Sure, I'll Join Your Cult: A Memoir of Mental Illness and the Quest to Belong Anywhere

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To all my people (family, friends, twelve-step programs, comedians).

Thank you for not kicking me out. I’ll see you at the potluck.

cult (kŭlt) n. 1. A social group defined by its unusual philosophical beliefs.

INTRODUCTION

Sure, I’ll Join Your Cult

I love being asked to join, so much so that I will say yes to an invitation without knowing exactly what I have agreed to. When I was in my late twenties, a fellow production secretary at Nickelodeon Animation Studio whom I will call Tina told me about an event she was attending at the Hollywood Roosevelt hotel and asked me to accompany her. OF COURSE, TINA! Tina had been going through some difficulties that involved muffled weeping in the bathroom. I wanted to support and hoped there might be food. (There was not.)

Tina seemed very excited about this whole evening, and when I met her in the five-hundred-seat conference room packed to the gills, it felt like a good way to spend a Tuesday night. A few different speakers got up and talked about how they had once been pathetic and now—thanks to Heartbouncers—they were vigorous and empowered! Awesome! I applauded and whooped! Good for them!

After the speechifying, we were encouraged to stand up and share openly about our personal sorrows (why we were all there that night). Several people stood, verklempt, detailing varying degrees of failure and tragedy in life. As the event was taking place in LA, there was no shortage of people available for dramatic public speaking off the cuff.

I thought, Great! I mean, a little irresponsible, because there didn’t seem to be any therapeutic professionals available, but what the hell? Everybody seemed hyped and happy. Did I stand up and freestyle prose? No. Not for lack of desire, but I had already been getting all my monologuing out at open mics and twelve-step support groups. And these sad-sack recruits seemed like they had never told anyone anything personal—that, to them, talking to a big group about private issues was a revelatory breakthrough. I thought I’d be generous and give my time back to the room.

After two hours of Moth workshop–style storytelling and boxes of Kleenex passed, they set us up with a Heartbouncers rep on our own for what I thought might be an unlicensed free coaching sesh.

HEARTBOUNCERS REP: Are you ready to meet your potential?

ME: Yeah!

HR: Let’s sign you up for the weekend workshop!

ME: Okay!

HR: We take credit cards or cash!

ME: Oh! I don’t have any money! At all!

HR: What are you afraid of?

ME: Fulfilling my potential?

HR: Do you know anyone who might have the money to support you in becoming your best self?

ME: No! No one at all!

I explained to the Heartbouncers rep that I was already in a cult that forbade me from spending money I didn’t have (more on that later). I really wanted to go. I did. Who doesn’t want to have guaranteed greatness in life for only $1,500 and a weekend at a Courtyard by Marriott in Glendora? The Heartbouncers rep didn’t want to let me leave. She pleaded with me not to self-sabotage my life like I always do. I felt for her. It’s hard to watch someone make mistakes. I told her gently but sternly it was not her fault what happened to me once I left this ballroom. I gave her both eyeballs to let her know that she’d done her very best to save me from myself.

As I tried to get up and grab my purse to leave, my pal Tina joined in encouraging me to sign up (I believe she got a rebate if one of her marks hit). And so I did what I did when escaping many relationships at the time: I got up abruptly and wordlessly ran away. I genuinely—at pace—jog-sprinted out of the hotel back to my 1988 Toyota Corolla I’d parked on the dark streets of Hollywood and drove to a 7-Eleven for a pack of hot peanuts, thereby manifesting several dreams on my vision board at that time in the process. (I love Runner’s World magazine and always have a few roughly torn-out images of a 10K participant—though I myself have yet to run such a race.)

Even though Heartbouncers didn’t take, I am very fond of suddenly adopting a new set of ideals in order to receive welcome from any rigid group of weirdos. If these people wanted a piece of me so badly, I must have been okay. (I am not okay.)

I have always been drawn to strange and ritualistic groups. In the same way that my mom proselytized about the Bible and the Hilton, I will tell anyone about the already-well-known For Dummies book series—the step-by-step guides filled with graphic icons, cartoons, and easy-to-skim-for-the-info-that-you’re-really-looking-for tables of contents. And as tribute I’ve included some helpful iconography throughout:

ICONOGRAPHY USED IN THIS BOOK

The section following will be in TRIGGER FONT (Bold Comic Sans) so you know where the creepy stuff is located. If you don’t like me personally, change all fonts in this book with your own pen to Bold Comic Sans.

OLD MATERIAL ALERT. Yes, I make some of the same jokes that I have made live onstage, and yes, that is a real letdown. I am also disappointed. Let’s feel that together!

ANY BREAKING OF TWELVE-STEP CULT RULES OF ANONYMITY. I’ll also try to footnote any backlash from a higher power I’ve received for having revealed publicly my membership in several specific twelve-step groups. Nothing says safe like a secret society!

RECIPES!

FINANCIAL INFORMATION YOU DIDN’T ASK FOR. Sharing the numbers is a part of the money cult (Debtors Anonymous) and goddammit, my compulsive need to overshare is not going to be silenced.

Though I will not label myself dumb, I’m open to being called a Dummie™. As I get older, I get much Dummer™—I mumble, I shake, I close my eyes when I speak, trying to remember the definition of words like dearth. Along with the formatting, I like the For Dummies series because it’s a good idea to look up how to do things before you give it a whirl. And from all the mental health Instagram feeds I follow, I note that it is imperative to ask for help (from where this help is to come can be a little more vague).

I have never written a book before. The book you’re reading here is the nonfiction equivalent of a stand-up comedian who has done one open mic but will now perform an hourlong comedy special, improvising off drunk crowd suggestions. (It’s not going to win a Pulitzer.)

I have Deep Space Nine respect for the writers of mental health memoirs. I have read a lot of them. I’ve read and reread Mary Karr’s Lit, William Styron’s Darkness Visible, Elyn Saks’s The Center Cannot Hold, Kay Redfield Jamison’s Night Falls Fast, Madness by Marya Hornbacher, and, of course, genius Daniel Smith’s masterpiece on anxiety, Monkey Mind. (Full disclosure: Daniel Smith is one of the freelance editors I hired to help me with this book, as is Ashley Ray, writer-gorgeous-polyamorous-bisexual-podcaster-comic at www.theashleyray.com

.)

In an effort to write this book, I went back to my favorite source for assistance: a used For Dummies title. Or, more specifically, a two-dollar, fairly battered 2018 edition of Memoir Writing for Dummies. According to MWFD, a memoir needs an overarching story of the character (oneself) wanting something and everything they do to go about getting it.

What have I wanted?

To be someone else entirely. Someone who loves to live.

How have I gone about getting that?

By participating in CULTS!

And by reading self-help books that (temporarily) CHANGE MY LIFE!

I have an ongoing joke with my therapist friend Marketa Velehradska (www.marketavtherapy.com

) where I’ll announce to her: Guess what! There’s this new book [or article, or podcast, or documentary about Mardi Gras bead factories in China] and it has CHANGED MY LIFE. This is common in LA. Most people here are in the midst of having a product or service CHANGE THEIR LIFE! Have you tried MAGIC WANDS!?? THE ENERGY HEALER IN MANHATTAN BEACH WHO ONLY ACCEPTS ZELLE? Wasp’s milk? Having a baby at sixty?

Joining cults and reading self-help books are both symptoms of a kind of desperation. And, in fact, this is an uneven story about one person, specifically a white fifty-two-year-old comic (me/she/her) living in Altadena, California, and how I have kept going when I didn’t really want to.

If you have any mentals, you probably know what I mean. I’m not suicidal, but I’m also not particularly psyched. If I’ve had my first can of Diet Coke plus a nitro cold brew coffee, I get some work done. That is, I make my bed. (I didn’t make my bed today.) I know, mostly from pro-life billboards, that LIFE IS A GIFT. (And I like to call antiabortion clinics and have them take the time to prove it to me.) Now that I’m on the right meds, I sort of get it. There is something fun about being at a new or old place with or without other people. But I want to err on the conservative side in promoting the magic of gratitude. (An oft-suggested idea by twelve-steppers is to write a gratitude list, which can be helpful as a reframe, but it’s not, etc.)

Bottom line: this is comedic. I do not know what I’m talking about. And full disclaimer: cults, books, books about cults, and comedy are no replacement for meds. Medicine is the best medicine. I’ll tell you more about my drug experiences later—of which the last mixture of chemicals has worked out okay. I don’t believe any psychiatric care is optimal—I’ve had a share of shit, shaming experiences involving mental health treatment from free and expensive institutions. Don’t feel bad if you can’t find the right practitioner or med mix. What I have now is a psychiatric nurse I can text, and his name is Mike. He’s pleasant from what I can tell and always refills my scripts within twenty-four hours, which is more than I can say for any psychiatrist I’ve ever had. The meds I am on make me sleepy and shaky, and my tum-tum is rounder. If it helps to know that a millionaire (my hub and I have three million in assets if you include our house) has not found the best ANYTHING for mentals, know that I am that millionaire.

And in fact, I received this book deal because of my popularity as a comedian. That doesn’t mean that you have ever heard of me. I’ve been performing what I call stand-up for thirty years and I’ve done a bunch of other stuff. According to my IMDb, 99 percent of it is voice-over. This makes sense, since I am at my most comfortable alone in a chilly booth with soundproof walls between myself and other human beings.

I was told I can’t include an entire IMDb listing in my book. I guess it’s not what Faulkner meant when he said, "Don’t be a ‘writer,’ but instead be writing." So I’ll try to explain why one person gets a book deal over another: I had a TV show for two seasons on Netflix, very loosely based on my life. I have acted by acting in acting roles, one of which was Emmy-nominated! I won Best Club Comic at the American Comedy Awards (?) (a money-laundering scheme, as so much of entertainment is). That same year, Bill Cosby was honored as a legend and in a tracksuit lectured the comedians gathered on the importance of Being Funny No Matter What in the humorless, retrospectively aggro manner of an unregistered sex offender. But my professional writing experience, aside from my own stand-up material, consists of two short essays for the New York Times and one for McSweeney’s. Not enough, right?

In my defense—and I am always (adorably?) trying to protect myself—compulsively telling everybody everything may be a big part of the reason I have an audience. As far as I can tell, full disclosure is a CASH COW.

I am like the pathetic stump the grown-up boy sits on at the end of The Giving Tree. But instead of a quiet place to rest, I provide you with my splintered, discomfiting need to reveal all my thoughts and flaws—which is either radical honesty or narcissistic showboating. It depends on whom you ask (and don’t ask my sister). My husband, Scott, points out that in oversharing, I have sometimes misjudged my audience.I

But if I can be grandstandingly open about something taboo, maybe someone else might feel a little less isolated by knowing my own sad story (and have a few laughs)? And isn’t that a useful service to provide? (I ask? Needily?) I have received so much help from others bravely sharing the pariah-ready deets of their lives: Brooke Shields (postpartum intrusive-thought OCD), Naomi Judd (bankruptcy), comedian Richard Lewis (Cookie Monster bulimia—that’s the kind of bulimia where you chew your food for a long time… and then spit it out. I tried this type of bulimia. It took self-control I do not have. I guess I’m a swallowing gal!).

And speaking of comedians who have yalped out about health issues: Jonathan Winters (now dead) was open about his bipolar diagnosis way back in the 1960s. And then, years later, in the eighties, he was helpful to me! I had just gotten out of the psych ward for the first time. I told everyone I met at the time that I jez got-oot o da psych wod! (That’s freshly medicated for: I just got out of the psych ward.) The owner of our local coffee shop, Anja, was upbeat but confused by my new daily greeting (though it may be why she occasionally gives me free coffee). I hadn’t found the right medication and felt frighteningly off. I had a complete loss of confidence in doing anything. Words were… Not? Come? To… geh??! into sentences properly and my hands tremored like a jackhammer. My friend Dan P. asked me to lunch. I arrived at the cafe and said what I was saying to everyone at the time:

I jez got-oot o da psych wod!

Dan said, Let’s call Jonathan WINTERS! Let’s call him right now! I’m good friends with Jonathan Winters! He’s been to the psych ward! He’ll know what to do!

ME: NO, oh, oh no, agh!

But Dan was already talking to him and tossed the phone into my two-handed Parkinson’s carry.

Comedy Legend Jonathan Winters: Hello?

ME: Tenk oo.

CLJW: You’re welcome.

ME: I—mnmnm?

CLJW: You got a good shrink?

ME: Uh-humph.

CLJW: Well, then, you just keep going, kid.

ME: Tenk oo vey mush.

YOU JUST KEEP GOING, KID. That’s great advice!—if not really the only advice you can give anyone under any and all circumstances. And I have kept going. Now I’m writing this book and doing what I do best, which is brazenly going on and on and on about myself. The book is roughly organized with some educational photos and easy recipes that take only a minute of wavering focus. As well as clarifying financial details that will probably only confuse and irritate, but will help me to feel as if I said it ALL, in a scentless, foot-long fecal rope, clearing the bowel.

For example:

Emoji: Money bag This is how much I was paid for doing this book so far and it will be blacked out on being published but just ask me and I’ll tell you in person:

Three years ago, I was given $XK to start.

I gave that entire $XK to editors to help me along the way because I cannot do things without someone watching me like a hawk.

If this book ever gets published—and we don’t know if it will—I will get another $XK.

And if the book ever gets made into a softcover, I will get another $XK.

My takeaway—after taxes, commissions, and editorial costs—will amount to about $XK over the course of six years. Good to know! (I did not quit my day job as a comedian.)

Full disclosure: THIS book is NOT going to have a clear chronicle of trauma, healing, victory. It’s going to be more like a series of emotional sudoku puzzles that I grow tired of trying to solve and a third of the way through start a new one, hoping the next one is easier. I haven’t figured it out. I don’t relate well to stories where people have found some sparkling new reality at the end of the memoir. Sometimes memoirists have to write a second memoir to amend their initial new reality to a new, NEW reality of what’s now really real for them. And I am NOT writing a second book. Unless of course anyone at all offers me money.

RIGOROUS HONESTY ABOUT LYING

Whenever someone gets caught for saying they were on the seventieth floor of the World Trade Center on September 11 when in fact they were returning a blouse at Strawberry in Midtown, I always feel compassion and a twinge of anxiety. I punch up history. Or rather, I describe events and then add elements to make the narrative pop. This is called lying like a Ruggable.

I want to place blame on my mother, who always had very polite workarounds (fabrications) she told over the phone for not doing things at church (a place where you’re not supposed to do a lot of lying).

MARILYN: [dramatic sigh] Listen, I’m sorry. We just can’t. We already have a dinner that night. And it’s just crazy with Halloween coming up because Maria wants to go as an eel. [That dinner consisted of frozen fish sticks around the glowing TV with my mother eating a tart Granny Smith sliced in fourteen pieces while on the phone with her pal Maren Hustad, and I was going to Halloween as I always do, as a jogger.]

My sister also adds a bit of zing to reality: Then I said to the waiter, ‘We’re not vegan, we’re just weird!’ And he gave US a tip! Her husband, Mark, will sometimes almost inaudibly interrupt her stories with, That didn’t happen. Oh well. I was riveted!

This tendency to punch up the truth may also come from Bamford family dinners. In order to get the attention of a crowd of three Bamfords in the ’70s/’80s, you had to close big. And if you’re the youngest and are not having a lot of life experiences, forget holding court. My sister headlined most meals, with my mom as the gregarious emcee, and my dad featured with Dr. Pimple Popper–style derm stories of explosive boils and phantom itches. I was allowed a short guest set. My dad would set the egg timer for three minutes—like any good showroom runner—and that’s when I got more than a hundred seconds to grab my audience with some fifth-grade perspectives. Dinosaur graves, volcanic ash, boys who hit me—I kept it tight. I would get to speak without outside comment for three glorious minutes—preparing me for later episodes of Byron Allen’s Comics Unleashed, which was like doing stand-up in a support-group-like setting sitting down and STILL PAYS ME GENEROUS RESIDUALS. Byron Allen is a comic’s friend as well as a billionaire. Much respect.

This storytelling technique of adding things in and removing parts can be called craft or, if you’re a stickler/lawyer/good person, trickery, false testimony, perjury. In performance, I like to recount the story of my mom visiting her oncologist for the last time, right after surviving a deadly pleural effusion and deciding on hospice. Leaving the appointment, she said joyfully: I lost four pounds!!

Did I leave out some parts of the conversation? Yes. One of the reasons she wanted to stop treatment was because of being puffed up with IV fluids. When my mom said, I lost four pounds! she was also celebrating being out of the hospital and not uncomfortably swelled up with water and attached to machines. You might say, Well, that makes it different. She just wanted to feel more comfortable. Yes, you’re right. I