When I reopened these years that I’m currently working on, turning them into a book, I ended up going through an experience I couldn’t explain. It was a clusterfuck, pardon my French, but deciding to write about this put me through so much.
At the top of my thirties, I met a man I wish I never met, really, who brought me into plant medicines, incorrectly, according to him, where I was told I was psychic. That was not a good idea. I did not need that.
A self-proclaimed “guru” also came into my life who heard one line about my childhood, and he made a bunch of decisions about me based on his psychic senses, as he acted as if he had supreme feeling senses. And he had nothing to do with this plant medicine group comprises only of Slytherins.
The guru truly made a bad move, and if he did “care” about me, what he did was the opposite of care. He pointed to me across a room the first time we hung out — and acted bizarrely— “knooowwwwwww what do you wanna knooooowww” he shook his pointer finger in my direction, even aggressively. “Life is not about what you wanna do, it’s about what you wanna knoooowwwww.” I literally just met this person. Then, date two, whatever this was, we’re talking about my pain???
What are you doing?
I was shocked, truly.
This man was not a gifted psychologist. He thought that I was a star—and I peer back through these years, dumbfounded — who didn’t know that, believe that? Or, more accurately, I could BE a star? It’s not so much that I couldn’t be a star, I don’t know, I was just a young woman working on a book. I didn’t think I had problems with what I could become, or something. In short, he projected all over me. I wasn’t aware. He acted like a supreme being. “FEEL YOUR FEELINGS…” he incorrectly whipped me up in some strange obsession of his that I wasn’t feeling my feelings when HE might have been the one not feeling his feelings. “You’re repressed.” Then, he confessed his love for me in the most twisted fashion where he role played my father — some version of my father he felt was “holding me back?” This guy was a real mental case. He was, truly, the worst thing that ever happened to me. Next to the plant medicines. He’s first on that list.
He…believed that I wasn’t fed or bathed… he believed I wasn’t cared for properly, which was communicated to me indirectly. He kept on insisting through this draft that THEY FEED ME in ALL-CAPS, as he could speak in ALL-CAPS, that my cousins FEED ME. THEY FEED ME. He kept shoving that phrase down my throat.
I had to keep repeating this to myself: I was just a girl at a cafe. That’s it. I was writing about these years I lived on Miracle Mile — as my mother accused my father of being a child rapist, molester, whatever, and this family agreed to protect me for four insane years. And my father acted like a deranged, guilty nightmare.
On top of these two entities that came into my life in my thirties, when I thought, okay, let me write a book about these years, partially because people made SUCH a big deal out of them — and this “guru” showcases what I mean — I went back to Naples, Italy, after a long disappearance to see my cousins.
From the moment I opened my mouth — he got sick, my father. He was diagnosed with dementia, basically, though the diagnosis changed, but this was all…a secret. They asked me why we disappeared, so I said that, and they HIT me with disbelief. From step one. I said, my mother gave me away to a total stranger, right? Since we veered into that subject. I used to say, “my mother gave me away to a total stranger because she LIED that my father was a threat to me,” basically. She told Angelica Leibowitz, this unassuming Brazilian mother, that my father was abusive. So.
I couldn’t say that, and it was clear that they would not be able to handle it. However, the second I opened my mouth, they shut me down, and so, like the guru, my cousin who I dubbed GIGGINO came after me… about this story. It caused me anguish and confusion. Their concern/disbelief. They deny that they didn’t believe me, on top of it. That’s 100% factually untrue. On top of it, because they knew me for a few years in my youth, this same man came after me about how I didn’t pursue theater… claiming I was “made to do this.” They all did. Or, at least, that side of the family. The other side didn’t care. They didn’t care THAT much.
The guru, excuse me, but he was next level inappropriate, in that, he thought it would benefit me — his New Age philosophies. Even he believed I was psychic. So did his brother. I did not need to get involved with these men. I looked back, like, I’m sorry why is this man giving me channeler tapes? But, of course, the guru would deny his beliefs if brought under public scrutiny. I didn’t need men who lived in the ether in some rich bubble. But I COULD BE AMAZING. WOW. I had NO idea why the guru was so obsessed with success and fame…
In my direction.
Over a book.
It’s like, he heard I wanted to be a writer, and he thought himself the teacher of Alexander the Great, no offense.
Here’s a suggestion: do not listen to: it’s the future that writes the past. That put me in a state of psychic agony. Maybe these people don’t really believe in what they believe in, just like the Catholics. I would not suggest “reaching out to your audience” mentally and establishing “lines of contact.” I smile at that, truly, as “a psychic person.” All I had to hear was: you want to read some books and figure out how you want to do it…? I mean, truly.
“THE BOOK,” and I will do him onstage, for sure, he took it out of his head. “Is a psychological object.”
“It exists… already in its completed form…”
These people made my life a nightmare.
So I reopened these years (with a psychopath AKA the guru), and I, regardless, went through some experiences I can’t explain. Then, to add to this mix, I got involved with a drug addict, a Slytherin. He was in this plant medicine group. And, um, well, I came from the background I did, which no one took seriously, and I ended up hooking up with one of his mentees. I didn’t know that he and the mentee had…a deeper relationship, that extended beyond platonic. It ended badly. I was also seeing his therapist, and this woman was a total joke, I’m sorry, when it came to her lack of experience with complex cases, such as mine. She should have been less money hungry and more honest about what her experience was. When she said, “I never met anyone like you,” I should have taken that as the cue — to exit.
What a clusterfuck.
In the end, the GURU told me to listen to a fictional character in my draft? I can’t even believe where I ended up, looking back, and whether or not it was true about my father, quite simply, I had one last interaction with these two men, the Slytherins. They were both Slytherins. I asked for my money back, clearly, evidently, as I had even invested money in one of their businesses, or THEIR business, unclear. Suddenly, at 5 AM, a message came through my website — a threat that my actual bank was going to get shut down. It was an empty threat, but it impacted me physically in my gut. Am I not psychic? Now, I had already gone through some experiences I couldn’t explain, but that thrusted me through the worst experience of my life. By how they reacted, and I definitely responded, it might have been true. I don’t know. The impact in my gut, however, was physical, I couldn’t resume normal eating… until I admitted to myself that it felt intended. Getting back to normal eating was an ordeal. And that Slytherin, he farted on the phone at me…after I got out of the hospital, so I got the message — if you would. And our friend in common said:
“Sometimes he treats people in unspeakable ways…”
So — did he send me that message?
You see what I mean?
The GURU believed, for real, that I psychically called in this email to “deliver myself the final blow,” whatever THAT meant. Remember, I was just a girl at a cafe. (The sexual trauma specialist believes these men sent that message to me.)
So after being ENCOURAGED in ALL-CAPS by a guru who ENCOURAGED ME IN ALL-CAPS for reasons I do not understand to even get an apartment I couldn’t afford because I could MEDITATE the money into existence— I wandered the earth for a few years in total agony — total agony —over whether or not this might have happened to me — any kind of sexual abuse. FORGET my father, which is what people in my LIFE weren’t understanding. I went through a horrific experience.
I mean, this former friend of mine who brought me into plant medicines—why?—he called me, seriously, “a portal, channel, and antenna traveling on multiple planes of existence.” He wasn’t joking. I asked him to stop, and he didn’t listen. The guru was the biggest asshole I have ever met. His brother, truly, should have been honest about his expertise, he shouldn’t have gotten involved with me. My cousins—forget it. My current mother, well, no one in my life even sees her…as my mother. I struggled with the literal languaging — this is my mother.
I was going, okay, what happened? How did I even get here?
I was struggling with not having pursued acting, performing, singing. I never expected to feel so ripped to shreds, I felt ripped to shreds. I kept thrashing about, is that what I wanted to do? I wondered. Perform? Okay…I mean, I couldn’t care less about writing now. I couldn’t care less about a book, truly. THAT desire brought me nothing but anguish. Even the Slytherin. He farted long and hard, on the phone, after he said, “you’re a really good friend.” I spent the night on the floor of a hospital.
I came back to the United States to settle a score, to settle this untaken path I didn’t pursue because maybe I did, maybe I wanted to. I got the strangest advice, I lost my nestegg. I despise my old professor, truly, that I got involved with —
I can accept my own stupidity, but these men, truly, presented themselves as experts if not GENIUSES when they were really stupid. This GURU advised me to use my IRA money, truly, to contiue traveling over A BOOK, which was GOING TO CHANGE MY LIFE — YOU CREATE YOUR OWN REALITY— sure, I can ideate thousands of dollars into existence. “It doesn’t matter.” Um, yes it does.
I’m doing the comedy circuit, going to open mics, for a few different reasons. Forget my friends, truly, they really really didn’t get where I came from, at all. Neither did my current mother who has enough problems in her family, quite frankly, that I just did not need to take on. All things considered. My mother had sexual problems. Let’s start there. The sexual trauma expert didn’t even really care about my father, you see. My mother was “so unhinged sexually,” that, my reason for contacting him: could this have happened? “Yes.” That was the basic answer— my mother was disturbing. “God knows with this woman.”
“One step at a time.”
And every time I opened my mouth, my friends did not hear me. So, finally, I brought this conflict up to the surface with one friend as no one in my life acted like I said something serious. That caused me harm, hurt, I’m hurt, when they made SUCH a big deal, not all of them, about this stupid story when it was A LIE. To begin. I had to draw boundaries. My friend said this, right? “I think you’re confused.” Slow clap, great job. Thanks for your care and tenderness.
Doing comedy was healing — has been. There’s something about the public nature of it. I could confront this story head on. I would see what that would do, if that would help me settle what the truth was, a desire that extended beyond the idea of creating a show about these years, as I wanted to try performing again, and the story is moving, unique, if not heartbreaking and hilarious. Topical, too. It’s helped, actually. It’s helped that I’ve drawn boundaries with pretty much everybody in my old life. I’m making peace with social masks, where you smile, carry on a converation, and it just doesn’t fucking matter. So, I’m trying to make peace with it.
Yeah, never been better. I want to feel that way, I do. But I’m 39, and I can’t believe where I ended up.
Last night, I went to an open mic to sing — who cares? It’s the first time, so just like stepping out on stage to do comedy, I knew I was going to get nervous, I wasn’t going to sound like anything. I waited until 1:30 AM, too, to sing. But I did it. I took a deep breath out the door.
I woke up today feeling much better —
I’m starting over. It’s not like — in the guru’s tone — I CAN’T MAKE MILLIONS DON’T MAKE IT A “STEVE PROBLEM” OR RISE LIKE A PHOENIX — I didn’t NEED the PROBLEM to begin with. I had problems — clearly. So, whatever they were, they’re not there anymore.
I’ve tried to communicate that to people in my life, which they do not understand. And look, standing on a public stage, some members of my family should get the message. I did NOT want to be in this position. My parents put me through enough.
ALL OF THEM.
When I went out last night, evidently, these people wanted to exchange Instagram handles, so I bumped up against a real idea: do I want to publicly share what I’m sharing as if SOCIAL MEDIA is more PUBLIC than a goddamn stage, it seems, to people. I wondered if it was the best move. But WHY do I feel that way?
I get frustrated because the subject is so annoying. It’s sex. OOOOOOO, oooooo, let me put on a ghoulish cape for my man Jose, and fly around the comedy club saying “oooooooo, sex, oooooo, child abuse, oooooooo…” when apparently, they are real problems. Let me process to the stage (Will Ferrell) releasing INCENSE.
“I was in a sex scandal…when I was four…” in ritualistic tones.
I feel much better this morning.
The comedy stage always makes me feel better.
Jose would like that. He liked my music video remix: I was in a sex scandal when I was four. That’s what it was. I’m not SAYING it was the worst sex scandal on earth, okay? My friends’ silence has spoken VOLUMES I care not to have anywhere near me. Like goodbye.
I had to wrestle with my friend’s beliefs about what happened. I had to ground myself in, I just don’t know. I cried, I did, I cried so much. Please don’t tell me this true about my father. The sexual trauma specialist isn’t saying it was. I had to hold my head because my friend wasn’t hearing me. It’s not ABOUT him. It’s whether or not “it” happened somewhere, looking at this insane crew, even, the sexual trauma specialist is not shutting me down…calling it concern or care.
There’s a misunderstanding in my life about what concern or care even is.
You know?
Being public about it has helped. I feel clearer and clearer. I’m sorting through that. I go back and forth about pursuing performing at all, or even using these years on Miracle Mile because I feel so un-supported. Now that the years of audiences washed off me, I am trying to find that inner anchor that tells me there’s purpose behind this idea because, it was really OTHER people’s REACTIONS that propelled me forward, I don’t know why I’m doing this. That being said, I thought it was a good story, simply. I just don’t know what it is, exactly, anymore. (I love Barbara Harris.)
I get scared, that I won’t meet someone, that I won’t make money, that people actually treated me in the way that they did. I didn’t have those fears before. That goes for my cousins, too. Not Assunta. I couldn’t see straight, really, being TOLD by the GURU that what they did — invade my life, personal affairs—was something I deserved. I had to stand up and say “fuck you, you know what? I’m leaving,” at step one. That was the point. The audience was not my fight. I was not a goddamn toy. And yet, this one guy, this cousin of mine, who confused me, truly speaking, was the only person in my life — who said WTF is this story????
To only be forgotten…
This is what I mean.
They forgot the entire ORDEAL.
So they were full of shit.
They’re Neapolitan, so they don’t remember anything— whatever. Right? Because in the end, it’s not a big deal, right????? Which is where I was in the beginning. But no, this man INSISTED that I speak about it to then be isolated in it. So no.
People love drama, they get entangled in other people’s problems when they might want to look at themselves. And they wonder why I do not want to talk to them.
There’s a show, for sure, I can create, I’m just trying to figure out what it is. Comedy is part of that training. If I can’t put a goddamn video on social media about Miracle Mile — if this is, to my friends, the ULTIMATE stage, they do not know WHO Dave Chappelle is. He can barely even SEE me. I’m a speck in the universe to this man with my 800 followers—that’s .0001 to him. Even 5,000 to 10,000? Small venue, intimate gathering, maybe his living room. “Is that a girl?” He can’t tell from up there. He can’t even see me. That’s really the accurate perspective. Dave Chappelle cannot even SEE me. “What did she say?” Annoyed, even. My friends look silly. It’s a public platform. It’s driving me nuts, it truly is.
“Did she say Dr. J?”
I hate social media, truly, for this reason. It isn’t that it, itself, is annoying. It’s just a TV channel. It’s that EVERYONE else hates it, truly, but they ACT like every single other audience—love/hate. They’re on it all the time, or THEY use it preciously, for their private affairs, when it’s a public platform. It’s NOT that big of a deal. I can post whatever I want. People have been discovered on this thing.
But being public about where I came from, I mean, even for real, in a comedy club, comes with its hardships. And I thought, I really thought, that my circle of friends would GET THAT. I’m getting over it. The comedians have shown me more care and respect, truly, than anyone else.
Jose: “how are you doing with that, I mean, specifically…?”
No one in my life did that. I’ve reorganized my friend circle, so I’ve got a couple of great women around me now. I look back, and it’s not really about other people, but more so a, for lack of a better word, a problem with how I was operating.
So, I can’t tell.
It makes me want to INSIST through this resistance I feel. PUT up Jim Carrey inspired videos on social media where I say, with a MASK, if you would, that I was “in a little sex scandal when I was four.” Just post video after video. Slap my friends in the face with it since that’s pretty much the only people I’m speaking to…
Once I get to the end of one of these blog posts, I work through what I need to, waking up totally confused. Wanting it to not be true about my father. If it happened somewhere, I can deal with that.
There’s definitely a show, here, for sure. I gotta go to these real shows, ha, at Soho Playhouse. I need to see things. But I have no money right now (smiling), so I’m taking it step by step. And yet, somehow, I am enjoying my life, outside my home, much more than I did. I tend to get to these locations early, sit down, at a cute spot. I feel like I’m here. It’s weird, I have less, technically, but I feel there’s more room.
Last night, this guy started talking to me. I got another, “do you know who you remind me of, someone very special to me when I was young…” and I thought, “oh yeah?” Like Diane Keaton. “Everyone tells me that.”
“I have…”
“Charisma?”
“A familiar face.”
I’m trying to think of my “castability.”
I’m the person who makes everyone remember their dearest friend. People tend to recognize me. “You know who you remind me of…”
I sang “You got a friend,” by Carole King because I needed to sing it to myself at this open mic at Soho Playhouse with only numbers that were not AT ALL in this universe of choices. Everything I’m doing right now would make a hilarious TV show, I thought. Me—arriving—with the ghost of Barbara Harris (as I’m psychic). Me singing “You’ve Got a Friend” at a comedy stage/musical revue. “And nothing,” I meant it, “nothing is going right.” It speaks for itself. I had to remind myself that I was a good friend.
So I got that first performance out of the way.
I woke up today feeling much better because I’m consciously bringing this story to a public stage to see if that would help me find clarity. To make a point to my family, some of the people I got involved with, even in my own head, as the public stage is a real arena. “Shit” sounds different up here. It’s working, actually. This guru, I’m telling you, I never wanted to have to deal with hate, real hate. But I am.
In the comedy circuit, I found nothing but people who were basically caring about that. People who had no idea whether or not it was true or not, if I was abused, sexually, somewhere—they had no attachment to what I said in the past.
I’ve tried to tell these people — I don’t know WHERE this might have happened, but maybe it did.
I had to draw boundaries because the way people reacted confused me further. I have to hear my own voice, I need a neutral zone, so it’s done. I drew a strict line. That has helped. I feel a lot better. Bye. See you, maybe later.
So I’ll keep on working on a show about these years —
I found a couple of musicians who might want to work with me, as I’m trying to find gigs as a singer, so I’ll keep going… I came back to give myself a shot.
I do hate this thing, I really do: social media. The GURU, in belitting tones, SPOKE IN ALL-CAPS to me about THIS BEING A TOOL, a real tool. So I get confused, if this is a good idea, as he was insane, and I don’t have anyone in my life who isn’t uncomfortable with the subject. I don’t see a problem with it, quite frankly.
You see what I mean? I have to sort through this crap in my mind with the ghost of Barbara Harris, of course, lol. She stays…as I am “psychic,” as she is “psychic,” funny enough. She’s the type of character who could play that role. It would be totally believable that Barbara Harris is somehow adept at nonphysical states—on screen. Like it’s not that hard.
So, by this part, once I sorted through whatever crap I had to sort through, and part of that is, excuse my French, “the psychic shit,” I get to the end of a blog post, and I’m mostly grateful to be standing on my own two feet, angry that I have to start over, so deeply, but I’m able to move forward and keep doing what I want to.
I’m fine, I’m sort of a fierce meditator, myself, thanks, as this guru could spend some time — not meditating in my opinion. It’s momentary. I will find more work. I will move into another apartment tomorrow. I am moving into a small room. I’m trying to keep my costs as low as possible so I can recuperate. I want to go to One on One and take some classes so I can meet casting directors, etc. I have financial goals, now. Not just some guru’s wild adventure. I get it, I can write myself a check for 10 mill, I got Jim Carrey in my eyesight, I get it. I’m trying to extract this guru and just keep seeing a way… keep thinking about what I want my life to look like… it’s just, in the end, the book was a TINY thing. I don’t even care.
Should I just throw away this story? Because it’s hard for other people? Meaning they don’t even acknowlede it as a real thing? When it GOT real. Or, do I want to keep trying to develop it into a show, or do I want to develop another show? I go back and forth. I’ll work this out, as I’m just interested in doing a show, so what that will be, I don’t know as I literally started a month and a half ago. But I feel shut down whenever I speak to pretty much anyone in my old life. With my mother now, it’s dicey, for sure. But she’s doing the best she can, I’m just angry, and quite frankly, I have a right to be.
Even the phrase, “my mother now…”
Anyway, I have to close this.
People are uncomfortable with the subject matter, and they aren’t always aware of it. I’m showing my face, so that’s already a big step for me, I do not need any more resistance. I found people’s reactions so hard because they aren’t encouraging.
I can’t help what the story is. In any case, it’s a lot of wrestling with other people mixed in, but that’s a bit mixed up, because people have shut down, around that story, and I’m trying to simply put up a wall, for real, and continue…
So I might post the “music video" where I repeat “I was in a sex scandal” just for shits. Just to put that out there. Jose liked that, he thought it was funny. “The music video is good.” So I hope all this toil is worth it, as I peel back the layers of ALL THESE PEOPLE WHO CARED SO MUCH ABOUT IT TO REALLY NOT, truly! What a mess that was.
Okay, I had a terrible conversation with my friend, basically an ex-friend. Think about it from my perspective. As someone who already came from a sex scandal. The thing is, what these people don’t understand is, once the whole story comes out, they are not going to look good. That’s what I’m hoping anyway, that I am right that it’s a good time for my story…?
Thanks for reading.
I always move past these moments. I know there are people talking about EVERYTHING on social media. I know that there are MANY books, as well, generally, filled with many experiences.
So — another day. I got the week off, so I’m going to try and find more work… I’m going to post on Instagram, for sure. And maybe just maybe…
A monkey wrench.
I’ll be out in LA, as I put in an app with Geffen to develop a play with them, about these years, and I haven’t heard yet, but we’ll see.