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  Author’s Note

  Disclaimer: Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals. In these instances, original names have been replaced with Russian aliases because I’m obsessed with the Romanovs, thanks to the animated classic Anastasia. And don’t even get me started on Russian gymnastics.

  Sensitivity warning: While this book has hilarious fun moments, it also discusses tough issues. While there aren’t graphic details, if you’re a survivor of sexual abuse, or struggling with addiction, please utilize the resources pages in the back of this book.

  Dedication

  Imperfection is beautiful.

  To anyone who has ever felt broken

  beyond repair, this is for you.

  If you’ve ever been excluded,

  or told you were not enough,

  know that you are enough,

  and beautifully complete.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Author’s Note

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: All the Parts

  Chapter 2: Jack

  Chapter 3: The Loyal Tea

  Chapter 4: Roundoff Back Handspring Full

  Chapter 5: Lovestarved

  Chapter 6:

  Chapter 7: Gutsy Queen

  Chapter 8: Mr. Clean

  Chapter 9: Jonathan and the No Good, Very Bad Summer

  Chapter 10: The Khaleesi Within*

  *Except That Whole Unfortunate Ending

  Chapter 11: Who is She?

  Epilogue: On the Ice

  Acknowledgments

  Resources

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  All the Parts

  YOU KNOW THOSE PLANTS THAT ARE ALWAYS TRYING TO FIND THE light? Maybe they were planted in a location that didn’t necessarily facilitate growth, but inexplicably they make a circuitous route to not only survive but bloom into a beautiful plant. That was me—my whole life. But extremely flamboyantly jubilant and oh so gay. Picture me in the seventh grade: a chubby, slightly snaggletoothed kid with a voluminous mop of frizzy curly hair that screamed through layers of gel for what I desperately wanted to be a Hanson-esque, smooth collarbone-length center-parted man-bob. I’d be cycling through several of my cutest looks, usually monochromatic jumpers with severe Doc Martens boots, just to go to the mall. It felt entirely possible that a talent scout would be there, in the nation’s smallest capital of Springfield, Illinois, on the off-weekend my family was there for a soccer tournament with my brothers, just waiting outside Claire’s to discover a kid like me and guide me to center stage. I’d practice ice-skating routines in my living room, trying to be like the Olympians I idolized, imagining how triumphant I’d be when I finally seized that gold medal. With a cute enough outfit and the right attitude (yet no ability to skate, flip, or sing), I could become a Michelle Kwan–, Dominique Dawes–, or Christina Aguilera–level hero. And maybe, just maybe, someday I’d get out of Quincy, Illinois. (And by “someday,” I meant: as soon as physically possible.)

  The years of fantasizing about reaching stratospheric fame through a local mall discovery had long since faded by 2017. I’d settled for much more attainable goals. I became a hairdresser, working in both LA and New York. I’d stumbled, very gratefully, into a side hustle in the form of a web series called Gay of Thrones. That spring I would move to Atlanta to shoot a dream project with four new friends. We had beaten out the collective gay world for these five coveted positions, and we all knew it was a monumental opportunity. Like Maya Angelou taught me, I was hoping for the best, but preparing for the worst, so that nothing could catch me off guard. I was just happy that I had completed my mission of escaping cornfield-small-town-only-gay-person infamy and was now free to live an authentic queer life in a gorgeous big city with a Trader Joe’s and nobody thinking twice about my leggings.

  A year later in February, Queer Eye had just come out, and I was on my way to a meeting at Town & Country. Do I know what you do at magazine meetings? Absolutely not! But I’ve seen enough America’s Next Top Model seasons to know how to nail a go-see.

  To my shock I arrived early, so I went to grab a coffee, and as I was walking in, this lady with the most gorgeous expertly done microbraids and giant glasses stopped me and bellowed, “Honey, this faggotry you are serving is giving me everything!”

  At first, I was confused. Did she just call me a fag? But the smile on her face and her extreme proximity seemed to suggest a loving and enamored person. I’m now doubly confused, I’m running ahead of schedule, and strangers are stopping me. Mind you, it’s still 8:15 a.m., my eyes still subtly perma-stoned from last night’s edible, and I hadn’t even had my coffee yet! So I said, “Thanks, queen,” and continued on my way.

  But then two steps later, two other girls stopped me. They said they were living for the show and asked if they could take selfies. Of course I said, “Yes, sweets!” and that caused a few more girls from outside the shop to come in for what was quickly becoming an impromptu meet-and-greet. My original encounter from the store got in line for her pic next, then became the photographer for the rest of the meet-and-greet. After thanking all my new friends, I left the coffee shop to head back to Town & Country with no coffee because I forgot. Well, that was fun. How much am I thriving right now? I thought.

  Crossing the street to go to my meeting, a very nice man stopped me and began playing twenty questions with me about my life, about the show, about everything. I obliged, because I’m eternally a people pleaser, and I didn’t want him to feel bad, but at that point my early arrival turned into being fully actually late to the meeting. I tried to explain that to him as I was frolicking away like a gorgeous gazelle toward the doors of the Hearst building.

  When I was filming Queer Eye in secrecy with the boys in Atlanta in 2017, sometimes producers, or people who were familiar with the show’s revival, would ask me, “Are you ready for your life to change?” I always said, “OMG, yes! So excited to not keep a secret, and I’ve definitely been stopped by fans for, like, three to seven selfies a day once a year when I go to Pride, so I’m totally ready!” How different would my day-to-day life really be? I’d been going about my life, just business as usual, the same way it had always been. But this morning, something shifted. People knew who I was, everywhere I went.

  There was a girl who stopped me on the corner of Twenty-Third and Park not long after the show came out. We made eye contact for a split second and it was like an invisible Jackie Chan punched her in the stomach. She doubled over. She took a dramatic step back. “Oh my God,” she yelled. “Oh my God! Oh my God!” I was so worried about her that I stopped right there and pulled her onto the curb. We sat for a while until she pulled herself together.

  It surprised me how often people would stop me, becoming deeply vulnerable about the way the show had changed their lives. Most of the time it would hit me in a really gorgeous place. But other times it would be painfully triggering to hear about their pain and what they were struggling with. Sometimes I was tempted to give people my phone number, and at times would until my mom impressed upon me how unwise this was. In therapy I had learned about “selective permeability” (a term that pertains to cellular membranes letting some, but not all, molecules enter the cell; the same can apply to interacting with people—not taking on the experiences or negativity of others, but staying open to accepting joy or gratitude) but although I had practiced that behind the chair at work as a hair stylist, I had never had to exercise those muscles so nimbly anywhere anytime with strangers so often. Learning to hold a safe space for people to share with me while maintaining my well-being is a delicate dance.

  When peopl
e had asked me whether I was ready for my life to change, I don’t think I really understood what they meant. It wasn’t just that strangers would know who I was. It was this other thing that started to happen to me: when I looked in their eyes, sometimes, there was a little voice in my head wondering, Would you still be so excited to meet me if you really knew who I was? If you knew all the things I’d done? If you could see all my parts?

  Sure, there’s a part of me that’s endlessly positive. But it’s just one part. It’s a beautiful part, a strong part, and an important part, but it’s not all of it. There are other parts I want to show, parts that are a little bit scarier to get into. Like the nagging, insecure part of me that worries my positivity is faker than the hair that covers the chalkboard scalp of Donald Trump. Or the part of me that’s had sex with a ton of people—a lot of whom I wish I hadn’t. What about my irritated part, which isn’t the easiest to deal with if my people-pleasing part has been working overtime. My binge-eating part, my part that just wants to be left alone, or my part that could make you pray for me to catch permanent laryngitis because I can’t stop telling you about the Romanovs, or my cats, or the irony of the GOP that wants low taxes and even lower federal government regulation, unless it comes to regulation of people’s pregnancies, marijuana, or the fundamentally racist state and federal prison systems. Because when you have this much personality, there’s a fear lurking just below the surface: If you knew all of me, you wouldn’t love me anymore. You would no longer want me as your new best friend.

  I love an uplifting, feel-good moment. I love everything packaged up neatly and put into an easily understandable box. I continue to realize that this is not how life works. Joy can live beside sorrow. Life is messy, unpredictable, and seldom tied into neat little boxes. This book is a moment for me to share with you what I have learned so far. There’s a rhyme and reason behind my effervescent spirit, and no, I did not wake up like this. It took a lot of trauma and tears to become the person you see today. Sometimes I think people only want to see the side of me that’s power stomping in stilettos, or spinning around on figure skates. But this book is my chance to show you more. It’s not gonna be pretty, but it’s my truth, and if I don’t share it, I won’t be able to help others who are struggs to func.

  Brené Brown is an incredible researcher, author, and speaker who has taught me 60 percent of what I know about vulnerability, courage, and authenticity. I look up to her work and her teachings so much. She talks about what shame is, and who to be vulnerable with, which has gone into my thinking for this venture a lot. She says shame is the feeling of, “If you knew all there was to know about me, you wouldn’t love me anymore,” which always struck a chord with me. Also to be vulnerable with people who earn it, and I thought about that in writing this book too. I want a world with more feel-good queer stories. Being LGBTQ+ doesn’t mean a life of certain pain and suffering—actually, yes it does because that’s what life is for everyone—but I want more queer stories that are light and not full of pain and abuse. But that’s not really possible. Joy and pain often occur all together. No matter our orientation, to live is to experience suffering at some point. Historically, we have had more heteronormative stories being told; our LGBTQ+ family members just now in the past few decades are getting a seat at the storytelling table.

  Shame loves secrets, it thrives with them. I’m telling my story to help myself heal, and remove the shame, in the hope that this might help others heal too. I feel at this time in my life, with all the work I’ve done on myself, that I’m strong enough to be this vulnerable. After experiencing such an outpouring of love, I believe anyone reading this has earned my honesty.

  * * *

  Like any consumer of pop culture, I’ve watched celebrity breakdowns, read salacious stories, and asked myself, “Who does that?”—never realizing that I could be in a position to be under the same kind of scrutiny. I grew up in a small town where my family’s business, as part owners of a broadcast media company, made us well known in a way that was, for me, suffocating. We were basically a not-as-popular, local version of the Kennedys, and I was, obviously, incredibly gay. I used to live for this vision of moving to a big city where nobody knew who I was, and I could just walk down the street, completely anonymous. That was always the dream. So what did I think was going to happen if I went on a TV show? Hollywood is just its own small town, after all.

  It never occurred to me that if I ever really found success in the entertainment industry, I would be sacrificing the anonymity I’d wanted so badly. It was like my very own Gift of the Magi. Back when I was hoping for the best but preparing for the worst, I never really thought about what “the best” would actually entail.

  It wasn’t as if I didn’t already have some familiarity with what celebrity was like. My first week working as an assistant at a famous hair salon in LA, I washed a well-known actress’s hair. Soon I was assisting hairdressers working with major celebrity clients. I could name-drop, but ew, queen. Let’s just say, I encountered celebrities aplenty. I saw how fame seemed to change different people: Some of them treat you like you’re to be seen and not heard. Some of them treat you like you’re talent too. When I became a main hairstylist, I would see how a few of them were mean to my assistant, even if they were nice to me. It showed me that celebrities are all very human. They have their own fears and their own darkness, too, no matter what you think you know.

  But living in a world where it’s so easy to take everyone’s highly curated Instagram feed at face value, it’s important to dig deeper, to read between the lines, to see through all of it and not compare yourself to them! Comparing ourselves to people on social media is as risky as using WebMD to diagnose yourself. You’ll end up way more stressed than before—just don’t even go there. Comparison is that stop we can just ride on past because it smells bad and is relentlessly draining.

  People mostly know me for being positive and loving. But part of being fearlessly, endlessly encouraging is also giving voice to the parts you don’t want seen—like the part that snaps when it gets riled. I wouldn’t want most people seeing that irritated part—the part of me that comes out if my assistant leaves my client’s toner on for too long and fucks up her color. You don’t want to be with me in the back room when I’m telling her, “I’m elbow-deep in highlights trying to fix the same mistake you’ve made twice this week.” You can’t be fiercely loving without also being passionate—and sometimes passionate isn’t pretty. What might seem testy is actually scar tissue, the residual effects of trauma that I lived through.

  So that’s the question that I keep coming back to. Would you love me if you saw me in a bad moment? Would you love me if I’m momentarily Grumps McGee about everybody taking forever? Would you love me if you saw all my parts?

  The whole parts thing is really ferosh, but I didn’t come up with it. It actually came from this doctor, Richard C. Schwartz, who created something called internal family systems therapy. According to him, we were all born as a centered self, who is perfect and whole and can handle anything. But as we experience trauma in life, the centered self doesn’t know quite how to deal with it, so it develops pieces of ourselves that we can call upon based on the situations we find ourselves in. It’s not as intense as multiple personality disorder—it’s more, like, we all have these parts in our personality, but some people’s are more extreme or polarized than others.

  The work you do in this modality of therapy is about getting the parts to talk to one another. If you think of your personality like a car, it’s like this: My busy bee sits in the driver’s seat, saying yes to every job coming my way with no thought for overbooking. Kicking out my people pleaser who’s now in the passenger seat, and then my inner child is in the car seat. Meanwhile, my inner critic, who has the voice of grandmother, can’t stop backseat driving and telling everyone how I could be driving so much more effectively, and since we’re in a minivan, my narrator in the back seat can’t stop talking about the geopolitical climate of Ven
ezuela but simultaneously also wants to talk about this year’s World Gymnastics Championships. What’s that noise coming from the top of the car? Oh, I think that’s my raunchy sex kitten in a tube dress, doing Lizzo ass-clap-twerk-practice to post up to her Insta story. That’s right: My personality is a minivan, actually a small bus. There are different pieces of me that are all driving together, with one in charge based on what’s happening in my life. Ideally, you get the parts to realize that they’re all in the same car—and they’re all trying to help, but your centered self is actually capable of driving you back to a safe, soothing place.

  This is a book about all my parts, and how I learned to integrate them: the part of me that’s funny and the part of me that’s still wounded and fragile and the part of me that’s loving and the part of me that’s kind of a diva and the part of me that’s read the Bhagavad Gita and the Bible and The Four Agreements and is still Postmatesing twelve-dollar coffees and screaming about my first-world problems. And it’s a book too about the part of me that I’m really scared to talk about: the part that’s been psychotically depressed and self-destructive, to the point where I truly did not care what happened to me.

  It’s scary for me to share my truth. But I’ve had a lot of practice getting comfortable with what that truth is. And I’m ready to let you in too. So I’m telling my story—the whole story—to show that some masterpieces start off a mess. Sort of like the girl who stopped me on the street that day in New York, the one who totally lost her shit. After she pulled herself together, we did a full-fledged photo shoot, right there on the corner of Twenty-Third and Park. Did it begin as a near bus crash? Certainly. But it ended as a glamorous content session, crisis averted, content created, both of our days made.

  Chapter 2

  Jack

  BEFORE THERE WAS JVN, THERE WAS JACK. THAT’S WHAT EVERYONE called me when I was a kid. I didn’t start going by Jonathan until I started hair school at age eighteen. Baby Jack had his passions, and they rotated with the seasons.