Furiously Happy: A Funny Book About Horrible Things

by Jenny Lawson

  In the days when I was doing my book tour for Let’s Pretend This Never Happened I was often asked whether I regretted going public with my struggles and my answer is still the same … those twenty-four letters are the best payment I ever got for writing, and I never would have gotten any of them without the amazing community that helped save those lives. I’m incredibly lucky and grateful to be a part of a movement that made such a difference.

  And it doesn’t stop.

  When I first started talking about my “Folder of 24” I was shocked at how many people would whisper in my ear at book signings that they were number twenty-five. One girl was fifteen and her parents were with her. One woman had two small children. One man who decided to get therapy instead of commit suicide brought his whole family with him. Each time I wondered at how any of them could ever consider that life would be better without them, and then I remembered that it’s the same thing I struggle with when my brain tries to kill me. And so they’ve saved me too. That’s why I continue to talk about mental illness, even at the cost of scaring people off or having people judge me. I try to be honest about the shame I feel because with honesty comes empowerment. And also, understanding. I know that if I go out on a stage and have a panic attack, I can duck behind the podium and hide for a minute and no one is going to judge me. They already know I’m crazy. And they still love me in spite of it. In fact, some love me because of it. Because there is something wonderful in accepting someone else’s flaws, especially when it gives you the chance to accept your own and see that those flaws are the things that make us human.

  I do worry that one day other kids will taunt my daughter when they’re old enough to read and know my story. Sometimes I wonder if the best thing to do is just to be quiet and stop waving the banner of “fucked up and proud of it,” but I don’t think I’ll put down this banner until someone takes it away from me.

  Because quitting might be easier, but it wouldn’t be better.

  Epilogue: Deep in the Trenches

  To all who walk the dark path, and to those who walk in the sunshine but hold out a hand in the darkness to travel beside us:

  Brighter days are coming.

  Clearer sight will arrive.

  And you will arrive too.

  No, it might not be forever. The bright moments might be for a few days at a time, but hold on for those days. Those days are worth the dark.

  In the dark you find yourself, all bones and exhaustion and helplessness. In the dark you find your basest self. In the dark you find the bottom of watery trenches the rest of the world only sees the surface of. You will see things that no normal person will ever see. Terrible things. Mysterious things. Things that try to burrow into your mind like a bad seed. Things that whisper dark and horrid secrets that you want to forget. Things that scream lies. Things that want you dead. Things that will stop at nothing to pull you down further and kill you in the most terrible way of all … by your own trembling hand. These things are fearsome monsters … the kind you always knew would sink in their needle-sharp teeth and pull you under the bed if you left a dangling limb out. You know they aren’t real, but when you’re in that black, watery hole with them they are the realest thing there is. And they want us dead.

  And sometimes they succeed.

  But not always. And not with you. You are alive. You have fought and battled them. You are scarred and worn and sometimes exhausted and were perhaps even close to giving up, but you did not.

  You have won many battles. There are no medals given out for these fights, but you wear your armor and your scars like an invisible skin, and each time you learn a little more. You learn how to fight. You learn which weapons work. You learn who your allies are. You learn that those monsters are exquisite liars who will stop at nothing to get you to surrender. Sometimes you fight valiantly with fists and words and fury. Sometimes you fight by pulling yourself into a tiny ball, blotting out the monsters along with the rest of the world. Sometimes you fight by giving up and turning it over to someone else who can fight for you.

  Sometimes you just fall deeper.

  And in the deepest, night-blind fathoms you’re certain that you’re alone. You aren’t. I’m there with you. And I’m not alone. Some of the best people are here too … feeling blindly. Waiting. Crying. Surviving. Painfully stretching their souls so that they can learn to breathe underwater … so that they can do what the monsters say is impossible. So that they can live. And so that they can find their way back to the surface with the knowledge of things that go bump in the night. So that they can dry themselves in the warm light that shines so brightly and easily for those above the surface. So that they can walk with others in the sunlight but with different eyes … eyes that still see the people underwater, allowing them to reach out into the darkness to pull up fellow fighters, or to simply hold their cold hands and sit beside the water to wait patiently for them to come up for air.

  Ground zero is where the normal people live their lives, but not us. We live in the negatives so often that we begin to understand that life when the sun shines should be lived full throttle, soaring. The invisible tether that binds the normal people on their steady course doesn’t hold us in the same way. Sometimes we walk in sunlight with everyone else. Sometimes we live underwater and fight and grow.

  And sometimes …

  … sometimes we fly.

  Notes

  I Have a Sleep Disorder and It’s Probably Going to Kill Me or Someone Else

  1. But even then I’d probably lose consciousness before I died. In fact, pretty much everyone’s final stage of death is the not-waking-up part. Although the whole never-having-insomnia-again thing sounds a bit nice, and it probably says something about me that I’m a bit envious of people taking the big dirt nap. Not that I’m ready for it now. It’s just nice to know eventually I’ll get some sleep.

  How Many Carbs Are in a Foot?

  1. Victor just read this and he says it sounds like I would eat my own foot, and that’s just ridiculous. I’m not even sure why I have to clarify this but just to be clear, I wouldn’t eat my own foot. That would be barbaric. Victor says that eating someone else’s foot isn’t exactly kosher but obviously I wouldn’t do it unless the foot was ethically harvested. Like how some indigenous tribes eat their dead as a sign of respect. You couldn’t turn that down without being insulting.

  “Oh, your cheesy foot looks delicious but I just ate someone’s gramma an hour ago and I. am. stuffed.”

  No one is going to believe that.

  But frankly I do sort of wonder how people taste. Cannibals say that we taste like pork, and bacon is my spirit animal, so we’re probably delicious. I feel sorry for tribes that used to be cannibals but then stopped when the Christians came and inevitably ruined everything, because it would suck to be nostalgic for the comfort food of your childhood but then never have it again because now it’s suddenly not cool to eat your dead uncle. That’s a shitty craving to have. Not that I would know. I’ve never eaten a person before. Hell, I’ve never even eaten kale.

  2. It just occurred to me that my footnote was literally a note about a foot. That’s awesome. High five, me. I guess there’s always a silver lining, even when it involves human feet you’re too allergic to eat.

  I’m Not Psychotic. I Just Need to Get in Front of You in Line.

  1. And this is the third advantage to taking antipsychotics. You can blame all sorts of bullshit on them. It’s like blaming it on your period, except it’s a period that never ends. And no one ever questions you because you have a medical handicap. A scary, intimidating, possibly dangerous medical handicap. Plus, now you can use the handicapped bathrooms with no guilt. EVERYONE WINS.

  Who wants cake?

  LOOK AT THIS GIRAFFE

  1. Truthfully, we don’t really have room for a giraffe head, but we do have an old, decorative English streetlight in our yard that needs replacing and I thought maybe I could put the giraffe head there and have him hold the handle of a hanging lantern
in his mouth. I can picture him now, staring silently, as if telling potential burglars: “Just keep on driving, ya bastards. I’ve got this place well covered.” Victor says it would more likely be saying, “Welcome, solicitors. We’ll buy fucking anything.” He also pointed out that taxidermied animals rot in the rain so I made a note to ask my dad if he could drill a hole in the mouth so the giraffe could hold an umbrella over himself. Of course, then that would keep him from holding the lantern in his mouth because that would look ridiculously busy, but perhaps we could make his eyes light up like laser beams instead? Maybe something motion-activated. Because nothing says “welcome” like a surprise umbrella-wielding giraffe head staring at you with laser beams for eyes.

  I Left My Heart in San Francisco. (But Replace “San Francisco” with “Near the Lemur House” and Replace “Heart” with a Sad Question Mark.)

  1. I did finally remember the universal truth (that everything in the world either is or isn’t pandas) but when I told Victor he was like, “OH MY GOD, IT’S THREE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING. WHY ARE YOU WAKING ME UP FOR THIS?” and I had to apologize because no one is prepared for that level of brain-melting epiphany when they’re still half-asleep. The next morning though he still wasn’t impressed and I tried to explain it but he insisted it was rubbish. I think I got the last laugh though because my epiphany was just quoted in a published book and that’s pretty damn impressive.

  I’m Turning into a Zombie One Organ at a Time

  1. Spell-check keeps trying to tell me that “Dilaudid” is not a word and that most likely the word I’m looking for is “deluded.” I don’t appreciate what you’re implying, spell-check.

  Koalas Are Full of Chlamydia

  1. Or share air with him in an elevator. Or pat his hair while he’s sleeping. Whatever. I’m not picky.

  I’m Going to Die. Eventually.

  1. It’s quite freeing to write about this because I realize the chances of my walking in on a dead body in the toilet are admittedly slim, but it seems like it would be even more unlikely for someone who just wrote about her fear of walking in on toilet corpses to actually discover a toilet corpse. So effectively, this chapter is lowering my chances of that happening.

  And raising the chances of its happening to you.

  I’m sorry, but that’s how statistics work. It’s not like writing this is going to keep people from dying on the toilet. I’m not Jesus, people. I can’t bring bathroom corpses back from the dead. They’re still out there and someone has to find them, and odds are it will most likely be you rather than me since I just wrote this.

  Except now that I think about it, what are the odds that you (who just read about the minute chances of finding bathroom corpses) would actually find a bathroom corpse now? Getting slimmer by the sentence I’d say. If anything I’m helping you.

  You’re welcome.

  In fact, you should encourage all your friends and family to read this book to lower their chances of finding a bathroom corpse too. That’s what we do for people we love. We hold their hair when they vomit, and we help them move, and we protect them from toilet corpses. I suggest buying all of your loved ones this book and inscribing it: “I bought you this to keep you safe from bathroom corpses because I love you.” That way they’ll know you mean business.

  Well at Least Your Nipples Are Covered

  1. I know it seems like there are a lot of possums in here but this is a memoir and you don’t get to pick what you get attacked by. If I did I’d pick a baby penguin because they’re slow and fucking adorable. But then no one would ever believe that one had attacked me because they’re so cute, and that’s profiling. Much like the swans that people think are graceful and not out to eat you. Full circle, y’all.

  The Big Quiz

  1. Unless you’re reading this while you’re punching squirrels. Then you might need to see a therapist, although I do applaud your ability to multitask. I can’t even text and talk at the same time. Frankly, I’m a little jealous. And concerned. Put down the squirrel.

  Acknowledgments

  I owe an immense debt to my parents and sister for giving me these stories, and also the ability to truly appreciate how bizarre and wonderful they are. Thank you to my husband for being the straight man in this book and the funny man in my life. You are my home. Thank you to my daughter for being amazing and for letting me write about her even though she did refuse to let me write that one really funny thing about Ada Lovelace. Hailey, I assume you’re not letting me write about it because you’re keeping it for your own future memoir and I salute you for your foresight.

  Thank you to my dead grandparents for not haunting me. Thank you to my live grandparents for supporting me even when normal people would distance themselves. I love you all.

  Thank you to Neeti Madan, the greatest agent ever, who understands my weirdness and calls me after every professional conference phone call because she knows I’ll need someone to tell me I’m not an idiot. Thank you to the brilliant Amy Einhorn, who continues to believe in me even though I refuse to use proper punctuation and randomly make up words. Thank you to the editors and proofreaders who are probably all angry alcoholics after working on this book.

  Thank you to Jeremy Johnson for making Rory I and Rory II, and to my father for spending an entire day wiring and sculpting prosthetic limbs for my dead raccoon amputee.

  Thank you to the wonderful group of people who read my stuff before it’s even close to being polished and who listen to my insane chapters over and over at ridiculous hours. Laura Mayes, Maile Wilson, Karen Walrond, Brené Brown, Lisa Bir, and Stephen Parolini. These books would not exist without you.

  Thank you to the lovely and talented Andrew Kantor, who took that picture of a vicious possum so I didn’t have to. You are one of God’s bravest creatures, Andrew.

  Thank you to Mary Phiroz, who keeps me out of jail and makes me seem like a grown-up. Thank you to Brooke Shaden, the immortal Nancy W. Kappes (paralegal), Jason Wilson, Doctor Q, Allie Brosh, Neil Gaiman, Wil and Anne Wheaton, Bonnie Burton, Deni Kendig, Kim Bauer (oneclassymotha), Kregg, Amanda, Felicia, Christine Miserandino from butyoudontlooksick.com and everyone else who has helped so generously.

  Thank you to my dedicated readers who bought my first book even though there was a dead mouse on it, and to the booksellers, librarians, book buyers and the people who work in bookshops who write nice things about me. Thank you to the people who sneak into bookshops, find my books, and put them up front in illegal displays. Thank you to everyone who ever came to a book tour or was brave enough to suggest one of my books for their book club. A giant (and vaguely passive-aggressive) thank-you to my fellow writers and bloggers who just keep getting better and make me have to work harder. Thank you to everyone who helped me dispose of a body. Thank you to my first-grade teacher, who celebrated my weirdness. Thank you to my eighth-grade teacher, who said I wouldn’t amount to anything, because it spurred me to prove you wrong, and also to glue your desk shut. Thank you to the people who voted in the poll about whether I could write “He was later drug to his death by catfish” instead of “He was later dragged to his death by catfish.”1 And thank you to everyone who realized that “foxen” and “problemly” were intentional mistakes.

  Thank you to the person I forgot to list here for being so incredibly understanding and forgiving. Everyone said you’d be bitter and butthurt but I knew better.

  And finally, thank you to you. For being you. You are better than enchiladas or cupcakes. Or enchilada cupcakes. Which should totally exist.

  1. Poll results, in case you’re interested:

  31%—“Sweet baby Jesus. I will punch you in the neck if you use the word ‘drug’ incorrectly.”

  23%—“You can use ‘drug’ as dialect but only if you are prepared to get yelled at.”

  18%—“Can’t you just say ‘yanked’?”

  14%—“As long as you don’t use the phrase ‘fixin’ to’ you’re fine by me.”

  14%—“I never use words improperly
. I cannot believe you drug me into this mess.”

  About the Author

  Jenny Lawson, The Bloggess, is an award-winning humor writer known for her great candor in sharing her struggle with depression and mental illness. Her first book, Let’s Pretend This Never Happened, was a #1 New York Times bestseller.1,2,3,4,5,6

  Visit the author’s Web site at TheBloggess.com. Or sign up for email updates here.

  1. Jenny wanted that last line to read “She’s written a number of bestselling books”; however, her publisher insisted she specify that she’s written only one other book, but she’d like to point out that “one” is totally a number.

  2. Her publisher grudgingly apologizes for being so pedantic and factually correct.

  3. Jenny accepts their apology and offers to buy drinks and kittens for everyone involved.

  4. The publisher declines the kind offer of free kittens and assures the author there are no hard feelings.

  5. The author says it’s too late because those kittens are already in the mail.

  6. The publisher has alerted the mailroom to look out for packages containing air holes.

  Also by Jenny Lawson

  Let’s Pretend This Never Happened

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