Psychos: A White Girl Problems Book

“The Epitome of the Urban Socialite You Love to Hate.”

—TIME

GLOWING PRAISE FOR

White Girl Problems

“Made me laugh a lot and cry a little. It’s about time someone drew our attention to the devastating reality: white girl problems are all around us . . . absolutely hysterical.”

—Susan Sarandon

“A snarky, satirical diary/memoir of how the poor-little-rich-girl goes from the lap of luxury to rehab after a $246,893.50 shopping spree meltdown at Barneys. . . . A confessed train wreck, [Babe] giddily invites you to stare. And just when you think you might finally need to look away, there’s the impossibly startling—and hilarious—faux insight that keeps you hooked.”

—Publishers Weekly

“A pop-culture send-up with a troubled material girl anti-heroine . . . wickedly funny.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“Amusing and laugh-out-loud funny.”

—New Now Next

“Do you ever go to the mall, buy one too many shirts, and then realize you’re $11 million in debt? . . . If you love Hollywood and love to laugh, White Girl Problems is the page-turner for you.”

—Examiner.com

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Dedicated to the strongest person I know: me

La terre est couverte de gens qui ne méritent pas qu’on leur parle
.

(The earth swarms with people who are not worth talking to.)

—Voltaire

contents

Epigraph

ONE

Float in the Light.

TWO

Trying to Do More Regular-People Stuff.

THREE

Full. Body. Chills.

FOUR

Be the Peace You Wish to Create and Get the Fuck Out of This Car.

FIVE

I’m Not Wearing a Cute Death Outfit.

SIX

I Can’t. I Can’t. I Can’t. I Can’t. I Can’t. I Can’t.

SEVEN

A Doberman Named Larry and a German Shepherd Named Tarzan.

EIGHT

Rehab Is for Pussies.

NINE

Move, Grow, Lose, Find.

TEN

Food Is Not What I’m Hungry For.

ELEVEN

A Safe Space to Get Stoned and Drink Diet Coke.

TWELVE

Stronger Than Yesterday.

THIRTEEN

It’s Fine, Dad.

FOURTEEN

He Spooned the Fuck Out of Me.

FIFTEEN

So . . . Babe Is Your Actual Name?

SIXTEEN

Namaste, Universe. Namaste.

SEVENTEEN

Totally Yumster.

EIGHTEEN

You Look Homeless, but Not in a Good Way.

NINETEEN

Get Off My Dick.

TWENTY

I Promise I’ll Never Fart.

TWENTY-ONE

Stalker Potential.

TWENTY-TWO

The Least Chic Outfit in the History of Babe.

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About Babe Walker

one

FLOAT IN THE LIGHT.

W
hen I first got to rehab, I was morbidly obese. Not physically, but emotionally. I was angry at myself, angry at the world, and angry at my phone. But four months of rehabilitation for a (possible) shopping addiction and an (alleged) alcohol/drug addiction had brought me to a much more peaceful place.

Achieving inner (and outer) peace had been no picnic. Rehab basically sucked for the first three months. People passive-aggressively punished me for being pretty, I ate 100 percent more white foods than I would have liked, and I shoveled way too much horse shit, literally. Like, actual shit that came out of a horse, with an actual shovel. But then something changed. I couldn’t tell you why, but the last month at Cirque Lodge was magical; it was like the fog cleared and I suddenly understood why I’d made so many bad decisions in my life. I gave in to my
own healing process. I wrote apology letters and made amends with some loved ones whom I’d slandered in the past, told a nurse with bad skin that she was smart, met my birth mother for the first time, taught myself sign language, and accepted that the real reason people hate each other is because they hate themselves.

I was unchained. It was like having a midlife crisis, except instead of being a sad, saggy forty-six-year-old with a botched face-lift, I was twenty-five and ten pounds lighter, thanks to a stomach virus and the medication I took to treat it. I was in the best shape of my life. I was a New Babe Walker, a glowier Babe, a Babe with goals and aspirations. As I looked out over the sprawling Utah mountains on my last day of treatment, I realized I was my own soul mate. I was ready to marry myself and take myself on a honeymoon to The Rest of My Life. In that moment of beauty and reflection, I could’ve never foreseen what was soon to come.

W
hen Jackson, my rehab counselor, walked me out of Cirque and helped me load my fourteen suitcases (Goyard) into two idling black Escalades, I felt what can only be described as heartache. This was it. I was actually leaving the place that had been my sanctuary of cigarettes and fur for the last four months of my life. I felt like a delicate butterfly emerging from a chrysalis. The winds were strong, but I knew I had to be stronger.

“So this is good-bye, I guess,” I said, giving Jackson’s arm a gentle squeeze. I would have hugged him, but I’m allergic to raw lamb’s wool. “Thanks for helping me find me.”

“Babe, I was but an eagle soaring overhead, lovingly watching you scale the canyons of despair and the peaks of hope on your journey back to your true self.”

“Well, you’re the best eagle-man I’ve ever known. I won’t miss your almond breath, but I’ll miss your spirit.”

“And I’ll certainly miss your liveliness and your honesty, Babe. You can always call me if you feel like you’re slipping back into old habits.”

“Got it. I’ll text you when I get home and wanna do coke or buy an entire spring collection.”

“Alright. May your path be one of serenity and sincerity.”

“And may your path lead you to a Sephora, where you’ll discover that French shampoo I’ve been telling you about. Bye, Jackson.”

“Walk in love and light, Babe. Let the universe deliver.”

A single tear rolled down my cheek as the Escalade drove away from Cirque, Jackson getting smaller and smaller as I watched him wave through the back window, but I wiped it away with a sense of pride. I had set out to do something and I’d finished it. That felt good. I put my headphones on and listened to a playlist I’d curated of Tibetan monks chanting life-affirming statements, all the way to the airport.

In a few short hours, I’d landed safely at LAX and was in another Escalade (white this time) on the way to my dad’s house in Bel Air. Apparently rehab had worked, because I didn’t raise my voice once during the entire trip back home. A first for me. Thankfully, the flight was only mildly annoying. Some ogre tried to steal my window seat, but moved when I delivered an icy but kind stare instead of speaking directly to him. Then, when
I was retrieving my luggage at the baggage claim, I mistakenly counted thirteen suitcases instead of fourteen, which would have been a disaster for Old Babe, but New Babe was all about grace under pressure and re-counting. The whole moment was defused quickly with a few breathing exercises. Such a tough scenario, because baggage handlers can be
so
flippant sometimes—it’s like they don’t care about anyone’s needs but their own. But I guess everyone has a story.

Standing in the foyer of my dad’s house, I inhaled the aroma of Tom Ford Tobacco Vanille candles—the quintessential smell of home.

“Welcome back, love!” my dad shouted from the top of the stairs. “You look bloody radiant.”

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