Holy Igor approached Alyssa and said, “Nanananana,” which I think meant “Go ahead and have some holy water.”
Alyssa backed away as if the water were going to melt her. “No thanks.” Holy Igor looked confused and started moving closer to her.
Alyssa shouted, “I said no thanks, weirdo!”
Then Andrea rescued her by announcing, “We’re Jewish! We don’t want any! Oh my gawd!”
The car ride home was pretty quiet. I was never hired again by the Italian designers and now you know why.
When we got back to the room, I laid into my friends. They apologized profusely, but they explained how scary and weird it was for them. They went on to tell me that they were thinking about me and how special this would be for my mom, so they brought me a souvenir to give to her.
I gasped as they pulled out the crucifix from the pope’s closet.
28
Step Away from the Vicodin and Sit on the Toilet
Most of Los Angeles is guilty of enjoying a Vicodin without having a painful ailment. What people who have not taken it before don’t realize is that it also heals emotional ailments for about four hours.
Sorry. “Heal” is the wrong word.
Vicodin numbs emotional aliments for about four hours. Unless you take two. Then your emotional pain will be numbed for eight hours.
I wasn’t aware of this oasis away from emotional hurt until an LA troll said, “Want to party with some Vicodin?”
“Party with Vicodin?” I asked.
“Yeah,” the troll said. “Take one and just get creamy. You can have a beer and make it even better.”
“Okay!” I exclaimed. I swallowed a Vicodin and immediately felt all of my muscles relax. I felt so happy, so peaceful. I didn’t have a care in the world. This was the best idea ever.
I couldn’t believe I wasted so many years tripping my balls off on hallucinogenic drugs. This shit rocked.
Or so I thought.
I then chased it down with a beer and became violently ill. I spent the entire night barfing in a stall next to a hen party of girls who were either peeing or snorting or both simultaneously.
I was so scared; I thought I was going to die. I was so mad at myself for trusting a troll I didn’t even know. That night I must have had two devils on one shoulder high-fiving each other.
Well, I never mixed the two again. But because the drug is so yummy—better known as addictive—anytime I heard even the mention of someone having tooth surgery or back pain, I would bodycheck anyone in my way to ask, “Got Vicodin?”
Then, just like clockwork, the universe delivered Vicodin to me on a truck.
I threw my back out and tore ligaments from my mid-back to my neck. I laid in bed for three months.
I could barely move.
I don’t think I ever slept in those entire three months. I was taking Vicodin every three hours, twenty-four hours a day, and was still in excruciating pain. The drug eventually made me incredibly depressed, and I experienced the worst constipation of my life.
Because I couldn’t walk, going to the bathroom was a trip I would make only once a day. It was like trying to give birth, and if I was lucky, I would conceive a piece of shit that was the size of the queen bee of Nerds candy. It’s like a gremlin grabbing hold of your asshole but from the inside.
I would sit on the toilet screaming, trying to get the Vicodin pebble out of my butt. It took an hour to squeeze out one pebble.
I had heard about people who were taking forty Vicodin a day.
There is no way those people were shitting giggles, bricks, or anything for that matter. I went twice in two weeks and shit a grand total of four pebbles.
When my back finally recovered, I had to detox all the Vicodin I had. I had never experienced a detox other than in the sweat lodge teepee, and going off Vicodin was one of the most painful physical experiences I had ever gone through. My legs cramped. I was dripping in sweat, while also freezing.
And I was depressed. I couldn’t wait to get past it and poop like a normal human being again.
After about a week, I finally felt like old Jenny.
Sadly, that was the problem—old Jenny. I realized that being numb for three months put my spiritual growth on hold. When you don’t feel, you don’t heal.
Coming back to reality after an emotional hiatus is really tough. Usually in life, you take things as they come, deal with them, and then move on. But even just a three-month hiatus of not feeling anything made my reentry miserable.
Feeling uncomfortable emotionally was no fun. It sucked. Having an oasis once in a while from feeling bad felt really good.
For example, my agent calls and I didn’t get a part. So I’ll go on a shopping spree. Two weeks later, my boyfriend is fighting with me, so I’ll have a drink. The next weekend, I feel worthless in the world, so I’ll stuff my face with McDonald’s. This behavior is so easily understood by all of us, I’m sure. But I wanted to figure out a way to take a few of those moments and replace them with a new coping method.
The problem was that I had to teach it to myself. One thing they don’t teach in school or church is coping skills.
When I talked to my sister JoJo about the emotions that stirred up in my chest that made me want to find something to numb it, she described it as “the rash is back.” She said she could be driving in her car singing a great song and all of a sudden the rash creeps up, and she says, “Hello, asshole. There you are. I feel you.” I asked her what she did about it besides try to make it go away as fast as possible.
She replied, “I try to sit on the toilet and feel it.”
“Why do you need to sit on the toilet?”
“Because it’s the only place where I can truly let it all hang out and relax. And then I allow myself to feel the pain. Sometimes I have no idea what it is, but I learned that sometimes you don’t need to attach a thought to it. Just feel it. Just sit in it. And when it moves past you, like a storm, the other side is rainbows.”
“Or a big deuce in the toilet.”
“Shut up.”
The next time I experienced the pain rash, I immediately tried to figure out how to numb it.
Then I remembered JoJo’s new coping skill.
As I walked to the bathroom to give it a try, I heard voices in my head saying, “Why the hell do you want to feel this emotional garbage? It’s going to suck. Go take a pill, go get a drink, go order a pizza, but don’t feel it.”
I told the voice—which I later learned was ego—to shut the hell up. I pulled my pants down, sat on the toilet, and let it all hang out.
Waves of the pain in my soul emerged. I accepted it. I didn’t fight it. I didn’t even think about why it was there. I just felt it. Even though it wasn’t pleasant, it felt right. It felt like I was going through an emotional car wash.
It took only about forty-five minutes and a couple of noxious farts, and I felt like the worst was behind me. I walked out of the bathroom feeling as if I went from fifth grade to seventh grade.
Holy shart.
I realized in that moment that by numbing, I was just hitting the pause button on spiritual growth, and that if you don’t face your shit here and there, your life will quickly turn into shit. I was grateful that JoJo gave me this great new coping skill, but what was coming up next in my life made the pain rash look like nothing in comparison.
There was no toilet big enough.
29
Losing My Identity
I‘m sorry. Your son has autism.”
I felt my soul being torn out of my body. I felt betrayed by God. I was angry, sad, and beyond scared.
All of my memories of my perfect little baby were being stomped on when the doctor gave me this diagnosis.
How could this happen?
Why would God make this happen? If God is good, why would He/She/It do this to people?
The doctor didn’t give me a glimmer of hope and told me to just accept it.
He wasn’t the only one.
Every doctor I bombarded with questions told me a similar story. It reminded me of my Catholic school days in religion class where I was not encouraged to dig for more answers. Just accept it. I did, but I came to realize that acceptance doesn’t mean giving up. If I had to go to Hell and back to save my boy, that’s exactly what I was going to do.
Reading bedtime stories was always a special time for Evan and me. I saw the enchantment in his eyes with every page I turned. I was as much in awe of him as he was with the story I was telling. He wanted to learn and take everything in like every other thriving child.
I promised I would do everything to give him the world to explore.
Weeks later, Evan had a seizure that was so horrific it put him into cardiac arrest. I was still waiting for the paramedics to arrive when he took his last breath and his eyes dilated. I dropped to my knees and stared at his lifeless body.
Words could never truly express what happened to me in this moment, but I did in fact have a conversation with God and I knew He/She/It was going to hear me this time.
““Bring him back. Bring him back.” I placed my loving hand on his little chest. “Bring him back, God.” Thoughts of being a mother who lost a child were unacceptable. I knew I would find the nearest exit to this life if I lost him. I wasn’t strong enough. “Bring him back, God!”
I thought about how I wouldn’t get to see this boy turn into a man. I wouldn’t see him kiss his bride. I wouldn’t hear him giggle anymore. All of these thoughts tormented me. “Bring him back, God! Bring him back!”
Then I heard a voice. I wondered if this was the same voice that the nuns heard.
It said, “Everything is going to be okay.”
And with that, my body relaxed.
I described this in my other book, Louder than Words, as God’s Valium.
The paramedics finally arrived and started CPR on Evan. They put him on the stretcher and, while carrying him to the ambulance, they continued to do CPR on him.
I was watching this unfold in front of me and all I kept hearing was “Everything is going to be okay.” The voice was so powerful I couldn’t even attempt to second-guess it. It was a fact, and my body was physiologically reacting to that.
I remained calm.
I got into the front seat of the ambulance and looked back, watching them continue to do CPR on him.
A few moments later, the paramedics stopped, looked up at me, and gave me a thumbs-up. God was right tonight. Everything was going to be okay.
I wish that feeling could have stayed with me on the nights I would scream and cry in my shower.
The pain of watching Evan suffer with autism was so incredibly horrific at times that it would cause my body to tremble. I remember thinking that if life is a roller coaster, this time in my life was the lowest part of my ride. All I knew was that “up” had to be coming soon.
How did I know?
I guess faith.
This was my true test of faith.
I finally understood what the nuns meant by having faith, because faith was the only hope I had of getting through this. It’s what got me off the shower floor. It’s what got me out of bed. It’s what got me to keep going when all I wanted to do was medicate myself away from the hell of autism.
Being a single mom during this time was debilitating for me. I felt alone and scared. I would pray to God for stupid jobs to come in to help pay for everything Evan needed.
I witnessed miracles after I pleaded to God for help.
““I need help with speech therapy, God.” Boom bam, I would get a cheesy commercial. I was never so grateful to sell out during this time in my life.
I often reflect on why autism happened to me. I once had a person tell me that Satan was the one responsible, not God. This person insisted that God would do no such thing. I don’t believe that for a second.
I made a deal with God the day Evan was diagnosed: “You help me heal my boy; I’ll teach the world how I did it.”
And, with that, I will pay it forward the rest of my life by sharing my experience and helping this cause. It saddens me to imagine if I had listened to the doctor try to convince me to just succumb to autism without any expectations for improvement. The joy in seeing Evan continually progress is overwhelming as he opens doors I was told would stay closed.
About a year after the diagnosis, which also included a divorce, I felt the need to raise my frequency again. I knew I couldn’t handle being on AM anymore.
I missed satellite radio. AM definitely served its purpose during this time, though.
On AM, I could pop a pill and make the sad day go away. On AM, I could blame everyone around me for my suffering. On AM, I was able to feel sorry for myself. But I knew that was all bullshit and that shifting out of AM would bring me the peace I was ready for.
I again started reading books that empowered me and brought me new insight. I knew that because I intended to spiritually shift higher, I would be drawn to the right books to help get me there.
I picked up A New Earth by Eckhart Tolle.
This was three years before Oprah Winfrey had him on her show. I just happened to stumble upon the book as it caught my eye on display in the new releases.
At first, I had trouble understanding the book. It was almost as if it were written in another language. But something inside of me said to keep going, keep reading.
The more I read, the more I shifted, and the words began to make sense.
The book was turning my dial, and eventually I hit satellite radio. I was buzzing. I was alive. I was awake again. One of the most amazing parts of the book was the recognition of my own pain body. This is exactly where I was with Evan’s diagnosis and where many of us get stuck in spiritual evolution.
My pain body identified with feeling guilty for my son’s autism. I identified with it being my fault. When I realized that and understood that it was my pain body and ego enjoying that guilt as if it were food, I was able to disconnect myself from the pain body and rise above it.
Even now, when I identify myself as this or that, the pain body easily rises up again within me and starts devouring the situation like an addiction. Sometimes I can almost hear it laugh when I find myself starting the Woe Is Me game with myself.
In case you’re confused with identification, let me give you some examples you can relate to:
“I’m allowed to be a bitch because I had a horrible childhood.”
“I’m allowed to be worried because I don’t have any money.”
These are all things that we identify with.
We then allow the pain body to run us like the aliens in Invasion of the Body Snatchers. If we can open our minds and realize we come from a place where none of that exists (let’s call it “Heaven”), then we can realize that none of this is actually real. I know it sounds “out there” to some people, but when you spend many years on the floor of the Psychic Eye Book Shop, shit starts to click.
I had the opportunity to have dinner with Eckhart Tolle, and I asked him about my problem of not being able to stay on satellite radio.
He giggled and said something like, “When you spiritually evolve, it’s normal to go in and out. You call it satellite radio. But the time being on AM starts to become less and less through the years until eventually you operate from satellite radio most of the time. You go up and down on a roller coaster until the roller coaster starts to go in a straight line.”
And boy was I operating from satellite radio during this time.
My friends started calling me weird because when they would come over with a problem, I was able to immediately see them identifying with it.
I got taken advantage of financially pretty bad during this awakening, and I never even got upset for a second.
I watched it happen as if I were watching a TV show. If I had felt pain during that time, it would have meant I was identifying as a victim who got taken advantage of and would have kick-started my pain body to react.
I was the awareness behi
nd my situation, watching it unfold, and it was fucking awesome!
My friend Laura from college called me and said she was heading out to Los Angeles for a visit and I had better not be going through one of my “phases.”
I knew what she meant because I was knee-deep shit in my phase.
Again, I downshifted and brought myself back to AM. Again, I hoped that Eckhart Tolle was right and that I would be back on satellite radio sooner than last time.
30
Evan’s Chapter
I was lying in bed next to Evan writing this book, and he asked if he could take my computer and write his own chapter.
Here it is:
This is Evan. My life is great. And I have a mom that is very nice. I like to call my mom Fluffy because her clothes and hair are always so fluffy. Oh, and I also love a two-legged elephant.
Love,
Evan
31
Recovering Catholic
A few years ago, I did a TV show pilot that had me interview a nun about Heaven and Hell.
I couldn’t think of a better person in the world to interview. Woohoo!
I flew my mother out to Los Angeles to be there for the taping. I knew she would love to see me bring Hollywood and God together in any way possible. She wore her Sunday best church outfit and her hair was set perfectly, just like old times.
I started the segment by saying, “Sister Elizabeth, many people have their own perceptions of what Hell is like. Can you describe the scene a sinner might expect upon his or her arrival in Hell?”
“The Catholic Church has never stated anyone was ever in Hell,” she replied very matter-of-factly.
“Excuse me?” I said with my mouth hanging open. My uterus fell into my vagina. “I think I misunderstood you,” I said. “I thought I just heard you say no one is in Hell.”
“That’s right. We never made a statement about it.”
A familiar voice shouted from the audience, “What the hell is she talking about?” My mother was shouting from the bleachers with her hands on her hips.
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