Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me - Chelsea's Family, Friends [28]
Chelsea relishes the emotional strain she places on me when she fucks with me, and, truthfully, she probably doesn’t care. For her, wreaking havoc on my nerves is a good thing. As long as she’s letting off some steam, who cares if I’m contemplating suicide? And if you think suicide is out of the question for me, let me offer you some background…
Shit really started to go downhill for me at around age five. When I wasn’t threatening to kill myself, which was most days, I would throw monumental tantrums for legitimate reasons, such as again being served chicken stroganoff made with low-fat yogurt, or my parents not letting me watch Ponch and Jon exact justice on LA’s worst freeway criminals on my favorite TV show of all time, CHiPs.
I was sent to a psychiatrist at age six for regular sessions and I never again ate chicken stroganoff made with low-fat yogurt. After a couple years of weekly meetings with Dr. Hansen, most of which were spent with me pretending to be a pizza deliveryman and robbing the doctor, the best analysis the good doctor could come up with was that I was “too rational” for my age. What screams “rational” about a kid consistently wanting to rob innocent people? Even more confounding: Why was I pretending to be a pizza deliveryman when, like most Jews, I preferred Chinese?
That remains a mystery, but I do know that eight-year-old kids don’t rationalize. For example, most of my peers didn’t appreciate the fact that, while playing with model airplanes, I would insist that before flying, the planes taxi to a runway, get clearance from the control tower, and then proceed down a long runway before lifting off, front wheels first. Plus, my friends could never grasp the notion that there were always fog delays due to low-pressure zones at San Francisco International Airport—my hometown airport—and that flights would be delayed or cancelled. They clearly expected more from a playdate than just sitting there waiting for the fog to lift. Needless to say, I should have selected LAX, with its eternally sunny skies. I preferred solo playdates, where I could control the order and outcome, where everything was neat and organized. Plus, for the reasons just given, I wasn’t anyone’s first, second, or even third choice for a playdate.
Come college, it became clear that I had more than just a rationality issue. I was checking door locks religiously. At first it didn’t seem like a problem; my school was in the gang-ridden South Central area of Los Angeles and it appeared as if I were just taking appropriate safety measures against the rampant home invasions in the neighborhood. But slowly, excessive lock-checking was complemented by constant hand-washing. I had become a full-blown obsessive-compulsive with skyrocketing hand soap costs.
One night I got in and out of bed twenty-eight times to make sure the front door was locked. I seriously thought someone was going to come in and violate me. Ironically, my new therapist told me that this was an entirely irrational fear. What the hell had happened to my rationality? I didn’t think it was so irrational—who wouldn’t want to rape me? I was adorable and extremely rape-able. In fact, I was the only guy in my school who carried mace and a rape whistle.
My obsessive nature stems from a family history of absolute anxiety and neurosis. I’m a classic neurotic Jew. In our defense, Jews have been fucked with so many times throughout history that I think it’s okay to be a little on edge. I’m always apprehensive when getting on a train or into a shower. In fact, I am anxious 24/7. As a result, I’m heavily medicated. I have been on a steady dose of antidepressants since I was twenty. In theory, the pills control my anxiety and depression. (Suicide runs in my family, and that just kills me.) Fortunately for