You're Not Special
Page 1
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Note to reader: Certain names and other personal details have been changed.
To my younger self, you always wanted a reason for the shit you dealt with.
This was it (I think).
introduction the story of me, myself, and i
I was born on August 4, 1993, at 8:32 p.m. in a suburb outside San Francisco. Which means I’m a Leo sun, Pisces moon, and Aquarius rising. Not that you asked. I grew up as an only child in a town of fewer than eight thousand people without a Starbucks in sight. (Cue the gasps of quirky relatable tweens everywhere.) I was raised by two hippie parents who deprived me of refined sugar and showered me with way too much information about STDs and safe sex. I’ll be blunt: I had a weird childhood. I grew up at protests and Grateful Dead concerts wearing tie-dyed T-shirts and Bob Marley beanies. I was basically a stoner baby.
Most only children will tell you that they weren’t spoiled, that they’re great at sharing, and that their adolescent years were not comparable to Eloise at the Plaza. Most of them are lying. I mean, maybe not about the Eloise thing, ’cause I don’t think kids really grow up in hotels, unless your life is sweet and your name is Zack or Cody. Don’t get me wrong: not having to fight over the last hot dog and being able to watch whatever cartoon you want on TV was an awesome perk of having no siblings, but ultimately it was really, really, really lonely. In order to stay entertained, I’d talk to myself. My options for social interaction were limited to adults (yawn) or the cast of characters I had created in my head. I chose the latter. I’d like to say that it’s a common trait among only children, but I don’t know that. Maybe it was just me and my flair for the dramatic. Which was pretty much cemented when I wasn’t even three years old and my mother caught me practicing crying in front of the mirror. In that moment she decided that her toddler was expressive, not emotionally unstable. From there she made the pivotal choice to enroll me in theater instead of exorcising me. This begins the era that I like to call “Meghan Has No Concept of Failure and Lizzie McGuire Changed My Life.”
For as long as I can remember, I wanted to grow up to be a “superstar.” I’m pretty sure I got this term from the iconic feature film Life-Size, starring Tyra Banks. Like Eve, I would be a model, actress, singer, dancer, and any other form of performance where I was the center of attention. By the time I was in elementary school, I was enrolled in singing classes, where I belted Christina Aguilera songs in crop tops that showed off my belly rolls. I was in various dance classes, all displaying some form of cultural appropriation—as I was a plump blonde sporting a bhindi and a sari. (My white parents really fucked up on that one.) Finally, I did theater, where—despite that I longed for the lead role in every production—I also had crippling stage fright. The entire week of dress rehearsals, I would sleepwalk to my parents’ room every night until they woke up to see their chubby-cheeked ten-year-old daughter looming over their bed, mumbling something about a “three-legged cat named Frampton.” Through school plays, community theater shows, countless dance recitals, talent shows, and an unimaginable number of singing showcases—where I refused to perform anything but Avril Lavigne and Evanescence—I found that the arts were my calling. Surprisingly, my parents were behind me 110 percent when I told them I wanted to pursue a career in acting in college. You might think it stemmed from their unwavering love and support, but the truth of the matter is that my only above-average SAT score was in English. My other option was to be a poet, which is just as lucrative as acting.
Now, don’t get the wrong idea about my parents. Despite their love of polenta, homeopathic medicine, and their political affiliation with the Green Party (Go, Ralph Nader!), they’re academic folk. My mother has her PhD in social psychology, and my father works with juvenile delinquents across California (which directly hurt my teen dating life). I was the child of two save-the-world bookworms who cheated her way through high school and whose biggest ambition was to be on Disney Channel. I know that it sounds like I’m calling myself dumb, and while I favor self-deprecating humor, I’m also aware that I’m not stupid. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t struggle with school more than my peers did. This was largely due to my battle with ADHD and my parents’ ignoring a middle school teacher’s concerns and desire that I get fully tested for it. I think my mother chalked it up to my need for attention rather than my inability to pay attention. Some of her friends’ kids were socially inept, homeschooled, or shoplifting from Mervyn’s, so I think she just wanted to keep up the illusion that I was “better” than them.
While I didn’t inherit my parents’ natural passion for education, Marin County as a whole was pumping out Ivy League kids left and right. The standard of academic excellence was set pretty high. All my friends had private tutors, and their extracurriculars seldom had anything to do with genuine interests but rather how they’d look on a college application. I, on the other hand, had a tutor because my parents refused to treat my ADHD with anything other than a “Just focus more” and a (superhot) twenty-two-year-old college grad. He basically just did my math homework for me while I entertained him with stories of the drunken debauchery I had gotten up to the previous weekend.
In Marin, the summer before your senior year of high school is typically spent in a precollege program at a university you hope to attend the following fall. Ideally it specializes in the major you’re planning to pursue. Has there been a more white-privilege sentence? Throw on an organic hemp sweat suit, a BPA-free thermos full of fair trade coffee with almond milk, and finish it off with a pair of Birkenstocks, and you’ve got a pretty good picture of the Marin-ites. We did VSCO girl before iPhones. Despite my lack of interest in school, forgoing college was not only not an option, it wasn’t a conversation or even a thought I thought I was allowed to think. Plus, I couldn’t ignore the fact that the TV show Greek and other various depictions of college parties had me thinking that the social scene would hold my interest for a minute. Let me just get it out in the open and say that at no point ever in my life did I plan on graduating from college. If I closed my eyes, I just couldn’t see myself in a cap and gown, shaking some old dude’s hand and posing with a diploma, and hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt. I had no idea why I couldn’t envision that. It’s not like I had this grand scheme of how I’d get discovered and drop out of school; I was seventeen and blissfully ignorant of the logistics. I just took it one step at a time. College was my only ticket out of my parents’ house; what I would do when I got there was a whole different battle. I was aware that my grades were nothing remarkable and that my parents had no desire or means to pay for an expensive education. My options boiled down to going to an in-state school or discovering some hefty scholarships that I would miraculously qualify for despite my lifetime of mediocrity. Nonetheless, there was still a part of me that wanted to at least attempt the normalcy of my peers and their college ambitions. So, to prepare for a “rigorous” (lol) BA program at a “top” university (lol), I began to apply for the scholarships I’d need to attend a precollege theater program at Northwestern University.
As my junior year came to an end and the summer parties began, I came down with a cold. Naturally, I ignored my sore throat and instead self-medicated with vodka. What? It’s disinfecting. Stop judging me. I kept that up for about two weeks, unti
l my tonsils grew to the size and color of tennis balls. They possessed a porous, spongelike texture and exuded a creamy-looking pus as well as these foul-smelling granules. (You’re welcome for that image.) Assuming that I had a nasty case of strep throat, my pediatrician put me on a round of antibiotics, but my throat only got worse. Now, this is the part in the Kate Hudson movie version of my life where “June 12, 2010” would float up on the screen in some ironic Helvetica font. The man who does the deep, ominous voice-overs for movie trailers would say, “And then one day, her life changed forever.” (I really hope you read that in the movie guy’s voice.) This marks the day that I was diagnosed with mononucleosis.
If you don’t know what “mono” is, you probably think I either contracted one of those rare bird flus that were crazy trendy in the late 2000s, or that I made a typo when talking about the cream that cured my life-changing yeast infection. (Is it too soon into the book to make vagina jokes?) Both of these are wrong, by the way. Anyway, let’s get Urban Dictionary to define this one for you. Personally, I think one lovely contributor with the username of Schovie said it best in ’06, defining “mono” as “an STD for people who have only gotten to first base”—although, if we’re going to be nitpicky (always), at that point in my life I had already hit a few home runs. Which is to say, I had had sex. But all jokes and innuendos aside, mono is better described as the worst and longest flu you’ve ever had. Now, you’re probably rolling your eyes at my first-world “illness,” but to a party-crazed sixteen-year-old, doctor’s orders of complete bed rest for the summer was earth-shattering. It meant no acting program at Northwestern (mostly because I didn’t get in), but it also meant no fallback plan. The community theater production of Seussical would have to go on without me. Those three months that were supposed to “shape me as an actor” and prepare me for college would instead be spent watching Hannah Montana reruns with my skinny, scarf-wearing boyfriend. I was devastated, to say the least. While vomiting uncontrollably, sleeping a minimum of eighteen hours a day, and not being able to get up a flight of stairs in under ten minutes weren’t exactly what I’d call “summertime fun,” I was also bored out of my fucking mind.
If I even mutter the phrase “I’m bored” under my breath, my mother’s preschool teacher senses start tingling, and in under sixty seconds flat she’s rattling off a list of all the chores and things I could be doing around the house. After sixteen years I knew this pretty well, and I had found a way around the lecture if I just asked for a list of chores I could do for $10 so I could “go out to dinner with friends.” This actually translated to “I need $10, and then Sydney’s mom is gonna give us a ride to the mall so I can wear my boyfriend’s beanie and watch him do ollies on his skateboard while I drink something off the Jamba Juice secret menu and apply the Juicy Tubes lip gloss my godfather got me for Christmas until Syd’s mom picks us up at seven p.m., because I’m actually going to eat dinner at their house, because their family is normal, and also I spent the money on thongs at Victoria’s Secret.” I had learned that honesty was my enemy when it came to my mom. The less she knew, the less she’d yell. With all my friends away at various Jewish summer camps, internships, and lifeguarding jobs, the only social interactions I had were with my pediatrician.
I’m usually pretty good at entertaining myself and finding things to do to keep me busy and out of the house. If it were any other summer under different (healthy) conditions, I would have signed up for some obscure art class (I once dabbled in Ukrainian Easter egg blowing) or a lyrical meets modern meets electronic meets our-teacher-just-went-to-Burning-Man-and-has-been-on-a-comedown-ever-since dance class. But with strict orders of bed rest, my choice of activities was limited. I was more than surprised when my mother suggested I make a YouTube channel “to get comfortable in front of the camera” (you know, for my future porn star career) and “to talk to somebody other than yourself,” she added. My mother—the woman who built a compost bin in our backyard, refuses to use anything but Tom’s of Maine deodorant, and considers Walmart one of the seven deadly sins—suggested that I, her one and only child, sell my soul to the internet when she still didn’t fully trust the microwave.
So I opened up my 2009 MacBook, used the webcam for something other than a bad Andy Warhol–style photo booth session, and recorded my first YouTube video. And then I uploaded it. And then nothing spectacular happened. My life did not drastically change. Usher didn’t discover me and turn me into the next Justin Bieber; a big-time Hollywood director didn’t see my videos and pluck me out of my small-town obscurity and turn me into an overnight sensation. Everything was the same. I just happened to spend that entire summer doing exactly what my mom said to do, talking to people other than myself.
In three months I had gained about 1,000 subscribers, which was bigger than my high school. It wasn’t like Hannah Montana, where I led this hidden glamorous life of fame and then walked the school hallways incognito Monday morning. I’d describe it like being on the swim team, just without swimming. Some kids played lacrosse; others joined the debate team; I happened to record videos of myself in my little blue bedroom and post them on the internet for everyone to see. This indulged my false perception that people cared about everything I had to say about anything ever, another beautifully self-focused side effect of only-childism.
In the spring of my senior year of high school, I auditioned for acting programs at nineteen different universities across the country. I was waitlisted at three and rejected by the rest. Chapman said they’d accept me if I proved that I took the “summer chemistry course” that was on my transcript. That would be impossible, since I never finished it. Syracuse and DePaul were out because my poor circulation couldn’t handle real seasons. That left only the schools I had applied to on grades and SATs alone. Let’s just say, if any of my other classmates were left with my options, they’d probably pass on college, just travel, take ayahuasca, and “find themselves.” But like I said, college wasn’t at the top of my must-do list, so I didn’t get down on myself about the stack of skinny envelopes. I shrugged off the USC, UCLA, and NYU rejection letters like I was too good for them—like University of California, Riverside, was where I was truly destined to be. (Gag me.)
I’m not sure if I blame Netflix for having the entire series of Greek streaming or my friends’ cooler older siblings for setting my expectations so high for college; regardless, to say they weren’t the best four years of my life would be an understatement. Mostly because I didn’t even make it two years. I did everything by the book. I joined a sorority, made friends, dated frat boys, attended formals in sparkly dresses, and spent Thursday to Sunday with some form of animal ears on my head. To the untrained Facebook stalker, it looked like I had it all. And my freshman year, I really felt like I did. My biggest worry going into college was that I’d have no friends. But weeks before freshman year even started I Facebook-messaged with another blonde who planned on rushing too. We met at orientation and quickly bonded. We rushed together and pledged together, and there we met our “sister” and third blonde to this story. I only bring up our hair color so much because it coined the nickname our classmates gave us: “the Barbies.” We were inseparable. Suddenly the idea of spending four years there wasn’t so daunting and scary; it was comforting and kind of exciting. I spent the summer before my sophomore year back in Marin, where my hometown friends and I traded stories of our newfound freedom and just how much cooler college had made us. In September, I moved into my first off-campus apartment with the Barbies and fell back into the familiar swing of collegiate life. So, in the beginning days of my sophomore year, when my roommates began to pick on me, I brushed it off like I was reading too much into it. I told myself that we were all just transitioning from our summers back home. And when they’d throw catty remarks my way, I’d chalk it up to me being sensitive. I must have just taken it the wrong way, or maybe I had done something to upset them. When I lost thirty pounds, stopped showing up for class, and wanted to stop breathing, I felt all
alone. I’m not one to explain why we go through the things we do, but if there is any way to give purpose to the things I’ve battled and the things I’ve felt, it’s in sharing my stories. In doing so, I hope you’ll see that it gets better.
I didn’t have a big sister I could stay up late with and talk about makeup, boys, parties, and how sometimes I felt sad for no reason. We’re all trying to pretend that we have it all figured out. The last thing I wanted to do was to admit to my peers that I had doubts. I’m writing this book because, when I was sixteen and falling in love for the first time, I wished I had an older sister to talk to about it. The same for that time when I was seventeen and swore my heartbreak had left me beyond repair. For those times I locked myself in my closet and cried until I wished I didn’t exist anymore. I’m writing this to tell you that you are not alone in the thoughts you think. Somebody else has felt the way you feel right at this very moment. I’m here to tell you that, despite what you’ve been told, your problems are not unique. Your struggles have been a part of everybody else’s life, too, and the battle you’re fighting right now involves a bigger army than you know. I hate to break it to you, babycakes, but you’re not special. The upside is you’re not alone.
dating
YOU CAN’T UNSUCK A DICK.
chapter 1 things i wish someone told me about dating
Dating sucks. Anybody who tells you differently is either in a relationship that they’re longing to get out of, or they’re that lady from Million Dollar Matchmaker. Now, I don’t detest first dates; honestly, I think they can be kind of exciting. They’re brimming with possibilities, and despite how cynical I claim to be, I think they offer an unquenchable spark of hope. (Gag me.) It’s once you get to date two, and three, and sixteen, that it starts to turn sour. Suddenly you’re stalking their high school lacrosse statistics and praying you don’t accidentally double tap on a captionless picture of their dog from four Christmases ago. Or maybe that’s just me. (You liar.) In my lifetime I’ve probably had over a hundred crushes (on both real and fictional characters). I’ve cried countless times over boys I claimed I would never get over. I’ve used phrases like “the one that got away” and I swore to myself that I would never feel those feelings again. I’m all for validating emotions, but I do wish that somebody would have just put it all in perspective for me. I grew up reading fairy tales of princesses who fell in love with princes at first sight, despite some obvious flaws (um, Beast). Then we graduate to romantic comedies teaching us that our true love has been right under our nose the whole time! We have it engraved into our brains that finding your “soul mate” occurs in ninety minutes and concludes with a Hall & Oates song. All of the above is a load of bullshit. Sometimes the guy right under your nose is a douchebag and you should lose his number. Sometimes the person who meets your eyes across the room is a creepy perv who deserves nothing more than a swift kick to the balls. Sometimes you’re with the world’s greatest person, and it’s just not it. Dating isn’t simple. It’s complicated, it’s confusing, and it’s shades of gray nothing like the movies. While I can’t prevent each of your heartbreaks, or tell you the secret place all the good ones are hiding, I can offer some insights I’ve come to learn while crying on my bathroom floor over guys with last names I’ve now completely forgotten.