How to Murder Your Life
Page 38
Of course, I can’t say that Marco is a malignant narcissist. I’m not a doctor. It’s just my opinion. I read Malignant Self-Love again and again over the next few years. The book helped me resolve my anger, hurt, and grief. It also made me understand my part in everything. Malignant narcissists go for easy prey: the sick, the elderly, the young. When I was using drugs so heavily in my twenties, isolated from my family, relying on pills instead of people, I was one of the weak ones—a target.
“He’s going to kill you!” Jean used to say. I always thought she was being dramatic. Only now do I realize how lucky I was to have escaped that relationship (relatively) unharmed.
As I was writing this book, Trevor called me with some news: Marco was in court-ordered rehab, after a stint in jail. Around the time that my Vice column was popping off, he’d had a violent altercation with his elderly dad. I don’t know the details, except that Marco allegedly locked his dad in a room during the alleged attack. According to Trevor, his dad had his cell on him, so he called a relative, who called the police. Marco was arrested and charged with kidnapping and threatening to kill. His father, who had already been ill, was taken to the hospital. He died a few months later. A police escort brought Marco to the funeral in handcuffs.
I was horrified, obviously—especially for the family. I never wanted to see Marco again. But I did.
It was late spring 2013. I was packing up my Avenue C trap/house. I got a call from him, as I often still did. But for the first time in years, I answered. He had a key worth three hundred bucks to the building I was leaving behind.
“Let’s smoke an L,” he said—casual as hell.
“Okay,” I said. “I’m moving out of Second Street. If you bring my keys, I’ll see you.” He agreed. He probably wouldn’t even show up.
But he did, in his dad’s Fiat. He looked awful—extragreasy. I gave him a half hug.
“I really miss you, Cat,” Marco said.
“I bet.” I pulled my keys from around his neck. They were still on the neon-yellow lanyard, just like when he’d stolen them. We stood in the glow of the gas station light on Houston Street. “How was jail?”
“You heard about that?” Marco said.
“Yup,” I said. Then: “I gotta go.”
“You don’t want to smoke?” Marco said.
“Good luck, babe,” I said. I was done.
So what can all you pretty young addicts learn from this? Beware. Unhealthy people attract other unhealthy people—and girls on drugs attract bad guys like a wounded baby deer attracts vultures. When you’re high every day, you are vulnerable every day. You are making your judgment all screwy. You will let bad people into your life. They will steal from you and manipulate you, and possibly fuck you while you are sleeping. They will take advantage of your disorientation and messiness. They will take advantage of your numbness—that you aren’t feeling what one should when one is treated atrociously. They will tell you that you look amazing when you’re malnourished. They will shoot you up. They will encourage you to stay on drugs: they want you woozy, emaciated, and addicted so they can keep exploiting you.
Strong, healthy people just don’t interest the sickos of this world as much. You want to be one of the strong, healthy people—which is basically impossible when you’re using. I’m telling you all this in case you are young. It took so long for me to figure it all out! Now that I’m thirty-three—officially a woman—I’m finally getting there. Guys still buzz my apartment, but I don’t always let them in. Marco doesn’t know where I live. I’ve got a hot career, a clear head, and an ice pick in my kitchen in case I need to Basic Instinct a bitch, and nobody fucks with me anymore.
* * *
I live near Jane Pratt now, but I never see her. I never pop by xoJane or anything. I feel too embarrassed by how I behaved there. Jane had no idea what she was in for when she hired me. When I left 4 Times Square forever, my self-esteem was even lower than when I was asked to leave boarding school. I’d escaped in graffiti-writer world for a while, but starting at xoJane brought the bad feelings all back—and I took it out on everyone around me. It wasn’t Say Media’s fault that they weren’t Condé Nast. It wasn’t Jane’s fault that she wasn’t Jean Godfrey-June. It wasn’t Emily’s fault that she didn’t have a print background. The problem was always me. My addiction was a wrecking ball in my life. It knocked down everything my ambition built. It was the reason I didn’t work in magazines anymore.
But even though I knew all this, I wasn’t ready to let my addiction go—and we protect the things we want to keep. So when Say ordered me to go to rehab, I went on the attack, blaming them for my “creative unhappiness.” I deeply regret trashing the site to New York magazine. I am so sorry to my coworkers (especially Emily McCombs) and to Say Media. I was so ungrateful. It was despicable behavior, but because it was an online spectacle, I got rewarded for it. My career took off when it should have flopped. But as Jane would say, “That’s the Internet, right?” Needless to say, I don’t hate on “online” anymore. As for me and Jane—we’ll always be tight. We had a really special connection. If I ever return to work, it would be for her. Jane’s the best. And the site is doing great: xoJane was just purchased by fucking Time Inc.! Talk about your A-list publishing companies. Now Jane and her staff are in Time’s new company headquarters on the West Side Highway, sharing glamorous elevators with editors from People, InStyle, TIME, Entertainment Weekly, Real Simple, Sports Illustrated, Essence, Wallpaper, Travel + Leisure, Fortune . . . I should stop; I’m getting too aroused. All those top-tier titles—in one building? You know, I might just mosey on over one of these days and visit my old friend Jane after all.
* * *
I’m a little lonely, but that’s okay. I used to be so despondent about having “no friends,” but the truth is, I kept myself out in space, instead of down on earth with the humans. Ground control to Major Tom and all that. And forget intimacy. I couldn’t get close to anyone—much less Netflix and chill, or whatever couples do these days. I couldn’t even engage in television! Sometimes I worry that no matter how much I’ve cleaned up, I was in so deep so long that I am too weird, and no one healthy is ever going to want me. I don’t know how to cook, and I don’t know how to fall asleep. It all feels like too much to work through . . . and I think, Just stay by yourself. Then I remember that that’s my addiction talking. It wants me to be alone! It doesn’t want me to put myself out there—to courageously become unstuck and leave it behind.
So I can’t think that way. Someday I’ll find a man who treats me right—but I know I have to treat myself right for a while first. I have a ways to go, though, so for now, I sort of keep to myself. But I do believe I can change, don’t you? I’m changing all of the time! After I get out of Barry’s Bootcamp, I wander home past all of the bars on Orchard Street, and I’m so tired I don’t want to go into them. I get home at ten thirty and eat my little chicken sausage and watch Vanderpump Rules or whatever. Then I run my bath. I pour the Epsom salts right in the water without snorting any of them. Then I take off my clothes and put them in the hamper, not on the floor, and I get in the tub. Louise Hay tells you to paint the life you want with a paintbrush in your head. So that’s what I do when I’m soaking. I paint my boyfriend; I don’t really know what he looks like. All I know is, I go to restaurants with him. Like a normal woman. And to the movies, too. I paint myself getting pregnant and being happy about it. And then we’ll have kids; I’ll name the girls after famous editors in chief and the boys after punk rockers, and the two of us will raise them all over the world à la Brangelina. Only good lies before me. I see it all in my dumb mind.
Yes, my addiction is still very much part of my life—distracting me with cravings, obsessive thoughts, and negative self-talk. Yes, I see my Chinese night pharmacist more often than I see my pregnant sister. Yes, I was recently “caught” doctor shopping on the Bowery and wound up getting a stupid flu shot instead of sleeping pills
. Yes, my annual carbon footprint from orange plastic pill bottles alone is worthy of its own Al Gore documentary. Yes, I’m keeping my disease active as long as I’m not in recovery. By keeping away from AA or NA, I remain in the danger zone. Things could—and probably will—get bad again. Real talk!
But the fact that I am writing this afterword means that my ambition is fighting back—against my addiction, against my self-destructive tendencies, against my death drive. And this gives me so much hope. I am so grateful for this book project, which has forced me to clean up and totally turn my life around. It was the best thing that ever could have happened to a zero like me. I am so incredibly fortunate. I am so grateful to be in the friggin’ New York Times. I can’t believe this happened to me. Thank you so, so much for reading my book. Most addicts don’t get the chances that I have been given, obviously. I should be in the damn gutter. Or at least in Mimi’s basement.
Instead, here I am in the city of dreams. Still going! And getting better all of the time. Now that I’m finally done writing this thing, I almost don’t even know what to do with myself. I guess I’ll go outside and take a long walk. You know what’s great? Condé Nast isn’t at 4 Times Square anymore—it’s down at the new World Trade Center. And I live downtown, too! And the Freedom Tower skyscraper looms over my neighborhood. Every time I walk out my front door, I see it.
Hiii-ii! I tell the greatest company in the world. I love you!
But listen to this. You won’t fucking believe it. As I was writing this book, I read that there are actual rats in the new Condé Nast offices—creeping around at Vogue, and everyone is worried they are going to go in the fashion closet and eat the couture. When I read that story in the Post, I was all, I could not have handled that. So maybe things worked out for my career when they should have after all.
Then I started thinking. Maybe there aren’t really rats at Condé Nast, you know? Maybe the person reporting the rat sightings is another drug-addicted, ambitious beauty assistant, hallucinating things under her desk—a girl like I used to be. Did you ever think of that? Honey, if you’re out there: it’s not always going to feel like it does today. Or maybe my theory is crazy . . . but so many girls do take Adderall these days! So really, you just never know.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to my addiction counselor and friend Simon Mott of Hope Rehab Thailand, who gave me so much incredible insight into the disease of addiction. His influence is all over this project.
Thanks to my family, who have been so unbelievably supportive and kind throughout these difficult past few years. You’re all in my heart.
Thanks to my agent, Byrd, at Waxman-Leavell—I know it is not always easy working with me.
Thanks to Simon & Schuster and my first editor, Sarah Knight—I’ll never forget the lovely letter you sent when I started to give up, and thanks to my second editor, Emily Graff. You’re sharp as a syringe, my dear—I’m very lucky to have you.
Thanks to all the incredible people in publishing I ever worked with and/or for, from the Vanity Fair fashion closet all the way to Vice.
Shout out to all of my downtown friends, who keep the magic glittering in between my ears. Thank you for all the inspiration, drink tickets, travel, and laughs. I adore you all.
Thanks to Jason Dill of Fucking Awesome clothing, from whom I lifted “HOW TO MURDER YOUR LIFE” from a shirt.
Thanks to Chris Habib for those insane days of final edits when I couldn’t talk, read, or process what was being read aloud to me.
Thanks to Christos Katsiaouni for the author photo.
And thanks to Britney Spears and Pete Doherty. I love you guys!!!
About the Author
@ Christos Katsiaouni
Cat Marnell is a Condé Nast dropout and a former beauty editor at Lucky magazine. She wrote the Amphetamine Logic column for Vice, and was a founding editor of xoJane.com. She lives in downtown New York City. How to Murder Your Life is her first book.
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A note to readers: Names and identifying details of some of the people portrayed in this book have been changed.
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First Simon & Schuster hardcover edition February 2017
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Marnell, Cat, author.
Title: How to murder your life : a memoir / Cat Marnell.
Description: First Simon & Schuster hardcover edition. | New York : Simon & Schuster, 2017. |Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016052226 (print) | LCCN 2016053686 (ebook) | ISBN 9781476752273 (hardback) | ISBN 9781476752396 (paperback) | ISBN 9781476752419.
Subjects: LCSH: Marnell, Cat. | Drug addicts—New York (State)—New York—Biography. | Women drug addicts—New York (State)—New York—Biography. | Young women—New York (State) —New York—Biography. | Clothing trade—New York (State)—New York—Biography. | Fashion—New York (State)—New York. | Nightlife—New York (State)—New York. | New York (N.Y.)—Social life and customs. | New York (N.Y.)—Biography. | BISAC: BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Personal Memoirs. | BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Literary. | BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / General.
Classification: LCC HV5805.M3683 A3 2017 (print) | LCC HV5805.M3683 (ebook) | DDC 362.29/9092 [B]—dc23.
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016052226.
ISBN 978-1-4767-5227-3
ISBN 978-1-4767-5241-9 (ebook)