Love Warrior

by Glennon Doyle Melton

  * * *

  If I could go back to the morning of my release, I would say to my parents: I know I have to leave here—but I don’t want to go back there. Not back to high school. There are too many toxins and I can’t breathe. But I say nothing. I assure everyone that I’m fine now. It’s homecoming week at school and I’ve been nominated to the Homecoming Court and voted “Leading Leader” of my senior class. Soon after my release from the mental hospital, I sit on the edge of a convertible in a pretty blue suit, waving to crowds of people lining the sidewalks for the homecoming parade. My mother and grandmother drive me through the crowd and I can feel their hope. We’ve been through so much and here I am, being admired. It feels like victory to them. But I know the truth. You have to be known to be loved, and none of these waving people knows me. They only know my representative. This is not a victory parade for me, but for her. She is the one waving. I am the one holding my breath again, underneath. She is the star; I am the mental patient.

  As I wave, I think about my superlative: “Leading Leader.” It makes perfect sense. I am a good leader because I am a good rule follower. I understand there are two sets of rules in high school: the surface set that the adults profess and then the hidden, unspoken but understood rules that are truer and irrefutable. The hidden, truest rules about how to matter as a girl are: Be Thin. Be Pretty. Be Quiet. Be Invulnerable. Be Popular by Following the Powerful Boys’ Lead. Sex and booze and eating disorders are simply ways for a high school girl to honor the hidden rules and to get from here to there. From childhood to adulthood. From invisible to relevant. There is a certain kind of life a successful girl is supposed to build, and bulimia, booze, and sex are simply the tools she needs to build it. My homecoming sash says: You’ve followed the hidden rules by any means necessary. You sacrificed your health and your body and your dignity, and you looked good doing it. You did not disrupt the universe with any of your feelings or your questions. You stayed small. You did not take up too much space at all. You never surfaced, and when you needed to—when you needed oxygen—you left and breathed away from us. We never even met you. Well done.

  * * *

  As soon as I arrive at college, I search for a school of fish in which to hide. I find it in Greek life. The game here is both new and old. The rules, of course, are: Thinness is Beauty. Beauty is Power. Power is Being Chosen by the Boys. The interesting difference between college and high school is that here the hidden rules are publicly acknowledged. Guys from a nearby fraternity occasionally hang a sign above their party room that reads: NO FAT CHICKS. Since I was ten, I’ve known that No Fat Chicks is the hidden rule, so it’s a relief to see it made visible. Since the men have stopped hiding this rule, we women stop hiding our efforts to follow it. There are so many openly bulimic women in my sorority that there is an announcement one afternoon, “When you throw up, please flush the toilets. It looks bad when people come to the house and there’s puke everywhere.” As long as you flush it away, bulimia’s okay. It shows dedication, adherence to the rules. No Fat Chicks, you know. I go home after freshman year and through a disciplined regimen of restricted eating, excessive exercise, and bulimia, I lose fifteen pounds. I bleach my hair, buy a wardrobe full of skimpy clothes, and go back for my sophomore year, ready to play. Once again, I am picked up.

  I start dating a boy from an exclusive fraternity. It is the ultimate victory to be a girl handpicked by a member of this discriminating group of boys. I have fooled everyone into believing that I am one of the beautiful ones. I follow this boy around and the frat brothers take care of me and provide me access to every secret place I want to be. I am in again. Every weekend hordes of women wait outside the fraternity basement in anticipation of getting to the front of the line, where a boy will look each one up and down and then check to see if her name is “on the list.” Of course, her entry will never depend upon whether her name is found. It will depend upon her looks and her reputation. She needs to be hot or she needs to be easy. One of those two things is required for entry. I wonder now, Why did we wait in that line? Why didn’t we just get our own damn beer and dance in our own damn basements?

  Because of my boyfriend, I get to skip to the front of the line—past all the other less powerful, less thin, women. Access into yet another dark basement is everything, and I have it. There I can drink myself into a stupor and be carried to bed to have sex that I will not remember.

  My frat boy is good and kind. Away from the matrix of campus life, we love each other. During vacations I visit his midwestern home, where we talk and laugh late into the nights. Off campus we are allowed to be human together. He writes poems for me and we plan the music that will play at our wedding—the anthem from our favorite Quentin Tarantino movie. But back on campus, there is no room for love. One evening, he leaves a tender message on my answering machine and his frat brother steals the tape. His brothers play it at a meeting with the entire fraternity present. When the men hear my boyfriend say “I love you,” they collectively fall into hysterics and call him a pussy. So my frat boy learns to play his part, which is to keep me in the basement. To not be a pussy. My job is to only be a pussy. I pursue no interest in college, other than booze, boys, and getting ready to go booze with the boys.

  Getting ready is my constant; it is the ritual that grounds me. The process begins around four o’clock, when I’m steady enough to get out of bed and begin drinking again. I take a beer into the shower, close my eyes, and let the water run over me, washing away the previous night’s grime and sex and shame. Then I dry off and gather my tools—hair dryer, straightener, makeup, stilettos, tube top, short skirt, more beer—and begin the hard work of transforming myself from a sick mess into my shiny, beautiful, bulletproof rep. I am so proud of this process, so sure of myself here, that if I’m ready too early, I begin all over again with another shower. When I’m fully armored, I head to the basement and stay up late with the boys and sleep in with the boys and I beat them in drinking contests and out-cocaine them line for line. I am following the rules. Winning again.

  Ten years later my fraternity boy will marry a woman I adore. She’ll say that it took him some time to get over our relationship. She’ll say that one night they were in an argument and he became distant. She’d said, “What are you thinking about?” and he’d replied, “Glennon. She just didn’t give a fuck.” His wife understood this to be the ultimate compliment for him to bestow upon a woman. She also understood that it was no compliment. Any woman who doesn’t give a fuck is simply abandoning her soul to adhere to the rules. No woman on earth doesn’t give a fuck—no woman is that cool—she’s just hidden her fire. Likely, it’s burning her up.

  2

  I GRADUATE FROM COLLEGE, which makes me grateful to and suspicious of my alma mater. I move back home and rent a town house with my two best friends, Dana and Christy. I get a job teaching third grade, and even though I spend the first hours of every morning sobering up, I’m a good teacher. My love for my students is my grip on the world. I lose that grip every day at dismissal when I drive out of the school parking lot and toward the grocery store to pick up two huge bottles of wine. As soon as I get home, I take a deep breath by pouring and pouring until I’m back at baseline. Until I’m numb enough. I still binge and purge, but drinking and passing out is my favorite rhythm now. Dana and Christy join me most nights, but I drink differently than they do. They drink to take the edge off; I drink to disappear. I’m almost always successful. Most nights I black out and wake up completely dependent upon Dana and Christy to fill me in on the previous night’s happenings. What did I say? What did I eat? What did I break? They always help me remember. I am their project. Eventually, I break up with my frat boy. We are each secretly worried about the other’s drinking, but since quitting is inconceivable, it’s not worth bringing up. Besides, the truth is that there are different rules outside of campus. I am in the real world now, so I need to be paired with a healthy, successful grown-up. These things are now more important than cool, and acc
ess to basements means nothing. As I tell him it’s time for us to move on, he cries. I am single for two weeks. It is scary and strange to be a pawn in no one’s hand.

  The morning of July Fourth, Dana and I join the throngs of folks packing the D.C. streets in celebratory debauchery for the Independence Day Bar Crawl. Like the thousands of others here, Dana and I are people-watching, steadily sipping off our hangovers, waiting for something interesting to happen. There’s nowhere to hide from the relentless sun, so we just stand still and melt. I drop my cigarette to the curb and stamp it out with my sandal. I use my free hand to shield my eyes and I scan the crowd. When I spot Craig, I hold my breath. I remember that guy. He was a year ahead of me in high school and he was untouchable—a star soccer player with all the wholesomeness and goldenness that soccer coaches require or create. After graduation, he played soccer in college and then went on to the semipros. Rumor has it that he’s now a fashion model. He’s so alarmingly confident and gorgeous standing there in the middle of the intersection that I feel certain this rumor is true.

  I light another cigarette and study him. He’s tall and solid with hair thick and black. His arms are sculpted and folded casually across his very compelling chest. I feel a strong urge to place my hand on his upper arm, to check how warm and soft his skin is, to compare the size, color, and temperature of my hand to his shoulder. He seems like he’d let me do that. His eyes are crinkly and kind. He looks comfortable in his smooth, tan skin and every time he smiles I catch myself smiling along with him. He’s exotic and enticing, but in the middle of this crowd of strangers, he also reminds me of home. We grew up in the same hallways and classrooms and town. We’re from the same place. I recognize him. He laughs at something a gorgeous woman beside him has just said, and I start to feel queasy with longing. I either need to stand next to Craig and touch him and make him laugh or never look at him again. This in-between is becoming painful.

  The pain intensifies when I allow my vision to widen and realize that Craig is actually surrounded by beautiful women. Four of them have created a horseshoe around him—like he is the sun and they are each trying to warm themselves. These women are stunning. Each seems at least six feet tall, with long wavy hair pulled back from makeup-free faces. They are a toothpaste commercial. As soon as I see them, I feel oafish. What is the point of trying when women like these exist? I try to squash my longing to touch Craig’s arm by collecting things to hate about these women. First of all, their legs. All eight of their legs are long and toned and their shorts are short—not in a trashy way, in a sporty way. People have no business being sporty at a bar crawl unless their sport is beer pong. Second, they are drinking not from the obligatory red plastic bar-crawl cup, but from bottles of water. Water at a bar crawl?

  I conclude that these women are, in fact, bar-crawl imposters. It is as if they were on their way to compete in a Fourth of July beach volleyball tournament but took a wrong turn and are currently awaiting rescue by their Olympic coach or perhaps their suntan oil sponsor. I want them to go away so I can stop longing and start forgetting that people like this exist. So it’s nonsensical that I nudge Dana, gesture toward Craig, and say, “Remember him?”

  Dana looks over, and when her eyes land on Craig, her face brightens. She suggests we walk over to say hello. I say, “Um, no. Are you kidding? Look at him! He is too good-looking to talk to and we are too sober to do any talking. And look at those girls! No hellos. Absolutely not.”

  Dana says, “Craig was my neighbor. He’s the nicest guy ever. And hellos are not as hard as you make them out to be.”

  “The hello is not the problem,” I say. “The problem is after the hello. What then? Please, no. Let’s stay here with our precious cups and drink safely alone. Everything is perfect. Why must you always ruin drinking by adding scary people and things?” Dana rolls her eyes and walks away. I watch her swerve through the crowd toward Craig and I become aware that I am suddenly and unacceptably alone in the middle of the crowded street. I choose the least terrifying of my limited options and follow her. Craig notices us coming. He smiles and waves us over in that way only guys who are certain they are every woman’s destination know how to smile and wave women over. I am certain that every person I pass can hear my heart pounding. I sidle into their circle as close to Dana as possible. All of them tower above me. I stare at my shoes and sip my beer.

  Craig is now hugging Dana, stepping closer to me. My terror alert level leaps from yellow to red. He smiles and says kindly, gently, “Hi. I remember you. Glennon, right? How have you been?” I am taken aback. I am used to men addressing me sideways and slippery, through sarcasm and innuendo. Craig’s directness is alarming. To make matters more unnerving, he is looking directly at my face. Somehow it feels like he is trying to talk to the real me, not my representative. This seems like an egregious boundary violation. I stare at him for a moment and then I hear Dana say: “G? You okay?” Yes! That’s me. I am G! I remember! But I have no idea how to answer Craig’s second question: How have you been? Why would he start with such a hard one? I’d like to consider an answer but all I can think about is: What does my face even look like in daytime conditions? I have no idea. I am not used to caring about details, but details suddenly seem important. What is Craig actually seeing as he looks directly at me? Stray facial hair? Bloodshot eyes? Unaddressed blackheads? I don’t know. I just know I did not sign up for this examination. All this light and closeness and sincere conversation feel altogether inappropriate for a bar crawl. I need to get out of here.

  I hear myself say the following. “Hi. I’m fine. Great. Yes, I’m Glennon. I’m good. How are you? Dana, I have to pee.” Dana looks at me and her eyes widen and she shapes her face into this question: What the hell? I grab her hand and raise my beer toward Craig and his athletic friends in a manner that I hope translates directly to: So long! It’s been great getting to know you! I’m very busy and important and must go now! Good luck with all of your glowing and legs and, by all means, keep up the good water work! I hope all of your Olympic dreams come true! Dragging Dana behind me, I swerve through the crowds of people, away from Craig and toward the safety of a crowded bar. I glance back and notice that Craig is watching me leave.

  When Dana and I finally make it inside, I walk straight to the bartender and order two shots. I hand one to Dana, and she stares at me for a moment and then explodes into laughter. “Okay, then,” she says. “That went well. You are so normal, Glennon. Really normal.” She swallows her shot, slams the glass on the bar, and says, with visible confusion, “I actually think he likes you.” This idea feels equal parts ridiculous and true to me. I tell her it must be all my charm and social grace and height and sobriety. While we laugh, I find myself wishing I’d stayed longer and tried harder with Craig. I liked standing beside him. I liked how my insides felt when he looked at me. I’d been afraid, but awake. I wanted him beside me now, being tall, confident, and good. I wanted him to put his arm around me, claim me and call me good, too. I wanted him to invite me into his toothpaste commercial. I spend the rest of the day talking to drunken, slippery, sideways guys while thinking about Craig and his goldenness and arms and kindness.

  Later that night, Craig and I run into each other again, this time inside a smoky, dark, perfect bar. I’m grateful to note that Craig has graduated from both water and the Olympic girls: None is in sight. I am filled with gallons of confidence now, and as I approach Craig, I sense that the power has shifted between us. Craig turns away from the new girl he’s talking to and smiles like he’s been expecting me. When I get close enough, I put my hand on his arm and watch the girl walk away. I’m not nervous anymore. I might not know what to do with a golden boy during the day, but I know what the night calls for. Details like faces and answers to questions are less important now. We both have bodies, and that is quite enough to have in common. We dance, and then Craig asks if I want to go “see his place.” I say yes, because his place is where we’ve been heading since he first smiled at me twelv
e hours ago. We take a taxi home and I meet a few of his buddies and then we go to his room and sleep together. I don’t remember it at all. I only remember waking up late the next morning and finding myself in bed with this boy who feels both completely out of my league and just like home.

  I wake before Craig, so there’s time to study him up close. He looks as invincible horizontal as he did vertical. I feel nervous again. This is exactly the after the hello part I’d been trying to avoid. Craig opens his eyes, smiles, and wraps his arm around me. I say, “Hi,” and I feel pretty solid about that effort. He smiles and says, “Hi to you.” Then we silently decide that the only way to barrel through the awkwardness of being naked strangers together is to make out. We do. It feels odd and distant like sex always feels to me. Afterward, we get dressed and he drives me home. Craig calls me the next day and the day after that and we don’t spend another night apart for the next four months.

  * * *

  Being with Craig feels right to me—like his goodness and light are what I’ve been missing. When I ask him what he likes about me he says, “You’re exciting—and you aren’t needy. You make me feel like all you care about is me. I feel good when I’m around you.” He means this kindly, but it knocks the wind out of me. I want to say, I know I make you feel good because I’m an expert at that. But when you look at me, do you see me as anything more than a mirror? Do you see anything here you like? I want you to notice something I’m good at other than making you feel good about yourself. What about me? Can you help me figure out who I am in here? But I don’t say any of that. I know the rules.