* * *
—
By the time I was ten, my dad ran a “family” restaurant, which he was embarrassed to have his actual family visit. I can’t blame him. The place was country music–themed, and when you entered, it was through the gaping mouth of a two-story, neon Wurlitzer jukebox. This led directly into a grand, if artificial, “country desert” scene with a cornflower-blue, fiber-optic star-studded night sky. One evening, as we were walking in through the front hall, my mom almost slipped and fell on the freshly mopped floor. “I COULD HAVE DIED!” she wailed. Though she had not actually fallen, she proceeded to lie down on the ground and refuse to move until help arrived. She screamed to anyone who would listen that she had a lawsuit against “RICHARD SCHUSTER, THE OWNER OF THIS UNSAFE PLACE!”
After my mom’s tantrum passed, we sat down to eat a dinner of ribs. My parents were fighting so loudly that the poor waiters didn’t know what to do. Yes, they wanted to serve their boss cheese bread and show him how attentive they were, but, no, they did not want to be anywhere near our table of doom. While my parents screamed about how “broke” they were and how “crazy” the other was, the resident balloon artist of the restaurant approached our table. I think he sensed something was awry and thought that, through his elastic craft, he could make a difference. Maybe, through balloon animals, he could show us the meaning of family? He began to design two balloon crowns, each with a white swan sitting on top. The swans were kissing, and their interlocked orange beaks connected the hats together. These were balloon hats of unity and love. “Go ahead, put them on,” he said, motioning to my parents. They refused. “That hat is stupid,” my mom scoffed. My dad just looked away, not wanting to be seen. I begged them to put on the hats; I began to cry, “PLEASE, PLEASE JUST PUT ON THE HATS. YOU LOVE EACH OTHER!” I was having a full-blown meltdown, willing love into existence, and in an attempt to calm me, my parents dutifully, unhappily put on the hats. With the swan crowns atop their heads, my mom looked at my dad and loudly whispered, “I want a divorce, Richard.”
Here Are Some More Jokes
Again, I have no jokes. I KNOW. I shouldn’t be deflecting. That all sounded pretty bleak, but that’s exactly why I’m here: to report to you from the other side. If I could go from a neglected little girl to a miserable, self-destructive, drunk-dialing-her-therapist twentysomething to a well-adjusted, HAPPY (a word I never dreamed would apply to me), stable, enjoying-her-life, successful adult, well, then most anyone can. You, in particular, most def can. What you are about to read is a guide to healing your traumas, big and small, in the pursuit of creating a life you will adore and be proud of. You don’t need to have had a mess-wreck-disaster childhood like mine for these tools to work for you. These lessons in self-care will be useful even if you had super-stellar parents who nurtured the shit out of you. This book is for anyone who simply needs to take better care of themselves—anyone who wants to lead a life they choose, embrace, and fucking love. It is my wish that the following stories will offer you a practical, reassuring, relatable, hopefully funny, sometimes sad guide to ultimately learning to love yourself in a non-throw-up-in-your-mouth-it’s-so-cheesy way. I call this kind of self-care “re-parenting,”*1 a process in which you figure out what nurturing you still need and then give it to yourself. Even those of us who are all grown up still have room to become the people we want to be.
The afternoon after my twenty-fifth birthday I knew I had to change my life. My past had shaped me into this mess in Spanx with no standards and no core. I was super good at surviving but super terrible at living. I wanted a life that I could enjoy. I wanted a life where I felt good and like I was enough. But, sitting on my bed that day with dried puke in my hair, that goal felt far beyond my reach.
How could I change? I couldn’t even change a vacuum filter without complaining about it for two years before sucking it up and dealing with the dusty disaster that had accumulated.*2 I didn’t have the funds for an Eat Pray Love–style journey of healing and self-discovery. I also—again—didn’t have THE WORST childhood in the world and I kinda felt like a fraud for being such a mess. But I decided it was time to stop comparing my pain to others’, time to quit telling myself that I shouldn’t feel this way, and time to start focusing on how I actually did feel, because that was real. I hated my life and wanted a better one. But how would I figure myself out? What values did I believe in? What were my principles? What were vegetables?
Sitting in bed, I took out a notepad and wrote down the things I did know:
I knew I didn’t have great parents. Not the kind who nurture you and teach you how to lead a stable life. No new parents were coming to the rescue either. I was not the secret daughter of a royal family (truly a bummer). I had no adult role models on which I could rely or mentors to guide me. If I sincerely wanted a different life, I would have to learn to take care of myself. I would have to take full responsibility for my life and well-being.
I knew my damage wasn’t something I could ignore and just move past. I couldn’t avoid it any longer. I wanted to know what my wounds were and apply a salve of glitter, kindness, and forgiveness to them one by one. I had recently heard the saying “Sunlight is the best disinfectant,” and that’s exactly what I wanted for my past emotional injuries. I would have to re-parent myself and give myself the support I never had. I just needed to start trying any advice, anything I read or heard or even imagined might work. I decided I would take notes in a Google Doc so I could track my own progress. Maybe by writing it all down, I’d be able to see what direction I was heading in. Maybe not. I didn’t have any answers—yet—but at least I could start asking questions.
I knew I would like some poached eggs and avocado toast with a side of industrial-strength ibuprofen, please and thank you.
In these stories you will find honest, tested, not-impossibly-difficult ways to re-parent and care for yourself. I’m not interested in giving you theoretical, “out there” advice from a place on high. I’ve been at the ground floor with you, and this is my offering. I went through hell, took notes, learned my lessons, and, now, it is my deepest wish that the tools I developed will work for you. At a minimum, I think you will laugh. With me. Hopefully not at me.
I’m really happy to be with you right now.
I think the way you are doing your hair today is lovely. I mean, I always like the way you do it, but today, it’s next level.
LOVE AND KISSES AND LOTS OF GLITTER,
TARA
A.K.A. T$ (GO AHEAD AND CALL ME THAT)
*1 Many years later, I googled “re-parenting” and found out this term also refers to a specific therapeutic practice. I know approximately zero about that. When I talk about “re-parenting” in this book, I’m referring to the hacked-together way I comforted and cared for myself over the course of many years.