Life Will Be the Death of Me

by Chelsea Handler

  “People have been dropping like flies,” I said to Dan. “Every time I look up, there’s a missed call. Tammy, Chunk, my cousin, my father. It’s all so strange. This year feels like a dream. The first time I start really dealing with my grief about Chet, it feels like death is knocking on my door. I keep losing things that I love, and I now know what people mean when they say they’ve had a rough year.”

  “Do you feel like you are grieving?”

  I didn’t, and needed to explain to Dan what years of walking around with psychological cement felt like.

  “I have a very out-of-sight, out-of-mind attitude when it comes to people. It seems harsh, but I really just stop thinking about people once a relationship has been severed.”

  “Well, that’s the way you say goodbye to people. It has to be black or white. That’s the only way you know.”

  “I don’t miss people. Ever. I don’t think I’ll miss my dad.”

  “You’ve been preventing yourself from missing people because missing someone means that you are vulnerable, and you are only just learning how to be vulnerable. You can’t expect these things to shift overnight. You are trying very hard.”

  “Yeah,” I said, sighing. “You keep saying that.”

  “Are you angry?” Dan asked me.

  “No. Nothing even close to angry.”

  “Are you sad?”

  “Um, I want to say yes, but I feel like that would be a lie. I guess, based on my reaction to his death, my father wasn’t one of my self-defining relationships.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t,” Dan agreed.

  “That’s sad,” I told him, with the tears finally welling up in my eyes.

  I felt sad, but not necessarily about my father. What I was mourning wasn’t just my brother, or my father, or my cousin, or Chunk, or Tammy. I was mourning the childhood that had lasted years into my adulthood—because I got stuck. I was reconciling myself to the loss of my youth as a self-actualized adult, now that I had the tools to face it all—and now that I was officially an orphan, and had no choice but to grow up.

  “I totally get me now,” I told Dan. “I can work with this.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I’ve learned that many people are just bridges to someone else. Some people become bridges that you take back and forth to get back to yourself. That’s how I interpret self-defining relationships. The people who bring you back to you. The ones who say, “You are always welcome here. You are family. I love you, and there’s nothing you can do about it, so get used to it.” My father’s funeral was a reminder of how important family is, and how important tradition is. That showing up for a funeral is tradition, and that tradition is not a trope and that there’s nothing stale about it. Every person that came to my father’s funeral had given me information I hadn’t had before—information I was now willing to receive. My dad would have loved that.

  There are a lot of people in my life who I know love me and care about me and worry about me, but before Dan, I was intent on tuning out that noise. I would shudder or turn away because the last thing I wanted to feel was safe. That feeling had backfired on me before, and it took me thirty years to figure that out.

  I didn’t know about attachment figures before I met Dan. I couldn’t see that I’d adopted certain habits to avoid my deep pain. I cultivated a kind of hubris that allowed me to barrel through life, knocking over everything in my way, and then look back and be surprised at all the casualties. Casualties represented weakness, or disloyalty, or people who couldn’t cut the mustard. I never took them as signs that maybe the common denominator was me. Chet had basically commandeered most of my life, and I barely knew the guy.

  Don’t let other people decide what kind of mood you’re going to be in. Don’t let anyone change your life in one day. Don’t let death take you down and keep you down. Go down, but get back up. If we don’t give in to our despair—and instead lock it away—we fail to properly mourn the people we love. How on earth are we honoring the very people we are grieving if we fail to mourn them fully? We should be celebrating the people we’ve lost. I missed thirty years of celebrating my brother.

  * * *

  • • •

  I was no longer shipwrecked. I was now floating somewhere in Katama Bay—the bay of water that is filled with my favorite childhood memories, the bay that separates Chappaquiddick from Edgartown—thinking about how strong I feel with my new set of tools. By sheer force of will, I can get myself almost anywhere I’d like to go, but I choose to use my newly acquired awareness as a strength—a tool to keep me in place—and not as part of my kinetic motion. I know I can continue swimming away from myself, or I can get out of the water and stand on my own two feet, firmly in one place, and take a look at all the other people struggling to stay afloat. I have the strength and mental grit to withstand what comes my way, and if someone I love dies along the way, I will survive.

  What matters the most is that I was ready to take an uncomfortable look at myself and ready to accept whatever image I saw. I’d like to think that the messenger—Dan—had something to do with it. Maybe it’s as much about the messenger as it is the message. I needed Dan, and I needed the message. He could have delivered that message in a Magic 8-Ball. I had found someone I was ready to dig deep with.

  Once Dan elucidated all my attachment issues in relation to Chet, I made it my business to unlock my nine-year-old brain and take a look at my behavior. That’s when the lights started turning on everywhere I looked. Chet’s death and my response to it became the blueprint I followed anytime I experienced disappointment with people. I terminated friendships, with little sentimentality, because that was how I thought relationships ended. You move on and forget about that person in your life. Keep moving. There are new people everywhere.

  I learned that adventure is never bad, but the alacrity with which you go through life has an impact on the wisdom that life has to offer you. That slowing down doesn’t mean you have to do less. It means you have to pay attention more and catch what the world is throwing at you. That every situation you put yourself in deserves your full attention, and that each of us has a responsibility to be more aware of ourselves and of others.

  I learned that saying nothing can be much more powerful than saying anything. To not work so hard at making an impression and to let things settle more. Some people’s lessons are to learn how to use their voice, or to speak out more. My lesson is to keep quiet a little more and let things happen around me instead of always inserting myself. It used to be hard not to say the thing that I believed would change a person forever, and it’s now so easy to say nothing. There’s power in adjusting your behavior and pulling back. No more screeching or waving my arms around to get attention. I’ve always been more interested in sharing what I was thinking, but now I try to think about what I’m thinking.

  I have confidence in my ability to make the best out of a bad situation. I have an equal amount of confidence in myself to make the worst out of a mediocre situation. When left in a gray area or anything that could be construed as average, I will always tug in one direction or another. Far left or far right—that is my habit. Now that I have identified my propensity to do that, it’s up to me to identify when that response is appropriate and when it’s appropriate to look for some gray. Not everything has to be so definitive.

  I also know when I need to allow myself to cry. I don’t fight it as much. I know if I’m tired, I’m going to be more sensitive; if I’m exhausted, I will have less patience. When I’m impatient, it’s because of me and my mental state and not somebody else’s fault, and I catch myself. Identify that you are going through something and go through it. Know it. Don’t push fast-forward. Know that if you are sad or upset, it’s for a reason, and then reason with yourself. Don’t try to please everyone. Be honest. Know the situation. Identification. Awareness. Modification.

 
Strength doesn’t have to eclipse vulnerability. Vulnerability is strength. Being able to apologize is strength. I haven’t yet nailed that, but I’m getting there, and the most important thing isn’t always the giant leap, it’s the steps you take to get where you want to go. I had to run miles around what I perceived to be strength in order to find real strength, and come back stronger.

  I thought I was nailing it, for a really long time.

  I spent my twenties wanting people to think I was great.

  I spent my thirties thinking people thought I was great.

  I turned forty, and I started wondering what I thought about me.

  * * *

  • • •

  I was starting to feel less desultory about the state of the country. I was starting to feel purposeful. I knew the impact my words could have. That my heart was in the right place for compassion and understanding, and that the act of helping people simply because you were born in the right country was and is necessary.

  I talked to Dan about my desire to work for a better cause and the feelings of insecurity that came along with that. Would I be able to wait and see what would happen without instant results? In 2018, I had thrown myself fully and wholly into getting women elected and getting minorities and marginalized groups represented in government—and getting all of the above registered to vote. I knew from previous experiences that if I dove headfirst into something, results would follow.

  I couldn’t read enough or learn enough about elections, about government, about what it takes to run for office. (Not much, it turns out.)

  I wanted Donald Trump to be erased from history—although I understand that not to be possible. Generations after us will have to learn about how badly we chose and how long we allowed it to go on for.

  A dictator is usually homegrown. Someone who has been spoiled and coddled their whole life and has never really done a single thing of merit. Narcissism at its finest.

  Donald Trump is a crustacean. He is a bag of psychological cement that was the catalyst for me unlocking my own bag of psychological cement, and for this I am grateful. Would I go back to the way I was and live the rest of my life like that, if it meant avoiding Donald Trump altogether? In a heartbeat.

  I know now how small I am, and how big the world is. I know that the entire democracy of America is in the hands of each person who holds the right to vote. I know now that it is not only about using your singular voice, however big or small your platform is, but about helping everyone and encouraging every person to do the same. You may cast a small net, but every small net adds up to something bigger.

  I may not be able to save the world, but I can save people. One by one, family by family, and that is worthwhile. Helping people understand how important their voice is. That getting involved in politics is worthwhile, and doesn’t have to be your whole life. That too many people before us have fought to earn us the right to vote, and not to exercise that right is disrespectful to those who devoted their lives to seeking justice and fairness for all. They weren’t just fighting for themselves; they fought for all of us. We must all fight together. To be strong together. To fight not only for the rights that affect you. We have a duty to fight for the rights that affect all of our brothers and sisters. Stand for something. Say something. Stick your neck out and be brave. Fight. In 2018 we elected 116 women to Congress, because so many people fought so tirelessly.

  Your voice has meaning. Find something you care about that has nothing to do with you, and learn about it. Pay attention when you’re tired. Take care of yourself. Read more. Watch less TV. Find new people to teach you their life lessons. Be proactive.

  Know that you have something of value that is unlike what anyone else has.

  The world is only getting browner and gayer, and if you don’t hop on board, you’re going to miss the bus.

  Go after happiness like it is the only thing you can take with you when you die. Stand up for yourself. Treat yourself the way you treat the person you love most in the world. Get on your own team.

  Wake up. Take a nap. Laugh. Cry. Rinse. Repeat.

  My dad and me on Martha’s Vineyard. Swimming buddies.

  My mom on the deck of the Vineyard house in 1975, a few months after I was born.

  Me and Shana on the Vineyard, collecting tennis balls to stuff her bra.

  Me and my sister, Simone, with her arm always around me, age three.

  Shana holding me in Katama Bay, probably while I was peeing.

  Chet and me in our backyard in New Jersey in 1979.

  Celebrating my dad’s birthday, which he always claimed was on Thanksgiving—even though Thanksgiving is on a different day every year.

  Shana smoking a pipe to try to fit in with me.

  On an Easter egg hunt in Martha’s Vineyard, at age six.

  Chet’s college graduation: Simone, me, Chet, my mom, and my grandmother, the German.

  Me at nine years old, hugging our family dog, Mutley, who would become the prototype for all my future dogs.

  My aunt Ellen, my father, and me at my brother Roy’s bar mitzvah.

  My mom and me when I was eight. The year before Chet died.

  My brother Glen’s graduation from college. The year after Chet died.

  My father and me at my bat mitzvah in 1988.

  My mom and me at a beauty pageant. I was fifteen.

  With Simone at my high school graduation, still with her arm around me.

  Me and my parents in Martha’s Vineyard in 1996, the summer after I moved to California.

  My aunt Gaby, me, Simone, and Molly on our Xanax-fueled family vacation.

  Visiting my dad at his old-age home in Pennsylvania.

  Me and my sissies in San Francisco.

  Shana and me, on our way to an event for our current governor of New Jersey, Phil Murphy, 2017.

  Karen and me on my speaking tour to try to understand conservatives, 2018.

  Molly and me on safari in South Africa.

  Chunk on his outbound flight to Spain.

  Chunk at the end of our flight back to America.

  Chunk testing out shoes that would keep him from flying down the stairwell.

  Chunk loved the rain.

  Tammy.

  Bert, freshly shorn, and Bernice.

  This is how Tammy would stiffen whenever I picked her up. She is freshly shorn in this pic because, like Bert, she had some lumps I needed to get a better look at.

  The look Bert gives me when Mama leaves the house.

  Me trying to pretend my dogs love me.

  To My Future Husband, With Love

  Many thanks to Mengfei Chen, Greg Mollica, Kelly Chian, and Debbie Glasserman. Thank you to Dan Siegel for helping me put my head on straight. Thanks to all the B’s in my life: Brandon, Bitchie, Bitch, Bebz, Ben, Bert, and Bernice. Molly, my sisters and brothers, my cousins, to Terry and Gaby, and to all my buddies. You know who you are. And to Michael Morris for coming up with the title. To my editor, Julie Grau, who knew I was capable of writing something deeper than I had before—and encouraged me to let it all out. This was the best writing experience I’ve had and I’m grateful you pushed me in the right direction: truth.

  BY CHELSEA HANDLER

  My Horizontal Life

  Are You There, Vodka? It’s Me, Chelsea

  Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me

  Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang

  Uganda Be Kidding Me

  Life Will Be the Death of Me

  CHELSEA HANDLER is a writer, comedian, producer, TV host, activist, and the author of five consecutive New York Times bestsellers. She hosted the late-night talk show Chel
sea Lately on the E! network from 2007 to 2014, and released a documentary series, Chelsea Does, on Netflix in January 2016. In 2016 and 2017, Handler hosted the talk show Chelsea on Netflix. She is at work on a documentary about white privilege that will be released by Netflix in 2019.

  chelseahandler.com

  Facebook.com/​chelseahandler

  Twitter: @chelseahandler

  Instagram: @chelseahandler

  Snapchat: @chelseahandler

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