Crash Test Girl

by Kari Byron

  By then, Paul and I had settled into a comfortable routine at home, and thanks to his flexibility and our family and friends, childcare smoothed out. The love I felt for Stella started to expand and spill into every aspect of life, and made everything profoundly more joyful.

  I was so relieved not to feel like hell, I doubled down at work. Everyone expected me to be more careful and reserved as a mom, but I didn’t become more cautious at all. If anything, I was more willing to take risks because I wanted my daughter to look at me and say, “You are a badass, Mom.” I set out to tailor my life to be the woman I wanted my daughter to see and become.

  I would feel sad (normal sad) to be apart from her for long stretches, so I started bringing her to work with me. When I had to be on camera, I’d set her up with a crew member, put some cartoons on the laptop, and tuck her into the “Costanza,” a mattress under my desk for secret naps. Then I’d return to hang out with her for a little while, go back out and weld something. Everyone loved having her around. She was like a MythBusters mascot. And once again, all was happy and right with the world . . . until the next time.

  IRONICALLY, the happiest time of my life, bringing Stella into the world, was also the saddest.

  What can I say? I tend to go to extremes. When I became a mother, I learned what it meant to push past my limits, to sacrifice and do whatever was necessary for the greater good at work and at home. I fought back against the worst misery I’d ever known, and gained strength by just fucking doing it. You don’t know how strong you can be until you have to be.

  TOUGH TIMES DON’T LAST BUT TOUGH PEOPLE DO

  If you have a physical ailment, it brings sympathy, but mental dysfunction makes people uncomfortable. When I was younger, I was so ashamed to think of depression as a mental illness that I grasped around for reasons to explain why it was happening, and blamed someone or something for it, no matter how small, like a school hallway diss, a bad grade, a random criticism.

  Now I know that depression is a chemical, physical problem in my brain that I am powerless to control. It’s like the mind control test experiment, when my brain signals were wired into Tory’s arms. I laughed when I made his arms jerk around, spilling wine and meatballs on himself. It’s not so funny, though, when your own mind has a mind of its own, and sends the signal to feel miserable.

  By writing this chapter, I’m taking a cue from millennials who were raised to believe that mental disorders like anxiety, depression, and OCD are problems in their brains, and not “all in their heads.” They have learned to grab the tools at hand and talk to their parents and others about what’s going on.

  I’ve hidden my depression for long enough. The final step for me in managing mine is to admit to loved ones and the whole world that, a few times over the course of the year, I will feel depressed, and that’s just part of my life. I hope my friends, family, and fans will understand that if I need a little room, it’s not about them. And if I need to talk honestly about my feelings, they’ll listen and try to understand. For all I know, they’ve been suffering in silence, too.

  If you are hiding, reach out to someone you trust. Therapy is expensive, but friends are free.

  I found this wisdom in a fortune cookie. No shit. I cracked it open, read it, and thought, This is actually brilliant.

  * * *

  ONE MORE THING

  Shout out to the neuroscientists who created the tech we used in the mind control episode. We had some fun taking their research and applying it comedically, but the reason Backyard Brains exists is to bring “neuroscience to the 99%,” as they like to say. There are so many diseases and disorders associated with mental health that elude us. We are plagued with everything from autism to Alzheimer’s. By making neuroscience accessible and getting people interested in the field, Backyard Brains is doing what MythBusters did. Amateur astronomers have discovered stars. Amateur paleontologists have found dinosaurs. Maybe an amateur neuroscientist will find the answers we need. In the least, maybe they will inspire someone to love the science. Who knows? Maybe a kid watching White Rabbit Project or playing with Backyard Brains kits will decide to become the neuroscientist that unlocks Alzheimer’s or depression.

  * * *

  Chapter Nine

  Creativity

  When I do lectures and events at colleges, the audience is full of eager young women, and the sight warms my heart. I think, Yes! The STEAMers are here! At the end of the talk, I always do a Q&A session. The questions can be a bit predictable:

  “What’s your favorite myth?”

  “Which myth was the most dangerous?”

  “Are you guys friends in real life?”

  But sometimes, a student asks what I call “a creative question,” along the lines of: “You know _______ [fill in the blank invention]? How did you come up with that?” I love it when someone asks me about art and creating, because, as I’ve made clear already, I’m not a scientist! I’m an artist, just a curious person who likes to make stuff. Tory, Grant, and I are all “creatives.” Our job was to foster it at the most basic level—start with nothing, and turn it into something. Every “solve” we rigged began with the most elemental of all raw material: an idea.

  People are naturally intrigued by the application of an idea, but they’re confounded by the generation of it. So I don’t take the question “Where do you get your ideas?” lightly.

  One myth I’ll bust right now is that you are either born creative or not. Every single person is born to be a maker, a generator of ideas. It’s true that some people might be gifted with natural talent in the arts. Talent is great to have, but it’s not essential to creativity. All you need is a curious mind, and the drive to follow it wherever it leads you.

  WHERE DO YOU GET YOUR IDEAS?

  Distraction vs. Concentration

  When I moved to San Francisco for college, the tech boom made the cost of living skyrocket. As a working student on a tight budget, I needed roommates. I found the perfect person in Bobby, a drummer, who was always on the road. He needed a place to live when in town and I needed to pay less rent. We became friends thanks to our similar tastes: a love for Jane’s Addiction and Led Zeppelin, a decorating style that included skulls and candles, and the propensity to wear black or metallic clothing (the ’90s).

  Our apartment was just off Haight Street in the famous music-and art-fueled Haight Ashbury district. It was a one-bedroom that we could barely afford. I set up in the living room and gave Bobby the bedroom.

  I remember my first night, sitting among my boxes, looking out the second floor window with all the lights off, and watching the street below, alive with voices and excitement. I was on my own, excited, happy, scared, and home. I could be anyone I wanted to be.

  I worked at a coffee shop near the cable car turnaround at Union Square. I had to be there for the morning rush, which meant waking before dawn. I would see all the same ladies of the night clocking out as I was clocking in. After charging up with caffeine during my shift, I headed to school to get in as many classes as possible before going to my second job at a retail store on Haight Street called Backseat Betty. Their slogan: “Good things for bad girls and bad things for good girls,” aka high fashion for strippers and rubber dresses for housewives. I loved it.

  Clearly, I was super busy with two jobs and a college course load, and appreciated my few hours of quiet in the apartment. When my roomie was home from his tour, however, he brought his band to live with us. Suddenly, I had no quiet time at all. It was pretty exciting to come home to a jam session but it was usually in the living room, where I slept. I would wake up in the morning, tiptoe over a sleeping guy or two, get dressed in my closet, and head off on my crazy schedule.

  FOR REALLY GREAT IDEAS, YOU HAVE TO BE ABLE TO CONCENTRATE, ALONE, IN A QUIET ROOM, WITH NO DISTRACTIONS

  I went from cherishing the quiet to embracing the chaos. The truth is, the guys weren’t always around, and I had full power to kick them out when I needed to write a paper. Besides, I often g
ot backstage access to great shows and occasionally came home to find a famous, attractive musician in my kitchen. Since Bobby was also a very good-looking guy, I made friends with a string of model-type gorgeous girls coming through the revolving door. They were always nice, and rarely ate my food. The apartment was like my own private Studio 54.

  You would think my grades would have suffered, but I found that the more chaotic life was, the more I got done. My papers were more astute when I wrote them under the pressure of a time crunch. Besides, when I could get my work done quickly, there was more time to enjoy those living room concerts. I could draw pictures while they banged on trash can drums. We fed creatively off each other. Some of my best work came from a room full of music. Even amid the chaos, I was able to prioritize and multitask, a skill that I use every day.

  (On the show, we once did a “battle of the sexes” test of multitasking. First, we asked male and female subjects to run through a series of chores in under five minutes, and then Grant and I tried the test ourselves. We had a healthy sibling rivalry and took any chance we could to battle each other. Grant was sure he would beat me on this one. He is insanely efficient—you should see his über-organized toolbox! He ran around like crazy to finish the chores in over four minutes and was so damn proud of himself. Then it was my turn. I calmly, coolly did it all—better than he did—in under three. He and Tory were shocked. I crushed Grant’s time without breaking a sweat. #honestbrag.)

  When you have no choice, you rise to the creative occasion.

  My brain functions best when I’m working on five projects at a time. In fact, if I get stuck on project A, the only way to get unstuck is to pick up with projects B and C, and then out of nowhere, I get bright ideas for project A. When one part of my brain takes a break, another part gets busy, and that little break is all I need to spark something. This is just my process. It might or might not work for you. Figuring out how to focus and trigger bright ideas is a journey in and of itself. If you go on an actual journey, you’ll acquire previously inaccessible creative powers.

  (RITE OF) PASSAGE TO INDIA

  When I was in India looking for grand insight (yes, I was that girl, with that hypothesis, that answers to every question could be found in far-flung exotic locales), to get to our destination of hopeful enlightenment, Dawn and I took a thirteen-hour bus ride with our huge backpacks on our laps. I was squished up against a broken window and sick the whole time from dense cigarette smoke, no personal space, and pins and needles in my legs from lack of movement. But hey, it was the cheapest way to get to where we were going and it was a true Indian experience.

  We stayed in an ashram in Rishikesh near a famous hanging bridge called Lakshman Jhula, and drank in the exotic, beautiful place, the orange and rosy colors of the light from dust in the air and the warm aesthetic of the people in their colorful clothes. Every walk down the dirt road was a sensual experience, sights, sounds, smells, good and/or putrid. You would take a deep perfumed inhale of Nag Champa and then be choked by rotting garbage. The ashram had a sweeping view of the river from a small balcony. At sunset, a nearby temple rang bells and called to prayer from loudspeakers, filling the air with a reminder that we were a long way from home.

  I loved the day-to-day ritual of our new life, in particular, the super-sweet and dense Indian coffee served in tiny cups that I drank on the way to our morning yoga class. It was a precious moment and feeling every day, and an important part of my Indian experience. I cherished the nightly ritual of little baskets set afloat down the river like lanterns, and became familiar with the people I would see along the road.

  Our yoga instructor was a man named Rama Krishna who, along with teaching asanas, would massage your disrupted auras. He had a long white beard and a smile that was always filled with the beginning of a chuckle. We hung out with him and became friends. Dawn and I were in search of a true meditation experience and hoped he could help us find a Vipassana teacher. That is a completely silent meditation (all of my friends reading this right now, seriously stop laughing). After a couple of weeks, he asked us, “Why do all you Americans come to India to try to be Indians? You are American, you cannot find your meditation in India, you have to find your meditation in America.” He had a way of explaining things with a charming smile that made you listen.

  “And you,” he said to me, “you are always painting. You are an artist. That is your meditation. You will never be able to be quiet. You must paint.”

  I thought, You know what? He’s right. I’m gonna just stay here and paint.

  The day after Rama Krishna set me straight, I walked to the stand where I drank my special, exotic Indian coffee. I got up extra early, excited for my new mission to find myself as an artist. Because I got to the café so early, I saw the coffee being made. This giant hairy, sweaty man, without pants on, stirred ingredients into a large vat. I saw him pour them in. My morning enlightenment in a cup was Nescafé and condensed milk!

  All of my notions about the spiritual exoticism of yoga, meditation, and magic coffee were shattered within twenty-four hours. I cried from my third eye about it. Kidding. I hung around that village for another two weeks, painting sunsets and taking photo portraits of people on the street—and I did find myself as an artist. India had nothing to do with it. When I got home to California, I kept the creative vibes flowing by turning all my travel photos into sculptures and other cool things.

  My quest for enlightenment seems kind of ridiculous to me in hindsight. Now I know that you get “answers” (practical or mystical) by asking questions and experimenting. For me, yoga isn’t about aura massaging and chanting words I don’t understand. It’s the solution to the problem of staying fit at forty, building strength, and quieting my mind. I still paint, but my meditation is bigger than that. It’s about meeting the challenge of being myself. The creativity journey is always inward.

  When I set out on this yearlong trip, I knew I was in for an adventure and hoped to come back changed, but I couldn’t have guessed how. I thought I’d find deep answers to metaphysical questions. Didn’t happen. I did come back brave, with newfound confidence, and freedom from self-judgment.

  PS. Incense is carcinogenic. #justsaying

  Live the Dream

  For twenty-three years, I was a shy, artsy girl from Los Gatos, creative but unfocused, full of self-doubt. And then, while traveling, under the influence of beautiful new sunsets, grand adventure, and a new best friend in Lisa, I was inspired to draw at a much higher level. I wanted to impress Lisa, and wound up impressing myself. I stopped worrying about how good I was, and finally turned into an artist.

  I got home to California a changed woman. I’d grown as an artist and a human being. My spirit was free, and my wallet was empty. Fortunately, if you were going to be young, artsy, and broke, San Francisco was the best place to be in the entire world. My equally poor and creative friends and I aspired to live as cheaply as possible. That meant back to the side hustles. We made jeweled barrettes and accessories to sell at local boutiques. I turned thrift store men’s neckties into ornate necklaces.

  I still had the travel bug, so I would save every penny and run off on small American adventures, bringing my side hustles with me. For example, I desperately wanted to see the Jazz Fest in New Orleans, but only had enough for a plane ticket. Solution? I painted postcards and sold them to tourists so we could buy beer, crawfish, and tickets to the festival. I provided an experience, engaging buyers in conversation about art and music, and gave them a moment of connection with a friendly, spunky girl in the red dress who made them laugh. I was part of their fun memories of their trip.

  It sounds corny, but it was the first time I was an actual working artist. It wasn’t a lot, but I was getting paid for art. Full disclosure, the postcards weren’t that good but most people headed to music festivals are a bit off their heads. It is possible to survive on art alone.

  Creativity was my occupation, as in, it kept me occupied during some long months of unemployment, wh
en I was hoping to find a decent job with a big enough salary so I could go out to dinner once in a while. If you want creativity to be an occupation in the sense that it is your profession, that you are a member of the “creative economy,” then proceed to bust your ass and make huge sacrifices to get your foot halfway in the door.

  BE CREATIVE ON COMMAND

  For the last fifteen years, my job has been invention. Every single myth tested required our creating a prototype, because we couldn’t go to a store to buy a sword-swinging robot or a face-slapping machine with custom remote triggers. Once, Tory, Grant, and I were tasked with making a grizzly gizmo featured in a kung fu movie called The Flying Guillotine, a weapon that could be thrown through the air, Frisbee-like, fall down around the victim’s neck, chop off his head, and then capture it in a sack or net to be retrieved.

  Needless to say, all three of us, though full of geeky glee, were stumped how to make a prototype for a deadly decapitation weapon, since no blueprints or downloadable instructions existed. We said to each other, “How the hell are we going to do this?!?” Only one way: trial and error, emphasis on error. We decided to work separately on our own designs and see whose worked best.

  I started by going through the shop’s aisles of shelves with random bits and pieces (some might describe the boxes of string, pipes, machine parts, and plastic bits as junk, but one man’s trash is another’s brilliant idea waiting to happen), and pulled out a fan from an air-conditioning duct. It was too heavy and complicated to work. I tried making a spring-loaded weapon, but the snap of the springs was scary. I might lose a finger trying to chop off a dummy’s head. Not worth it! I eventually went with a head-size cigar cutter concept with a single blade. I put a giant, super-sharp kitchen knife on a couple of sliders that would decapitate the fake head with a good yank of the attached chain, and then capture the head in a net that would unfurl from a beautifully decorated dragon hat.