike is real. Troubled Mike is here right now, frankly. But here's the difference. My job is not to fix him or improve him or get rid of him. My job is simple. My job is to walk beside him. Maybe once in a while, if he should need it, put my arm around him and tell him, “It's gonna be okay.”

I went through three more boxes of glasses from Warby Parker and I never did find the right one, so I finally gave up on them, which was great news for my bank account. I ended up with these.

I love them. Thank you. I love them. I call them Sassy Clark Kent. And here's the cool thing about them. I got them at LensCrafters.

Thanks.