by Carre Otis
“I’m not sure. What happens if I go off of them and . . . ?” I didn’t finish the sentence. I hadn’t really contemplated that before.
“Geshe-la says he can’t see why you take them. Suffering is part of the human condition. Sadness is part of being alive. As is joy. Do you feel joy?” he asked.
“I hadn’t for some time. Now, with you all here, I suppose I have.” I laughed. It was true. I’d been feeling immeasurable joy throughout their visit.
“So why not see what it is like without them, Carré? Geshe would like to give you a meditation practice that can help you stabilize your mind.”
I wasn’t at all convinced I could stop taking my meds cold like that. But I was open, and I sat gratefully as Geshe walked me through a basic meditation practice.
“We will help you, Carré. You just need to reach out to us.”
The very next day, I called my doctor and spoke with him about it.
“I’ve been on this stuff forever. It’s not like I don’t still feel sad sometimes, but it’s not like there’s one pill that is a cure either,” I pointed out to him.
He didn’t agree. “Carré, statistics say that within a month you are very likely to end up in the hospital with depression. This is serious business. You will also have to contend with withdrawal. You need to be monitored. I realize you’ve made headway, but I cannot ignore medical statistics.” It was obvious he didn’t like my decision. But something in me rose up in response to his words.
“All due respect, but I’m not a statistic. I don’t want to be on this stuff anymore. I’m going to get off.” And with that, it was decided. I began my withdrawal.
It had been more than a decade since I’d felt such intense emotion—the good, the bad, and the terrifying. The numbness that had once helped me move past my fears was replaced by a sharp and almost painful awareness. I felt like I was on LSD. Colors became vivid, smells almost overwhelming, and feelings stronger than they’d ever been. I wasn’t sure I could manage them without the constant hands-on support of my newfound friends.
Lobsang reassured me daily, and before leaving, Geshe-la handed me a box of what he called Precious Pills—a unique blend of healing minerals. “Geshe says you will be fine. You can do this. Don’t forget to practice. This intensity will pass.” I wept as I said good-bye to them and watched, holding my beloved Chihuahua Angel as they drove away early one morning.
When I stepped back into my home, the silence was deafening. How the hell was I going to do this? But day after day I remembered what I’d been told. I was to practice, breathe, and call my support system, including Ronny and Rebecca. I knew that my pills were only a step away; I knew that I could always return to them if I needed them. They wouldn’t disappear. But what I wanted more than anything right now was to be in touch with the complete me, and that was going to take courage and perseverance. That me was outside the box of my old thinking and outside the box that my therapist could support. I was on my own to make the transition, and I was determined to do it successfully.
When the waves of emotions washed over me, I’d make my way to the safe island of my meditation cushion. My pups would gather around in concern, and we would wait there together until the fear passed, like clouds in the sky. I began to understand that all does eventually pass; each and every moment is fleeting and impermanent. Just as I couldn’t hold on to my moments of happiness and joy, the moments of my fear and sadness wouldn’t stay in my life forever either. In this way I came to understand and trust myself. I sat in the meditation posture that I had been taught, counting my breaths, watching my emotions come and go. And in a month’s time, the intensity of it all had subsided and the ups and downs became manageable.
As the New Year approached, I gathered all my pill bottles that were collecting dust and piled them up in front of my shrine. I was ready to throw them out. I knew that I would not need them again. Saying good-bye to my medication was like saying good-bye to the last remnants of the Carré who was dependent upon outside forces to make her well.
I knew I could reach out and get support. I also knew that I could turn inward to find the stillness and safety that hadn’t been cultivated enough in me before. After having left my childhood home at such a young age, I’d spent so many years seeking home in other people and places. But I realized at this moment that wherever I was, I was home. I had finally created that safe harbor where I could exist peacefully. The indestructible one that exists within. There would be no more searching for it, as it would be with me all the time.
GESHE GYELTSEN AND THE VOW OF CELIBACY
As I did more and more work as a plus-size model and gathered strength from the painful but transformational O magazine experience, I began to speak publicly about eating disorders. I was eager to converse with the women whose paths I crossed about the subject of body image and the pressures our culture puts on young people. I began to hold a regular circle at the Monte Nido Eating Disorder Treatment Center, which wasn’t far from my home. Carolyn Costin, an extraordinary author and therapist, founded Monte Nido. I met Carolyn in a yoga class, and we easily hit it off, often having to take our conversation outside in our excitement. One of the many things that struck me about Carolyn was that she was the first professional I’d met who would say, point-blank, that “you can recover from eating disorders.” I was so grateful to hear that.
I had also been traveling with Ronny and Rebecca every week to Thubten Dhargye Ling, a Buddhist temple and study center in Long Beach. The Venerable Geshe Gyeltsen was teaching the Stages of the Path to Enlightenment (also known as the lamrim), and as we sat before him listening intently, I couldn’t help but wonder if he was my teacher. Of course I’d had instruction by several wonderful teachers so far, but when a student finds that one with whom he or she is more profoundly connected than all others, that is said to be this person’s “heart teacher.” I was intrigued by this notion and was always on the lookout for that rare occurrence. This took nothing away from the love and respect I had for Geshe-la. He was incredible—sweet, funny, and skillful. And the discipline of the Gelugpa school was helping me immensely. For the first time since grade school, I was formally studying, reading texts and learning an incredible amount about the basics of Buddhism. The foundation I was building was priceless. I was grateful for it all, but a small part of me was curious about the pull I was feeling toward this teacher who now had my rapt attention.
One afternoon I had a private meeting with Geshe Gyeltsen, and it went in a direction I never expected. Geshe offered me tea and motioned for me to sit down on the floor before him.
I blurted out a question, my own words taking me by surprise. “Geshe, do you think I should become a nun?”
A part of me was very serious, not knowing how else I could offer myself fully to the path. I felt I had already seen so many things in the world and now was ready to root myself in just one thing, Buddhism. But the part of me that was an extremist was searching for the next bold direction to catapult myself into. And, thankfully, Gyeltsen was able to see all this.
His eyes twinkled, and he threw his head back in laughter. Then, rubbing his chin, he nodded and said, “This is so wonderful, Carré. For you to have such deep devotion. But let me ask you this—for this is where most Westerners have trouble. . . .”
I nodded and waited.
“Have you ever been celibate?” he asked, looking me right in the eye.
I choked on my tea. “Um. No. Never.” I thought for a moment. I didn’t have to think too far back into my past to recall my last sexual encounter. It had been another one-night stand. And then before that it had been with a female friend, leaving our friendship in ruins.
I must have made a sad and confused face, because Geshe laughed again. “Yes. This is a problem. It is very hard for people in the West to separate from their sexual ‘identity.’ And this really must be explored before one takes robes.”
I knew he was speaking from firsthand experience. Geshe was one of the few G
elugpa monks who had taken robes, then given them back to pursue a relationship (through which he’d had a son), then later returned to monastic vows.
I had actually not given much thought to the dalliances I’d had. In my head it was just what people did: Have sex. Have affairs. It certainly was what I’d done for a long time. But what had eluded me was that none of these affairs—including my marriage—had been successful. I certainly hadn’t reached a point where a sexual union with another human being was a mutually aware or liberating experience. Quite the contrary, it almost always felt more obligatory than exalting.
“My suggestion to you, Carré, is that you take a vow of celibacy,” Gyeltsen said.
“Really?” The prospect excited me. I liked vows. I looked at them as challenges. “How long, Geshe?” I asked naïvely. I had no idea what I was in for.
“Start with a year,” he replied, and with that, he smiled and then abruptly dismissed me.
Our conversation was over. And out I walked with a new mission. Little did I know just how hard it would be. Nor did I remotely comprehend that the greatest challenges would come in areas that were not at all obvious.
Sex for me wasn’t about pleasure, it was about power. Or what I thought was power. I equated sex with approval. And someone’s wanting me physically meant that I had the upper hand in the situation. Since I was young, it had been something that had given me an in. It was how I got some level of the love and attention I craved.
Sex was at the heart of the modeling industry. “Sex sells,” I was told over and over again. How many times had I heard a photographer say, “Look at the camera like you’re making love to it; look like you want me to fuck you.” This unending, vulgar dialogue was part of my everyday professional life, and I’d had to endure it, whether I liked it or not. I couldn’t show disgust or discomfort; I’d learned to hide my intense dislike of the sexualized discourse of the industry.
I knew how to appear sexy. The kind of sexy that comes at the expense of real feelings—fears, wants, desires, likes, and dislikes. I’d learned what to do on the job and figured out the rest on my own. I recognized from the start that there was power in sex. There was power in giving a great blow job. But what kind of power was it? How long did it last? And what was the cost?
Sex had never been about intimacy for me. Walking out of Geshe’s office, I realized I had no concept of what intimacy really was. My whole life’s work was wound up in my being a sexual entity. But it was a game. Even with my friends, it was a game. I’d lost plenty of friendships in just this way. My approach to life for years had been all about seduction—I would seduce everyone: you, your brother, or your mother. I didn’t know any other way to relate to people or get the attention I so sorely needed.
Sex wasn’t about an orgasm. It was about faking an orgasm. And the only orgasms that I’d ever had were by my own hand. How could I ever surrender enough to another person to actually let go and come? That was incomprehensible to me. It hadn’t bothered me, because I never gave it any thought. Being sexy and being good in bed was part of my persona; it was just what I did. It was always about obligation, never about connection or my own pleasure. I set out to make every man I was with feel like a superhero, but little did he know that for me it was always an act.
And so I embarked on one of the most intense and revealing journeys of my life to date. I shed every vestige of my sexual self. Rather than feeling clothed, I felt naked, exposed for the world to see in all my discomfort. I had no idea who I was without the power of sex, without the tool of seduction. I had no idea how to relate, even to my friends. I realized early on in my celibacy how much I had played the role of sexpot throughout my life. Without that mask, social interaction was excruciating—I had no idea who I was.
Living a celibate life taught me many invaluable lessons. It freed me to discover that real intimacy could be had with friends. By sexualizing everything, I’d created veils of illusion that had separated me from other people. Celibacy allowed those illusions to slip away. I could be close without being sexual; I could show up for other people and let go of my self-centered need for validation. It was an ongoing revelation. Geshe Gyeltsen had known exactly what I needed.
Through this process I was getting ready for something more. I wasn’t sure what that was, exactly, but I knew that all this was integral to living out the rest of my life in an honest, authentic, radically healthy way.
RECONNECTING WITH TSULTRIM
In February 2001, just after I’d gotten back from the O magazine shoot in the Bahamas, I had a dream. In it I could see my friend and teacher Tsultrim Allione clear as day. I was watching her being driven in a car around winding roads high up in some mountain range. The sky was the brightest blue, and the air around me was crisp. In an instant the car was gone. I ran to the edge of a sheer cliff only to see it tumbling over and over to the ground below. I was consumed with grief. But out of the grief sprang a well of love and devotion. The scenery changed suddenly, and I was walking toward a cabin high on a mountaintop, tall pines rustling in a steady wind. “Tsultrim!” I called out. And then she appeared, one finger to her lips to quiet me, the other beckoning me to come sit by her, a cushion already waiting.
I awoke with a desperate feeling that I had to speak with Tsultrim immediately. I felt rather wild and out of control. Why had I waited so long to reconnect with her? Why had I not thought to call her sooner? Our bond had always been so strong, but as I had traveled through my life, carried by one current or another, the shame I felt for having gone against her advice, for having left the Ojai retreat to meet Mickey and Zalman all those years ago, remained. That decision had cost me so much. The remorse I subconsciously felt had kept me from her for so long.
Turning on my bedside light, I checked the time. It was 4:00 A.M. I picked up the phone and dialed information. Where had Tsultrim said she was going when I spoke with her last? Where did she live? I was stuck for a moment, knowing she’d left upstate New York years earlier, but to where? And then, as the sleep receded further, I remembered the name of a place I’d seen in one of the occasional newsletters I still received. It was clear as a bell.
“City and state,” a voice asked over the phone.
“Pagosa Springs, Colorado,” I said, smiling to myself.
And I found her. Just like that. I waited a few hours to place the call and was surprised to get an answering machine with a pleasant woman’s voice welcoming me to Tara Mandala Retreat Center. Clearly, a lot had happened since last we spoke. I waited for a beep, and as I left my message, a flood of tears sprang forth.
“This is a message for Tsultrim. . . . It’s her old friend and student Carré Otis. I really need to speak with her. It’s really important.” Choking on emotion, I hung up. It felt as if my very life depended on talking with her once more. I was worried. The dream had made me feel as if I would never see her again. I was terrified that might be the case.
Several hours later I tried the number again. Finally someone answered.
“Tara Mandala.”
“Hi! I am so sorry to bother you. . . . I left a message earlier. . . .”
“It’s Carré?” the woman asked, cutting me off, not unkindly.
“Yes,” I said, relieved.
“Hi. I have given Tsultrim your number. She will be calling you. But she is getting ready to go into long retreat, so things are quite busy here.” I was dumbstruck. I was desperate.
“I have to see her. I have to talk with her!” I cried.
And the woman on the other end reassured me that I would be able to speak with her very soon.
So I sat and waited. And paced. Finally the phone rang. I knew it was her before I even picked it up.
“Tsultrim,” I whispered into the phone.
“Beauuuty,” she purred, affectionately calling me what she always had. We were both silent for a moment, as if our breaths were matched and our minds were merging. I felt as if she were holding my entire being in the warmest embrace.
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br /> I told her what I was doing, where I was living, and that I was practicing again. Somehow I could tell she knew that this time was different from all the other times I’d called her. Things had really changed for me. I also learned that she had moved and was living near the retreat center she’d founded, in southwest Colorado.
“I had a dream, Tsultrim,” I said, giving her the details.
“Carré, I was in an accident. I was in Bhutan, and my car rolled off a cliff. It’s a miracle I’m alive.”
I let out a long exhale. “I need to see you. That was the other part of my dream. That I was in retreat with you.”
“Well, this is true, too. I’m going into retreat March ninth for a year,” she replied.
“No!” I wailed. So close yet so far away! I felt I’d missed the boat! How could I wait to see her for that long? “What should I do?” I cried. “I mean, where do I go from here?”
Tsultrim laughed. I was ready for instructions. I was ready to commit.
“There will be a very special teacher coming from Tibet when I return from my retreat next year. But all our students will have had to do some preliminary practices in order to meet him and attend his teachings. Actually, most of the schools of Tibetan Buddhism require a practitioner to do at least one full cycle of these practices before proceeding along the path. This is called Ngöndro, or the Preliminary Practices; if you would like, I can give you these over the phone and you can work on them throughout the year.”
I was overjoyed. I felt as if I were receiving the greatest gift, a flawless jewel. And indeed I was. With paper and pen ready, I took down notes on the basics of Ngöndro and vowed that I would come to be with Tsultrim in a year.
Hanging up the phone, I shed tears of relief, of sorrow, of longing, and of joy. And every day I practiced. With the start of each Ngöndro session, I focused on four thoughts: the preciousness of life, the certainty of death, the flawed impermanence of this world, and the basic principle of cause and effect. I came to see how wrapped up I’d been in the minute and immediate details of my life and how I had missed so much of what really mattered. These practices became my lifeline.
