Chocolate, Please

by Lisa Lampanelli

  I had to get out of there! Did these assholes know how much I had sacrificed to come here? I had missed the finale of not only American Idol but of my favorite show, Dancing with the Stars. And now, the Sex and the City movie was coming out—an event that I’d written on my calendar in pink three months earlier!—and I wouldn’t be able to see it until two weeks after it debuted, when everyone I knew would either have already seen it twice or told me how much it sucked! On top of that, I was feeling so many fucking feelings that I was having discussions—code for “fights”—with patients, therapists, or management on a daily basis.

  At that point, the worst was a fight I’d had with the bitch who wouldn’t watch any movies that had to do with pregnancy, kids, and birth because of her God-knows-how-many-abortions past. That’s right! No Knocked Up, no Juno, no Baby Mama. When I’d pushed to see one of those movies, she manipulated us into watching what she wanted, even though she clearly was in the minority and should have taken herself and her used death-row uterus out of the room. On top of that, I’d apologized to her when I knew I wasn’t wrong! I should have punched her in the cunt instead, but I think that’s against Rosewood rules too. And quite honestly, it sounded like her pussy had been abused enough.

  On top of that, we had to cook and do chores. Now, this was weird. Although I am Italian, I have only cooked twice in my life, and as with most single New York City women, my stove has yet to be used for anything other than storage and the occasional suicide attempt. And cleaning! I paid someone to do that—in fact, over the years, my apartment has seen more Mexican women than the East L.A. Ninety-nine Cent Store. But Rosewood was different. Even though I had money, and some of the girls made it clear they could really use it, there was a rule against paying someone to do your chores for you. And the chores were hard—cleaning out the refrigerator, sweeping and mopping the floor, emptying potentially puke-y garbage. If I wanted to do that stuff, I would be house mother at a college fraternity. At least I’d have a chance of getting date raped. I liked that.

  I hated this place, I hated everyone in it, and one evening, I’d had it! My day had started out shitty when I lost my serenity rock at the six thirty A.M. twelve-step meeting. Then I got “shamed” by a worker at the gym who said I went over the allowed twenty minutes of exercise on the elliptical (yeah, right—can’t you tell by looking at me that over exercising is my problem?!?). I was hot, I was irritable, and I was sick of looking at these little bitches running around in their tiny bikinis at pool time when I could barely squeeze my ass into a one-piece from the Delta Burke swimsuit collection. And every time one of these emaciated cunts said they couldn’t eat another bite of a plateful of food that wouldn’t satisfy a partridge, I wanted to yell, “Eat this, bitch!”—which, come to think of it, would be a great name for a reality show based on Rosewood. Note to self: Call my Jew agent.

  That night, at our twelve-step meeting for eating disorders, I broke down.

  “I don’t even deserve to be here,” I cried. “I came here voluntarily—I mean, I put myself in here, and all you guys are anorexic and bulimic and in danger of dying. I mean, that’s heavy. Your health is in serious jeopardy, and I’m just an overeater. Every time I talk, I feel like I’m taking time out from someone who needs this a lot more than I do.” Of course, the same could be said whenever I pop into the Comic Strip for a set. But that’s different—I’m trolling for scrotum.

  As in all twelve-step meetings, cross-talk—commenting on someone else’s share—is discouraged. But the girls of Rosewood were the only ones at the meeting, so one of them decided to break the rule.

  “You are not just an overeater. You are not just anything,” the gorgeous Katy said to me as calmly as could be, as the other girls nodded in agreement. “Your pain is your pain. You are allowed to work on yourself. You are allowed to be here. You deserve to be here and help yourself. If we don’t work on our issues, we’ll be dead in five months. If you don’t work on your stuff, you’ll be dead in five years. But either way, the result is death.”

  I replayed Katy’s words as I walked across the asphalt parking lot to my private room. It was a hot Arizona night—about ninety degrees—and some of the girls were swimming or lounging at the pool until it would be locked at exactly ten P.M. But instead of envying their bodies and feeling like I wasn’t worthy to be with them, I put on my one-piece suit that could have covered three of them and joined them. Then I did a cannonball that drenched every one of those whores. Just kidding. I chatted with them on the tiny deck, and the more we talked, the more we bonded about our problems. By ten o’clock, I realized that my anger had finally disappeared.

  Logging on to my computer that night before lights-out, I noticed an e-mail from an acquaintance with the somber subject line “Frank D’Amico died June 1st.” I quickly opened the e-mail and read that Frank—Big Frank—had died in L.A. the day before. You remember Big Frank—the four-hundred-pound guy from the beginning of the book, the one who was connected to a fork? Reading about his death, the jokes weren’t quite as funny anymore. The only thing I could think about as I finished reading the e-mail were Katy’s words from the meeting earlier that night: “You are not just an overeater…You deserve to be here and help yourself…you’ll be dead in five years. But either way, the result is death.”

  For Frank, the ex-boyfriend with whom I had the greatest times and still have the fondest memories, his “five years” were up. Frank had died from complications from diabetes, a disease he fought most of his adult life. He would be missed by hundreds of people who loved his quick wit, phenomenal storytelling ability, and good heart. But the point wouldn’t be missed by me. This was a sign. I did deserve to work on myself, and I would. The next day, I woke up at five A.M. as usual but with a new attitude. I was gonna stop fucking around and beat this thing. And the time to start was now.

  It was my last day at Rosewood, and even I had to admit I had come a long way. I had gotten used to a new way of eating—six small meals a day—had begun moderately exercising, and had kicked both caffeine and sugar substitutes. Instead of eating when I had bad feelings, I talked about my feelings, felt them, and paid rapt attention in therapy like it was church. I shared in meetings, I cried, I paid attention to what people were saying at the twelve-step meetings (even though several cute guys were welcome distractions), and I had completed all of my assignments except one. But I have a good excuse—that assignment was impossible.

  One day in private session with Dee, she told me that in two days, she wanted me to come up with a two-minute stand-up routine that didn’t put myself, the audience, or any subject matter down. Who’d this twat think I was—Carrot Top? I told her this was ridiculous. I wasn’t Seinfeld—I didn’t talk about cotton balls or missing socks. I was an insult comic, but I was a lovable one who didn’t harm a soul. So, since my audience didn’t get mad at me, why should I write a two-minute bit that went completely against everything I was as a comedian?

  “I have my reasons. And notice the feelings that come up when you do it,” Dee said. I just shook my head. I wasn’t gonna bomb on my last day at Rosewood. If she brought it up Monday, I would say I forgot. But something happened on Monday that made Dee forget about the assignment once and for all.

  At nine A.M., I was packed and ready to go. My suitcases bulged with all the cute clothes I had brought and never worn since I had chosen to dress in army fatigues and khakis during my stay there, as if I was a member of the army at war with Ed. My binders and food plans and all my art projects were taken off the cinder-block walls, where they had been fastened with masking tape, and were safely in the trunk of my Toyota. I would transport them to my house at Canyon Ranch in Tucson so I could refer to them if I ever needed a reminder of what I had learned in the joint. Or, more than likely, ignore them until I moved again and threw them away.

  Strolling to the main building of what would be my last nine A.M. community meeting, I was at peace. Well, at peace with almost everything. See, during my last two we
eks at Rosewood, I had worked hard. But there was one thing I couldn’t conquer. A girl named Kim had come into the facility two weeks before, and she was everything I hated in a person. Passive-aggressive, abrasive, abusive, sarcastic—the definition of the word “cunt.” Think Rosie O’Donnell with better punch lines. As I entered the room, I saw her sitting on the corner of one of the couches and I sat as far away as I could, on a straight-backed chair near the arts and crafts table.

  Now, Rosewood uses something called “The Feedback Loop.” This is a tool that was developed by therapist Pia Mellody at the Meadows, another rehab in Wickenburg. The Feedback Loop aids in communicating feelings. Instead of saying something like “You took the last cookie, you fucking asshole. What do you think, you’re more important than me? I hate you when you do that. You should die of cancer,” Pia says people should communicate their feelings in the following manner: “When you took the last cookie without asking me if I wanted it, what I made up about that was that I was not as important as you, and about that I felt sadness, anger, and frustration.”

  Once someone receives such a statement, he or she should take it in, not take it personally, and decide what to say or do in a mature way.

  Well, needless to say, this was a whole new way of communicating for me and most of the girls there. But thanks to community meeting each and every day at nine in the morning, we had the opportunity to practice The Feedback Loop on people in the Rosewood community. Most of the time, the girls—including myself—punked out and said stuff that wasn’t directed at any one particular member of the group. Stuff like “When people leave their unwashed dishes in the sink, what I make up about that is that my need for order and cleanliness in the kitchen is not a priority, and about that I feel pain, shame, and sadness.”

  But today was going to be different. I had heard through one of the more gossipy girls there that Kim was mad at me because I hadn’t let her sit with me at dinner two nights before when we were on our Saturday-night outing to a local Mexican restaurant. (Yes, this is the kind of thing that seems important when you’re cut off from reality for twenty-eight days.) My feeling was that I didn’t like her, and I didn’t have to sit with her on the one night I was allowed to escape from Rosewood.

  Now, guaranteed, I could have been nicer about it. As three of the women who were around my age and I ate our pre-meal chips and salsa, a dozen or so of the younger women sat at a table in an adjacent room. As she entered the restaurant, Kim spotted us and made a beeline right for the table.

  “You can eat in there,” I said dismissively as I put my hand in the air and pointed to where the other girls were sitting, adding a talk-to-the-hand flip as an accent. I resumed my meal at the cunt-free table.

  I know, I know. I told you I could have been nicer.

  In the two days since the restaurant occurrence, ever since I’d heard Kim was angry with me, my anger had begun to simmer. But now, as I sat in the community room, my insides were bubbling, and I became more and more resolved to Feedback Loop the bitch. She was gonna get it with both barrels from me. And the beauty of The Feedback Loop was, she wasn’t allowed to interrupt.

  As the girls went around the room and did their usual safe, lame statements—“When the staff walked into my room un-announced, what I made up about that was my privacy is not respected, and about that I feel blah, blah, blah”—I formulated my exact wording for maximum impact.

  Finally, it was my turn, and my blood was boiling and my heart was racing. I felt like a teakettle about to whistle—loudly.

  I looked directly at Kim—or, more precisely, at a spot on the wall above her head. (I’ve never been particularly good at eye contact.)

  I spoke in an even tone with a terse expression on my face.

  “When I am gossiped about because I express an interest in eating dinner with only the people I choose”—I shot the three older women a look—“what I make up about that is that my decisions are not my own nor are they respected, and about that I feel anger.”

  As I expected, Kim’s hand shot up.

  She opened her clammy little mouth to speak: “When I overhear that I am called a cunt…”

  How dare she bring up the fact that I called her a cunt! Clearly, I was being wronged here. “Well, if you’re called a cunt,” I bellowed with all the repressed anger—and volume—of the last twenty-eight days, “it’s because you are a cunt!”

  A collective gasp went up in the room. Nobody interrupted The Feedback Loop. It was sacred. Pia Mellody hadn’t designed it that way. Oh, no!!! What would Pia think?!?

  “Oh, yeah?” Kim shot back, her piglike little eyes blinking away. “Well, I’m happy you’re leaving.”

  And in the blink of an eye, I turned from Lisa Lampanelli: Self-Helper to Lisa Lampanelli: Fiercest Insult Comedian on the Planet.

  “Oh, really, well, you’re the only one who’s glad I’m leaving. Seriously, who’s glad I’m leaving?” I spit out the words with outstretched hands as I looked around the room from girl to girl, just as I’d done countless times onstage when dealing with a heckler. It was the rehab version of the comedian’s “Who came to hear this asshole? And who came to hear me?”

  The girls shook their heads. Most of them clearly liked me, and they murmured variations of “Not me. I like you. You should stay.”

  Clearly the crowd was on my side and I decided to roll with it. “See, you fucking cunt,” I shrieked at Kim. “Nobody wants me to leave. But trust me, they want you to leave, you cocksucking bitch!” Suddenly, this wasn’t rehab anymore. It was a sorority.

  With that, the nurse burst into the room to see what all the yelling was about. Yelling was allowed in therapy—like when we were screaming at empty chairs that represented our parents or people who had cornholed us as kids—but yelling was never allowed in community meetings.

  As the nurse flew in to try to restore order, I screamed, tears streaming down my face, “I’ve had it with this shit!!” and with that, I stormed out the door, slamming it hard, another no-no in rehab.

  After about an hour with all three therapists, where there was much crying, reading from the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous, and Feedback Looping—God, I couldn’t get away from that shit—I had calmed down. I resolved to “make amends” to Kim—an action that was one of the biggies in twelve-step programs—for interrupting her and for calling her names. I, however, was not going to apologize for my feelings. Those were valid. I went downstairs and joined the group.

  As I entered the therapy session already in progress, I noticed Kim’s seat on the couch was vacant. “Good,” I thought. “I can put off that amends shit until after lunch.” But moments later, Kim entered the room with a stumble. She flopped down in her seat and within ten minutes, her head slumped onto the arm of the couch with a thud.

  “Kim,” the therapist said. “Kim. Where were you?”

  She raised her head slightly and with slurred words said, “I was in my room. I took two sleeping pills and three anxiety pills.” And with that, her head thudded back onto the arm of the sofa.

  Later that day, Kim was taken away to Rosewood’s main building—the intense inpatient hospitalization place—where she, from what we heard, caused such a ruckus that she was removed and sent to a psychiatric hospital. This was a first for me. Usually, when I call someone a cunt, they just ask the theater for their money back.

  For a moment, I felt slightly guilty, like I had caused her to take those pills. But I remembered what the therapists had told us day after day: “You are not responsible for anyone else’s feelings or actions. You are only responsible for your own.”

  Remembering that, I realized that I had had nothing to do with Kim’s apparent suicide attempt. She did what she did because of her own demons.

  But part of me took a little pride in knowing that once again, I was killing—almost literally—in rehab.

  part four

  It’s Only Upward from Here! The Future of Lisa Lampanelli

  Well, it’s been exactly
six months since I left Rosewood and I’ve been relatively great—well, as great as a codependent food-addicted comedian can be.

  Since getting out of the joint, I have a new shrink—a New York Jew who’s tough but fair and who keeps pushing me to be more vulnerable with people and show them my real self. I guess writing this book is a start. Maybe by the time it comes out, I will have had the balls to call my brother and tell him “I love you” for no reason, but for now, I have to be content with writing it in an e-mail. And my sister? My Jew shrink wants me to call her and tell her how much I admire her—out of the blue! I told him if I start doing those things, they’ll think I’m dying of cancer or something. So, for now, their mentions in the acknowledgments of this book will have to do.

  As far as my eating goes, I haven’t emotionally eaten in the six months since I left Rosewood, but I have to admit, I do nigger-rig my food plan every now and then (I can eat a muffin the size of a baby’s head instead of two kiwis, can’t I? They both only count as two starches, right?). Well, like they say in the twelve-step meetings, it’s progress, not perfection, and I have made progress since the days of stuffing my anger and loneliness with a box of Hostess Cupcakes.

  When it comes to my weight, at the time of this writing, I have lost a couple of pounds but gone are the days when it comes off easily. At forty-eight, it creeps off slowly, but honestly, I’m just relieved to be on the way down instead of on the way up. Hopefully, by the time you’re reading this, I will have either lost the fifteen pounds I had yearned to lose when I entered Rosewood, or I will have accepted that this is my weight and that it’s good enough for me. (Believe it or not, Jew shrink thinks it’s possible for me to look in the mirror and like what I see.) And the last time I was on Howard’s show, he, like Bubba, called me skinny too. Sometimes when people really like you, they also like what they see.