If the wing flies off the plane, I won’t have to attend that red carpet, I thought to myself, midair and midsip of red wine. I’ll never have to take another meeting, I considered, imagining a fatal slip of the pilot’s hand, midlanding. I wasn’t suicidal. I hadn’t actually considered killing myself in many years (since the first love of my life)—no, this melancholy was a lot less intense and urgent. This was me imagining a break from it all, coupled with the sad realization that the only way I could possibly imagine a break was through a devastating act of God.
Not to say that I wasn’t living my dream life, because I totally was. But my dream life was a collection of addicting things. I’ve never gotten into heavy drugs, mainly because the family business is substance-abuse therapy, and my parents would be so annoyed if I was found dead with heroin up my nose, or however one does it. So I get my kicks elsewhere. But when you’re addicted to achievement, in a profession that doesn’t allow vacations, off-seasons, or even the idea that your field should be considered work in the first place, it’s hard to put down the success pipe. So I found myself picking it up, over and over, with conventions to attend, flights to board, videos to film, goals to beat, and numbers to reach. Numbers became my drug of choice. But numbers are infinite, and no milestone or threshold can exhaust them.
When I was younger, I played a video game online creating characters and leveling them up. The higher the level you reached, the longer it took you to get to the next level. It was a hamster wheel, and for years I paid $9.95 a month to be a part of it. I was addicted. I became so addicted that my parents began to limit my access to it, and they went to great lengths to control my usage.
When they weren’t home, they’d disconnect the Internet by unhooking and hiding the connector between the cable and the modem. So obviously, middle school me rollerbladed to the nearest hardware store to find my own replacement, one that I could hook up while they were gone. I’d play my game in complete silence, and when I heard their car turn into the driveway, my stalwart guards (the family dogs) would begin to whine in anticipation. This was my cue to sprint to my parents’ room, unhook my Internet connector, and leave everything exactly how they had left it, all before they came in through the front door. This became my daily ritual, and from the moment I got home from school to the moment my parents were home, I’d be playing. At night, they’d take my keyboard away when they went to bed so that I wouldn’t be wasting away in front of a screen. But when everyone was asleep, I’d wake up in the middle of the night, pull out my own keyboard that I had bought with the birthday money I’d saved up, and I’d play until my parents woke up to go to work. I thought about my game all day, every day. I wanted to be the best character, I wanted to have the best items, I wanted to reach the highest numbers. No, higher than the highest.
To get my video game fix, I even committed minor identity theft and credit-card fraud. The $9.95-a-month fee may not seem like much, but it was tough for a middle schooler. I stole my stepbrother’s mom’s credit card. When she found out, she told my parents, and they realized that I had a legitimate problem. But how was I to keep up my progress if I couldn’t pay for the subscription? Did nobody understand my predicament? Clearly not. I was forced to write her a letter of apology, with a check for $9.95 enclosed. Ugh.
These days, more than a decade later, my addictive personality lives on, and my game of choice is still online. The major difference is, now, @tyleroakley is my character. The level-ups come from real-life hustle—collaborating, attending events, working on projects, and always, always chasing the numbers.
When I would imagine my flight crashing, it was never because I hated my life. I loved my life. It was always because it would just be so much easier. Easier than following through on the obligations I had made, putting on a suit and making a good impression at an important meeting, or networking at an event. I began to enjoy fewer of my experiences. Instead, I would instantly catalog those opportunities as things I had accomplished, and it was now on to the next thing. I used to joke about various accomplishments being desirable solely because they’d make good entries for my Wikipedia entry, but then, in the back of my mind, that joke became kind of true. A hint of truth is behind every joke, increasingly so if the joke becomes your mantra.
Or maybe the plane would be taken down by a terrorist. I’d be sitting in my seat, unimpressed by the crazy man screaming, “Nobody move!” Like, honestly, dude, don’t worry, I won’t be lifting a finger. In the hubbub of the takeover, I’d slowly recline my seat, wondering what my last tweet was before we took off. I’d hope it wasn’t something dumb. Last tweets are the new “famous last words.” If God is listening, I request that He not take me while any of these linger as my last earthly tweet:
RT my last tweet for a DM!
@zacefron pls follow me.
*heart-eyes emoji* butts *heart-eyes emoji*
Nebraska, I am in you.
Slay me, Queen @lindsaylohan.
I often used to joke with Korey about creating videos to be uploaded upon my death. I always thought it would be so nice to have the final word and the last laugh. I don’t think I’d use this opportunity to tell anyone off who had wronged me while I was living, just more to have an end cap to the plot of my YouTube channel. I guess, even when considering death, I’m looking for good marketing opportunities. Perhaps a recommendation for a how-to audiobook on grieving. Morbid, but possibly lucrative. This too was a joke that I later began to consider legitimately.
It should also be noted that I’d never actively work to take down my flight. My blah attitude was not looking to kill off an entire cabin of passengers in exchange for a break in my work schedule. I’m just saying that for a time in 2014, I probably shouldn’t have been given the responsibilities of an exit-row seat.
Realizing all of this, and acknowledging that I daydreamed about turbulence shifting the luggage above me so vigorously that a carry-on would fall out and break my neck, inspired me to reflect on my religious upbringing back in mid-Michigan.
When I was in my single digits, I was subjected to the worst torture you can possibly inflict on a child: Catholic mass. For those who have never attended, it’s an hour of monotonous ritual and tradition. Between singing noncatchy hymns, eating stale crackers that represent the body of Christ, and shaking hands unsanitarily with dozens of strangers while mumbling, “Peace be with you,” it was, ironically, my own definition of hell.
I’d spend most of my time during mass imagining all the ways I could die just to get out of enduring it. Perhaps a statue of an apostle or even Mary could fall and impale me. Maybe a Jesus statue’s crown of thorns could poke me right in a pressure point, while I was heading to the confessional. Maybe a rosary could get snagged around my neck, hanging me. Maybe while I was lighting a candle, the flames would catch on my pleated khakis and spread too quickly for me to be saved. Or maybe someone could give me Ebola via a peace-be-with-you handshake. When given the chance to lead my family into the pews, I’d always opt to sit under pendulous light fixtures and especially next to any stained glass, just in case an earthquake hit. Michigan is overdue for a huge earthquake, I thought to myself, and if it’s going to hit, a huge glass shard had better sever my head, please and thank you. Err, I mean, amen. There we go.
Perhaps someone would accidentally spill poison into the holy water, and one flick onto my skin would fell me. Or maybe actual holy water would touch my sinful closeted-homosexual skin, and I’d melt like the wicked witch in The Wizard of Oz. Snapping back to reality, nine-year-old me would look down at my ill-fitting black dress shoes and think of how disappointingly they compared to ruby slippers. Then I’d look back up and remember that none of my fantasies could possibly happen, and that I’d have to live through mass until I could finally return to my house and unwind from the stress of organized religion. There’s no place like home, after all.
Sitting in mass felt like the most alone I could ever feel. I was surrounded by people who didn’t get me, who I didn
’t trust and couldn’t reach out to, and if I had to sit through one more second if it, I might just burst. Sometimes, in 2014, that’s how meetings felt. Or red carpets. Which made me feel so guilty, because these are things that are making my wildest dreams come true, and they’re things so many people would kill to have. But if I’ve learned one thing about feelings, it’s that sometimes they’re happening, regardless of how good you have it or how bad anyone else has it or any other kind of sense you might try to make.
A lot of my 2014 was spent working myself into a fury, and having nobody to talk to when I reached my lowest points. Growing up, I was sent to therapist after therapist (eating-disorder stuff, divorce stuff), and I would sit silent for the entire hour on the couch. The therapist would ask questions, and I’d stare off into space, hoping by some miracle death would come swooping in on leathery wings. Maybe a girl in the next room was possessed by demons and would have a bad sense of depth perception, and the telekinetic terror she meant to cause in her own therapist’s office would be misdirected and accidentally hit my room, causing the shelf of psychology books to crash down on me in a heap and smother me to death. That was a lot more plausible than my actually opening my mouth and telling the therapist what was wrong, and my parents held out hope enough for that to keep hauling me to the sessions.
Maybe I have these thoughts while I’m a mile above the earth because that’s where I feel most disconnected. I always say, “If you’re going through a difficult time, reaching out is one of the bravest things you can possibly do,” but what if you’re stuck in a jet, hurtling through the sky, with no access to Wi-Fi or iMessage? I mean, I never hope that my cab turns into oncoming traffic, or that my train combusts spontaneously. No, any other mode of transportation allows me to easily pick up my phone and call the people who matter, the people who get me, the people who care.
When it’s 2:00 a.m. and I’m feeling lonely or discouraged at home, with no friends or family to call due to time zones, I usually start replying to you guys on Twitter. Y’all are all over the world, and at any moment of the day, someone is always in my replies saying something nice, when I need it most. There are always people to reach out to online.
Maybe that’s why after a Wi-Fi–less flight full of fantasies of my in-flight dining being laced with arsenic, I come to my senses as soon as I land. A habit I’ve picked up over the years of tweeting my landing with (Insert city or state name here), I am in you has become less of an announcement of my arrival and more of a plea for interaction, connection, and restarting the conversation with people who make me feel less alone. When I see y’all responding to my I am in you tweet, both sides feel connected—y’all know I’m there, reading your replies, and ready to respond. I acknowledge you, I notice you, and I see you.
I’m happy to report that I’m writing this chapter in 2015 on a flight, on my way back to California. In a few short hours, I’ll be tweeting, Los Angeles, I am in you. I can’t wait to see the replies. I’m in a better place now, and I spent exactly none of my flight hoping that when I flushed the plane’s toilet, the suction would be too much and my internal organs would all be vacuumed out, leaving me a lifeless husk in a locked airplane lavatory. Instead, I’ve spent my flight daydreaming about how I can’t wait to walk through the front door of my own home, where I plan not to work myself to death, but instead to work myself back to life. As grateful as I am for the opportunities, I never again want to board a plane that I wish explodes mid-flight, only to land and make my way to an obligation that I hope is directly below a heavy, poorly installed chandelier. I want to take only the opportunities that make me feel alive. I want to meet people who want to meet Mathew Tyler Oakley, not @tyleroakley. When I do meet them, I want to have plenty to tell them about what makes me happy while I’m not on the Internet.
epilogue
Okay, people, we’re now coming to the end of our Binge. I hope I haven’t given you so much of what you thought you wanted that now you’ve reached a state of disgust, but just enough so that you feel sated, self-indulgent, and maybe a little naughty.
My fondest wish is that I’ve demonstrated by my flawed but earnest example the value of taking chances, pushing beyond our comfort levels, dusting ourselves off after our inevitable humiliations, and remaining open to the life and feelings and possibilities that are happening while we’re busy either chasing phantoms of success or trying to outrun our fears. I don’t know that I’ve conquered my Big Bad Wolf, but I have learned to walk beside him and tame him some with the humility and values shared by my family, cherished friends, and loved ones. I’ve also found a few experiences that are definitely worth binging on, and I hope you have, too.
In the spirit of walking alongside our demons, please enjoy the elementary school picture to the left. The takeaway? When life gives you lice, find a plastic bag, rock your look, and enjoy a cheeseburger like a boss.
If there’s one thing worth binging on, it’s making it work.
acknowledgments
To my book people, thank you for believing in me. To my brilliant editor, Jeremie Ruby-Strauss, I’m honored that you were a part of this project. Before we began, you showed up to my Slumber Party Tour in a onesie and I knew you would be perfect; emails from you were the highlight of my day. Thank you to my literary agent, Cait Hoyt, for your unparalleled patience and for believing in this book before anyone else, including me. Thank you, Nina Cordes, Ygraine Cadlock, Jen Bergstrom, Louise Burke, Carolyn Reidy, Iain Macgregor, Liz Psaltis, Jennifer Robinson, Steph Deluca, Susan Rella, John Vairo, Lisa Litwack, and everyone at Simon & Schuster and Gallery Books. I couldn’t have had a better crew for this book.
To my team, thank you for helping me navigate this weird life I’m lucky enough to live. Thank you, Lisa, for helping me literally achieve my dreams and for telling me I “look so thin lately” when you know I feel frumpy. Thank you, Korey, for keeping me sane and for being my best friend and for making me laugh and for giving me hugs when you can tell I need them. To Mia, Steve, Rachel, Cassandra, Jordan, Max, Gabe, Emma, Tim, Mike, Simone, Vinny, Brent, Meghan, Ashley, Amy, Laura, Ronan‚ each of you plays such an important role in the success of My People Entertainment, Inc. Thank you.
To my family, thank you for not always understanding me or my path but supporting unwaveringly. Moms and dads, sorry for what you’ve read, but honestly you’re to blame for all of this mess that is me. Siblings, thank you for loving me despite how bad I am at returning texts when I’m not home, and for making me put my phone away when I am. You all make Michigan magical for me. Nieces and nephews, don’t read this book yet.
To my friends, thank you for being the shoulders I’m able to lean on when all of this starts to be a little too much. To my YouTube friends, thank you for being coworkers in a career that is overwhelmingly solitary. You inspire me and support me and I’m so very grateful to have #TeamInternet in my life. To my non-Internet friends, thank you for putting up with me since day one‚ whether you’re my 20s from Okemos, my MSU ResLife buddies, or my SF gays, I appreciate you.
And finally, to my people, none of this would be possible without you. That is no exaggeration. You make fun of my Twitter layout and call me dad and watch my videos and listen to my podcasts and come to my tour and you bought this book. You are protective of me, and always tweet me telling me to take care of myself. I hope we meet someday so I can thank you for all of this in person. If you’re reading this, tweet me (@tyleroakley) a selfie of you and the book, with the hashtag #BingeBook. I’m sending love to people who do.
photo credits
Courtesy of Jacquelyn Fields: pgs. here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here
Courtesy of the author: pgs. here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here,
Courtesy of Korey Kuhl: pgs. here, here
Courtesy of Lisa Filipelli: pg. here
Courtesy of the White House Ph
oto Office: pg. here
Courtesy of Alex Goldschmidt: pg. here
Courtesy of Robert Andrew Perez: pg. here
endnotes
1. Twenty-one years later, that sister of mine that I was told about but thought I’d never meet called our house. She was raised about fifteen minutes away from us. Small, crazy world.
2. I have no clue who Papa Woody is, and if it’s meant to be my stepdad, that’s the strangest self-appointed nickname I’ve ever heard.
3. A handful of other YouTube creators and I met with the president in the Roosevelt Room, where we discussed the power of youth on the Internet. Afterward, he gave us a tour of his office. All the other YouTubers around me were making great impressions, and I felt I had to say something. I blurted out, “Cute desk.” To the president. Of the United States.
Tyler Oakley, Binge
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