“Its court your text cheered me up, get mandy to do this and we can do it shes efficient and really good writer whereas im longwinded and will getmyself in trouble, and thank you for paying her dont worry about me at all just bail me out if i get arrested for jaywalking or something, ha, i want to blog about alot, this week, why me and anna dont like each other, and the seating at the testino gala, anna mario kate winselt model me josh hartnett facing stefano tonchi carine steve ghan donnatella, it was FUNNY^ and there were times it qwas just anna and me w a gap between us, her in a statement fur and marni fucking marni, me in a beaded cavalli they gave me and after plkatying amfar w the worklds worst band and seeing this cote d azur crowd of rich people, with beading beading beading, fucking bhedazzkled, blingin g blazing yuck, yiou know those gap /collezion couture mags you buy when you start your line in your head? and you see some libyan or lebanese couturier and thik” well halle berry worked that one elia saab i could work this “and try to get the area code for libya? well all i couidl do was see littlke napalese fingers falling off, i never wanbt top sere beading again, seriously beading beading beading, yuck, and there i was all beaqded and beadazzled in cavalliu and a marchesa bag beading blinging blinding, going to biennelle which om clueless about, seriously just beinbg tourista anyway clearly im a scatterbrain and id like qa voice on your blog abnd itd be good fgopr you too, but mandy has to help her writing is efficent and reader funny lets think of a name for mine that doesnt involve the name courtney love, ims o sick of that dammed name, its boring me. hope your well, biggest kis from turkish delight istanbul court”
A few weeks later, I get an email from Emily McCombs with Jane copied asking me to ghostwrite some columns for Courtney, which essentially involves typing out what she’s saying and then bringing it together with a through-line so it’s readable for anyone who doesn’t speak Courtney.
The opportunity only comes because of Courtney sticking her neck out for me.
She’s not afraid. She’s never afraid.
She is also one of the first people in my life to break through to me about men and how I treat myself.
NOW THAT I am sober, nothing quite “fits” the way it used to. I don’t want to subject myself to guys I might have given a chance to before. I don’t want to go out to parties that leave me feeling empty inside where I’m networking the whole time, with no tangible result in sight. And more and more, my job at the Post no longer feels like it fits either.
If I was still working with Mackenzie, Steve, and Katherine, I think I could have eventually found my way as I floundered around like a child, figuring out my new sense of sober boundaries. But the days of working with all of them are long gone. There’s new management, and I don’t feel the human connection that once made working there so extraordinary.
I know I’m not the only one who feels it either. In his final days at the paper before retiring, V. A. Musetto (most famous for writing the headline “Headless Body in Topless Bar”) would roam the floor wearing the yellow Santa cap he kept on year-round, muttering things like, “This place is turning into a women’s magazine.” I empathized with where he was coming from. There’s a certain neutered interchangeable voice of the stereotypical lady-mag that is never something I’ve identified with, writing-wise—and why I always loved the magazine Jane so much in the 2000s and Sassy before that.
Turns out sobriety is a huge pain in the ass if you’re not completely happy in your job. I can’t stop questioning everything. Like, why did I have to do that piece on Bethenny when I objected? Why am I doing anything in my life that I’m uncomfortable with at all?
Your far-too-clear sober brain starts to feel more ownership over the scope of your whole life. Like, if I can choose not to drink and stick with that, what else might I do?
While I actively seek out creative new job opportunities—including with xoJane—no one is hiring. Check back again with us later, okay, thanks.
I decide that if I can’t find a new job, maybe I can focus on getting help for my soul in the evenings instead.
After asking around, I’m referred to an unassuming therapist named Sherrye, who has several decades of sobriety, and she listens to me intently during our first session. When I talk about how lucky I am to have my job and all the opportunities in my life, and how guilty I feel for even trying to find a new gig, my voice cracks. The more I talk to my therapist the more I realize that the problem is not the Post.
The problem is me. The problem has always been me. The Post is the Post. If they want to be more corporate, good for them. I don’t have any say in that.
“You react to things childishly,” my new therapist agrees with me when I tell her about conflicts I’m having at work. “Because you are still in a ‘child ego state.’ If you do
