In 2010, call it "guilt itch," "bad things," "OCD," or whatever you want. Of course, I had a few other problems, but I was not plagued by recurring guilt itches, so I rarely thought back to that period of my life. The memories are too painful, so why dwell on the past? One case closed, the gavel bangs again. Thinking the bad times were behind me, I entered my twenties with the hubris of a protagonist at the start of a movie sequel. Because in the last movie, I, Aladdin, had banished Jafar into a magic lamp. Because Kevin McCallister had banished them to prison in the previous film. And my obsession will never return because I, Rachel Bloom, banished them to beyond memory in the previous film. Besides, I had my ears pierced, and now I was fucking, so I was obviously a completely different person.

But of course, the villain was back. Had this part of my life been a movie sequel, critics would have called it "the unsurprising and obvious installment in the series." [Writer Aline Brosh McKenna had seen my music video and wanted to do a musical TV show with me. Within ten minutes of our meeting, Aline pitched me the idea for Crazy Ex-Girlfriend and I was hooked. In what seemed like seconds, she and I had the perfect pitch for a TV show.

The night before our first pitch round, I couldn't contain my excitement. This was it. Everything was happening for me. All I had to do was make sure I didn't screw up the pitch. Nothing happened. After a few minutes of not sleeping, I panicked. 'Oh, God. What if I don't sleep and I'm too tired tomorrow and I screw up the pitch and ruin my life?"

From A to C, it happened so fast.

And just like the night before fourth grade, the night before the pitch for "Crazy Ex-Girlfriend" (opens in new tab) I couldn't sleep at all. When I saw Aline the next day, I looked like I had been hit by a truck. When I told her I hadn't slept a wink the night before, she said, "Oh my, it's just nerves, you'll be fine." Not knowing me well at the time, she thought it was just "nerves." If only. I longed for the "nervousness" that normal people felt.

But Aline was right. Because the adrenaline pushed away the fatigue. But it didn't make me feel any better. Delirious from the lack of sleep the night before, I feared what would happen if I couldn't sleep again. That night, the fear of not sleeping kept me awake. Panicked, I took Benadryl, and when that didn't work, I contacted a doctor I found on Yelp who had 24-hour house calls available and asked for a prescription for one sleeping pill. I had never taken a sleeping pill before, but I was desperate. I drove to the pharmacy, picked up the one sleeping pill, and cut it in half with trepidation. After all, what if the sleeping pills make me addicted?" That would be the way sleeping pills work.

Half a Benadryl and half a sleeping pill later, I still could not sleep. At 6 a.m., I panicked and called my friend Dan. Dan was doing his residency on the East Coast, so I knew he was awake. I cried out to him on the phone: 'What's wrong with me? Why did I break down?' Whatever was wrong, it combined with insomnia to form a superstorm of depression, fear, and panic. It was as if the film franchise had really gone off the rails, with Jafar fucking the wet bandits and having a threesome with Voldemort and the resulting baby was me.

After Dan talked me down a bit, he told me to go back to my real bed. I was sleeping on a mattress on the floor of the office so as not to wake Gregor because of my insomnia. I got into bed with Gregor and when he saw my condition he told me not to worry about sleep, just get some rest. It was the first comforting words I had heard in days. By removing the pressure to sleep, I finally fell asleep. It was only three hours, but it was something.

The next night, not wanting to risk it, I called that house call doctor, got another sleeping pill, and this time I took it all. Damn. I had become an addict.

But when I woke up, I was not an addict. Instead, I slept for nine hours and felt like my old self again. I was glad it was over and that I would never go back.

. Until a few days later when I woke up early again the next morning to attend another meeting. Again, I was afraid of that night and the fear it would bring. At this point, it had become muscle memory.

In December of that year, when I returned to New York for a friend's wedding, jet lag exacerbated my sleep anxiety, which eventually turned into a fear that haunted me all day. I had never felt so sick. In the midst of all this, Gregor got down on one knee in front of our old apartment in the West Village and proposed to me.

Part of me was happier than I had ever been in my life. But another part of me was still "terrified." (I was fed up, frustrated, and furious with myself. Why do I keep ruining my life with these thoughts?") Outside I was smiling and rapping "Baby Got Back" at a surprise karaoke party my friends threw for me, but inside I was screaming to myself, "Don't be afraid. Don't be afraid. Don't be anxious. Be happy. Be happy.

When I returned to LA, I was in very bad shape. I was constantly overwhelmed by an overwhelming sense of melancholy, I couldn't get my head around it, I couldn't solve it no matter what I thought, and no matter what I did, the melancholy would not go away. I was always nauseous. My hormones were out of control. I couldn't concentrate. And I knew I was doing this to myself. That the dread was ruining my life.

Then something amazing happened. [I booked a commercial for T-Mobile. Here I was,

knowing that the call time for the T-Mobile commercial was 6:00 a.m. the next day, lying in bed as usual, nervous as usual about not being able to sleep for the important morning event, and as usual, all the questions roaring in my ears.

Then another question popped into my head. This was not an ominous voice like the other questions. It was not dread. This question had a softer, gentler tone, as if to say, "Hey, do you realize how excited I am about the T-Mobile commercials?"

Oh, God. You were right to ask that question, I don't care about T-Mobile, I wasn't even a T-Mobile customer, I was an AT&T customer, I wasn't even a T-Mobile customer, I was a T-Mobile customer, I was a T-Mobile customer, I was a T-Mobile customer.

I picked up my computer, went to Psychology Today's therapy search site, and looked for my first psychiatrist. And when I walked into his office two days later, I told him everything: the bad thoughts I had when I was nine years old, how they had morphed into a fear of devastating relationships and careers, how I felt like "bad things" were always coming to destroy everything I held dear Things. I vomited everything I had been ashamed to admit to myself for the past 26 years. And at the end of the vomit, I said to him 10 words I had never said before: "I want to change, and I need help to do it. And I meant "help" in every sense of the word. Help to fight intrusive thoughts, help to change my outlook on life, and most importantly, chemical help.

I took a deep breath and prepared for his diagnosis of whatever strange thing was happening to me. But instead, they told me that what I was experiencing was something they had seen before. [The specific name of my diagnosis was not the issue, all I needed to know was that I was not a freak and that I was not "doing this willingly."

My doctor preferred to approach the whole thing from a more holistic level, rather than name specific ailments that needed treatment. My intrusive thoughts, the ups and downs with my romantic obsessions, and the feelings of unhappiness I had throughout my life were all connected. Under his guidance, I learned so much over the next six months. I learned how to meditate on staying present. I learned how to sort out which thoughts were important to dwell on and which were trying to trick me. I also learned the wonders of a pill called Prozac.

And I learned that "Bud," "Dread," "Hungry Manson Caterpillar"--again, pick any name you like--never really goes away. It will always be a part of me. Even now, in moments of pressure, irrational doubts and fears can come to mind like a tiny little jaffa tapping me on the shoulder. In those moments, I try not to blame myself, solve the problem, or fear that it will happen. I just let it be. That doesn't always work.

But I like to think that if my life were really a movie, the critics would say this part: "A satisfying ending to a confusing but ultimately rewarding franchise."

Excerpted from I WANT TO BE WHERE THE NORMAL PEOPLE ARE by Rachel Bloom. Copyright © 2020 by Handsome Iguana, Inc. Reprinted with permission of Grand Central Publishing. All rights reserved.