Approval Junkie

by Faith Salie

  He replied, “I don’t know. Sometimes I think there’s something dark inside you that you can’t control. Maybe we could get rid of it.”

  I was weirdly comforted by the fact that my new husband chalked up most of my distasteful behavior to my being possessed by the devil himself. It was as if he saw the best in me, and my best self was haplessly caught in an evil stranglehold that made me do things like show up sullen to the party his network threw to celebrate his show that I wasn’t on, as aggressively passive-aggressive as I could appear.

  I was depressed, probably clinically so. This didn’t feel like the situational sadness I’d felt when my mother died; this felt like numbing dejection. But not so numbing that I didn’t cry a lot, usually after an interaction with my wasband on the rare occasions I saw him. He was working all hours, and when he wasn’t, he didn’t want to be together. This is not surprising, considering how dramatically I’d mope around our apartment. He kept telling me, “Do something—write a screenplay,” but every idea I had was just a plotless premise with nowhere to go, which is how I felt about my life.

  I felt bad that I felt sad. I was living ten blocks from the ocean in a land where it never rained. I was married to a man who was finally enjoying success in television. I was healthy and young (though I didn’t realize how young I was); my family and friends loved me even if I’d distanced myself from them out of the shame of recently asking them to eat haggis at a Scottish wedding that hadn’t launched a happy marriage. And though I desperately wanted more jobs, I didn’t have to make much money, thanks to an inheritance from my mother—not so much that I was rich but enough to enable my wallowing for a while.

  From the day I left for college until we put my mother in hospice, she’d written me a card a week, filled with comfortingly mundane updates on her life (“I weeded the ivy for 4 hours today, and my quads are so sore!” or “I chewed so much gum, finishing my term paper for my Comparative Religion seminar”) and supportive thoughts on my life, which she found relentlessly exciting (“I can’t believe you wore a bikini on Married with Children—you should write this all down for a book someday!”). She always signed off the same way: “I pray for your peace, purpose, and happiness. I love you, Mom XOX.” I had none of those—no peace, purpose, or happiness. And no Mom.

  My therapist Fran didn’t blame me or Lucifer. She suggested I try an antidepressant. I didn’t want to. I’m not big on drugs of any sort except when trying to make babies in my tumbleweed-filled womb. I hardly ever took aspirin, not to mention I’d only ever smoked a cigarette while onstage as Sandy in Grease for the glorious “Tell me about it, stud” moment. Plus, I wasn’t sure how to thrive without making things hard for myself, so stabilizing my serotonin with a pill didn’t seem punishing enough. My sister-in-law, Lorei, had recently stayed at this Ayurvedic center and made me promise to try it before I hit the Wellbutrin. Ayurveda = ancient Hindu medicine focused on balance. Me = desperate.

  So I packed my unhappiness, journal, and noga pants—pants in which I never did yoga—and flew to Sarasota, Florida, for a week. I was off to undergo Panchakarma, a cleansing of the body, mind, and consciousness. I was ready to conquer “surrender.” This would all take place in a two-story complex in a strip mall on the Tamiami Trail. It was not fancy—several treatment rooms that looked like Massage Envy went to India, a tiny kitchen with some stools at the counter, and a large yoga room with old wall-to-wall carpeting, off of which were a few small bedrooms for folks like me, who were there to crush Enlightenment. I didn’t explain much to my wasband, because I didn’t know what to expect. I just told him—per what I’d read online—that I was going to this place where they do things like pour oil on your third eye, that I wouldn’t be on e-mail or my phone, and I hoped I’d come back healthier.

  A tiny woman named Light greeted me with a strong hug as soon as I arrived at the humble healing center. She ran the joint. She was a sprightly woman, always in purple, who looked like an Indian version of Diana Ross. Her jet black hair and completely unlined skin belied her age, which she proudly informed me was sixty. I started fantasizing that a few good colonics and some lentils might mean I’d never need Botox again. We chatted while I ate the “green soup” that I’d learn was a mainstay of the menu. It wasn’t quite small talk—more like medium talk, since she and I both knew I was there for a life-changing experience. When her husband, Bryan, came into the kitchen, she introduced me as “Our goddess from the West Coast.” Bryan was younger than Light, and he looked like a cross between Larry Bird and the guy who plays the sun in the Jimmy Dean sausage commercials. His bio explained that his passion was “Cross Fibre Massage combined with Rebirthing breath and Forgiveness Ritual.” I didn’t understand what this meant, nor did I understand the rather Germanic choices in capitalization, but I was ready to learn.

  Every day began with yoga led by Light. Yoga class was small: Light and Faith (sounds like a bad three-camera sitcom) plus a wiry local named Jose, and Peter, a baby-faced trial lawyer in his fifties. I had a hard time picturing Peter intimidating someone in court, mostly because he giggled like a ten-year-old every time Light mentioned the energy of his “magic wand.” When he tittered, I doubled down on the gravity with which I focused on the pink waves emanating from my “yoni.” I was taking this seriously. Light explained that we are all stars, here to give light and joy to others. Also that we should visualize ourselves as butterflies. I was ready to be a fucking unicorn to nail this Panchakarma.

  After a starfruit breakfast (you are what you eat), it was Colema Time. Colema is a brand name, I just learned. I made this discovery by visiting the Colema website, which features a gushing waterfall next to a woman’s belly button and a sun-dappled photo of grass declaring, in cursive, “Enemas made simple.” There is also an American flag so you know the patriotic provenance of your simple enema board. Just in case you’ve been homophonic and mistaken Colema for Kalimah, which refers to the fundamental texts of Islam.

  Don’t let the mellifluous name fool you: that’s irrigation through your anus, people. Every second of it was horrible. I persevered only because I didn’t want to disappoint the healers by holding on to the contents of my colon. After all, I was there to surrender all my shit. I never really grooved with the mantra Light had given me for meditation, but I created a mantra to get through Colema. It was, Don’t freak or you’ll only make it worse don’t freak or you’ll only make it worse….What I remember clearly is that when it was over, Light cheerily inspected the results and declared me worm-free. Win. On day three I cried uncle on the enemas, because sesame oil was dripping out of me in yoga.

  Tarpana followed Colema. As best as I could understand, tarpana is a healing ceremony during which you experience cathartic release and reconnection with your loved ones. In practice, it was Light and Bryan giving me a massage, asking me questions the whole time. “Why do you think you’re here?” “What are you afraid of?” This kind of sucked, because all you want to do when you get a massage is melt and wake up with the outline of the headrest on your forehead. I couldn’t enjoy their four hands on me when I was trying to impress them with how deeply I could breathe from the base of my yoni while explaining to them the whole deal with my wasband. Light kept calling my wasband “Steve,” which is entirely not his name. They encouraged me to forgive myself. And they pointed out that Steve and I chose each other karmically—that, no matter how I felt I was failing, Steve was getting something from our relationship.

  I was certain I was making progress and not just because I was letting myself eat the ghee Light kept serving. Ghee is clarified butter, which I was ingesting only in the name of Enlightenment. In my journal, I was writing about shining my light and being a goddess, and I was spelling universe with a capital “U.”

  Then Janine got her hands on me. Literally. Janine was the sous healer to Light and Bryan and assisted in tarpana. She was about my age, with ebony skin and fierce energy. The closest I can come to describing her is to hope you are old enough o
r camp enough to summon the image of Debbie Allen as the dance martinet in Fame. You know, when she bangs her stick on the floor and says, “You want fame? Well, fame costs. And right here is where you start paying. In sweat.” That was Janine; just subtract leg warmers and add a turban.

  If only I’d recalled Debbie Allen’s immortal words about sweat at the time, I could have escaped the first spiritual lashing. The room was hot, and I apologized for being sweaty. Janine replied, “Do you know anything about me? How old am I? Have I been married? Where was I born?” I didn’t know if this was a test of psychic abilities I was supposed to be burgeoning, but I decided to go with, “No. I don’t know about you.” She said, “Right. You know nothing about me, and my opinion matters to you?” She went on to point out that she’d been hearing me talk a lot in terms of “shoulds”—what I should do. And that I wanted to do everything right, and I apologized when I think I don’t. She told me to replace “should” with “I intend to.” All I could think, but not dare utter, was, I intend to not sweat anymore, Janine.

  For the rest of tarpana, I endeavored to kill it on the honesty front. While Light and Janine rubbed oil on me, I further detailed my dynamic with Steve, perfectly timing my confessions between dramatic breaths. I expressed how I felt fear about our marriage, my career, my future. The ladies asked me what made me happy and I mentioned how much I loved baking. They demanded that I close my eyes and bake Fear a castor oil cake. So I did. I mean, I told them I did, because I really did endeavor to imagine a Fear cake even though my Authentic Self wasn’t buying it. They highly approved of my cake decoration: I informed them that I wrote, in inspired icing, “I am the Light.”

  Then they upped the ante. They encouraged me to yell at Fear to leave. I yelled. I hollered, “LEAVE! GO!” Fear was obviously still kicking back on a chaise longue in the corner of the room giving me the middle finger, because Janine said I was acting. Of course I was acting. But Jesus, how bad of an actor was I? Apparently, I’d left Hollywood and flown to a strip mall in Florida where I still couldn’t get a gig.

  As I continued to sweat without intention, Janine shed some edifying light on my relationship. I told her about the dream I’d had the night before: I was in a bathroom and I’d slammed the door on my wasband. I was screaming—not a high-pitched, word-filled scream, but a guttural roar, the stuff of a Katy Perry hit. And when I opened the door, there he was, brandishing a chair with the legs facing toward me, like a lion tamer. Janine asked if I deserved his criticism. I said I did, and she said that meant I was letting him tame me. The ladies assured me I didn’t need to be tamed, that I didn’t need to feel responsible for his anger. And then the epiphanous hits kept on coming. I realized I’d felt so neglected by my wasband and jealous of his success that I’d been using my depression to get his attention and rain on his parade. And we talked about my mom—how bereft I was when she died, because she’d given me constant love and approbation. She provided the mirror that reflected the best and brightest me. When Janine learned that my mom had died the year before my first date with my wasband, she asserted that I’d looked to him to be that mirror and love me unconditionally. I’d asked more of him than he could give. She wasn’t wrong. For years, I’d been trying to ask for so little, but maybe I’d been asking for everything.

  Just as I dared to hope again that I was hurtling toward a breakthrough that would make Light, Janine, Bryan, the Universe et al. proud, I received devastating news. At dinner, over some ghee-laced green soup, Peter reported that he’d had an out-of-body experience. Peter, the attorney who turned yoga into a dick joke. He wasn’t even bragging; he was as tickled as he could be that this crazy shit had happened to him. I didn’t think I could achieve out of body, but I did know I needed to attempt something more dramatic than a castor oil Fear cake.

  I decided to do the Kaya Kalpa. The mysterious Kaya Kalpa, the Mt. Everest of Ayurvedic treatments. It promised rebirth. Lorei had done it and couldn’t even describe what it was like except to say it was like childbirth. (With all due respect to my lovely sister-in-law, let me say here, now that I’ve given birth twice—once without an epidural—THAT IS A TOTAL LOAD OF STEAMING HORSE DOOKY.) She came to the Ayurvedic center the day before my Kaya Kalpa to visit and have a few treatments.

  Naturally, I spent the night before my Kaya Kalpa trying to cram for it. I asked Lorei to tutor me. The most homework she could assign was to think about what I wanted to release. Ugh, that again. The whole Gulf Coast of Florida had to know by now that I was there to release Fear and Anger. Urgent performance anxiety set in. I had only one day left to reach Enlightenment.

  I shouldn’t have worried. What I released turned out to be more powerful than a thousand Colemas.

  I put on my game face as I walked quietly into Kaya Kalpa. I was almost naked. Bryan and Janine performed the first stage—in a darkened room, they rubbed me up and down my entire body with some kind of clay. The clay felt warm in the beginning, but as it dried, it cooled and tightened on my skin. This was no tarpana Q&A; I remained silent as they guided me through some visualizations and breathing. They coached me to breathe so deeply and rhythmically that I felt like my body was buzzing. They ordered me to originate those breaths from my “root,” which is yet another Ayurvedic way of saying “vagina.” I don’t know how long this lasted, but at some point they solemnly helped me off the table and escorted me into the next room, which was helpful, since I was totally dizzy.

  Light waited for me in a large bathroom lit only by a few candles. Bryan left, and Janine and Light helped me undress completely. I could barely see the flower petals floating in a steaming bath. By then I was so cold and light-headed that the incredibly hot water felt soothing. But the heat began to overwhelm, and I was eager to sweat all over Janine. She and Light knelt beside the bath as they touched me. I don’t recall what they said, all I know is that they gently prodded me toward whatever I wanted to let go. The physical sensations were so intense that my brain turned off. At some point, Janine asked simply, “What do you need to release?” Suddenly an answer came out of me, delivered by my throat, but not by my thought: “My mom.”

  And I started to sob.

  This sadness escaped me. I’d thought this grief I’d been carrying around for almost a decade had become background noise, like a low-level tinnitus. Every so often little moments turned up the volume of the pain—at the holidays when I longed to smell one of Mom’s two-story gingerbread houses or when I just wanted someone (her) to play with my hair. I feel sorry for my wasband who had to be my date to all those weddings during the open marriage season that began in our late twenties when I would inevitably cause some drama. I was envious of every bride—not because she had a groom but because she had a mother.

  I was twenty-six when my mother died, the same age she was when her father died. In fact, her dad died a week before I was born. I was supposed to be named Joy, but Mom was so sad that she named me Faith. He died fairly suddenly, and she couldn’t fly to his funeral because of all ten fetal pounds of me. She didn’t talk much about her father. I remember asking her about Pop, as we called him, when I was maybe ten. She started to answer me and then left the room in tears, so I thought it best not to ask anymore, not to make Mom cry.

  That I still had sadness to release about my mother may not surprise you—people can spend their whole lives clinging to their mourning.

  Still, it surprised me. I’d arrived with a goal, and a presumptuous certainty about what ailed me and what I needed. Since my conscious thoughts spiraled around my wasband and my career, I figured my subconscious ones did, too. So I was startled to learn that it was my grief about Mom that needed liberating. I was relieved, too—the truth had escaped me in a moment I didn’t have to gin up.

  But what happened next shocked me.

  Janine and Light were pushing me to release the pain. Deep down, beneath the genuine tears, I still felt a self-consciousness about what I was doing and a hope I was doing it right. They goaded me to yell. The yell
ing hadn’t gone well before, when Fear was such a bumptious bitch, but now I had a second chance. So I started yelling through the sobs—I was yobbing. At this point I was full-on pissed. My body was burning, and my yoni-root vagina was heaving. I’d given them their answer, and I wanted them to leave me alone. If there was still pain in me, I wanted that motherfucker out out OUT. I let out a howl—a “HOW’S THIS, BITCHES?!!” howl—that felt like something in my brain had physically clicked loose. That’s when—there’s no other way to put it—the exorcism happened.

  On the crest of the final yob, I felt the presence of my mother and my grandfather. Not like they were there as angelic guiding spirits watching over me. No: I actually felt my mother’s pain as a young woman losing her dad. At the same time, I experienced Pop’s sadness, manifested in cirrhosis of his liver, that drove him to his own early death. Like a lightning bolt, their respective griefs electrified me, flowed through my body and out. My cells surrendered not just my eight-year anguish but generations of theirs. This was not the result of a thought process. I wouldn’t even call it a realization—that gives me some credit. I can’t describe this as anything other than a knowing. I did not achieve it. I received it.

  So this was the real inheritance from my mom. One I’m sure she never meant to bequeath. She had passed on her sadness to me, as her father had passed his to her. Somehow I knew it was finally gone—unearthed and, instead of being buried again, dispersed like a mist. Somehow I then understood that my mother’s death didn’t have to be the central story of my life. She meant no less to me if I could permit myself to be happy. Happiness did not diminish the loss.