EPISODE 28 TAKE A WALK

The tears streamed down my face.

“I’m not saying this! This is the biggest announcement of my life and I’m not going to have two old men tell me how I’m going to say it! We agreed on this weeks ago! Why the hell has this all changed? Why is no one listening to me?”

The doe-eyed writer looked back at me. “I’m sorry, I don’t think you have to say it exactly as is.”

“What the fuck is the sword of Damocles and why the fuck would I be talking about it now? And why am I starting a fight with Charly?! Or anyone, for that matter?” (Charly was our backstage interviewer.)

“I, eh, well, you don’t… It’s—”

“It’s not what we agreed on!”

I’m pretty sure I was turning crimson while I ugly cried, yelled, and rained spit drops all over the poor writer, who was trying to console me. This was the epitome of my “difficult to work with” era—only now amplified by the multitude of hormones circulating in my body.

There’s a custom in the backstage politics of professional wrestling where you must maintain your best poker face at all times. Emoting is seen as a sign of weakness, and this business is survival of the fittest.

Ironically, beyond the curtain, the opposite is true. The best wrestlers are the ones who emote authentically, who allow the audience to feel what they feel. They sell, i.e., react to something in such a way which makes it appear believable and legitimate to the audience, usually referring to the physical side of wrestling, but it stretches far beyond that. We’re selling stories, characters, hopes, dreams, and, most importantly, merch. Okay, maybe it’s not “most important,” but in the eyes of the company, it’s pretty darn important.

Anyway, back to my meltdown.

“Vince is almost done; go in there as soon as Jamie’s out.”

On most days, even though I had built a good relationship with Vince McMahon, there was still always a nervous anticipation of approaching his door to ask for something. Today, however, was no ordinary day. I had no filter, no restraint, and absolutely no couth whatsoever.

There was no deep breath or blessing myself to protect myself against his ability to mind control before I knocked on the door. In fact, I didn’t even knock on the door. I kicked that mother down, metaphorically speaking, of course. Clearly, I had enough rage on my face that our director of Creative at the time, Paul Heyman, gathered his papers and bolted out of there as quick as he could.

I had long since hypothesized that pregnancy was accompanied by a free pass for bad behavior, and on this occasion my theory had been proved correct. I was only nine weeks pregnant, but I was bad to the bone.

Vince, still miraculously delighted about the fact that his current longest-reigning women’s champion and arguably biggest star was leaving to go have a child, was oblivious to the fury I had brought into his office, as he greeted me with a welcoming hug that ended up tear-soaking his fancy Armani blazer.

“What’s wrong?!” he asked, finally reading the room.

What came out of my mouth next was barely comprehensible, but between sobs I managed to get out, “Iuh don’tuh wantuh touh do thisuh! No oneuh isuh listuhehninguh touh meuh!”

“What are you talking about? Calm down now here a second. What don’t you want to do?” Vince consoled me like a grandpa.

I composed myself for long enough to explain why I didn’t want to go out and start a fight with Charly, who was simply interviewing me, and then pick a fight with Asuka, who, unbeknownst to her, would become the next Raw women’s champion. I was The Man and all, but I wasn’t a dumbass pregnant lady who would pick fights for no reason.

He listened before asking, “What do you want to do?”

“I want to go out there with the title in the Money in the Bank briefcase and talk about how much this has meant to me but say I need to go away for a while. Then Asuka comes out screaming at me, looking for her contract. I tell her that I put a lock on the case and that she hadn’t just won a chance at the title, she had won much more. She opens it—then I say, ‘Now you go be a warrior, because I’m going to go be a mother.’ ”

“Well, that’s much better. Why don’t we do that?”

“Really?” I was now sobbing because of how nice he was being.

“No one told me this idea. It’s great! Let’s go do it now,” Vince said with a warmth that tends not to be associated with the mythical billionaire.

I had somehow managed to keep my makeup intact in the midst of my breakdown, and Vince guided me to the empty warehouse to give my farewell speech in front of nothing but a camera and a skeleton crew. Such was the covid era way.

It was a long way from where I started. I’d left my family years ago to make this dream work. Now I was leaving my dream work to make a family.

The announcement was received with overwhelming positivity. Of course there was the odd “How irresponsible” comment here and there. But hey. Go fuck yourselves.

I knew the timing was perfect, as if I’d been guided by the universe. But the daunting reality that now I’d be sitting at home by myself several days a week with a growing belly and hormones aplenty was sending me into a deep anxiety.

I’m not the world’s best at doing nothing. But if nothing else, I’d be doing nothing with the rest of the planet.

Except maybe I’d try to write this book.