This is the wreckage after my twenty-fifth birthday. I can’t recall the night before beyond a haze of dancing and some of the usual light sobbing. I should smoke weed, I think. I should blur this moment out and drift away on a cloud of smoke. But recently, weed has been making me sick. I think I’ve smoked my lifetime’s allotment, and now my once trusty crutch gives me heartburn and paranoia. Plus, the weed is all the way in my bathroom-slash-closet-slash-study, which I can see just beyond the kitchen-slash-hallway-slash-dining-room of my studio apartment. That ten-foot walk seems like too much right now.
I grab my iPhone—THANK THE LORD I have not lost it again!—to Yelp “breakfast sandwich delivery.” I see I have three missed calls and voicemails from my therapist. The therapist who seemed to be the only doctor on the isle of Manhattan, and possibly on planet Earth, willing to take my insurance. Why would she be calling me on a Saturday night? Supz weird. I listen to the messages.
Message one:
“Hi Tara, it’s Dr. Goldstein. I haven’t heard back from you so I’m recommending you go to the hospital, okay? Are you listening to me? There is no shame in that. You need to be around people right now. Nothing matters except for your safety, okay? Please, call me when you get this.”
Whaaat? What an extreme message. Why would Dr. Goldstein leave something so creepy and ominous? Why would I go to the hospital?!
Message deleted.
Message two:
“Tara, it’s me again, Dr. Goldstein trying to reach you. Listen, I’m going to bed soon, but I need you to call me. Okay? I’m concerned. Really, really concerned. Are you alone? Do you have friends you can be with? Please call me as soon as you get this.”
Okay, what the actual fuck? Why was she trying to reach me last night? Think, Tara, think!
Message deleted.
Message three:
“Hi Tara, it’s Dr. Goldstein. I got your message, and, through the tears, I could hear how much pain you’re in. I’m so sorry you are feeling this way on your birthday. I’m really worried about you. You said you feel unbearably sad and that you hate yourself. You said there is nothing left to hope for and you don’t see a way out, but Tara, I just have to say, there is so much to live for. There is a healthy part of you. That part of you called me and reached out. The healthy part wants to survive and shine. Are you thinking of hurting yourself? That’s what’s really concerning me. I’ve just never heard you this desperate. Please don’t do anything rash. I promise, you will get through this. Call me back as soon as you get this.”
Oh my God. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.
I drunk-dialed my therapist.
I drunk-dialed my therapist and apparently wanted to hurt myself, and she, a woman who is perma-calm, whom I have never seen without a cup of tea and a placid smile, was so disturbed that she thought I should check myself into a hospital. WHAT HAVE I DONE?
The memories of the past night come flooding in like a tall wave I can’t swim over. Here I am at my birthday dinner with my BFF drinking an unknown number of dirty martinis. Here she is ditching me early. Here I am dancing alone in a museum feeling sorry for myself. Here is a security guard telling me “The party is over, miss” before escorting me out. Here I am feeling super pathetic. Here is…a blur…and…I don’t know how I got home exactly? Here I am taking drunk, sad selfies, posing in front of my bathroom mirror. Here I am in said bathroom alternating between crying and vomiting over the toilet.
I feel a shame that sparks in my belly, creeps up my chest, and sets my heart on fire with hate. I hate myself. I hate the things I do. I hate my body. I hate this double life of being “good” at work and “bad” at life. I’ve always been dogged about getting ahead, in school and in my job, so it’s always looked like everything is okay, but things are decidedly not okay. I’m humiliated that I’m the type of person who is so out of control that she drunk-dials her therapist. I’m exhausted in my guts. I’m worn down from the hate and the drinking and the smoking and the crying and the just living from one crisis to the next crisis and I am SoTiredSoAshamedSoDesperate. This is a life I can no longer live. This is a life that will kill me.
Here Are Some Jokes
Okay, I don’t really have any jokes. I’m not a great joke-teller, I’m sorry to say. I just feel like that got real dark real fast, and I want to have a moment with you where I can tell you directly that you have nothing to worry about. That mess of a girl no longer lives here. She grew up. She healed.
I am, in fact, stable now, and on a perfect day, when I am drinking a latte and wearing a feather-light, perfectly layered Zara scarf, I am joyful. Blissed-out even. I have a schmancy job in comedy that I adore. I have fulfilling friendships with people I find both fascinating and kind. I’m no longer crippled by the fear that I will a) become one of my parents, b) murder one of my parents, or c) go crazy and do all of the above. Because guess what? I am going to do none of the above! What a victory!
The book you are currently holding in your hands is the story of how I grew myself up from a self-hating-mess-wreck-disaster-out-of-control person to a happy-stable-grateful-gleeful-let’s-go-on-an-adventure person. I wrote it because I think that within my stories of learning how to take care of myself you will find tried and true, practical, enjoyable tools for your own self-care and healing. By sharing my discoveries, I think I can save you a little hurt and give you some direction on what can be a confusing, frustrating road. Why should you trust me, tho? For all you know I’ve never faced a real challenge in my life beyond getting too wasted and being kicked out of a museum party. For all you know I had a perfect white-picket-fence childhood where my mom and dad fully supported me and a cloud never blew past our home. And in some ways, you’re right. I was privileged. I went to private schools where I excelled (still paying off that debt, tho, yikes), I had a roof over my head, and there was always food on the table. But I also spent the majority of my childhood either neglected or emotionally abused by my parents. I had no capable adults to show me how to grow up, much less nurture me. I was privileged, but I was not parented. And by the time I turned twenty-five, the only dependable habits I had learned were figuring out new and interesting ways to spend my days anxious, scared, and constantly on the verge of emotional implosion. I needed to find a way forward. I wanted a life I could enjoy—or at least deal with—but I didn’t understand how I might build that life.
I think there are a lot of us out there. People who didn’t have THE WORST CHILDHOODS EVER, people who had it “pretty good” but nevertheless find themselves regularly crying in their cubicles at work. We’ve achieved the outward markers of a happy, lucky life, but underneath it all, we’re terrible at truly living. We walk around with overwhelming anxiety and emotional pain, and then we feel guilt and shame because “I didn’t have it that bad—I should be fine!” My answer to you is No. You do not have to be fine. If you went through some shit, even if it was “minor,” and it’s affecting your life, then you deserve to deal with that shit. Period.