I have the most nervous stomach in the world.
I struggle immensely with celebrities of all kinds. I get clammy hands and turn a little purple.
Small jerks began to appear in my legs, my walk became unsteady precisely because I wanted it to be smooth.
I don't like heights. This is why I stopped growing at fifth grade.
Before I got in the car, I was puking all over the place and on the grid. I was just a shaking wreck.
I'm not very good with stills. I get all twitchy.
I had to learn to dance for 'The Adjustment Bureau' and it was nearly impossible. I turned up with my knees knocking in my leotard and went home and cried my eyes out.
I do this weird thing in studios where I climb stuff when I get nervous.
I clung to nothing, in a way I was calm. But it was a horrible calm—because of my body; my body, I saw with its eyes, I heard with its ears, but it was no longer me; it sweated and trembled by itself and I didn’t recognize it any more.
There was a point in time where the thought of people even talking about me made me anxious. Physically.
Too much attention to health is a hindrance to learning, to invention, and to studies of any kind, for we are always feeling suspicious shootings and swimmings in our heads, and we are prone to blame studies from them.
If I do hit that rope and do a hop, skip and a jump and get up as high as I can, I'm just going to hold my breath, because I know i'm going to hear all kinds of scar tissue popping.
I break out in a rash if I go to the gym; all I did was shave my chest.
