(Trigger Warning – Disordered Eating and Substance Abuse)

“It only takes a couple of minutes to lose everything”

It’s September 2014, and I’m living with my wealthy boyfriend. We’ve been caught in a toxic three-year relationship, and things are about to get real. We had been doing long-distance for the past few years; he lived in Chicago, and I was in Milwaukee. Our relationship was a roller coaster. We loved to party and lived for it. We didn’t even know how to be together when we weren’t drinking and fucking around.

I would get completely messed up, trash my body and my bank account, and then have him bail me out and pay my bills. I felt like a leech. Neither of us was faithful, but we didn’t talk about it. Our deepest conversations revolved around intercourse —pretty romantic, right?

After I graduated from college, we decided to move to Detroit together for his new job. I pretended to be rich, drove a Mercedes, bought a designer dog, and swiped his credit card without a care in the world. I decorated our luxury apartment and filled the closet with a new wardrobe. I spent months renting cars and partying on his dime. Everything was about having a good time until things got bad.

After living together for a month, I decided to quit drinking. This decision made him very upset. He felt uncomfortable with me being sober while he drank. At one point, he even tried to force beer down my throat. Everything was about what he wanted—he controlled me with money, especially in the bedroom.

From the outside, it looked like the golden ticket, but on the inside, I was miserable. I went from having so much purpose at college to doing nothing with my life and being a user. I felt like complete shit when I didn’t work, and I hated relying on my guy for everything.

So, how did I end up living in a tent? It was a crisp October day in Detroit when I packed my suitcase for a week-long nanny job in Florida for my family. I was excited. When I hugged my boyfriend goodbye, he pulled me aside and said, “I have to tell you something… I’m engaged to be married to my cousin.”

I was left speechless. In just five minutes, I went from having everything to having nothing. I was so scared of commitment and intimacy that I would purposely pick partners I knew I couldn’t have. He told me from the start that his family expected him to get an arranged marriage, but I never believed it would happen. It was a rude awakening, and it was time for me to wake up, grow up, and restart my life the right way. I knew I needed to do the opposite of what I had been doing— create a fresh start from scratch.

I was devastated but had to keep myself together to complete my nanny job. During the week with my family, instead of being sad, I went utterly manic. At that time, I only used stimulants to speed up my life; I hadn’t yet turned to weed to slow down. I was addicted to diet pills, social media, and excessive exercise. Fortunately for kids, manic adults can be amusing and entertaining. My kid cousin and I had a blast going on rides at Disney World, making comedy videos, and dressing in random outfits. I never ran out of energy.

I danced around the amusement park and refused to eat very much. Food only slowed me down. Halfway through the trip, I called my soon-to-be ex and told him I wasn’t returning. He was confused and alarmed. Yes, we loved each other, but toxic love can only last so long. I had used him for money, and he had used me for a good time, but now that arrangement had ended.

When it was time for my family to leave, I asked them to drop me off at the cheapest motel I could find. When I opened the door, cockroaches scattered across the walls and over the faded floral comforter. I felt oddly at home. For five days, I went berserk, making 10-minute bathroom workouts on YouTube and taking hundreds of selfies. At this point in my life, posting on social media was just as important as breathing. I literally couldn’t stop.

Of course, my ex freaked out and booked a ticket to “rescue me,” but I was not in the mood. He arrived at the airport, rented a car, and met me at the motel. I was eager to show him my new life. He walked into the room, saw the cockroaches, and, within five seconds, said, “I am not staying here. We need to leave.” So we did.

At this point, I was so manic that I was losing touch with reality. I was obsessed with my body and couldn’t lose weight fast enough. When you are manic, everything is fantastic. When you are depressed, everything sucks. During my mania, I couldn’t even access my sad feelings. They were nowhere to be found. I just moved as fast as I could.

On the first night in the new hotel, we went to Walmart, where I filled the cart with a yellow tent, a blue blow-up mattress, a green sleeping bag, dried health foods, new clothes, and a scale. After spending hundreds of dollars, my ex and I went to a hotel for our last night together. I was not drinking, but he, of course, was and wanted to go to a club. So we did. We danced the night away and pretended everything was fine. The only good thing was how skilled we were at lying to each other.

The following day, my ex freaked out again and insisted we return all the camping gear and that I should fly back to Detroit. He thought I was bluffing, but I wasn’t. I would rather live in a car than go back to him. After two hours of arguing, we loaded up the rental car, drove to Cocoa Beach, and pulled into the nicest campground I had ever seen. It was called Jetty Park, and I was instantly captivated. Like I said before, when you’re manic, everything feels incredible.

I walked to the front desk and booked a three-week stay until I figured out my next move. I was free. After reserving my campsite on the beach, I set up my large tent and organized my belongings. My ex just stood by his car in shock, chain-smoking Marlboro Lights. He couldn’t believe I was going to live in a tent. He wasn’t sure if I needed to be hospitalized or left alone, but I preferred the latter.

After an hour or so, everything was ready. I hugged my ex goodbye, thanked him, and entered my new Florida fantasy life. I walked around the grounds, admiring the sports cars and luxury RVs. The sights blew me away. I started running along the beach like a mad woman, even asking strangers to exercise with me.

My days were filled with adventures. I was constantly doing something: biking, running, doing yoga, applying for jobs on the beach. Nothing could slow me down. During my stay, I even experienced a tornado warning. I thought my tent was going to blow away. I wore my hat and rain jacket and held on for dear life. For me, it was bliss. I loved the elements. Everything was raw and honest.

Now, you can’t live safely in a tent everywhere. This small beach town in Florida was perfect for me. Everyone kept asking me how I kept my stuff safe; it was a trust system. You don’t steal my shit, I won’t steal yours. Just like at hostels, too. I was in one of the only tents; the rest of the guests were wealthy with their large RVs. I never felt safer, and no one messed with me.

Living in a tent, I felt free. I loved the minimalist life. At the time, I was obsessed with my weight. I even kept a scale in my tent that I stood on several times a day. I monitored every calorie of food that went into my mouth. I mostly ate canned tuna, oatmeal, banana chips, protein shakes, peas, and peanut butter. The less I ate, the more energy I had.

One day, I asked a Canadian mother to take my photo and chatted with her about my YouTube channel and my 10-minute bathroom workouts. She had a wonderful husband and two young sons. The next day, running down the beach, I heard someone yelling, “Pepperbottom! Pepperbottom!” I looked around in shock, wondering who knew me in Florida. It was the mother from the day before. She asked if I wanted to be their vacation nanny, and I happily agreed. For the next few days, I hung out with the most incredible family ever, which was terrific.

I greatly appreciate our Canadian neighbors to the north and have learned a lot from their culture, which is quite different from the way Americans live. For example, Canada restricts advertising to children, unlike the US. The kids I nanny for were not allowed to see any commercials and were only permitted to watch 30 minutes of TV a day. They also do not show pharmaceutical advertisements. Only two countries can play pill mill commercials: the US and New Zealand.

When it was time to say goodbye, I returned to my tent feeling slightly sad. But I noticed I had a new neighbor—a young couple with three kids. As I returned to my tent in the middle of the night, I heard the couple fighting… Bad. The husband became physical, and the kids were crying hysterically. I left my tent to help the mom as best as I could. The police were called, and, of course, alcohol was involved.

In a couple of minutes, my dream turned into a nightmare. I felt utterly heartbroken. My new magical life had its first tear in the seams, but I didn’t let that stop me. As my camping reservation ended, I had no idea where to go next. My friend invited me to Vegas, but I couldn’t afford it.

The following day, a Southwest travel voucher popped up in my email. I booked the flight, packed my camping supplies, and met my friend in Vegas. When I arrived, I looked like a total bum, but they didn’t care. It was a blast! I figured if I could make it in Vegas Sober, I could make it anywhere. I met up with my close friends and partied my ass off drug and alcohol-free. My ex continued to send me money, which I would run on my feet to get at random Western Unions.

The 2nd day I saw a DJ that was hot as fuck on stage giving a conference. I hopped into the photo booth, took a sexy selfie, and wrote my number on the back. I walked up to him, shook his hand, and said, I’m in town for 3 nights; you can call me or not. I didn’t care and walked away.

That night, there was a huge Steve Aoki show. My friends said there was no way that the DJ would miss the concert, but my phone rang. It was him. He said he was sick of partying and would instead take me for a milkshake. We went to a Boujee diner and talked about our hectic lives. We returned to his hotel, and he gave me my first rim job! Thanks, buddy.

After Vegas, I took a bus to San Diego, California, and gave away my tent. But that is an adventure for another day. Living in a tent is still one of my favorite experiences. I want to thank Bipolar Disorder again for taking me on the wildest adventures. It can be your worst curse or your greatest blessing. I choose to view it as a blessing. XoXo.