Hit by a Truck
Vol. 3, Issue 33
When I began The Small Bow, I thought the Gawker trial and its aftermath was this huge monumental ordeal that I needed to constantly revisit and reevaluate to truly move forward from it. And because it was so tethered to my early recovery, I thought there was no way to avoid writing about it all the time. I also was afraid I needed to clarify to anyone who was reading the site that I knew how terrible it was for the company and how repulsive I came off – this was no redemption project. Not intentionally.
But I also wasn't entirely over it– even two years later, any conversations which included topics related to "New York City media" or "billionaires" or "Florida" would cause me to unravel. I didn't believe I was a victim, but I couldn't stop behaving like one. Plus, now that I was sober, I was paranoid that I'd lost my personality, so the trial experience made me feel like my life was still fascinating and unique.
And listen to how pathetic this is: I would make small talk with Uber drivers just to get them to ask me what I did for a living. Then I'd let out a heavy sigh and say something like, "I used to be a writer …" and they'd probe a little further, not necessarily out of interest, just politeness, but I'd just spit it out. "Well, I published the Hulk Hogan sex tape on Gawker, so he sued me for $100 million, and I lost the case, so now I'm kind of in-between jobs." Of the dozen or more times I floated this out there, only once did a driver know about the case, or what Gawker was, or what a blog was. Most of them just wanted to know if I had the chance to meet Hulk Hogan. That was it. (And, no, I didn't meet him. He just glowered at me while I was on the stand.)
Now people in AA rooms, on the other hand – that was a captive audience. Every time I was asked to be the lead speaker at the meeting, I'd happily do so because it was an opportunity for me to both garner sympathy and demonstrate my terminal uniqueness to a roomful of strangers. My tale of woe usually begins with rehab and ends with a negative $200 million checking account courtesy of a pro wrestler and an evil billionaire My qualification had cinematic pathos. Beat that, Bill W.!
In the retelling of my first year of sobriety, I resorted to tortured-sounding metaphors: "I felt like I got hit by a truck" was one I used many, many times. But it worked. The alcoholics still sick and suffering in those rooms would be mesmerized. Some guys would even come up to me after the meeting and say things like, "Really loved your share, man. I won't ever forget it." They were not like those Uber driving troglodytes – these guys knew they were in the presence of a master storyteller. A hero, even.
I thought I deserved this sort of praise – I mean, that year was challenging. Add up all the financial loss, the public humiliation, the rehab, the relapse – it was like I got hit by a truck. Basically.
And I have some great, heavy shame remembering that now because I did not get hit by a truck. Emma did.
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Emma is Emma Carmichael, the former editor in chief of Jezebel, but before that, she was the managing editor of Gawker when I published the sex tape. It's because of this that she got called down to Florida to testify as a witness.
Oh, and also, this was one of Emma's first public outings since she'd experienced a truly monumental and horrifying experience: she was actually hit by a truck:
"The editor-in-chief of a popular news site and her cousin are recovering after they were pinned between a pickup and concrete barrier during a fiery Connecticut car crash, authorities said …"
Six months before the trial, Emma couldn't walk. Like, her lower half was crushed. She was just as unprepared for the size of the trial as I was – perhaps more so – but she got through it. And she managed to get through it without making a complete ass out of herself.
And now that I have a little bit of sobriety – a little more clarity and perspective – it's crazy I didn't realize that the person who was also down in Florida with me had endured so much more before and after the trial than I had. Yet, she mainly told no one about what she went through. She certainly didn't rehearse a pitch to stand up in front of a room of people just so she could hear applause. She barely even wrote about it. She stayed humble and did what she needed to do to learn how to walk again. Then she had to work through the PTSD. Plus there was a shitty breakup soon after that. And then she went to the Hogan trial. I mean, Christ almighty.
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So lucky for us, Emma decided to talk about her experience. She's the first guest on our "Really Good Shares" podcast. Emma's story obviously isn't the traditional recovery one that we're used to talking about here, but it still works for me. Because "I want what she has" very much.
As she talked about her experience down in Florida at the trial, I'd forgotten that I'd loaned her my rental car the day she wasn't in court. I also didn't realize it was the first time she'd driven since the accident.
And the part of her share that really stuck with me is the way she'd mustered up the courage to get in that car and drive on a highway by herself in a strange city:
“I remember merging onto the highway, and I felt like I was playing a trick on myself — like I was doing an impersonation of someone who was comfortable driving. It was midday, and there weren't a lot of cars on the road, but I stayed in the right lane, driving cautiously and below the speed limit. I felt aware of how small and vulnerable I was, but I don't think I felt scared; mostly I felt alone and capable again, in a way I hadn't for many, many months. I put the windows down, blasted the radio, and tried to let go of myself. "
That's such a remarkable lifehack on how to handle hard shit – just do an impersonation of someone comfortable, then let go of yourself.
In the feature pit down below, read her full essay. Plus, there's also a link to the full podcast episode. On it, you'll hear Emma's share, me doing my best Ira Glass impersonation, and musical accompaniment by Jerry "Swamp Dogg" Williams, official musical director of TSB. I hope you guys enjoy it. — AJD
The Biggest Smallest Triumph
by Emma Carmichael
Off we go.
For a few months after the accident, I couldn’t go anywhere in a car without taking an Ativan or a Xanax first. I felt on-edge most of the time, but especially in cars. I was waiting for the next loud noise to rearrange everything. But I also felt really determined to get back to my old life, when I could go dancing or take a drive upstate with friends or even just take a shower on my own. I wanted to feel independent again.
When the Hogan trial came around, I had just gone through a bad breakup, and I still felt like people in my life were capital-C concerned about me. The trip to St. Petersburg that spring did not feel like a vacation, but it was my first opportunity to go somewhere completely unaided in almost a year — no nurse, no walker, no painkillers, just me and a suitcase in a city I’d never been to and would probably never visit again.
I was sequestered before my testimony, so I couldn’t really work, since I was running Jezebel at the time. My days were empty. A friend had told me about a place called Fort De Soto Park, which is this public park with pristine white-sand beaches on the keys south of the city.
A beach day seemed like a thing a normal person might do on a normal trip to Florida. I was not really a normal person — I had acute post-traumatic stress disorder and almost three pounds of metal in my left leg — and this was certainly not a normal trip to Florida. But I was intent on proving to myself that I could do things I had once done without thinking. My second or third day in the city, I got A.J.’s rental car keys, picked up some Modelos and a gigantic hero from Publix, and got behind the wheel of a car for the first time in almost a year.
I remember merging onto the highway, and I felt like I was playing a trick on myself—like I was doing an impersonation of someone who was comfortable driving. It was midday, and there weren’t a lot of cars on the road, but I stayed in the right lane, driving cautiously and below the speed limit. I felt aware of how small and vulnerable I was, but I don’t think I felt scared; mostly I felt alone and capable again, in a way I hadn’t for many, many months. I put the windows down, blasted the radio, and tried to let go of myself.
The route took me down the Pinellas Bayway, and as it swung south I realized it was mostly a series of bridges that stretched into the horizon, connecting one key to another over aquamarine water. When my cousin and I were pinned by the truck, we were on the Q Bridge in New Haven, and the only thing that kept us from dropping into the water below was the cement jersey barrier we were crushed against. I don’t remember if there were breakdown lanes on the Pinellas, but it’s something I notice every time I drive over a bridge now. If there had been breakdown lanes on the Q Bridge, my cousin and I probably wouldn’t have been hurt.
I made it over the Pinellas bridges. It felt like a private, pointless triumph after a year of requisite dependency. I spent a few hours at Fort De Soto, exposing my scarred, numb leg to sunlight and saltwater for the first time. There was a group of college kids there, maybe blowing off class for the afternoon. They were goofing off in the water and drinking. I floated on my back in gentle waves and eavesdropped on their nonchalance.
I read my book and drank a couple beers — things, I thought, a normal me would do on a normal day at the beach. After a while, I drove back to the hotel.
That year was the first of my life where everything truly bad happened, and all at once. I almost died, I had a terrible breakup, we went to trial and the company fell apart. It was a series of reset-and-restart moments, one after another. I think it toughened me in a way that is sometimes really hard and it makes me sad to think about. There is a hardness there. But I’m also really proud of that quality, and of my survival. It makes me durable.
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Killed it. And remember to check out Emma’s RGS episode, too.
