Even in my adult life, after I moved to New York, getting married to a man and having kids was still just there, sitting somewhere in the distance, waiting for me to arrive after I found some success. But I’d started to move farther away from that story, not sure anymore if it was a place I was headed. I liked being casual in relationships, and the single recluse in me began to make herself comfortable. But I was distraught and insecure about my lack of connection in my love life, and the balance between my work and personal satisfaction was so uneven, it wasn’t worth comparing. I felt helpless. I had to be more proactive, I had to do something to try and tip the balance the other way. So, on my thirtieth birthday, after a few drinks, I made a decision, quietly and internally—from there on out, if I thought a dude was interesting or attractive, I was going to boldly ask him out. My first success was that very night, at a bar I’d invited friends to in Brooklyn. I’d always thought my friend Dan was cute, so I walked up to him and said casually: “I think you’re adorable. Let me know if you’d ever want to get a drink. No pressure!” It worked! He said yes! What a fucking BADASS! This is still my go-to line by the way, and it usually works. Confidence is powerful and enlivening. I wasn’t going to wait for guys to ask me out, to sweep me off my feet, because I knew that wasn’t going to happen. I’d go out and do it myself. I had solved the “helpless” problem by taking matters into my own hands, but I still hadn’t found connection.
So, there I was, two years later, at a friend’s birthday party, mid-conversation with a sweet, cute guy I’d just met. I’d smile and nod at him, laughing with him at his jokes. I’d slip in the occasional, “Totally!” But I have no idea what he was talking about, what we were laughing at, or what I was saying “totally” in response to, because I found myself staring across the room, only seeing her. My mind shifted, an “aha moment” as my future best friend Oprah would say. The party ended and I went up to my hotel room. I remember sitting on the bed, trying to suss out the situation. I was clearly into her—I couldn’t stop thinking about her! If she were a guy, there’d be no question what I would do. The only reason I wasn’t asking her out was because she’s a she. That seemed idiotic, to limit my heart based on gender. Maybe the things I always assumed would and should happen in my life were off, written by someone else. Maybe I would start over now.
So, I texted her.
And then, all the good parts happened. All the calls, the texts, the FaceTimes. The anticipation. All the uncontrollable smiles, the pings in my stomach. All the surprises, all the deep breaths, all the firsts. All the sweeping gestures, the tiny touches. The ease. The connection. The excitement, the laughter. All the plane tickets, the doors opening, the goodbyes, the notes left behind. All the hotel rooms and the playlists. The songs that made me think of her. The sharing of days, of frustrations, of fears. All the vulnerability I wasn’t aware of. All the support and encouragement I didn’t know I needed, the support and encouragement I didn’t know I could provide. All the ways in which I wanted her to be proud to be with me, which turned into me being proud of myself. All the silence in the middle, all the hope. Full of hope. All the mornings, and the light. All the waiting for the coffee to finish, the learning about the coffee. All the late nights and the laughter. All the tucking of hair behind ears, the singing along to terrible songs in the car. The stupid dancing. And more laughter. All the times she smiled. All the times she smiled when she was looking at me. All the best things. There were other things in there, of course, the trickier things. The confusion, the disagreements, the lack of. The need for space and yearning for togetherness. The distance. The feeling like I wasn’t good enough, the fear. All of those things and all of the others I can’t try to write about. All of the things that make love impossible to explain. All the things I didn’t understand before. It’s all in there, the bad inside the good.
And then, it was abruptly over.
In the beginning of our relationship, right when we had started talking, me and her, I was alone and fainted in my apartment, smashing my face on my kitchen counter. MY NOSE WILL NEVER BE THE SAME BY THE WAY. I had taken a red-eye back from LA the night before and was dehydrated, or overworked—I still don’t know exactly what happened. But right before I fell, as I was desperately trying to consume something, searching my fridge for anything to raise my blood sugar, I got this feeling throughout my whole body, this knowing sensation that I was no longer in control. I was a goner. I’ve felt that two more times since I ruined my beautiful nose:
A few weeks later, she was staying at a hotel in New York and we had gone to see a show. It was so early in us hanging out that we hadn’t been telling everyone, except our close friends, like you do. I remember pretending to leave, hugging her goodbye in the lobby of her hotel, and walking outside with our friend we’d been having drinks with. I even scrolled my phone, feigning to call an Uber, complaining that it was taking forever. It’s moments like this when I think to myself, You know what, you are an exceptional actor! It’s never when I’m actually on set or at a table read, but rather when I’m blatantly lying to friends or acquaintances about something mundane. I sold that shit. This friend definitely thought my Uber was circling, because I was delivering quite the monologue about Ubers circling…I’m not gonna write it all out, because it was really more about the delivery, but it was Oscar-worthy. Actually…maybe just Globes-worthy. And my object-work with the phone!? Incredible. At least deserves a nomination! This friend finally decided to walk home, probably due to my play-by-play of Uber logistics, but I was free. When the coast was clear, I turned and went back into the hotel and took the elevator up to her room. I knocked on the door, smirking at my little play downstairs. The door opened and she pulled me inside. The ruse was over, we could be us again. She hugged me so tightly, held me there, and squeezed, like she might never let me go. I fell, completely out-of-control in love with this person, right then and there in that hug. In that hotel room. I was a goner.
And then, later, to the it-being-over thing. Being out of control in love is glorious. It’s the feeling I wish for everyone, the unleashing of joy. The dual-skydive of glee into this unknown world of possibility. It’s the closest thing we have to magic. But being out of control in heartbreak…? I wouldn’t wish that upon anyone. It’s unnerving, it’s manic, it’s hopeless. It’s the most terrifying thing in the world for the person you love, who loves you back, to suddenly stop, to disappear, and not want to be in your life anymore. What do you do with that? I realized in the thick of this heartbreak that it wasn’t only that I’d never felt this way about someone else, but no one had ever felt this way about me. I had never let anyone in this far, had never brought anyone home for the holidays before, had never let anyone fully see me. But I did, with her. Ooohh boy, was I a goner. I felt simultaneously like Russell Crowe in A Beautiful Mind, trying to connect the pieces of some unsolved math equation, and like Nell, isolated in a little cabin in my head, smack in the middle of the world as it always was.
So, I did what any intelligent, responsible, sane person would do.
I got a dog.
For a week.
I am an actual monster and should be put on garbage island to live out the rest of my days, floating in the middle of the ocean, building shelter from plastic bottles. That’s next, right?
I should add that I took extremely good care of this puppy for the week she was mine. I wish I had simply fostered her, but the manic state I was in demanded wild, sweeping gestures, so I adopted her from a rescue. I took her to the vet and got all her medications. She wasn’t used to a leash, but we were really making some progress in the house-training department. I got her set up with a trainer, had a dog walker and about every toy, bed, crate, and treat you could get a dog. When I knew I had to give her up, I brought her back to the foster mom I got her from and made sure she was safe and sound (with a carload of her new belongings). She is happy and healthy (I PROMISE SHE IS HAPPY AND HEALTHY), and I’m very certain I made the right decision. But I sometimes s
croll through the photos from that week, of me with this puppy, and know I still belong on garbage island.
Even thinking about it now makes my stomach hurt. You know when you do something big, and in the moment, you’re like, I’m fine and this is right! Making this big change is appropriate, and I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m in control of my life and my actions and this is the thing for me! I’m an adult for crying out loud! It was so clear, so ridiculously transparent, like all the biggest, boldest things are. I was trying desperately to move all my love that was now floating, up in the Cloud somewhere (clearly, still don’t understand the Cloud), to this dog. To fill up my heart with this little puppy. I wanted so badly to have something, someone of my own to take care of. To let me take care of them, and it did not work. It wasn’t like something just kind of not working. It was like having the adverse reaction to a sleeping medication, where instead of sleeping, you are anxious, jittery, and very much awake. Not sleeping at all! You might as well not have taken the medication in the first place. Sidenote: This is what happens to me every single time I try to take a different sleeping medication. I should really stop. But this dog, this adorable, perfect puppy, brought out a version of myself I had never been. Each cuddle sucked sadness out of my pores. My apartment became cramped, dark, tight with rage, with tears, with despair. The cutest eight pounds in the world made me fall apart anew. It was like a tipping point for me, crying-wise—you know that Malcolm Gladwell thing, the ten-thousand-hours rule—about how to be an expert at something you have to have practiced or worked at it for ten thousand hours. This dog and this week of crying was where I officially crossed over into being an actual depressed person—an expert crier. I’m here to say, and possibly toot my own horn, that it didn’t take me the entire ten thousand hours, but I was indeed a professional tear maker. I was just that good. I’m a true Outlier of Tipping Points.
Everyone around me at the time could see that getting a dog was a terrible idea, catastrophic, but you can’t tell people that. You have to let them live those mistakes. Did I mention I got her right in the middle of shooting Season 4 of Broad City? Maybe I delayed that reveal because it makes my decision even more idiotic and obvious. The shooting schedule of a television show is insane and unpredictable. Sometimes we shoot all night, from 5 p.m. to 5 a.m., and sleep all day. Sometimes it’s the exact opposite. Sometimes we’re shooting a scene that’s supposed to be the dead of winter in the middle of the summer and sometimes we’re stuck in a seven-foot hole in the middle of a cemetery for eight hours—shit is nuts! You have to be on the balls of your feet, ready for anything. Behind the scenes, there’s a never-ending barrage of questions that need to be answered and possible outcomes that need to be anticipated. It’s the type of thing Red Bull was created for. Personally, it becomes a selfish time; I hardly see friends or family, and weekends are usually used to catch up on sleep. While awake, most activities consist of finding new and unique places to sit. But I went ahead and I got this dog right in the middle of the chaos.
I could only operate normally when I was in work-mode. If there was too long a break between shots or meetings, I’d either veer into a zombie-like daze, or almost break down. I remember a scene we shot on the stage one night. It was a build of a closet in Ilana’s new workplace, a restaurant called Sushi Mambeaux. While we were scouting at the location, a real restaurant in Williamsburg, we realized there wasn’t a closet big enough for a few scenes we’d written, so we had to build a closet on the stage. In the scene, Ilana is suffering from depression (couldn’t be more ironic for me at the time) and has been using a SAD (seasonal affective disorder) lamp to try and feel better throughout her shift. I remember waiting on the other side of the fake closet door while the crew finished setting up. There was some change in the shot and they were taking longer than usual to swap out a lens or get the lights just right. I was on the other side of that door by myself for too long, I’d slipped into the underbelly. I kept thinking of my new puppy, downstairs in the room where I got changed. I felt so lost, so incredibly low and numb, wishing some sort of SAD lamp would actually work for this. I felt a heaviness in my whole body, felt tears seep into the corners of my eyes and tried to push them away, frantically. There were forty people on the other side of that wall, specifically about to watch my face. Stop, stop, stop thinking! I yelled at myself in my head. And just as I was about to completely lose it, have to apologize to whoever and create an improvised lie about having something in my eye since lunch, the assistant director yelled, “Action,” and without a second thought, I reached for the doorknob. I rushed into the scene in character, freaking out about my mom asking me how many people I’ve slept with. I will never forget that night and that week. How the show seems to always save me, and force me forward. How I have never been so raw, so out on a ledge before this time. How a beautiful, tiny little creature made me realize I was the one that needed taking care of.
I had never felt so untethered.
Besides the DOG week and its own turmoil, navigating my confusion and heartache felt like I was on a never-ending roller-coaster ride where everything related back to that. All the love songs, all the films, the poems, made sense now in a totally different way. Get outta here, Ephron—these people don’t end up together, no one does! ADELE!? I GOT IT. ENOUGH! How could we all just be carrying on like this? I started looking at people differently—are they heartbroken too? Is that guy across from me on the subway also about to cry? I must be strong for him. If I cry, he’ll break down and that wouldn’t do either of us any good.
I had to find ways to distract myself from thinking about it, from replaying scenes from the relationship. I needed something to occupy my brain, entirely, and Broad City for me was perfect. But at night I was a complete and utter shit show. We’re all always performing to the world, but when we get home and close the door to our apartments, or our bedrooms at night, the pain comes flooding back in. So, we have to distract ourselves again, right? TV! Movies! The internet! I tried to fill my head by reading or watching or listening to stuff. I watched shows, documentaries, old movies. I listened to albums I hadn’t listened to from start to finish, caught up on podcasts I’d been recommended. I read novels and nonfiction, short stories, essays, and poetry. I even read a book about couples counseling—which made me feel terrible about not being in a couple, but is also something I quote almost constantly. It’s called Getting the Love You Want, and I’m proud of myself for no longer being ashamed to tell anyone I read that book. I did order it on Amazon so no one would see me buying it in person, I have some self-respect!
I couldn’t sleep and that amplified everything. It was like an alternate version of myself was let loose in my apartment each night—an angry person, a sad, lonely person. I was almost like Teen Wolf, but instead of when the moon comes out and I turn into a wolf, I’d turn into a wildly depressed person and also be a thirty-three-year-old woman instead of a teen boy. But my skin still looks like a teen and I too love a good bomber jacket. It was exhausting, just as I imagine being Teen Wolf was exhausting. I’m gonna be honest here and say that I don’t think I’ve actually seen Teen Wolf, but I can gather the basic gist. Hiding something you’re going through is intense and draining. But I just couldn’t even deal with dealing with it, ya know? I would at some point, but these nights were like the fever you have to sweat out until it breaks and you’re okay again. I feel like I should watch Teen Wolf?
The end of production was in sight. The process of editing is about two months and begins right after we’re finished shooting. The edit is invigorating, challenging, and like a puzzle, filled with time and budget constraints. Sound design and visual effects come into play here and rejuvenate the whole show. It’s where you see it all unfold. It’s also a less stressful time, schedule-wise, as our main concern is getting what we’ve got to be exactly what we want. I was feeling a little bit more myself by the spring, but felt an underlying sense of anxiety. I was scattered and still just plain old sad. I’m an introver
t by nature, but this was more than that. The nights were longer, leaving me more time to not-sleep. We weren’t talking anymore at this point, me and her, and that distance and silence wasn’t providing me any closure or relief. I started stressing about being finished editing, then what? I’d have time to only think about this? I’d be able to fully process where I’m at and how I’ve grown and how I really feel? What am I, crazy? I needed to leave and get as far away from my normal existence as I could, as soon as possible.
As a certifiable workaholic, I knew the only way I would be able to get away and process this transformative relationship and the frustration I was still carrying around was if I created a project. So, I made a plan. We were scheduled to finish editing on the last day in June, Friday the thirtieth, and from then on, I had three weeks until I needed to be on the West Coast. I would leave Sunday, July 2, at the butt-crack of dawn and drive across the country to Los Angeles. Alone. That was what I would do. When my main distraction was set to end, I’d skip town and cook up another. This type of situation was exactly what horizons were there for, to drive right into.
I had a driver’s license that didn’t expire for years, and I was gonna use it! I didn’t have any real goal besides finding time and space in which to be still and think. My vision of myself as an elderly, stylish, yet effortless Boo Radley had been tested. I was capable of love! Hooray! Now what? I had entered the world of pain and vulnerability and all the bullshit that comes along with it. I thought I’d been found, been discovered by someone, been wanted for exactly who I was, and now I felt like I might be a completely different person that I myself needed to find. I knew the past year had cracked me open and changed my assumptions of what my life could be. I wanted to create time to specifically think about that. To dive into the deep end as they say—in all the ways. I was a workaholic and didn’t exactly know why. I had never fallen in love, and then I did. I had never been heartbroken, and now I was. I had never dated a woman before and now I was…dating women. For once, I wanted to put as much time into myself as I put into my work.
I Might Regret This Page 3