Ultimately Paul and I went our separate ways. He went on to marry someone much younger than he was (twenty-five years) and from the south (Edie Brickell), and so, not to be outdone, I found myself a mate younger than myself (four years) and also from the south. The only difference between our two choices… well, was that his was a girl and mine was a boy, but my choice forgot to tell me he was gay. Well, he forgot to tell me, and I forgot to notice. Hey, it could happen—you know when you’re first in love and you’re grinning at each other like goofballs and making out all the time (everything looks better when you’re infatuated, doesn’t it?) like it’s lit from within and you’re telling each other everything like “I’m a Libra… I like fireflies on a warm summer night… I like long moonlit walks on the beach on acid—oh, did I forget to tell you I was gay?”
“I should have had a V8!”
Actually, he told me later that I had turned him gay… by taking codeine again.
And I said, “You know, I never read that warning on the label.”
I thought it said heavy machinery, not homosexuality—turns out I could have been driving those tractors all along!
Turning people gay is kind of a superpower of mine. It’s not called upon a lot, but when it is, I pick up my little pink phone, I put on my rainbow-colored cape, and I’m there like a shot!
You know, I was probably turning people gay for a long, long, long time without even knowing it. Because I took a lot of codeine—and I traveled. So there are probably pockets of homosexual communities all over the world started by me. You may have seen some of my handiwork.
My doctor told me that codeine stays in your liver for seven years. I mean unless you have a good lawyer. Well, I don’t. I do not have a good lawyer, so what I’m trying to say is, there’s probably still some codeine in my liver. So, if you find yourself on your knees in front of someone of the same sex—nude—and that’s not where you usually hang out… Happy Chanukkah from all of us at “Wishful Drinking”!
8
BRISK AS A BULLET SHOT THROUGH THE CENTER OF EVERYTHING
I was probably rebounding from Paul when I met Bryan (a week later), but Bryan is really, really attractive.
When I met him, he had hair. Actually, I do that, too—I make them bald, I turn them gay, my work is done!
But, Bryan took really, really good care of me, and this was the first time a man had ever done that. You know, my father left when I was two (oh, poor, sad Carrie!), and Paul and I were the two-flower thing, so this was the first time a man had ever taken care of me. I mean, he used to give me baths (like I was a Labrador).
Bryan took such good care of me that I thought, “this guy will make a good father.” And I was right, he made a great father—and he still does. So fearing now that finally everything would be all right, nine months later our daughter was dragged from my body as though it was a burning building. And once this well-fed, round creature was rescued from the rubble of me, I sent out a birth announcement which read:
So, Bryan and I named our adorable omelet Billie. Billie Catherine Lourd. So, a year later when Bryan left me for Scott—well naturally, I was devastated. I loved Bryan—and I really liked those baths. But my mother was fantastic to me during this time. I mean, my mother… she’s… well, she’s like a mother to me and she said this great thing.
She said, “You know, dear, we’ve had every sort of man in our family—we’ve had horse thieves and alcoholics and one-man bands—but this is our first homosexual!”
Anyway, having nothing to do with Bryan, about a year after that, I was invited to go to a mental hospital. And you know, you don’t want to be rude, so you go. Okay, I know what you must be thinking—but this is a very exclusive invitation.
I mean, hello—have you ever been invited to a mental hospital?
So, you see, it’s very exclusive. It’s sort of like an invitation to the White House—only you meet a better class of people in the mental hospital.
My diagnosis was manic-depression. I think today they call it bipolar—so you might say I swing both ways. But unless you say it really, really loud, I probably won’t hear you.
Oh! Before I forget! My mother wants you all to know this comes from my father’s side. She’s as normal as the day is long.
But imagine this though. Imagine having a mood system that functions essentially like weather—independently of whatever’s going on in your life. So the facts of your life remain the same, just the emotional fiction that you’re responding to differs. It’s like I’m not properly insulated—so all the bad and the good ways that you and most of the people in adjacent neighborhoods and around the world feel—that pours directly into my system unchecked. It’s so fun. I call it “getting on my grid” or ESP: Egregious Sensory Protection.
But ultimately I feel I’m very sane about how crazy I am.
But periodically I do explode. Now the good thing about this is that over time, the explosions have gotten smaller and the recovery time is faster, but what is guaranteed is that I will explode. So what I do, because I’m a good hostess (except for the Greg thing)—I provide my guests with bibs. So they don’t get my crazy juice all over their nice clothes.
You know how most illnesses have symptoms you can recognize? Like fever, upset stomach, chills, whatever. Well, with manic-depression, it’s sexual promiscuity, excessive spending, and substance abuse—and that just sounds like a fantastic weekend in Vegas to me!
Oh! This’ll impress you—I’m actually in the Abnormal Psychology textbook. Obviously my family is so proud. Keep in mind though, I’m a PEZ dispenser and I’m in the Abnormal Psychology textbook. Who says you can’t have it all?
But when I was told about the textbook, I was told I was in there with a photo.
And I said, “Huh? What photo???”
It’s not like anyone ever called me and said, “Have you got a little snapshot of yourself looking depressed or manic?” (Like from my show, for example.)
So for years I wondered—what picture?
Well, I have excellent news. Recently I found the picture, and rather than describing it to you, would you like to see it? Because I really want to show it to you.
So I’m not crazy, that bitch is. Anyone who would wear a hairstyle like that has to be nuts! Right?
Having received word at an early age that the rest of my life was going to be challenging (at least at very odd intervals), I started seeing a shrink when I was fifteen. The first was recommended to me by Joan Hacket, and he was a psychologist and not a psychiatrist. (Psychiatrists are medical doctors as well as the rest of the psycho stuff. So they’re better trained to diagnose mental illness and—oh so much more importantly—prescribe medication for it.) In any case (so to speak), this doctor failed to diagnose my manic depression. Though one day, after I’d been seeing him for many years, he suddenly asked if I’d been hyperactive as a child. Yeah, right… and I’d just somehow forgotten to mention a little thing like that. I mean, it wasn’t as if I had an endless supply of life struggles to discuss with him at that point. Although surely adolescence is a struggle in and of itself—but not so much so that I’d somehow forgotten to mention my hyperactivity. But I think that my first doctor saw something in me that was amiss but as to what that something was, for that moment, would remain a mystery.