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

by Maria Bamford

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.)

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!

Joining cults and reading self-help books are both symptoms of a kind of desperation.

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.

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

YOU JUST KEEP GOING, KID. That’s great advice!—if

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.

GOOD means known, but it’s also a conscious decision to see it as GOOD.

Here’s my current “food plan”: I eat a hot-fudge sundae almost every day of the week and when there is no hot fudge, I make do with syrups and heavily moose-tracked ice-cream product. I also eat salad every day. So if I were to open a restaurant, I’d call it “Caesar Creamers.”

So there you go: I am not a trustworthy narrator of my own experience. I may be making stuff up. But it felt like that’s what happened. I felt all alone, but I was not at all alone and I was loved and maybe even having a great time. And that may still describe me now, despite my whinging.

As for myself, because I am not great, I allow a wide berth of behaviors and missteps by my loved ones. Beggars can’t be choosers, everybody goes home #nofriendsleftbehind, I don’t care what you do as long as we can talk about it later. But I respect separating the righteous wheat from the pointless chaff.

Romantic partnerships remind me of stand-up comedy. Some people will have a very strong opinion of your creation (the relationship). Everyone is an expert.

But it doesn’t matter what they think. It doesn’t matter if other people think you and your spouse(s) are the next Barack and Michelle or TLC Sister Wives. You get to love whom and what you love.

Anyone who says—about something you’ve developed in your life (creatively or personally)—“THE WHOLE THING IS WRONG! LET’S BURN IT TO THE GROUND AND START OVER!” is a bag of dried fish heads (they stink).

He’s been told that his mentals are “treatment-resistant,” which sounds a lot like “noncompliant” heart disease or “won’t play ball” multiple sclerosis.