I dropped out of college and spent every night of the last two years at home with my family.
During the first couple of weeks in my cocoon, I was a walking nervous breakdown: There was nothing to distract me from all of the stupid things I’d done to get in my own way, which was an overwhelming epiphany.
“Don’t let me shit myself,” I thought. Then I passed out. When I came to, I was covered in breast pumps. Ladies and gentlemen, my first panic attack.
I actually go out of the house on purpose to perform in front of crowds, something that seemed impossible a decade ago, when my mom had to extract me from my filthy apartment in Boston and drag me home to New Jersey for psychiatric intervention.