Crazy Is My Superpower: How I Triumphed by Breaking Bones, Breaking Hearts, and Breaking the Rules

by A. J. Mendez Brooks

  AJ: (Walking past Kaitlyn) Oh God, please don’t hit me! Oh, sorry. I thought you were going to savagely attack me from behind, like you did at Extreme Rules (a pay-per-view). My bad.

  KAITLYN: Oh, that’s funny, because the way I remember it, you are the one always savagely attacking me, so, yeah, it felt kind of good to get my revenge. And speaking of savages…I’d like my Savage Garden CD back.

  AJ: Your Savage Garden CD? That was a gift, I’m pretty sure, so…

  KAITLYN: No. I believe I left it in your car during an eight-HOUR road trip to Dinosaur World. Which, by the way, HUGE letdown.

  AJ: You said that you liked that trip.

  KAITLYN: Well, I faked it.

  AJ: Oh, well, speaking of things that we never liked, your grandma is THE WORST.

  KAITLYN: She hemmed all your pants…Okay, you know what? Tenth grade, your first crush: Bobby Dutch. I DID make out with him.

  AJ: You knew I was in love with him! Hmm, okay, you wanna play it like that? Remember when you laughed so hard you had to change your pants at that party? Well, I told everyone!

  KAITLYN: I NEVER READ YOUR SCREENPLAY!

  AJ: (stunned gasp) I worked so hard on that buddy cop drama—starring US!

  KAITLYN: Cops by day, dancers by night? It’ll never work!

  AJ: You never believed in me!

  KAITLYN: I can’t believe I wasted eight years of my life on you!

  AJ: You were a terrible best friend, okay? I want those years back.

  KAITLYN: You will never get them back!

  AJ: I should bite your face right now!

  So there’s that. We shot it in one take and our director stared at us blankly. “I…don’t think we can use…any of that.”

  “They didn’t give us a script. They said to improvise, so…”

  And surprisingly, it became the company website’s highest-viewed video. People enjoyed our absurdity. They liked seeing girls show different sides of themselves, even if those sides told really asinine jokes.

  Celeste and I were always on the same page, and our senses of humor and personalities gelled so naturally, because of our existing friendship. We wanted the other to come out looking good. In speaking segments, we made sure we both had solid lines, and in physical altercations, we accentuated each other’s strengths.

  She was the dominating, tough force of nature, and I was the scrappy, feisty scoundrel who was probably hiding a shank. The chemistry between us in these interactions intrigued the audience and the producers more than expected. This led to the decision to extend our story line by an entire two months. One of our assigned writers, Tom Casiello, was so open-minded and collaborative, believing the best stories came from actors who were on board, comfortable, and confident, he would check in with us multiple times throughout the week and gave us free rein to formulate how the story would play out.

  We were even trusted with writing my career’s most important promo, in front of a live audience, in which Celeste and I finally came to blows. It was our last meeting before the title would be on the line. She let me call her trailer trash and I let her slap the taste out of my mouth. Well, she probably could’ve done that without me letting her, but I was nice enough to clench my teeth to make sure it didn’t break my jaw.

  During our story line I was finally given merchandise. Only three women in the history of the company had their name attached to merchandise sold at shows and on the online store, and the last was a decade before I arrived. The marketing department let me know a year earlier, as I tried to pitch for my own merchandise, that “women don’t sell.”

  When they had considered giving a girl a hat as merchandise a few years earlier, the other women on the roster complained so much, they scrapped the idea. Since then they hadn’t wanted the trouble and didn’t think it was worth the backlash. Because “women don’t sell.” It was widely thought that not only did women not sell, but they couldn’t get ratings either. My main event story lines had begun to change a lot of people’s minds, but they weren’t sure if the bulk of the credit rested on the shoulders of my male counterparts. And frankly neither was I.

  When Celeste and I embarked on a journey alone, I wasn’t sure if I would be proven wrong. Had I just been carried all this time or was I indeed a ratings pull on my own? I had petitioned the marketing department several times, showing them how many fans on social media, at shows, and at signings were mimicking and cosplaying my outfits. I purposely chose an outfit for my character that was the same in and out of the ring. This would make it more recognizable. I made sure it could be easily re-created by fans and lend itself to cosplay. I wanted fans to feel connected to my style. They could walk around a mall and buy my exact outfit for thirty dollars. They would cut up plain T-shirts, buy my Target jean shorts, rock a sweet pair of knee-high Chucks, and do great justice to my messy, boyish style. I felt instead of girls just cutting up their own T-shirts to look like mine, why not sell a sponsored product with my name on it so we could all make money. I fought with them over and over again, and then something magical happened.

  During our story line, Celeste and I were the highest-rated segment on the show an unprecedented six times. Our writer was even promoted to a main event story line in an attempt to continue pulling in high numbers, but for the men. Our bosses even added themselves to our story line in front of the camera and creatively.

  I was the first woman to be given merchandise in a decade. They produced several different T-shirts, hats, knee-high socks, and posters. I was the only female on a WWE-themed Monopoly board (though my property was worth the least, I was still psyched and ignored the perfectly sad allegory). I was on wrapping paper, birthday cards, and dinnerware. I wasn’t sure if it was weirder being made into a garden gnome or a gingerbread man Christmas tree ornament, but I was grateful for it all. My merchandise remained in the highest seller’s list, beating out several, more prominently featured men every year I was in the company.

  I remembered talking to the merchandise department when I was just a rookie on NXT. Joe Hickey and his crew were funny and inviting, though when I told them they would for sure produce at least one merchandise item for me one day, they all laughed in unison. At the time, it just wasn’t feasible for a woman. A member of Talent Relations was there and joked, “Just one piece of merch? How about five?,” as he playfully or condescendingly punched my arm and laughed off my foolish dream. Three years later, they made about a hundred.

  We were successful in changing minds, and I could not have done that without Celeste by my side. She was next to get her own T-shirt and we could not be prouder. Not only was working together creating solid results on-screen, but we were helping each other make a lot of money. At this point, it just seemed silly to do anything besides have the back of the woman you are working with. Ladies, you don’t have to be friends. You don’t have to like each other’s clothes or disingenuously compliment each other’s hair. But you have to know how to work together. Work together and watch yourselves get rich together.

  When our title match finally came in 2013, I felt the pressure of fourteen years of a little girl’s dreams on my shoulders. I had wanted to call myself the best women’s wrestler since I was twelve, and at twenty-six I was about to be given the opportunity to make that dream a reality. I thought about every step I had taken to get to that moment, every obstacle that had been put in my way and the battles I had waged to overcome them.

  I wanted to protect that little twelve-year-old’s dreams—that girl with the knotty hair, the survivor who did not want to be a victim anymore—I owed her sanctuary and protection. I owed her the best moment of her life. I needed to make her dreams come true. It was the best match of my career.

  Halfway through the bout, Celeste and I were told to wrap it up early, to help cut down on an already overrunning show. But women had endured having their matches shorted for time for years. And after delivering months of top-rated programming, I would be damned if we got screwed again. And so I grabbed Celeste�
��s head and pressed my mouth against her ear as I lifted her before a move.

  “They want us to ‘go home.’ Want to get in trouble and ignore them?”

  “Hell, yeah, I do.”

  Our match went ten minutes over our allotted time and was one of the longest women’s title bouts in history. But I think it was one of the best. And we didn’t get into trouble. Because it was worth the wait.

  I won my first championship. But it felt like more than just that. It felt like the culmination of a lifetime of hardship, work, and desire. I felt like I kept a promise to a little girl.

  When I was sixteen, my dad wanted to do something special for my upcoming seventeenth birthday. He had found some consistent work as a doorman in a New York City high-rise, and for a wonderful moment in time, we were not scrounging to get by. When he found out WrestleMania was going to take place only a few days before my birthday, and only a few miles from home at Madison Square Garden, Dad worked overtime to save up two hundred and fifty dollars to give me the surprise of my life. But he didn’t have a credit or debit card, so to buy tickets to the biggest wrestling show of the year, he would have to stand in line at the Garden to pay in cash. Instead of seeing that as a hole in his plan, he used it to create an adventure.

  Dad and I took the train to Penn Station with a plastic bag full of water bottles and snacks. It was the first time just the two of us had been on an outing. Having his undivided attention brought me immeasurable joy.

  We came prepared to stand in line among what would undoubtedly be a horde of people trying to score seats. The line was enormous, circling around the entire block. After four hours of spending the time talking, laughing, and sporadically shuffling two feet over, Dad left the line to grab us some McDonald’s and we nibbled on fries to get us through the next four. After standing in line for a grueling eight hours, we finally approached the ticket window.

  “What are the best seats I can buy for two hundred fifty dollars?” Dad hesitantly asked the tired man behind the glass.

  “Well, unfortunately, most everything has been bought up through Ticketmaster. Right now I have a few eighty-dollar seats left.”

  Dad was deflated. He had worked so hard to save and couldn’t buy the seats he wanted me to have, but I was on cloud nine. I had tickets to my first live wrestling show, and it was the most monumental event of the whole year.

  A few months later, when we took the train into the city for WrestleMania XX, I kept waiting for something to go wrong. I rarely received birthday presents, and I had never had a dream come to fruition. Everything always seemed out of reach, a destination for another distant day. One day we’ll have a nice house. One day you kids will get some nice clothes. One day we’ll go to a wrestling show. But one of those days was today. And I couldn’t believe it was really happening.

  As we entered the historic arena, my skin tingled with excitement. A few hours before showtime, the building was flooded with thousands of fans hectically trying to get to their seats. After riding three different escalators, we were sure we had made it to the top of the building and entered the cavernous arena bowl to hunt down our row. The place was lit up with bright lights and Jumbotrons, and at its center was a specially decorated wrestling ring.

  “This is a pretty good view!” Dad was excited the seats seemed better than he had thought they would be. “Excuse me, sir,” he called to an usher, “can you tell me where section 426 is?”

  The usher illuminated our tickets with his flashlight and studied them. “Hmm Row E…seats 17 and 18…yeah, that’s not here. You guys have to go up two more levels. Escalators are out that way.”

  He flippantly handed back what he clearly deemed to be lowly tickets and waved us away with the flick of his hand. I could see my dad grit his teeth to stop himself from socking the guy on the spot. I appreciated his restraint, on this, the day of his daughter’s prebirthday. We hadn’t realized this building even had two more levels. Craning my neck up, I squinted at the nosebleed section connected to the building’s ceiling and read “426.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we finally found our seats, which were basically in New Jersey, and I quickly realized I had a fear of heights. As I tried to adjust to the steep row that made me feel like I was a second away from plummeting to my death, my eyes found the now minuscule ring. I looked over at Dad. He had tears in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t get you better seats, baby. I tried my best.”

  He had always tried his hardest to give us what he could. To make us happy with however little we had. I know deep in my heart, he tried his best our whole childhood. And I would try my best to one day make him proud of me.

  “Don’t worry, Daddy, this is perfect. Besides, one day I’m gonna be in that ring.”

  Ten years later, at 2014’s WrestleMania XXX, I walked into that ring as champion, wrestled the entire female roster, and I walked out of that ring as champion.

  And that was the day I knew my fight was over.

  There could be no better full circle moment. After a decade, I had not only accomplished my goal of stepping foot inside of a WrestleMania ring, I had lived dreams I never even thought possible. Every goal had been checked off a list, every glass ceiling shattered within my first year and a half on television.

  —

  Every amazing moment that came after was an unexpected bonus. Frosting on top of a delicious Fudgy the Whale ice cream cake. I got to hold the title two more times and win the women’s match at the next year’s WrestleMania XXXI, as well. My cup runneth over. So when I had to have three surgeries for a health issue unrelated to the ring, and discovered ring-caused permanent damage to my cervical spine that occasionally makes my arms go numb and my fingers wiggle like an indecisive wizard, I felt the time was right to start planning the next chapter of my life. I began writing a new Ten-Year Life Plan that would pay forward the good fortune life had bestowed upon me. Maybe life made me work extra hard for that good fortune—made me truly earn it—but I still considered myself lucky. It was time to share the wealth. There were other strays like me out there, searching for someplace warm and safe. So I began working with animal rescue organizations and became an activist for animal rights. There were other little girls like I once was, out there in the world, worried about the clouds hanging over their heads. It was time to stop hiding my struggle and let them know they were not alone. And I began writing this book, this diary of the deranged.

  —

  My husband and I started toying with the idea of creating a family. Even if we ended up not wanting children, we had the desire to make for ourselves what we never had growing up—a peaceful, stable home. That place called “home” felt like a pot of gold at the end of one fucked-up rainbow. When Phil became embroiled in a dramatic breakup with the company, I worried the stress and chaos would test my mental fortitude and wreck the peace I had worked so hard to find within my mind. But surprisingly, I guess through years of practice under pressure, I managed to hold it together, for the most part. There were days I felt so overwhelmed I would cry in a bathroom stall mere moments before heading onto live TV. At times I felt caught in the middle, like a child of divorce. Trying to bridge the divide while getting inconsiderately trampled in the process. But despite what either side expected of me, what was more important to honor were my expectations of myself. The company gave me time off for surgeries, and I pushed my body through another year on the road. Just because my husband left didn’t mean I had to follow. It was hard being newlyweds who only saw each other two days a week, but we were strong enough to handle it. I was going to wrestle for as long as it made me happy and as long as my body would hold together. But in my heart I knew there was nothing left to prove. There were no more mountains to climb. No more history to make. My war was over. I had won.

  A delicate flower.

  It all felt so picture perfect. A career wrapped up in a tidy bow. I knew I had left the business better for women than when I had started and it would be fine without me. I
had kicked down doors for the next generation, and I had faith they would deliver. You either go out on the top of your game, or watch yourself become less than your best. You either go out on your terms, or let someone else decide your fate. I didn’t want to fade out. I wanted to go out with a bang. I publicly called out my bosses for not paying or treating most women equally even though I was proof that women could bring in just as much money and ratings for the company as men. All these years later and I still hadn’t learned how to be a “good girl.” I won at the biggest event of the year, “on the grandest stage of them all.” I thanked Vince McMahon for every opportunity, and I retired.

  All a woman needs to succeed is the guts to kick the door of opportunity open. All she needs is to be brave enough to be herself. For years people tried to quantify whatever formula had led to my unlikely success. How could a woman who wasn’t conventionally attractive, who wasn’t physically imposing, who didn’t fit the mold set before her succeed where others had not? Was it the shoes? The clothes? Was it my smart mouth? Others have tried to replicate it all. But the answer was simple. I didn’t try to be anything but me.

  When looks fade, and your only value is your mind, will you still be beautiful? I figured out early on that investing in my heart, my personality, my mind, and my soul was going to be the key to success. Fans connected to me, they cheered for me, and they fought alongside me because I was genuine. When someone is honest and raw on-screen, the fans can see it. They can also tell when someone is not. Their bullshit meters are phenomenal. If you are the girliest girl in the world, then be that! If you are a freak or a geek, be that! Embrace it. And I promise the audience will embrace you too.

  Sometimes I felt like the fans could see my soul through the screen. I have met many at autograph sessions and they have shared their gut-wrenching stories of depression, cutting, and suicide attempts. It is as if, without words, they understood my entire life story. Our struggles could sense a kinship in one another. And that connection is what made them a part of my revolution. I was honored to be their voice when they could not speak. Their fists when they could not fight. If I could make it out of a dark past, then so could they. Now it is their turn. I hope they will go on to be the superheroes they want to see in the world.