Like almost everyone else I know, I loved Liz Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love. I read it right after I blew up my own life by quitting my stable job as a doctor to pursue an unknown life of God knows what, and I wanted to be Liz Gilbert.
I hadn’t published any books of my own yet, although I dreamed of doing so. Like Liz, I’d gone through a divorce that was my own choice. I’d been to Italy but not India or Bali, and I longed for more adventure than an OB/GYN doctor’s life of hospital commitments would allow me. I was a little full of myself and lacking in humility after martyring myself for twenty years of medical training and practice and then deciding I deserved a more fulfilling life after losing my physician father far too young. But it would be years before I would spot the red flags of young Liz’s narcissistic tendencies, born out of a reactionary rebellion against her codependent tendencies, something I could indeed resonate with in myself.
I went to an Eat, Pray, Love book event in San Francisco, just so I could bask in Liz’s glow, and I was shocked when she got on stage and said something to the tune of “What are you all doing, going to Italy, India, and Bali and trying to recreate my Eat, Pray, Love experience? Why don’t you go on your own pilgrimage and find your own story, rather than copying everything I’ve done? Unless you want to join the Liz Gilbert cult, in which case there will be an offering plate at the back of the room and you’re welcome to give me all of your money.”
I felt like I’d been slapped. Here I was, unemployed and scraping by on $200,000 of debt I was floating while trying to figure out how to earn a living next, and I’d just spent a lot of money to be there, and now I was getting accused of being a cult junkie? It all felt really weird and soured me on Liz Gilbert as an actual person. But because she’s such a wonderful writer, I still read all the books she put out since then, including her latest.
Just now, I finished reading Liz’s new memoir All The Way To The River, and what I missed before is staring at me baldly from between these pages. This is where unbridled codependency and an uncontained obsession with other people meets unearned privilege, love addiction, and madness.
Spoiler alert. If you haven’t read the book and you want to be surprised, stop now because I’m going to give you a summary. The Liz at the beginning of the book is married to the Brazilian man she met in Bali during the Eat, Pray, Love years when she finds out that her best friend Rayya, who she’s been secretly harboring a crush on for many years, has a terminal cancer diagnosis. She confesses her undying love to her husband, divorces him, and hooks up with Rayya, which I remember Liz announcing years ago on social media.
“Rayya experienced an “unrestrained ecstasy” at the clarity and simplicity of her terminal diagnosis, telling Liz: “Let’s just blaze out … let’s just live balls to the wall until I die!”
So they do, hurtling into unbridled codependency and love and sex addiction for Liz and unrestrained drug addiction for Rayya, the details of which are not spared, crescendoing into the moment when Liz decides she’s going to murder Rayya, not as a mercy killing or to help her die with dignity, but as a cold-blooded murder to put Liz out of her own misery because Rayya has cut her off from the drug of her choice- Rayya’s adoration, validation, affection, touch, sex, and all the juicy yum goodness of euphoric romantic fantasy.
Vulnerable Disclosure Or Overdisclosure?
I couldn’t help wondering “Is this brave, vulnerable disclosure?” as Oprah suggested in her glowing Oprah’s Book Club interview with Liz Gilbert. Or was this overdisclosure and boundary violating TMI?
We just did a whole session in The Writer’s Calling, answering this provocative question regarding our own writing. Where is that edge of riveting transparency that we all love in memoirs- and when does it become sensationism, trauma porn, and boundaryless overexposure? Especially when we’re talking about someone else’s addiction, where is that edge? Who owns our story when it includes other people? How much transparency is good writing versus when is it what Brené Brown calls “floodlighting?” When are we going “one up” by telling about someone else’s bad choices, and when are we just being honest and transparent?
If you’re writing to heal or to publish and you’d like to watch this week’s The Writer’s Calling recording, you can get access to it here.
I Felt Like A Voyeur
What’s my two cents? Honestly, I felt voyeuristic reading it, like I couldn’t put it down but I felt guilty every time I picked it up, like I was violating Liz’s (and Rayya’s) boundaries without wanting to. But then, when I’m invited to do so- is it still a boundary violation? It was very confusing for my parts. I had a strong mother hen part that wanted to protect Liz, to put some skin on her and keep her warm and safe. I worry that she will regret publishing this some day, and then it will be too late. But maybe I’m just waaaay overprotective of someone I have only ever met once. Maybe she needed the money after all she went through. Who am I to judge?
Many times during the book, I felt uncomfortable being let in so close to two women’s very private struggles.
I had the sensation that I was delving into Liz’s personal journal, a piece meant solely for her own eyes but perhaps too intimate to share openly on the internet, especially due to its detailed revelations about a deceased individual. The inclusion of doodles and personal poems made it feel like a window into Liz’s innermost thoughts, rather than a curated experience for the reader. It seemed as though Liz was inviting us to peek into her journal, rather than crafting a book that centered on us, the readers. I felt as though I had paid for a book that was not intended for me, but rather served as a part of Liz’s healing process.
I am an advocate for writing memoirs that are never meant to be published. Reflecting on my own unpublished memoir, I am grateful that it never saw the light of day, as it contained raw emotions and expressions that I would now find embarrassing. It was a necessary outlet for me at the time, but not something that needed to be shared with the world.
While reading, I couldn’t help but question if Liz had obtained consent to share such personal and unflattering details about a deceased individual. The idea that the deceased individual’s spirit had given permission for the book to be written raised ethical concerns for me. It made me wonder if Liz’s desire to publish the book outweighed the need for explicit consent.
I have experienced similar discomfort while reading memoirs in the past. Reflecting on Glennon Doyle’s book about her husband’s struggles with addiction, I couldn’t help but think about the impact of such personal revelations on the individuals involved. It made me more mindful of the boundaries I set in my own writing and the importance of obtaining consent from those I write about.
Additionally, I found myself grappling with the concept of “priv lit” while reading Liz’s book. The idea of privileged individuals sharing their personal growth journeys without acknowledging their privilege made me uneasy. It highlighted the intersection of consumerism, wellness culture, and lifestyle branding in personal transformation narratives. This analysis challenged me to consider the impact of my own writing on others and the need to be mindful of the privilege inherent in sharing personal stories.
The idea that self-realization can be achieved through purchasing courses, supplements, or spiritual accessories is a common theme in the genre of priv-lit. Authors and brands like Liz Gilbert, Brené Brown, Gabrielle Bernstein, and Oprah’s SuperSoul brand often promote the idea that by investing in these products, individuals can manifest their dreams and achieve self-actualization. However, critics argue that this mentality reinforces privilege by assuming that only those with access to resources like time, money, and leisure can achieve true spiritual growth. Furthermore, this focus on consumption depoliticizes suffering and turns personal growth into a performance, where wellness and self-awareness are measured by material possessions rather than genuine transformation.
In reflecting on her own work and the criticisms of priv-lit, the author questions whether her books, such as The Anatomy of a Calling and Sacred Medicine, fall into the category of priv-lit. She considers how her writing may inadvertently perpetuate systems of privilege and harm her audience by promoting a consumer-driven approach to personal growth.
The author also critiques the New Age guru-isms often perpetuated by figures like Liz Gilbert, pointing out the oversimplified and sometimes harmful messages they promote. She questions the validity of spiritual teachings that ignore the intersectionality of social issues and fail to consider the diverse experiences of individuals, particularly those from marginalized communities. While she acknowledges the value of personal storytelling and spiritual exploration, she emphasizes the importance of approaching these topics with humility and expertise to avoid perpetuating harmful narratives.
Overall, the author grapples with the complexities of the priv-lit genre and its implications for personal growth and social change. By interrogating her own work and engaging in critical reflection, she strives to create more inclusive and nuanced narratives that honor the diverse realities of her audience.
She pleaded with me to end my lifelong habit of self-betrayal because she was the one who suffered every time I pursued a new relationship.
She required me to stop sacrificing myself because she needed my support, attention, and presence. Her plea was the catalyst for my genuine commitment to recovery. However, I must admit that I initially struggled to accept this inner child, whom I now call Lizzy. She seemed like a daunting responsibility, and I hesitated to embrace her needs. I even blamed her for the failures in my past relationships, attributing them to her clinginess and constant search for love.
Her presence had caused my oversensitivity, depression, and anxiety, making it difficult for me to maintain stable connections with others. Despite her fearfulness and vulnerability, I initially found her unappealing. I had spent years trying to ignore or discard her, believing that without her pain and suffering, I could have been a better version of myself.
I realized that I had been neglecting Lizzy and seeking others to fulfill her needs. Watching her story unfold felt like witnessing a tragic event that I couldn’t turn away from. Yet, I developed a deep compassion for little Lizzy and hoped that she found the love she longed for with Liz.
If you’re interested in delving deeper into your own Inner Family Systems (IFS) work, my colleague Emma Harper and I will be hosting a weekend Zoom Peer To Peer Parts Processing training. Check out the details and registration link here.
After reading Liz’s book, I invite you to join the discussion on my Facebook thread here. Can you please rewrite the following text?