Bamford draws on those strengths once again in her debut memoir, “Sure, I’ll Join Your Cult.” She takes readers on a dizzying tour of the many, many 12-step programs she’s joined over the years. Across three sections and over the course of 23 chapters, Bamford, 53, narrates her life story by chronicling her membership in the “cults” of family, fame and mental health care. She details the Dale Carnegie training course she attended with her father as a sophomore in high school, her diligent crusade to have a napping tent installed on the set of her television series and how becoming the star of a viral set of Target commercials pushed her sanity to the brink.
Some of her misadventures — among them, being committed to a psych ward and accidentally killing a beloved pug — feel like anything but laughing matters. But it’s a testament to Bamford that she’s able to fill these pages with stories that are relatable and consistently hilarious, even when they’re harrowing. Throughout, she rejects the appeal of tidy solutions, instead embracing messy self-acceptance.
Take her description of Overeaters Anonymous as a live-action role-playing game, for example: “There are no dice, but there are plenty of plastic poker chips for lengths of abstinence.” Or consider the recipes that close each chapter (“Psych Ward Graham Crackers”) and her inclusion of a month’s worth of her own financial details in appeasement of her obligations to Debtors Anonymous.
Even when discussing a subject as dark as suicide, Bamford finds a bridge to empathetic levity by encouraging those in crisis to call anyone they possibly can, be it the front desk of the Hilton Pasadena (she helpfully includes the phone number) or, brilliantly, an antiabortion facility. “See if they’re pro-life for your life,” Bamford writes. “All of their literature says, ‘Life is a gift.’ Have someone who answers their phone prove it to you.”
Bamford also comically plays with visual style and narrative: Passages that she deems “creepy” are winkingly rendered in bolded Comic Sans font (which she refers to as the “trigger font”), and a recycling bin icon pops up to denote previously performed material. She also makes occasional, amusing use of footnotes, including a lengthy justification for a joke at the expense of her dead mother and a comprehensive list of every psych med Bamford believes she’s ever tried.
This material, and the quirks of its presentation, make the memoir feel like a 270-some-page portal directly into Bamford’s mind. That notion would probably be terrifying to Bamford, who worries frequently on the page that she may be coming across as a massive narcissist. But there’s an authenticity to her words that elevates them into something beyond the category of comedy memoir. That’s true whether she’s offering up her personal email address with explicit encouragement to write her with any complaints (something she does repeatedly) or diligently noting all her editors’ concerns as they arise.
Bamford has created a work destined to shine much-needed light on mental illness. Illuminating those serious moments with humor is her true triumph.
If you or someone you know needs help, visit 988lifeline.org or call or text the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline at 988.
Zack Ruskin is a freelance arts and culture writer in San Francisco.
Sure, I’ll Join Your Cult
A Memoir of Mental Illness and the Quest to Belong Anywhere
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