Confessions Of A Heretic: The Sacred And The Profane: Behemoth And Beyond

by Adam Nergal Darski

  Don’t get me wrong: the time that I spent with Dorota, that year and a half in Warsaw, is a nice memory. I had fun, and I learned a lot—maybe the most I’ve learned in my life. I was made a celebrity, yes, but I had no power over that. I found myself in the eye of a camera; it caught me. Sometimes it was embarrassing; sometimes it was just plain funny. If they still want me to be a character in this fairy tale, that’s also OK with me. But in one moment I realised that I could be a ticking bomb—or a foreign body that spoils the apparent harmony of this gigantic reality show.

  But you still attend the ‘business’ parties, and you smile to the cameras.

  As Roman Kostrzewski from Kat once sang, ‘I’m a funny devil, so I laugh.’

  CHAPTER VII

  THIS IS MY BODY AND THIS IS MY BONE MARROW

  Is your body important to you?

  Very important, yes.

  Do you take care of it?

  I do.

  Why?

  I’ve instinctively always felt that way, but it certainly isn’t a family trait.

  But didn’t your brother exercise a lot?

  When he was eighteen, he was pumped. That’s what I’d call it. He took some chemical shit and gained some mighty impressive musculature in no time at all. But I don’t really think that’s where I got the motivation, nor do I think that’s what it should be about.

  So where did you get the example to follow?

  From the movies, I think—Bruce Lee. I remember in the 80s, when everybody in the neighbourhood wanted to be like him.

  I became a man of two passions: music showed up, and martial arts did, too. First judo, then other martial arts. I was totally absorbed by training.

  Was it driven by vanity, or simply a desire to keep fit?

  It was and still is the golden mean. My attitude toward my body and appearance might seem a bit skewed, but I’m not a fanatic.

  There are people who spend their lives conforming to the ideal of looking good and having a perfect body: special diets, defined exercise cycles, sacrifices …

  That’s not me. I know moderation. But that doesn’t mean I don’t like to feel healthy and strong and look good at the same time. I do like it. I like it very much. But I don’t go over the line. I can break my diet whenever I feel like it. I can grab a beer or any other alcoholic drink every now and then and I can go party.

  And when you sin against your body, do you have any pangs of conscience?

  That’s far too strong a way of putting it. It’s more of a natural cycle. If I pass up on exercising, or party a little bit, I tighten the screw again afterwards. I don’t even need anybody to force me. I just look in the mirror and see that I have gained a little weight. Then there is no mercy.

  Your eyes are so sharp that you can notice even a little bit of excess fat?

  It’s a matter for your consciousness, not your vision. The fat may not even be there, but if it’s there in my head, that’s enough.

  I look at man holistically anyway. You can’t separate body from mind. When you feel like shit, you look like shit. That’s why I describe my exercising as a golden mean.

  But admit it: you like looking at yourself, don’t you?

  I like myself. I am of the opinion that if you want to love at all, you must begin with yourself. I often meet people who talk a lot about love and want to pour it on everything, dead or alive, but yet they can’t accept their body and their appearance. Something is wrong there, don’t you think?

  Do you love your body unconditionally?

  I am aware of its imperfections. But then again, maybe ‘imperfection’ is not the right word, because that would assume that there is some form of perfection in the first place, and that concept exists only in our imagination. What I’m alluding to are the limits of our bodies. I know them. But I’m also determined to overcome them.

  Maybe you should have become a sportsman?

  I could be a sportsman. In a way, I am. It’s not just that I run and exercise. Our music is extreme not only in name. Behemoth concerts are a huge effort, like a marathon.

  People associate rock’n’roll with something else.

  Just like sport is supposedly not associated with drinking. Just take a look at the lifestyles of a few soccer players to disprove that theory.

  Playing in Behemoth is very physical, then?

  I would compare our gigs to a hurdles race with a guitar on your back, but one that lasts for over an hour. You can really lose a few pounds. It’s quite a challenge, and every time that challenge is getting bigger. And that is why I have to exercise, too. There’s a tendency people have where, the older they get and the more they feel the frailty of their body, the more they indulge themselves. They let themselves go. It’s exactly the reverse with me.

  Is health itself important for you?

  Very. But as I said before, human is a whole concept. Health, psyche, appearance, these are all elements of the same puzzle. Healthy mind equals healthy body. It may be a cliché, but it’s the truth.

  Did you see the doctor a lot when you were a kid?

  Quite a lot, but never for anything serious. I used to have chronic tonsillitis and throat problems, though, and I am still haunted by these.

  Do you worry whenever you don’t feel well?

  I used to worry less. With time, a little hypochondriac started to grow in me. It’s maturing all the time.

  Do you try to make yourself believe you’re sick?

  I think I tend to focus on specific health problems, even if it’s nothing major. A little infection, a cold, some allergy; it all affects my frame of mind. Some people react to stuff like that by loosening the screw even more. They go drinking, get wasted, and they don’t give a crap about their sickness. In my case, every problem with health drives me mad. But maybe that’s a good thing. If it wasn’t for this little internal hypochondriac inside me, maybe I wouldn’t be sitting here today with you, answering your questions.

  You genuinely believe that you were saved by your fixation on health?

  Sometimes I think it saved me from death, and sometimes I feel that by being aware of it, I missed the first symptoms of my sickness. I’m also sure that the fact that I don’t fool with my health too much didn’t do me any harm.

  There are people who do fool with their health and have still achieved a quite impressive age.

  Everybody has his or her own way. I don’t want to judge that. It’s obvious that there are people living on the edge who, even when they’re old, are still doing great. Just look at Keith Richards from The Rolling Stones. If you believe what he says in his autobiography, then an ordinary human should have at least twenty lives to be able to survive what he has. Big respect. He’s a wonderful guy. But I know myself, and I know that if I lived the way he did, I’d have been dead a long time ago.

  It’s a question of awareness. I’m aware of my body and mind, and I know how to treat them. Guys from the band have ridiculed me for years. They’re always asking, ‘What the fuck do you need those yoghurts and exercises for?’

  Right. And then you got leukaemia. ‘What did you need those yoghurts and exercises for?’

  Well, here’s an example. When it got me and I ended up in the hospital, at least the doctors had a piece of healthy and functional meat to work with and not some kind of worn-down carrion. I don’t know if that saved my life, but surely it was a factor?

  If I could turn back the clock, I wouldn’t change a thing. But I do realise that health is a lottery. When I was in hospital, there were sportsmen and alcoholics, a twelve-year-old and a seventy-year-old—as broad a demographic of sufferers as you could think of. How did all those people get leukaemia? No idea. The doctors could only shrug. I only heard that there is some kind of epidemic among thirty-year-olds. Maybe we’re the Chernobyl generation.

  Doesn’t that lack of awareness hurt you?

  I always rationalise; I just assume my life as a whole led me to the hospital. But it also led me to my winning over the sickness. The
air I breathed, the stress, moving to Warsaw, the media witch-hunt, and on the other hand there was my character, determination, and persistence—all of these things mattered. It’s like the butterfly effect. An insect on a tropical island flaps its wings and causes a tornado on the other end of the planet. Analysing this stuff is a waste of time. It all just happened.

  And how did it start?

  First there was a feeling, a kind of inner conviction that something was wrong.

  You knew from the beginning that it was something serious?

  Yes and no. If for a week—and that’s how it was—something is wrong with you and you feel progressively worse each day, then an alarm goes off in your mind. You know that it’s not flu, let’s put it that way. On the other hand, I tried to fight my intuition and so did my environment.

  I remember one particular situation: it was right after a concert in Poznan, somewhere around July or August of 2010. Dorota and I went for lunch with Orion, our bassist, and his girlfriend Kasja. I told them about my symptoms, and, out of kindness, I’m sure, they tried to convince me that I was overreacting and that I was just imagining things.

  By way of illustration, Kasja told me about the situation she’d had a few years previously. She was in the hospital and she felt like she was dying. The doctors examined her and told her to go home and stop pretending, because there were people who really need help. As it turned out, it was all stress-related. When she heard that, she immediately felt better. So everybody suggested that it was the same case with me.

  Did they convince you?

  I wanted to believe them.

  What were your symptoms? What was going on with your body?

  It all started with a small bump. Today it might sound silly, but I grew a horn on my head—some strange callus under my skin. I don’t even know exactly how it looked because it was mostly covered by hair. I know that it was hard and protruding though—like somebody had put a button or an implant under my skin.

  At first I thought it was some kind of cyst or atheroma, something of that kind. I was hoping it would just go away. But it didn’t. What’s worse was that, on the other side of my head, another horn started to grow. I still thought it was funny, but then it all started to gain momentum. Soon, there were more calluses on my skin, one after another. They weren’t visible, so I didn’t tell anyone about them. I thought it was some skin disease. I didn’t worry too much, because I still generally felt good. So I decided to not give a shit about these bumps and I went on the European tour. We played with Decapitated. But then, more symptoms showed up: stomach problems, constant diarrhoea … a steaming cesspit of shit in all colours of the rainbow.

  Stuff like that happens on the road, though, right?

  And that’s another reason why I ignored it—at least at the beginning. I still hadn’t connected the dots by then.

  When did the alarm go off for real?

  After three weeks I grew restless. Right after the tour, Dorota and I had planned a holiday in Greece, so I was conscious not to spoil that. Before we left, there was one more festival to play in the Czech Republic—Masters Of Rock. I went to the dermatologist before the trip and I was hoping he would look at my head, smile, and give me some pills that would patch me up in a week. He gave me antibiotics, but he also told me he had never seen anything like it.

  Did you take the antibiotics?

  I did. We went to the Czech Republic, and there, new symptoms appeared. I got on the bus we were travelling in and I immediately felt weak. I had problems breathing. Again, I thought it was just because of stress and high temperatures. I’d felt like that before and I was used to such situations. Once, I even ran away from a hospital to play a tour.

  That’s just beautiful!

  It was a few years back. I think it was 2001. We had managed to book two large tours, one after another. We were a much smaller band than we are now, and we really thought it was a great challenge for us. Earlier, about a week before all the main fun started, we were supposed to play two additional concerts: in Portugal and Spain. It was a crazy trip; we spent thirty-five hours in the bus, practically without stopping. We got there; played one show, then another one, and then we went back to Poland. And that’s when it all began.

  Problems with breathing, you mean?

  That too, but mostly issues with my heart. It started living its own life and beating irregularly. I ignored that, but a day passed, then another, and another.

  I was already back in Poland, and in a couple of days I was due to start a huge tour but the damn thing just wouldn’t get any better. On Saturday, we were to begin conquering Europe, but on Friday I broke down and ended up in hospital. They put me on drip—gave me magnesium …

  So it was stress?

  It’s hard to say. Only a preliminary diagnosis was possible. The doctors said that I had an irregular heartbeat. It was overwhelming. But this was more than a matter of my health—this was about responsibility, too. There was a storm in my head because I knew that I was irreplaceable in the band. The guys just couldn’t tour without me.

  Meanwhile, the doctors made themselves clear: at least three days of observation. Then, depending on my results, either I could tour or I would remain in hospital. Well, I started panicking and calling off the shows. An hour later, I changed my mind, so I called everybody back again. Basically, I was fighting with myself.

  And what did the band say?

  Most of them did what I would do. They supported me, asked about my health, tried to convince me that calling off the tour was not such a big deal. They understood and supported me.

  But you said most of them …

  Novy, our then bassist, really surprised me. He asked me what I was thinking, and he made reference to the certain amount of Euros he would earn from the tour. It wasn’t nice.

  He wasn’t with you long.

  No, but that wasn’t the reason behind my decision. I did however draw certain conclusions, and I remembered what I had to remember.

  You chose his option in the end, though. And, as you said, you ran away from the hospital.

  But it was my decision. And I made it because the rest of the band understood the situation and didn’t push it. That’s why I stepped into their shoes, and ultimately my stupidity won over reason. I told the doctors that I was going home to get my stuff and that I would be back that evening. Of course, I didn’t show up again at the hospital. I left and never came back.

  Would you do the same today?

  I don’t know. Later, there were more situations when I didn’t feel quite right. At one time there was something wrong with my spine, then other issues with my throat; another time it was flu. But I never called off the shows. The show must go on. There are doctors in every city, after all. Whether we played in Krakow or Berlin, or maybe on the other side of the globe, I was always aware that if I didn’t feel OK, I could find a specialist, pay him, and he’d patch me up.

  Did someone have to patch you up after your escape?

  No. At first I took it easy. I didn’t drink at all; I went to bed after the shows. There was still something amiss, but gradually I was getting better. With time I diagnosed myself, and I began to take it for granted that it was anxiety. I got used to it and I ignored the symptoms. Halfway through the tour, I’d forgotten anything was even wrong.

  You felt that similar things might be going on in the summer of 2010?

  Yes. We went to the Czech Republic for a festival. I felt better for a while. Probably adrenalin did its thing. But immediately after we finished the show, I went down with a fever. I think that is when I realised that something was really wrong with me. Now I started connecting the dots. Fever, strange bumps, diarrhoea, and enlarged lymph nodes on my neck. There was a surgeon friend of mine at the show. He examined me and told me to do a morphology test as soon as possible.

  Did you listen to his advice?

  There was no time to. After the show we had to sign CDs. When Orion saw what shape I was in, he told me to let it go
, but I resisted and went to the meet and greet with the fans anyway. It took about ninety minutes. I was so exhausted that the only thing I was able to do later was to get to the bus and try to sleep.

  Did you manage to sleep?

  Not right away because I was sweating like all hell. That same night we were headed to Poland. I got some aspirin at the first gas station. I took two pills, went to sleep, and woke up in Warsaw. There was no time to go and see a doctor because Doda and I had a flight to Greece in a few hours.

  Did you go to Greece after all?

  Yes. It was awful. The prescribed antibiotic didn’t work. I stopped taking it after a few days. And I was sweating like a pig.

  And the Greek summer is warm as it is.

  That’s what I was thinking. Furthermore, because Dorota hated air conditioning, we didn’t use anything like that. But I’ve visited the tropics often enough to know that, if you wake up in a pool of sweat, it’s not only because of the high temperature. The alarm was wailing from all directions.

  I also had problems breathing all the time. I tried swimming in the pool. I can normally do a few dozen laps and still breathe normally but that time I could barely manage any. After a few rapid movements I’d be coughing uncontrollably. When I went to bed, my lungs would give out a strange whooshing sound, almost like there was something blocking the air. Dorota laughed at me, she mocked me even … I think she tried to cheer me up by playing down the symptoms and joking about them. Partially she succeeded, but I was growing more and more restless each day.

  Did the word ‘cancer’ go through your mind?

  Maybe. I think once I even said it out loud. I asked Dorota what would happen if I had a tumour.

  And?

  ‘What are you talking about? Don’t be crazy’—that’s what I heard.

  Didn’t you think about going back to Poland and getting examined?

  No. I didn’t completely ignore the symptoms, but I disregarded them somewhat. I just started calling a few doctors that I knew, more often. I had a hotline to them.