I had just moved to Los Angeles, something I swore I would never do. It was my first Friday night in my new apartment. I was broke from the move (and from being bad with money), which meant my plans were to stay in and binge on TV and food—a duo whose company I’ve been known to keep. I had just sat down to feast on DiGiorno’s finest when I began to hear someone’s labored breathing—a shrill wheezing within earshot. I muted the television to discern who (or what) was in the room with me, when the silence revealed that I was in fact the culprit.
I started to sweat, each breath more strained than the last. I let my hands explore my face as light from the newest episode of Futurama danced across it. My fingers discovered what the bathroom mirror later revealed—my eyes and lips were swollen. Seeing that I really didn’t want to die alone or have frozen pizza be mentioned in my obituary, I drove myself to urgent care. Should I have been driving whilst having an allergic reaction? Of course not. Should I have asked for help? Absolutely. But taking an ambulance is expensive, and “vulnerability and asking for help” just wasn’t my thang.
If you’ve never been to an urgent care in a major city on a Friday night—keep it that way. Even through the swollen slits that my eyes had become, I could see that the chaotic excuse for health care I’d just walked into also happened to be the intersection of helplessness, hopelessness, and body odor. Or, as the man in front of me at the check-in desk yelled, “This place is a hell worse than the syphilis this motherf*cker gave me!” The motherf*cker in question was his blushing partner. And as I was ushered into an exam room, waves of jealousy washed over me. I found myself wishing I had a motherf*cker of my own who could be there with me, too.
An hour and a needle-in-my-ass later, the RN came to check on me. Since the threat of imminent death had been neutralized, she asked how I planned to get home. I told her I planned to get home the same way I’d gotten there: “I’m driving…?” She then informed me that I wasn’t allowed to drive and that I needed someone. I looked up at her as tears began to run down my cheeks and whispered, “I know....”
Ultimately, the RN took pity on me, and I was given the option to wait in the lobby until my symptoms subsided. For over an hour, I sat and watched a colorful cast of characters come and go—transfixed as I sat there imagining what (and who) might’ve brought them there. But just like clockwork, DJ Anxiety decided to use this respite as an opportunity to play a few of his greatest hits. Reading the room, DJ Anxiety decided to skip “You’re Not Enough” and went straight to “You’re Going to Die Alone” feat. Nobody Loves You. But before the beat dropped, there was a record scratch.
It hit me that I’d just come face-to-face with my fear of dying alone, and I wasn’t afraid. But I felt incredibly lonely. I had no choice but to acknowledge the difference between being alone and being lonely. Correlation doesn’t always mean causation. So how could I have spent the better part of my life being afraid of the wrong thing? To avoid dying alone, I just had to find someone, anyone, to be with. To avoid dying lonely, I would just have to be…vulnerable.
I wrestled with the idea that the prerequisite for my preferred way to die meant that I had to start living. From that moment on, I committed to showing up every day, allowing myself to be fully known and seen. Not just romantically, but with my friends, my family, and my craft. All of this sounded great, until I was presented with the opportunity to create and star in my own show. I knew that this opportunity was also an invitation for me to be open in ways I hadn’t been before. And with the stakes raised, I wrestled with that invitation like I was trying to put on Spanx on a hot day. DJ Anxiety even scored the wrestling match with “What’re People Going to Think?”—an oldie but goodie. And as much as I wanted to dance to that song, my new fear of dying lonely edged out my fear of vulnerability.
Eventually I surrendered, and worked my ass off to cash the check I wrote to myself in that urgent care waiting room. I honored my commitment to showing up, allowing myself to be fully seen and fully known by creating the show How to Die Alone. My new show follows Mel, a broke, fat, Black JFK airport employee who’s never been in love and has forgotten how to dream, until a brush with death catapults her on a journey to start living by any means necessary.
In writing this show, I was able to put 20-plus years of therapy to work. Challenging myself to put pen to paper revealed to me the power of sharing your journey even while you’re still on it. That’s right, I’m still on my healing journey—every day, I fight to choose vulnerability over fear. I mean, just yesterday I wore a midriff-revealing spandex bodysuit whilst doing karaoke to Alanis Morissette’s “You Oughta Know.” Everyone’s journey will look different! But the truth is, there’s no quick fix; it requires the daily practice of authenticity. My show, How to Die Alone, is an invitation for others to share in this practice with me. It is my most vulnerable work to date, and as such, it also serves as an insurance policy. Because now, when death comes for me, I may or may not be alone, but I sure as hell will not die lonely. Over my dead body.
This story appears in the September 2024 issue of ELLE.
