Also, if you’ve always been popular, attractive, and sought after, none of this will make sense to you. You are a unicorn. Go lock yourself in a castle on a high hill.
Related to that, if you’re one of those women who says that you’ve only had guy friends because you’re so pretty all women are jealous of you, put this book down and go to therapy immediately. Not only will this chapter confuse you, but you are lying to yourself in a terrible way. Stop blaming, get honest, and fix your shit. And then when you’re done, make some actual female friends. You need them very badly.
Most importantly, if you have clinical depression, I’m not qualified to help you, but lots of people are and really want to, so definitely go get a slice of that ASAP. You deserve to be happy, no matter what your brain tells you.
Now that they’re gone, the real people can get real. I’m talking about the fuckups and the drama queens, the ones who get told they’re too much: too big, too loud, too smart, too mean. I’m talking to the people who have been severely scraped up by life and by the mistakes they’ve made in it. You guys are my favorite because you are me and I am you.
I assume you’re over twenty if you’re reading this book (if not, hi! What are you doing up so late on a school night? None of this applies to you, you nut. Go read the Great Brain series by John D. Fitzgerald instead. You’ll love it), and chances are you’re either in the middle of some kind of personal drama—you’re in a huge fight with your mom, your best friend caught you talking shit behind her back, you’re in unrequited love with your married boss, you know the kind of drama I mean—or you’re just wrapping some up and in the market for more. Let me stop you for one moment and say: QUIT IT.
Don’t get into a fight with one more friend over the umbrella they borrowed and never gave back or the time they didn’t save you a seat at the group dinner or whatever the fuck. Stop finding fault and making a fuss and crying in weird apartment building hallways expecting people to come out and wrap you up in a warm blanket of giving a shit. They’re not going to. Yes, it would be really nice, but it’s unrealistic to the point of self-abuse. Everyone has their own problems. Some of them are awful and tragic, and if you knew what they were, you’d be grateful for the ones you have.
And be honest with yourself; the problems you have are yours. No matter who came into play before, during, or after, you are the common denominator. Now HOLD ON! This is not to say that you’re always to blame for what happens to you. That would be dumb and mean and kind of Republican. What I’m saying is: you’re responsible for your own quality of life. Accepting that fact is the first step in the journey to that distant oasis that is watered by the ancient spring of self-care.
I recommend taking this step with a licensed therapist. They know the path, and they’re good at getting you back onto it when you go wandering into the dunes of anger and blame and self-righteous storytelling. I know it sounds hard to ask for psychiatric help, but it really isn’t. Everyone’s doing it! And OH MY GOD does it help.
I avoided therapy for years and years. I waited until my life was total shit, and then I waited four more months. At the time, I was working in an incredibly high-pressure, all-consuming job that I hated and felt trapped in. I was so busy with said job, I stopped doing comedy altogether. My mom had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s two years before (and you know how that was going for me—the slow-shark scenario had just begun). My dad had just found out he had a patch of melanoma on his scalp that the doctors feared had moved into his brain. So you could say it wasn’t a fun time for me.
Then one day, I noticed a pattern. Every time something bad happened at work, I’d rant to a coworker about whose fault it was. I’d go on and on about how much I hated the guilty party, and then I’d feel awful. The guilt would eat me up. Soon, I’d hate the person I’d just confided in. And the next day, the monologue would start again. Only the names would change.
When it hit me that I was doing this, I knew I was in serious trouble. Luckily, I found my therapist soon after and told her about my realization. That’s when she dropped the bomb about having too many “friends.” This concept is fully explained in “Karen on How to Not Drink the Kool-Aid Even When You’re Spiritually Parched,” but the short version is: don’t throw your shit all over town. If you have a problem, don’t just confide in whoever wanders into your office. Save it for a person who cares about your well-being. We all have a handful of friends like that. Figure out who your clutch-five friends are and drop your expectations of everyone else.
Here’s a good example of how a clutch-five friend works: The other night, I had dinner with my friend Lizzy, who I love and who is very deep and wise. We’re both comedians, writers, and spiritual seekers, and we like to get together every couple of weeks and sit in a restaurant talking and laughing until it closes around us. We discuss every single thing we can think of that’s interesting or juicy, and we give each other feedback about our current worries and sadnesses. Sadnesses is too a word! I don’t care what you say, spellcheck.
So this one particular night, we were having one of our talk-down dinners, but I could feel the flow was off. She’d ask me about things she knew were going on in my life, but when I’d update her on them, she’d look kind of worried, say something pat, and change the subject.
At first, it was confusing. Normally I could say the most insane thing and she’d unconditionally support and explore it. Once, while I was loudly recounting a text exchange I’d just had with a guy I liked, I caught something out of the corner of my eye. I stopped talking and froze in a panic. She saw my face drop and asked what was wrong. As quietly as I could, I whispered, “Oh my god, Lizzy, I think he’s sitting at the next table.” Without another word, she casually reached over for her purse and snuck a look at every person sitting next to us. She turned back and said quietly, “Unless he’s a bald man in his late sixties, it’s not him.” I almost cried with relief not just because I didn’t get caught but because she immediately had my back without question or judgment. My shame lifted. We ordered dessert, and I told the story again, even louder.
That’s why, on this night, her lack of acceptance was hitting me so hard. I assumed I was being too negative. But she was the one asking! And I was just giving her the facts. But I went with every subject change, trying to be honest but ultimately positive. Still, her reaction was the same. I started to get frustrated. This wasn’t how we did things. Something was going on.
Now pre-therapy me would’ve been so hurt and shamed that I would’ve sunk into a pouty silence and waited until she spoke so I could do the same thing back to her. But because I’m old and wise and therapized—yes that IS a word, spellcheck, you fucking narc—I didn’t let it slide.
Me, dropping my french fry for dramatic effect: “I’m sorry, I have to tell you, it feels like you don’t want to hear anything I’m saying.”
Her, suddenly thrilled: “Thank you for being honest. I could tell something was bugging you.”
Me, upset, fryless: “I just feel like I’m bumming you out.”
Her, pushing her blue-corn waffle aside: “To be honest, I’m going through some hard things right now, and I feel like I need to keep myself up and happy. When the vibrations get low, I think I panic and want to run away.”
And look (listen), she’s right. It’s much easier for me, for all of us, to complain and gossip because it holds the listener’s interest, but it does have a negative residual effect. I thought I was making fun dinner conversation, but it was actually just a release for me. My friend had no choice but to open up those “low vibrational” topics because that’s what I’d been talking about the most. Things people have done or said that are fucked up, ways people have let me down, failures, bad behavior, rudeness, lies. The shortcut to human connection is meeting on the common ground of hating a third person. But that shit is low vibrational and leaves a fart fog of shittiness in the air. And sometimes, people already have so much shittiness going on in their lives, they just can’t take another m
oment of it. Remember that.
Save the shitstorm for every fifth visit. Practice bringing something else to the table. If people ask you about a problem, try out the phrase, “It’s so crazy, I don’t want to get into it. What’s good with you?” Then if they have to know something, they’ll insist you tell them, but usually people are relieved.
This is the part where I, as your teacher, wheel out one of those old-fashioned overhead projectors and write on a piece of plastic with a dry-erase marker so it fills up the whole wall: EVERYONE NEEDS TO GO TO THERAPY. Because the burnout rate for friends listening to you go on and on about that one guy who you think likes you but you still can’t tell and ooh what if he does but then ahh what if he doesn’t is very, VERY high. As are you, for thinking anyone wants to sit in silence while you recount tales of the mild yet encouraging eye contact the two of you made at the office potluck. Get out of here with that jazz.
Please know I’m not judging you. Everyone does this. I certainly did it. OK, fine, I’ll tell you about it. Once upon a time, I fell in crush with a douchebag. During this dark time, I could not stop talking about him. It was constant and mind-numbingly dull. I was also on diet pills, so it was truly the un-coolest phase of my life. I’d become a shaking, sleepless, fixated, but finally skinny weirdo. And I was convinced if I could just win this one specific heart, all my problems would disappear. My clutch friend Laura (note: not my sister Laura, who is also my clutch friend, but I’d never call her that because she’d make fun of me) had been with me through all of it and often took the brunt of my new, awful, drug-addled personality. She’d also done speed when she was in her twenties, so she was especially understanding and forgiving—until this one day. While she drove us to lunch, I started in again on my monologue about where he might be and who he might be talking to, and finally, my very nice and patient friend lost it. I’ll never forget it. She slammed on the brakes right in the middle of Beechwood Canyon and screamed, “STOP TALKING ABOUT HIM! IT’S NOT REAL! IT’S NOT HAPPENING! HE DOESN’T LIKE YOU! LET IT GO!” It cut right through my drug-deafness and self-obsession. I finally saw myself from the outside. It was horrible, and it was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for me. I’d become a drooling, pathetic lunatic for a guy who clearly had no interest, but was probably bored and liked being adored, so he’d come sniffing around every four to eight months. And when he did, I’d talk about it for literally hours. People who don’t care “yes, and” you. They’ll help you stir that soup of sadness you’re making because it somehow feeds them, too.
* * *
Have you always felt unseen, ignored, and unloved? Congratulations! You’re the perfect prey for narcissists who feed off of blind worship and internal sadness. You’ll never convince the target of your obsession that your love is what Sade was singing about on that one album. But oh, you will try. And in doing so, you will damage your self-esteem. And then, once you wake up from the stupid spell you put on yourself, you can rail against those narcissists, but it won’t affect them. So it’s better just to skip ahead to the part where you admit that you’re the one who bought the ticket to their show. Choose to want to figure out why you do these things and how to stop. In the end, it’s all you can do.
* * *
The people who do care about you will scream, “Shut up!” at you. Hopefully in a car or a private home. But however you get that message delivered: Take it. Ingest it. Heed it. And don’t kill the messenger. Whatever form the message takes, it’s always the same message at heart: get a professional to help you figure out why you do it. It’s important.
A similar thing happened with my sister during the same dark time. We were on the phone, and I was telling her about the Douche and how he’d shown up at a party to find me and all these people were telling me, “Jerry was here. He’s looking for you.” And I was, of course, over the moon. When I was done telling her my amazing news, my sister simply said, “He sounds like a dork.” Everything stopped.
A dork, she said. Suddenly, the voice in my head was being contradicted by a stronger, more reliable source—my older sister. I had to consider it. And when I did, the burden of obsession lifted for a second, and I could see the situation in a whole new way. Maybe instead of being rejected by a living god, I was actually narrowly escaping the grasp of some needy loser. There was a very good chance that, in truth, I was too cool for a dork like him. The novelty of this idea made me laugh uncontrollably. It was such a relief. I loved it, and I loved her for saying it. She hung up on me.
She didn’t “yes, and” me. Of course she didn’t. What older sister ever does? That’s probably why I hadn’t ever confided in her about this guy before. I knew she wouldn’t go along with my melodrama. That’s why my sister is my oldest and clutchest friend. She knows the real me, the me who my brain tries to convince isn’t smart or pretty or good. She hears my bullshit and calls it out, “Shut up, Karen’s brain. Get Real Karen back here now.” And then it does. And then I’m there.
Now maybe you’re thinking, Well, I don’t have an older sister or any clutch friends. Now what do I do? Make some. It’s not so hard. You just have to be interested in someone other than yourself. When people sit down to have a conversation, all they’re looking for is something they can agree on or participate in with you. If you spend ten minutes complaining about your child’s new preschool teacher to your single, childless friend, their interest will wane after thirty-five seconds. Resentment starts at two minutes, and it only gets uglier from there. Unless the preschool teacher is a famous criminal or circus escapee.
It’s like those people who reference other people by their first name in a story but you don’t know that person, so now you feel left out and rejected by your friend and this “René,” who throws the wildest dinner parties. It’s like they’ve written René into your two-person scene, but he doesn’t have anything to do with your shared story. “This is René’s favorite kind of tea. We went to San Diego and he drank it the whole time.” So what the fuck do I care? is the common inner response. And after you turn forty-five, it’s your outer verbal response, too. It’s so fun when you start to feel the power of honesty. And if you can get to a healthy enough place where you wield this power in a responsible way, you’ll become the clutch friend that people will someday reference in their advice book. That’s the goal.
Don’t treat your friends like they’re the audience of your one-woman show. These are people who are good to you. Offer to them something high-vibrational. Think to yourself, What’s the most exciting thing I can say to this person? For me, it’s Guess who likes you? I hear that, and you have my full attention. In the fleeting moment between that question being asked and hearing the answer, anything is possible. It’s pure, personalized hope. But that’s not the case for my happily married friends. They have some other version of it. Try to figure out what that area of interest is for those around you so you can bring this level of joy to your friends whenever you can. And if you can’t deliver them exciting compliments, tell them about how scientists have just discovered some new archaeological wonder. Because they always do and it’s always good news for everybody. Hey! They just discovered humans have been working with bronze for fifty thousand years longer than previously believed. Fuck yes! High five! And did you know they found ANOTHER cave with even more Dead Sea scrolls inside it? Yes! It’s true! How about those pyramids off the coast of Japan that some scientists believe to be proof of the lost civilization of Mu?! Wonderful. Go humanity! We rule.
And now, to wrap up this lesson, I’m going to take off my corduroy blazer, hop up on my desk, loosen my tie, and speak in low tones to tell you the worst best thing I know: all of this stuff gets easier the older you get because life just keeps getting harder and harder.
Shit happens out of the blue. Cancer, car accidents, someone you never believed wouldn’t be there is just gone. It fells you. It empties you entirely. But eventually, as you grieve and heal, you slowly refill. You get real specific about what you need and what actua
lly feels good. You refine your choices to avoid causing your own pain. But pain comes anyway. You start to see that it’s supposed to. Adversity forces you to grow past reactive fear and self-preservation and into a worthwhile human being. Tragedy paradoxically begins to strengthen your heart. It breaks it, but then re-forms it as a better, stronger machine. And then you start to instinctually care about others. And you start to see how to be.
Friendship leads to human connection, which feeds your soul. More than kale or spinning or fifteen-minute naps under your desk, conscious communication with your clutch friends is the best form of self-care. It boosts your self-esteem. It makes you feel worthwhile. It gets your mind off your mind.
That is, unless you’re a congenital, uncurable dickhead. Those people just blame, blame, blame until everyone leaves and the lights go out.
Class dismissed.
A Fun List of Tangible Items for Immediate Self-Care
I just told you self-care is about your friends, but if you’re going to spend money on yourself to try to feel good, spend your money on:
• well-made shoes, purses, and jeans
• therapy
• cozy socks
• fancy lotion to slather all over your feet at night
• scented candles that smell like your grandma or that piano teacher you loved so much
• a good mattress
• health insurance
• a talented hairdresser
• hydrating face masks
• concert and theater tickets
• one nice piece of jewelry, like a watch or diamond-like studs
• good fruit
Stay Sexy & Don't Get Murdered Page 5