by Margaret Cho
His father joined in. “My son is totally incapable of doing anything for anybody else. That’s m’boy.” They laughed a good long laugh, and I fell irretrievably in hate.
As much as I hated him, I hated myself more. He didn’t really do anything wrong. He was just human, yet I couldn’t accept that. How dare he love me? I thought. Doesn’t he know how worthless I am?
I didn’t know how to get away from him. I didn’t know how to get close to him. I drank and ate to try to chemically erase his presence. When I was loaded and full, he just loomed larger, wanting to have sex with me.
He’d stopped drinking before, but he was back with a vengeance. Being sober had made him totally unhappy, so now he lived in utter pursuit of happiness.
When we got back home, we experimented with not drinking. One night, we decided to try to have sex without alcohol. I was terrified. I had never done it sober before in my life. He lay on top of me and a torrent of emotion swept over him, the usual stuff (“so in love . . . you are the one . . .”). I, on the other hand, got cold and stiff. I cannot feel anything. I cannot love anything went through my mind over and over. I tried to go to sleep and forget about sobriety. He ended up drinking.
We had a hellish cycle, drinking away our relationship troubles and emotional barriers, growing closer in the high, then waking up, hungover strangers. Most mornings he had to go do community service and would come home in the afternoons totally wrecked, angry and demoralized and wanting to get fucked up as soon as possible. We had decided that since the Hollywood Beautification Team’s HQ was just minutes from my house, that he should move in with me. These plans all sounded fine when we were drinking. It’s just that when I could come home after a hideous day of auditions, with pot smoke and loud alternative rock billowing out of the windows, to a man I hated who was pumping iron in my living room, it was almost too much to bear.
We didn’t get along, but he convinced me we did. He made me think that I had a fear of intimacy, when in reality I just hated his goddamn guts.
He’d tell me that I had a fat stomach and that I had to just deal with the reality of that, that my body image was distorted and that I was putting myself through hell because I had a fat stomach.
He told me angrily that he’d hoped I would gain twenty pounds, at first acting like it was a joke, but then really acknowledging it for the curse that it was.
He borrowed $500 and never paid me back.
Marcel, Marcel.
I put up with it because I didn’t think I deserved any better. Marcel was nicer to me than I was to myself.
Siobhan’s birthday party was where it all came crashing down. We had made a pact not to drink that day, and when we got there, he broke it. He was so insecure, feeling like he was being judged by all my famous friends, that he went right for the beer, getting louder and louder with each one and looking at me with silent guilt and defiance. I was so angry that I decided to keep my part of the bargain, just to spite him, just to show him I could do it and he couldn’t, just to be superior, even though I could feel the gears in my brain grinding together.
We had to stop the car on the way home because we were fighting so much. I half-heartedly accused him of flirting with my friend Jane at the party, and he overreacted, which made me madder because it convinced me that I was right.
In a rage, I bought two bottles of Patrón while the car was stopped. We got home and immediately drank one. Things got calmer for a few minutes.
Marcel wanted to get high and he couldn’t find his stash. After much searching, we finally found the plastic bag, empty on the floor. Poor little Ralph had eaten the pot!
Marcel chased Ralph all over the house, threatening him, asking him mockingly if he was high. The dog was so weak and frail anyway. I actually feared for his life. I started to scream at Marcel, and he acted like he was just kidding, told me not to get angry.
“Why—did you really think I was gonna do something? C’mon babe. What is happening to us? I’m not gonna hurt your dog. I was just kidding . . .”
But I didn’t think so.
Ralph hid from us as we drank the other bottle. We passed out on the bed not long after that.
In the morning, when we woke up, the bed was wet. It was not an uncommon occurrence, but this time, the stain was in the middle. We couldn’t figure out who wet the bed.
I thought, WHAT KIND OF FUCKED UP MÖTLEY CRÜE BEHIND THE MUSIC BULLSHIT IS THIS??!!!!
I was sick of myself. I was sick of living this way. I was sick of dying.
I realized I did not want to die.
I wanted to quit drinking.
Most of all, I wanted to get away from Marcel. Why was I doing this to myself? Why was I doing this to him? Why was my life such a mess? How am I going to get out of this one?
Marcel could see that I was serious about quitting. About getting sober. About living. He went into the kitchen and opened all the bottles of expensive wine and the rest of the Patrón, even the stale Sapphire gin and Pimm’s from Wimbledon parties of yore. He ceremoniously poured them all into the sink, and I cried as if my life was going down the drain.
I saw a new side to Marcel. He was so glad that I was getting clean that he did, too. He became my rock, my steady, what I relied on to get me through those tough, early nights.
The hangover of the last few years did not go away for a couple of days. What I noticed first, was that time seemed to go by much more slowly. Then, I learned how to fall asleep instead of pass out. I noticed that when I worked out, my sweat did not burn my eyes.
Early sobriety was wondrous, and the newfound purity made the constant battles with Marcel subside. We went to New York and walked the streets holding hands in the hot city night. I thought he’d saved me, and I hung onto him like a life preserver. It was all so romantic. Without alcohol he was a changed person, full of love, reason, and unlimited strength. He was handsomer, sexier, a better man.
I played Carolines and I found a renewed sense of enthusiasm in my work. Audiences found me funnier, more alive, happy. Sometimes I had drunk because I thought I hated my job. I realized then that I loved my job, and that being fucked up all the time made me hate it because I couldn’t do it properly. It was tiring though, and at Carolines, where multiple shows a night were the norm, my energy reserves were low.
On Saturday night, Marcel invited his many friends to the show, and had them all come backstage to meet me in the tiny dressing room. My throat hurt and I was exhausted, so when I had to entertain all his friends and be the gracious girlfriend between the 9 P.M. and midnight shows, I couldn’t help but be a bit reserved.
There were like ten people in the small dressing room, which was only about eight feet wide, and which also served as the staff locker area and restroom, not to mention a greenroom for the other comics. None of his friends would leave, and Marcel kept making me talk to them, when I wanted to just kick everybody out and break the mirror and slit my wrists with the shards of broken glass.
Marcel could see that I was annoyed and didn’t know how to deal with it. To make him feel guilty, I tried to appear as exhausted as I could. I think that I have the same ability as some reptiles to change their skin color to fade into their surroundings, but for me it is not as much to fit in as it is to manipulate others. I made big dark circles appear under my eyes. This made Marcel really mad, so he took all his friends and went drinking at a nearby bar.
“Well, since you are so tired, I guess we’re going to go have a drink.” The word hung in the air for a second, his secret way of getting back at me. I registered it, wanted a drink myself, decided I would be superior and above it, watched him leave the dressing room with all his comrades, and did the midnight show with a sore throat and a nagging feeling in my gut.
He came to pick me up after the last show smelling beery and remorseful, so I let it go.
When we got back to L.A., Marcel had decided to move back to New York, assuming that I would be coming shortly after. I couldn’t wait to be away from
him so I could get out of the cycle of self-abuse, so I wouldn’t have to be around him anymore. Still, it never occurred to me to break up with him. Perhaps I was afraid that I would have to admit to being wrong about him. Afraid that all my wedding plans would go down the toilet. Afraid that I would have to tell all my friends that we weren’t getting married after being so convinced that we were. I’d also miss all the attention that couples who are presumably in love get. Everybody assumes that love is the most enviable state, because happy, young couples are the building blocks of families, which are the gateways to the future. People look at you with admiration. When talking to anyone I didn’t know very well, I’d mention Marcel—my fiancé—and they’d always stop the conversation momentarily to congratulate me. I’d see the faraway look that some women would get, the envy, delicious and cold. I was not so willing to give up that privilege, no matter how much it cost me. Everybody thought I was so lucky. I was sure that I would see it someday.
We came back to L.A. because Marcel still had many days left on the community service chain gang. He was afraid he might have to go to jail because he had taken so long to complete his sentence. As usual, I would kick him awake, bargain and plead, until he got up, took huge bong hits off the water pipe made from a wine bottle, and went on his way.
Luckily, he completed his sentence without a hitch, and made plans to return to New York. I counted the days like a prisoner, and soon, it was time. He was depressed and angry, running red lights all the way to the airport. When I dropped him off at the curb, he cried like a baby. He was going to miss me, he said. Things weren’t going to be the same, he said. I should hope not, I thought, but I didn’t say it. I drove away with my heart doing somersaults in my chest. I was crying too, not out of sadness but out of sheer joy and the delight of freedom. I came home to a clean and empty house, with no trace of him except some shirts he had left behind. I held my skinny, shaky, sickly dog and felt whole and new.
I wasn’t going to New York. I told Marcel so over the phone shortly after he left. It took all the courage I had in me to do it. It was the first act of me finally looking to save myself. I didn’t even know I was going to do it. I had been making out a “to do” list. There were things on it like “Return videos, dry cleaning, drop off Ralph at the vet . . .” and at the bottom, without even realizing I had done so, I wrote, “Find the strength to leave Marcel. . . .”
I couldn’t believe I had written it. It terrified me. I crumpled it up immediately, before he could have a chance to see it, afraid of his finding out that I was cheating on him, with myself. But after, I knew that I could never go back, and that even though he called every night and would talk for hours about love and plans, that his days were numbered.
After he left, I felt much calmer and happier. It was easy not to drink. I didn’t need to block anything out. Since I had been getting high every day for all of my adult life, being sober was an altered state unto itself. I never felt better in my life, and now with Marcel gone, I was ready to fly.
Still, his late-night calls came daily to clip my wings. It had to end somewhere. I had finally let go of the wedding fantasy. I started to see that the reason I had always been so miserable was that I constantly put everyone else’s happiness before mine.
I went to New York to visit Marcel, mostly to end the relationship, but I got so caught up in plans. We had tickets to Rent, an invitation from Bobby Flay for dinner at Mesa Grill. Christmas was coming and I’d already bought presents . . . everything was so inconvenient, who had time for honesty? He was still driving me crazy. Sometimes, I was so exhausted being around him, that I would fall asleep spontaneously, like a narcoleptic, and wake up hours later, stuck in the nightmare.
He had made a strong effort to get clean after our last time together, and now, because he was sober and had no other fixes, he wanted to have sex with me all the time. There was no way I could do that. He repulsed me physically, and I would practically shrink from his touch. The few times he wore me down with his bargaining and demanding, I jerked him off, and could hardly hide my grimace.
I came back to L.A. still in the relationship, and not sure where to turn. I couldn’t keep doing this to myself. I couldn’t keep doing this to him. I couldn’t keep doing this to love.
I went to a yoga class on Larchmont and stood on my head, thinking inversion would shake loose an answer. It did. I discovered that there was a goddess deep inside me, standing around my heart like a wallflower, waiting for me to ask her to dance. I saw that whatever I had in front of me, I could use her strength, instead of mine, to lift it. She agreed to be my power plant, which was such a relief, as I had been running on empty for so long. When the class was over, I was afraid the spell had been broken. I wasn’t sure if it had been some massive Lillias and You hallucination. I wanted it to be true so badly. I knew that I could not leave Marcel without her strength. I knew that I could not leave the hell I had made for myself, unless she was there to give me a ride.
I cried and cried and tried to stop crying briefly as I went into the supermarket. I got as far as the deli, and I got number 99 and they were only on 57 and I fell apart.
An old woman in a plaid coat and snowy white hair came up to me and offered to trade numbers. “I got 70, if it’ll make you feel any better. . . .”
“No—it’s ooookkkkkaaayyy. I’mmmm fiinneee . . . realllyyy,” I choked out between sobs.
“That’s okay, honey. Take it. I’ve got all the time in the world.”
Totally embarrassed, I turned away.
She just kept standing there, holding out her white ticket.
“We have a while. Do you want to tell me what’s the matter?”
I didn’t want to. But I felt the need to justify my crazy appearance, crying uncontrollably in yoga clothes, at the glass deli case at Mayfair Market, and so I did, as fast and as plain as I could.
“I have to break up with my boyfriend, but I just feel so guilty.”
She just stood there, holding her ticket.
After a long pause (“58! . . . . 59! . . . . 60! . . . . ”) she said, “Oh, honey. I felt so guilty, I married him!”
“61! . . . . 62! . . . . 63! . . . . 64! . . . . 65! . . . . 66! . . . . 67! . . . . 68! . . . . 69! . . . . ”
I took her ticket. How could I refuse a goddess?
When I drove up to my house, I could hear Marcel on my machine, leaving a loud, long message. I ran in the house and picked up the phone. I told him that I was leaving him, that I didn’t love him, that we could not get married. I told him not to call me anymore. He hung up on me. I held the phone for a minute longer, not believing what I had just done. Not believing, not believing, then finally, believing. The red light was blinking on the machine, and I looked down at it and punched Erase.
Marcel was not that easily persuaded. He called and called many times after that, but I never spoke to him again. The calls finally stopped coming. I hear through the grapevine that he is doing well, and I wish him nothing but the best. I am not trying to hurt him in writing this. I only want to tell what happened, how I felt. His family was very kind to me when I visited them, and there were times when I really did think Marcel was my only friend in the world.
When you finally turn on the light in the cellar, among all the cardboard stereo boxes and old shoes you want to throw away, you see there are still treasures you want to keep forever. I have taken all the barbs and thorns out of his love and kept just the blossoms, dry with age and remembrance, and pressed them in the book of my heart.
19
ON THE MEND
Just after I left Marcel, my old agent Karen called me. I was so glad to hear from her—we hadn’t spoken for years. She had read my script and loved it. I told her everything that had happened with Roman. She couldn’t believe it, but then, of course, she could.
She said that whenever I decided that I wanted to take over the world, she would be there. I believe that when you take those first steps in loving yourself, the universe conspire
s with your soul to keep that love affair going. I had taken baby steps in sobering up and leaving Marcel, and now I was ready for a quantum leap.
There was still Greer to contend with. Actually, it wasn’t even him. He had left the company, but before leaving, had me sign a three-year contract, binding me not to him, but to his old firm. I was being handled by his assistant Ched, who once told me “The Asian thing puts people off.” What is the “Asian thing”?! Some gimmick that I pull out of my ass every couple of years to jazz up my career? Like I am Steven Seagal.
Getting out of that contract wasn’t easy, partly because I was afraid. How did I know what was going to happen? How did I know who to trust? I’d been through so much heartache with my career, it was hard to imagine it getting any worse. For the millionth time in my life, I had nowhere else to turn.
Karen still had utter confidence and faith in my talent. She booked me at countless clubs and colleges, and I fell in love with my work in a way I never had before. I realized that when I was onstage with the mike, I was home, and that when I am at peak performance, when the crowd is right, the night is relatively young, and God is there, nobody does it better.
I wrote constantly and toured with a vengeance. Karen came with me for all my gigs, taking notes, helping me rebuild myself. Siobhan came and opened for me, which made those road trips more fun than they’d ever been before.
I recorded a new comedy CD, with proceeds benefiting the Montrose AIDS Clinic in Houston. It felt good to do something for myself and help others at the same time. I started to feel useful. I started to feel good.
We traveled together like nuns, from city to city, and the planes and trains and town cars that had once been so lonely now felt like raucous road trips, the stuff of independent films.