Bare Bones (16 page)

Wilma and I reached the inevitable I-love-you impasse the following Christmas. Because I had never said those words, and she was understandably nervous to be the first one to say them, she decided to illustrate them instead.

After finishing a pre-Christmas dinner out and returning to my apartment, both of us prepared for our gift exchange. I don't remember exactly what I got her—probably a journal with the time and date of every single time we had made eye contact or one of my classics,
The Book of Us.

Of all the things my friends have made fun of me for,
The Book of Us
may be the winner-winner-chicken-dinner of them all. It is exactly what it sounds like; it's a book that celebrates all the memories I've shared with a woman. This is no small thrown-together book. It's memories of first dates, menus from wonderful meals, notes written after really great times together, movie ticket stubs, hair left in the sink (just kidding about the hair. Or am I?). I did the ol'
Book of Us
twice, once for Wilma. I honestly can't remember if it was for this exact Christmas. But you get the point; I gave her the gift I had been working on for months.

Then she handed me my gift, which I quickly unwrapped. As soon as I saw it, though, I wished I had taken a lot longer. It was a picture of the two of us together in a frame covered in the words “I love you,” in seven different languages!

I freaked out so badly that I couldn't even remember how to speak English.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa,” I said in a repeat loop as I laid the frame down and backed away from it like it was an explosive device.

With tears welling up in her eyes, she said, “I just want you to know that I do love you, and this was the easiest way.”

You want to know the worst thing in the world? It's when someone says “I love you” and you don't say it back.

I obviously said what I was supposed to say—in that I said, “That's awesome.” And then I followed it up with a hug. And then a kiss. I figured that if my mouth was busy, that was a good way of getting out of what I knew she wanted to hear. It was truly out of one of those Southwest Airlines “Wanna Get Away” commercials. Wilma wasn't fooled by my plan, and the fact that I didn't say “I love you” to her became a thing. Not that it hadn't already been a thing between us, but for the rest of our one and a half years of dating, it seemed to consume every other aspect of our relationship. It became the
only
thing.

There was nothing wrong with Wilma. The problem was 100 percent with me. I should have said I loved her. But as soon as a girl got too close, I started to withdraw. When we would get together, I was quiet and closed off. I would go away for periods of time. I put up all kinds of walls.

Love from another human being made me scared, mainly because I was afraid to return it. I have a real vulnerability issue. It doesn't make sense, since by not reciprocating I pushed women away, but I worried about the power someone else would have over me if I gave her my love. Once you put it all out there, you no longer have any control. The other person may leave anyway, and I'll be crushed by the fact that my love wasn't enough for them to stay. I'm only safe whenever it feels like it's not real. Like when I'm doing my radio show and I can't see the faces of my listeners. Then I'm safe. But when it comes to one-on-one relationships—romantic or with friends—I'm just not able to fully go there. I know it stems from my messed-up childhood, and I'm sure someone could write a great country song about it. I watched my dad bail out and had a mom who was there physically, but not always there emotionally. I really didn't stand much of a chance, I guess. And I knew I wasn't going to get over it on my own.

I, of course, didn't come to all this stuff on my own. When I signed my contract in Austin, it wasn't only the first time I had a morning show but also the first time I had health benefits. Getting insurance was such a big deal to me, because I never had it before, that I actually read the brochure that HR gives you from the health insurance company explaining the benefits available to me. One of the things I saw was that I could go to therapy.

I was definitely interested in the idea of going to talk to someone but also embarrassed. I'd never talked to anyone. Not like that, not on any really deep level. It just wasn't how I grew up. My mom and I never had a talk about the real stuff of life. Ever. Not once. I don't know that we ever had a real conversation that involved advice or feelings. My grandmother was there for me, but even with her there was such an age gap between us that her perspective seemed about as helpful as if Abe Lincoln were laying some wisdom down. Eloquent, but not too helpful. (That being said, my grandma did teach me how to two-step. It was embarrassing learning how to “dance like they do at the VFW” with my grandma on the kitchen floor. But to her credit, I've been able to use that dance to my advantage many times over the years. Thanks, Grandma!)

If I were ever going to learn how to communicate like a normal, healthy adult, I would definitely need professional help. I went through a few different therapists, and none of them felt right. I read on the Internet that this was normal. (The Internet is my source for finding everything from directions to restaurants to dates to mental health practitioners.) When I finally met a therapist I really bonded with, it was life changing.

I just fell in love with therapy. Linda, my therapist, didn't care—and I say that in the best way possible. Without a vested interest in my life, she offered an impartial perspective. I never had that before. I had people who felt sorry for me or people who wanted me to succeed. To have someone with no agenda and a lot of training in how to find meaning through words and just listen to me was a total eye-opener. I realized I didn't need her to tell me what my faults were. By just sitting and listening to myself talk, I learned enough about myself that I could tick them off one by one. In her office I went to places I never thought of before. I parsed out my desires from my fears, assumptions from realities, and strengths from weaknesses.

In the five years during which I saw Linda, I made sense of all my issues. They didn't go away, but I gathered some tools and understanding so I could at least try to work through my fears of getting close to another human being. For that I have to give a shout-out to my therapist. We talked for hours and hours about that subject alone. You know what, she should give me a shout-out, since those sessions were still seventy bucks an hour with insurance. I know you're reading this, Linda. When you do your therapy book, throw my name in the acknowledgments!

As I said, there's no magic bullet in therapy, and despite the good, hard work I did in that seat across from Linda, I was still not Mr. Open when, years later, I met my next girlfriend, Betty Boop (not her real name). I grew more when I was with her than with any other person, but even at my most emotionally available, I'm not emotionally available.

Oddly enough, I met Betty while I was on a date with another girl in 2008. She was at a bar with a group of friends, and the girl I was on a date with had some friends in that same group. Betty and I didn't exchange numbers or anything. But in a stroke of fate, I saw her again a week later, on Halloween night, and got her number then. The other girl and I hadn't worked out, as with most girls I go out with. (I have a lot of “one and dones” in my dating life, and they all follow a similar narrative. I'll be out in a bar with my buddies, and since I don't drink, I just hang out, dance, and talk to any female who will listen to me. As the night goes on, people get drunker. As girls get drunker, they like me more. So more than a few times, I've ended up dancing, making out, and getting a hot girl's number, only to have her not remember me the next day. At all. Still, she'd usually feel guilty enough to go on one date, and then . . . she'd be done.)

From my first date with Betty, I knew things with her would be very different and that we were going to date for a long time. We just clicked, whatever that means. Betty, who had just moved to town to take a sales job, had no idea I was on the radio. That was really appealing to me, because I could never lose that sense of mistrust that anyone who knew I had achieved a modicum of success would never like me for me. She had such a positive vibe. We had a fantastic time. It didn't matter what we did or where we went, it was just fun to be with her. We both smiled a lot that night and for many nights after.

During our first night out together, Betty mentioned that she loved Tabasco sauce. I like to listen to people. That's why I'm good at interviewing people and at doing nice things for people in my life. By listening closely, I discover the little things that are important to others. There is nothing that makes someone feel more special than remembering something small and seemingly inconsequential that they said—and I like to make people feel special.

Knowing we were going out again the next week, I rush-ordered a huge bottle of Tabasco sauce that was so big it looked like a wine bottle. Then I went and bought a wooden box made to hold a bottle of wine and had her name carved into it. When I went to pick her up, I handed her the box and said, “I really had a great time on our first date, so I wanted to give you this.”

She took the box, which she clearly thought was a bottle of wine, and gave me the kind of “Oh, thanks” you do when someone's done something kind of sweet. But when she opened it up and saw the big bottle of Tabasco sauce, she was
really
happy. Nailed it!

It was nice to have someone to make feel special. Being with Betty, though, I discovered something new in the kind of comfort that only a person who cares about you can provide. Betty was supportive and nurturing of me in so many ways, but I knew she was a real find after I had my wisdom teeth out.

Now, I know what you're thinking: You had your wisdom teeth pulled? It's not like you had your leg amputated. Well, sometimes I wish I had. See, my wisdom teeth were so impacted they had grown back into my jawbone. That's what you get when you never go to the dentist as a kid. (It took me seven or eight years to catch up with my dental work enough that now, my teeth, some of which are fake and some of which aren't, are great.)

In order to take out my wisdom teeth, they had to break my jaw, which was crazy. I was petrified, not just of the pain but also of not being able to speak, because that's my livelihood. I wasn't in a place yet where I could coast; I had to keep working, which meant keep talking.

To this day, I'm terrified of losing my voice. I think that's why I'm such a germophobe. I'm afraid that if I get sick, it's going to take me off the air. If it takes me off the air, I'm going to get fired. If I get fired, I'm going to be back home. It's why I don't like touching hands or doorknobs. I don't want to lose my job.

The recovery from this dental surgery was months. I could talk, but it was one of the most miserable experiences I've ever had. I wouldn't take any medicine because I wanted to be mentally there while I was on the radio. The pain grew almost unbearable when I developed dry socket, which is basically as bad as it gets. That's when the blood clot that forms in the socket after a tooth has been pulled dissolves, and the bone and nerves it was protecting are now completely exposed. The dentist put gauze in it. As I said, almost unbearable.

Meanwhile I had to spend four hours a day talking—and not just regular talk, but loud, funny, thoughtful, and engaging talk. It was a nightmare. I don't know how I did it and didn't lose every listener I'd fought so hard to get. I just gutted my way through it every day at work. Then I went home and fell into bed, where I stayed for the rest of the day and night.

During those months where I had to go to the dentist almost every day Betty took care of me like crazy. She was there every day, somehow managing to do her job and be my nurse. In the beginning, when I was really sick and couldn't do anything, she took me to the bathroom, mushed up my food, and put warm washcloths on my head as if we'd been married for thirty years.

Betty's nursing me back to health while I recovered from a couple of teeth getting pulled was nothing, though, compared to how she supported me when my mom died. As soon as she heard the news, Betty left work and was by my side, which she refused to leave. Even when I begged her not to come to the funeral, she just shook her head. “There's no way,” she said. “I'm going to be there even if I drive in a car behind you.”

Betty was right not to listen to me—about anything—since I had been in shock ever since I got the news about my mom's passing the morning of October 21, 2011. It was 8:45
A
.
M
., right in the middle of the Friday Morning Dance Party.

I knew immediately something was wrong when I saw that my sister was calling me while I was on air. No one who knows me calls during the show, because they know I'd never answer the phone. But as soon as I saw my sister's number pop up on my phone, I hit a song and answered it. This was so out of character for me that, deep down, I must have already understood my mother was gone.

When I picked up the phone, sure enough, my sister Amanda was crying. “Mom's dead,” she said.

“What happened?” I asked.

“They found her in the kitchen.”

That didn't answer my question, but I knew what had happened to our mom. Just a few days earlier Amanda and I had talked about trying again to get her into rehab.

“I'll call you after the show,” I said.

Lunchbox and Amy were looking at me, so I quickly explained that my mom had died. Then the song ended and, boom, we were back on the air. Amy started crying so hard that I had to turn her mic off. It was strange for me to see her so upset, because her reaction should have been mine. She was feeling the pain that I should have been feeling. I should have been crying like that. But I wasn't.