Survivor Is the Only Thing Helping Me Cope Right Now
I’m the last one to the island.
Somehow, despite the 22 years I’ve had to get onboard, I completely missed Survivor. And I’m glad I did, because had I discovered it sooner, I don’t think I would have ever accomplished anything. Instead I would have been on the couch researching “Best Survivor Seasons no Spoilers,” then binge watching 2–3 episodes a day much like I am now.
I know how I got here. It was right before my birthday when my close friend died of cancer; then a few weeks later my father died. I broke my foot. I got Covid. During my Covid infection I was banished to my room, and was so sick and in so much pain that I couldn’t concentrate. So finally watching Survivor on my laptop seemed like a good choice. Just one season in bed during this unusual time.
Strangers huddled to stay warm during the rain. People gossiped wearing Survivor “buffs” as makeshift bras. Businessmen cried over the possibility of eating a slice of pizza. Being on the island was so much simpler than my real life. I wanted to stay there.
But then I got better. I was still in a cast, but I was now Covid free and allowed in the living room which had the main TV with endless channels and options for viewing art house films and brain stimulating television. But when I got there I just wanted to get back on the island. And when I discovered that Paramount Plus had all 42 seasons of Survivor available I knew I was in trouble.
The problem with discovering a show that first aired 22 years ago is that no one wanted to discuss it with me. I already felt alone due to my grief, Covid infection, injury, motherhood and the never ending pandemic, but the one thing everyone was talking about were our shared experiences with current television. Tiger King. The Tinder Swindler. Severance. But instead, I really wanted to discuss Joe’s medical evacuation from season 18 of Survivor, which aired in 2009.
I had a lot of thoughts and no one to talk to. How did all those women walk around in bikinis for 39 days on an island without any hair removal mechanisms and not have their pubes hanging out?
When Ozzie and Amanda kissed in season 16 with no access to dental hygiene, was it still enjoyable?
Then my tooth fell out. I use the word “tooth” loosely, because it was never actually my tooth, but a dental implant for an adult tooth that never came in. The implant that fell out was right in the front of my mouth, conveniently gone just when the mask mandate was lifted.
It was then that I resigned to who I truly was at this stage of my life: a limping, toothless, middle-aged woman, who had no other goals but to finish another season of Survivor. One night, now with a temporary tooth in place, I had too many cocktails, and blurted out to my husband, “This is what I want to do with my life! I want to watch Survivor!” I then laughed harder than I had all year. I still, stone sober, think that was the funniest thing I have ever said.
It was my deepest secret, my strongest truth, the most vulnerable thing I could confess audibly.
I didn’t want to cook dinner, clean up after my kids, watch anything of substance, enrich my brain with books, run my business or promote my work. I truly, at my deepest core, just wanted to watch Survivor.
My husband told me his assistant at work was a die hard Survivor fan. “Can you set up a Zoom call between us?” I asked. He pretended he didn’t hear my question.
I would justify it– “You can watch one episode if you’re folding laundry.” “If you were working in an office you would leave for a lunch hour, so you can watch while you eat your lunch at home.” “You can watch it if you exercise simultaneously.”
To be honest, right now as I write this I am thinking, “When will this essay be done so I can go watch Survivor?”
Daily, I think about how I once went on a girls trip and one person brought her sister who happened to be a former Survivor contestant. At the time, I had never seen the show. And the sister was incredibly open to discussion, but I kept removing myself from the conversation saying, “None of this makes sense to me, I’ve never seen the show.” Damn. If I could turn back time. I truly, from the heart, feel that not understanding who I was in the presence of during that trip, is one of the biggest regrets of my life.
Then, while skipping around seasons, I watched season 37, episode 15 where contestant Mike White (yes, writer/producer Mike White) gave a heartfelt confession to the camera, “I wanted to come out here and see how I fared. Not only did I stomach it, I liked it. I felt alive out here. And at this age in my life, that’s what you want to feel, like you’re leaving it all out on the island.”
I cried along with Mike. I, too, didn’t expect Survivor to be so healing. When I was on the island I wasn’t thinking about loss. Nothing triggered me on Survivor. No one was planning funerals, holding people’s hands while they died, or watching their father’s dead body be taken away. On Survivor the biggest problems people had to face were how to get a fire started, or why it was so hard to catch a fish, or who could put together the puzzle the fastest during the immunity challenge. It’s Spencer. Spencer is the best at puzzles.
I wasn’t ready to get off the island and face my real life, one without my close friend or my dad.
And I’m aging too. It is not lost on me that my foot broke and my tooth fell out and these really are not a young woman’s problems. And as my parents start to go, it reminds me that I am closer to death. And even though there is no age limit on Survivor, if I ever wanted to go on the show, I would be one of the older contestants.
I’m aware of the five stages of grief, DABDA. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. I’m not sure which one I am in. It’s one of the D’s. Or perhaps for me the grief is in six stages, DABDSA. And we all know what the S stands for.
I feel a lot better on the island, and when I am off, I’m just really really sad. Two people I love left the world just a few weeks apart and then my body fell to pieces and I am slowly, very slowly, learning how to put it back together. I don’t know if I’m grieving right, so for now, I need my time on the island. Because it is there that I feel free from the weight that has been this year of my life thus far. I won’t be gone forever. After all, there are only 42 seasons.
Margot Leitman is a writer, author, award-winning storyteller, and teacher living in Los Angeles. Find out more about her books, talks, and workshops here: www.margotleitman.com
