Life Will Be the Death of Me: . . . and You Too!(5)

I’m sick of my voice, of my ambition, of my entitlement. I’m sick of not knowing more, and I’m embarrassed it took me this long to recognize it. Life has been too easy. I’ve gotten almost everything I’ve ever wanted and I’m forty-two. Something smells funny.

And after all is said and done, I’d like to be cremated and have my ashes scattered over Bob Mueller’s grave. Or inside it. Or his inside mine…or me. Or in one of Daniel Day-Lewis’s clogs.

Thank you.





There was a time in my life when astrology and psychics—not to be confused with physics—fascinated me, but as a general rule, I think it’s all a bunch of bullshit. Meditation seems to work for some people, while medication works for others, which explains why it’s very difficult for me to sit still with my eyes closed for any length of time without Rohypnol.

I’m all for people being “spiritual,” but I am leery of anyone who mentions it more than once in a single sitting, unless, of course, one is on a spiritual retreat—which I hope to God I will never be, if there even is a God. Jury’s out on that one too, at least until the Rapture—an event I’m convinced will end up taking place at the Hollywood Bowl.

    I believe in spirituality as a component of your lifestyle; the problem is that “spiritual people” can sometimes be giant assholes. Madonna doesn’t make me want to practice Kabbalah; she makes me wonder what on earth she has on them that they are willing to let her be their most famous brand ambassador. At least Tom Cruise is a good front man for Scientology, because he seems nice, even though he’s obviously out of his fucking tree.

I feel spiritual when I’m on mushrooms. I’m not into rocks and crystals and chakras and healers…I just think everyone is looking for something, and it seems like some people will settle on the first ray of sun or glimmer of hope they bump into. Los Angeles is a tricky place for vulnerable people. Hourly, you hear words like “gratitude,” “universe,” and “manifest,” and terms like “micro–panic attack” and “artisanal deodorant.” It is a place consumed with trends and fads and avocados and kale, but everything has a shelf life. There will be a point when the women and gay population of Los Angeles will turn their backs on avocados and kale—claiming they cause both cancer and erectile dysfunction—only to turn their attention toward some new colonic hydrotherapist/mystic who convinces everyone that a steady diet of fried calamari is the new anti-inflammatory food for the ages. It will quickly appear on the menu of upscale restaurants and there will be stores selling pre-packaged fresh calamari for eleven dollars a serving. It’s hard to take anything or anyone seriously after a while.



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    I needed to talk to someone but I was embarrassed that I needed to talk to someone. I had spent years skirting the issue of therapy based on the fact that my life was working out pretty well, minus an emotionally stable relationship with someone of the opposite sex. To anyone who would query, I would say, “I’m better off single. I don’t want to be tethered to anyone. I’m not a relationship girl.” My most recent favorite line was, “I’m just more high-functioning as a single person.”

After all, if ninety percent of people were in relationships, then clearly I was special if I had managed to avoid one.

I was forty-two when I finally saw a real psychiatrist. I had seen doctors and therapists before, but never really with the intention of fixing anything that ran deep. I didn’t have the mental equipment to articulate my pain and let someone see me for anything other than what I had become—strong. I was strong, and because of that strength, I wasn’t about to sit in a doctor’s office and cry. Crying for other people was fine. Crying for myself about myself was out of the question. Vulnerability in my mind was akin to carbohydrates: I wasn’t willing to go there unless it was alcohol-induced.

What I didn’t yet know was that when I was crying for other people, I was absolutely crying for myself.

And another thing: therapy always seemed too narcissistic—like navel-gazing. My whole entire life was about me; I’ve had eponymously named TV shows for the past twelve years, and a whole team of people who worked for me; and it seemed gross to sit around and spend more time talking about myself, never mind the fact that I was sick and tired of hearing the sound of my own voice. I felt like I should switch from talking to writing. Or at the very least tweeting. I just wanted to write or tweet everything, including my TV show. I looked at therapy as a horrible option; it would require listening to myself speak, rather than just speaking and having someone else edit it.

    I didn’t know how to ask for help—from anyone. I was surviving. My brother died when I was nine, my mother when I was thirty-one, after years of fighting cancer. My brother’s death made us stronger as a family. I thought these tragedies were the reason for my tenacity. If anyone needed a strong friend, I was the one they could lean on. Give me someone else’s crisis and I could fix it. I could handle anything. I was tough. It never occurred to me to wonder why I had heard so many times that people were scared of me.

“Who would ever want to be that tough?” is what one MFCC (marriage, family, and child counselor) said to me, when I’d said all of the above to him. I wasn’t interested in rehashing my past—only in improving my present-day self. I said, “I just need to get better at being me.”