The Brooklyn Rail

Blending wry comedy writing with life writing in the form of the künstler memoiren, the German term for “artist memoirs,” Bamford delves into the unexpected power of twelve-step programs and self-help books, while addressing the complexities of intrusive thoughts, bipolar disorder, suicidal ideation, and the challenges of pursuing a comedy career in Hollywood.

Bamford’s work is often described as meta, with her distinct comedic voice adding a surreal, sometimes chaotic quality as she portrays both herself and those closest to her—like her mother—in deeply layered ways. The passing of her mother, the family’s “charismatic leader,” further deepens the memoir’s exploration of loss, memory, and reality.

Living in Altadena, a small suburban enclave tucked into the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains, I’ve had the routine pleasure over the past few years of crossing paths with Bamford, easily recognizable in brightly colored Society of the Spectacle eyewear and, for a time, eye-catching pink neon clogs—whether at the local café, at secret meetups in mountain-facing parks with pugs, Max and Muffin, and still-life artist husband, Scott Marvel Cassidy. A community as casual and welcoming as the bohemian Echo Park and Silver Lake of the late eighties—minus the heavy drag influence—where profession and status are thankfully played offstage.

One bright Saturday, I ran into Bamford at a local café to discover she had picked up my memoir, A Room with a Darker View: Chronicles of My Mother and Schizophrenia. Having read Bamford’s memoir over a single weekend last summer, imagine my excitement. And shortly after, my trepidation. Would she find my mother’s story too disheartening, too dark? My mother’s tale is not one for the influencers; she does not “recover” from schizophrenia, but instead endures occasional periods of stability punctuated by precipitous, devastating relapses while being repeatedly denied health services by insurance companies. Allaying my fears, Bamford assured me she enjoys a good, sad story. Buoyed by her response, I seized the moment and asked my neighbor for an interview, eager to explore her gift for what she calls “over-sharing.”

Writing about mothers, mental illness, and the suburban-latchkey seventies feels like too much shared ground to overlook—not to mention a mania for brightly colored clogs.

Claire Phillips (Rail): I am besotted by the attention you pay your mother in this memoir. I love that the mother-daughter relationship is a recurring theme in your work. Feminist critic Adrienne Rich famously observed: “the cathexis between mother and daughter—essential, distorted, misused—is the great unwritten story.” My mother also wielded a powerful influence on my artistic life, particularly in her attempt to live through me—her firstborn—while navigating the boredom of the housewifery of 1970s suburbia and her waylaid ambitions for a career in law, with a difficult-to-treat psychosis looming in her not-so-distant future.

Your mother's central role in your story—her generosity, discipline, ambition, and troubling strictures—seems to shape much of your growth. A force to be reckoned with, she’s the apparent source of shame and intrusive thoughts, underscored by noteworthy taboos—like telling your father not to wear “the gay shirt.”

You’ve portrayed “mother” with wit and bravery for years in your stand-up, in your breakout web series, with Netflix sensation Lady Dynamite, and now this memoir. What has your mother’s reaction been to your portrayal of her over the years?

Maria Bamford: My mom had and has always been very supportive, and I also don’t think she thought I could have a job impersonating her—so at first I think she was just delighted I wasn’t on drugs. My mom said she was “shy,” but I know she really enjoyed celebrity culture and to have any sort of name recognition out and about in the world was really fun for her. A few times, I wrote jokes that hurt her feelings and I tried to edit them in a way where it made clear that I was always the fool. But she’d have to have told you herself. When she died, my sister and I were both holding one of her hands.

My mom loved shiny accomplishments. My sister was a physician for many years, got married, and raised four kids and that seemed beyond my abilities, so I decided to go—unconsciously or consciously—for another way to “win” in emotional immaturity via showbiz. Of course, life is not like that and there is no winner or loser, but attention getting via the stage felt better than the harder work of below the line production like degrees, child rearing, marriage.

Rail: In The Art of Memoir, Mary Karr’s arguably “definitive book” on the craft, she outlines her approach to the “handling others” who appear in her work—informing them in advance of what she has written, giving them “a chance to shoot it down,” and even sharing pages before publication, admirably avoiding writing “at any length about people [she doesn’t] like.”

Memoirists often walk a fine line between revelation and restraint. What were your considerations while writing this memoir? Did you inform family, friends, or your husband about their inclusion before publication? Adding to this, your sister is a memoirist as well. What’s that like—two memorists in the same family? My brother and I don’t always agree on the raw, painful moments of the family story. How do you navigate these interpretive differences?

Bamford: I thought I gave it to everyone, but I know I had one person who was very upset being in the book and I definitely made a few changes for the softcover in order to amend that painful unnecessary stuff that I’d just plopped in the book without thinking.

You’d really have to ask my sister—her style and subject matter are so different, even though we share memories. Her books mostly deal with adult experiences and though very funny, they are also sincere in a way that I am not brave enough to risk.

Rail: Another attribute of this work I find so relatable is that despite your enduring success, we learn early on that Cult is not a hero’s journey or restitutive narrative. With trademark humor, you write:

Full disclosure: THIS book is NOT going to have a clear chronicle of trauma, healing, victory. It’s going to be more like a series of emotional sudoku puzzles that I grow tired of trying to solve and a third of the way through start a new one, hoping the next one is easier. I haven’t figured it out. I don’t relate well to stories where people have found some sparkling new reality at the end of the memoir. Sometimes memoirists have to write a second memoir to amend their initial new reality to a new, NEW reality.

As a young woman whose mother’s mental health treatment was often elusive, I found narratives of heroic recovery disorienting and often dispiriting: the glossed over version of John Nash’s experience of schizophrenia portrayed in the Hollywood adaptation of A Beautiful Mind, or the extensively researched and gripping biography by Sylvia Nasar. What guided your understanding of a more nuanced narrative?

Bamford: I think happy endings are a load of shit. If they do happen, then it’s most polite to keep those lucky, undeserved interludes to yourself. Capitalism is based on a marketplace selling perfection, eternity, and white linen sheets. I have half of a Caesar salad with chicken in my scarf right now that couldn’t make it into my mouth due to trembly hands. I do weekly therapy and couples therapy and multiple twelve-step groups. Despite priding myself on developing new material, I just realized I am currently performing (as if it is new) an older premise that I forgot I had done two albums ago. I don’t want anyone to think that my life is perfect—not that I don’t want to be happy and at peace—but for me, that hasn’t been a realistic outcome at all times. I don’t want to be mad at myself that I’m doing something wrong because life feels bad sometimes.

Rail: Buried within this sharp, irreverent memoir is another powerful insight: the importance of knowing your family’s mental health history. I was fascinated to learn that your mother had taken Depakote for years, a medication prescribed for both bipolar disorder and epilepsy. Interestingly, after much trial and error, it turned out to be the most effective treatment for you as well. Your mother’s reasons for taking this drug seemed deliberately obscure. Had you known this information earlier, do you think it could have proven helpful to you?

Bamford: YES!!!!!! Had I known my mom was on a medication for bipolar (the family story was seizures), I think that would have provided me with at least more information and maybe less shame about being put on a mood stabilizer.

Rail: Blending comedy writing, disability narrative, and memoir, your book defies categorization. I found myself wishing I’d grown up with the bravery of your brand of comedic sorcery. Like Kurt Vonnegut, a staple of my seventies youth, your work is surreal, inventive, and biting, while striking a balance of open-hearted generosity. Regarding suicidal ideation, I haven’t encountered a more thoughtful exploration since The Guardians: An Elegy for a Friend by Sarah Manguso—a slim, crystalline must-read on the subject. Who did you read to prepare for writing this memoir?

Bamford: I’ve read (I think) almost every mental health memoir in English. My favorites are The Center Cannot Hold by Elyn R. Saks on having schizophrenia while trying to hide symptoms at school and work, and I also love Madness by Marya Hornbacher, which describes her recovery from episodes of bipolar I. Ellen Forney has a fantastic graphic memoir called MARBLES about her diagnosis of bipolar disorder. Avail yourself! Google any symptom you have plus memoir and there is a generous library of books out there to find comfort in.

Rail: How did you arrive at the central idea of framing this memoir around the self-help guides and twelve-step programs—the “cults”—that shaped your journey?

Bamford: I love twelve-step groups, self-help, anything free and if my book ends up like a battered and moldering Codependent No More in an AA club in Fairbanks, Alaska, I would be very happies. And yes I mean, happies, plural.

Rail: What surprises have emerged since the release of your book? Whenever I share excerpts of my memoir in the classroom, I’m struck by just how many people can relate. The prevalence of schizophrenia and related diagnoses, whether in those actively being treated for “the collected schizophrenias”—a term for the spectrum of related conditions Esmé Weijun Wang aptly recuperates in her eponymous bestselling book—or in caregivers, far exceeds my expectations.

Bamford: It’s sad that any stigma still exists in having a mental health diagnosis or any disability, but that’s the case. There are so many more people talking openly about it via social media and that’s been an incredible educator, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t a dozen more instances of horrible mistreatment and just general neglect of an entire population of people.

Rail: You are strikingly transparent in this memoir. You discuss collaborating with professional writers—no ghostwriters here—and candidly share the financial realities of performing standup, from generated income to the costs of touring. You also reveal your hard-won work ethic, sparked by a much-needed detour through Debtors Anonymous, demystifying for your readers the path to artistic success. I found this especially relatable. Where does the idea come from that achieving artistic success requires sacrificing financial stability?

Bamford: I never want to be a victim of THE DREAM. I can work. I can earn. And if I can't, oh well—maybe I can bunk with you? But there’s judgement sometimes if people have day jobs and for me, that’s banana pants. Having a day job enabled me to get shelter and food. There’s only so many jokes about hunger and living outdoors.

Rail: Language holds transformative power in shaping identity, as seen in the way you refer to heightened experiences of bipolar II as “the mentals” or “the fears,” steering away from first-person identifiers. In her collected essays, Esmé Weijun Wang does the same, identifying as “lunatic,” rejecting purely clinical labels in favor of acknowledging the full spectrum of her lived experience. I love the full embrace of a messy life. Like Jamaica Kincaid once remarked, “Every life, I now know, is a haphazard mess.” Presently, the same feels true of U.S. electoral politics. How do you think comedy can help us navigate the turbulent years ahead?

Bamford: Comedy isn’t organizing, isn’t taking direct action—no matter how small—to help out the person next to you where you live. I love to laugh, but laughter isn’t healthcare and housing.

Rail: And for my final question—back to Mom: “Losing my mother was especially difficult because it happened unexpectedly and far too soon.” How did you cope with the loss of such a formative figure? In what ways does your mother continue to influence your work?

Bamford: I hate that she’s gone. I am still so mad. I don’t know what to do about it except try to bring her back with impersonations I do by myself, to myself. Death is dumb.