by Carre Otis
I almost refused Mickey’s offer. But I knew that I couldn’t afford to. I was running out of time and options. I needed his help to help me save myself. And so, knowing that it was a risk, I told Mickey yes. Yes, I would let him take me to Mexico. Yes, I would let him pay for my treatment. And Mickey did pay—ten thousand dollars in cash. But even as I said yes, I knew in my gut that I wanted this for myself. Somehow, whatever Mickey’s role was, I was going to own my sobriety. It would be mine and mine alone.
While Mickey made some calls to plan our trip, I phoned my dealer and got my last stash: eight colored balloons, tightly wound and knotted. Inside them was enough heroin to get me through the next twenty-four hours, across the border and into treatment. I packed a small bag and made arrangements for my six Chihuahuas to be cared for by a friend. I also told Myka she needed to leave my home before I returned. No arguments. I knew that Myka wasn’t the only one to blame for my addiction, but I also knew that if I was going to get clean, it was time to cut that particular cord once and for all.
Mickey and I loaded up our old ’69 Road Runner hot rod. It was the same car we’d driven cross-country on our honeymoon less than two years earlier. Damn, that time seemed far away. Who would have guessed that Mickey and I would end up where we were now, packing for another trip down the interstate? What mattered to Mickey was that we were together again on another adventure. What mattered to me was that I got a chance, maybe my last chance, to take my life back.
We took off from L.A. in the early morning. And as the sun rose, I got high. We blasted U2, told stories, smoked cigarettes, and Mick did his best not to scowl every time I lit up my straw. I remember that I couldn’t really get high. The game was over. I was actually done, and I knew it. But what I didn’t yet know was exactly how to stop and stay stopped.
We crossed the border uneventfully, the sun high in the sky. As we headed down to Ensenada, the Pacific stretched out to the right of our car, a vast expanse of the deepest blue for as far as the eye could see. I could feel how tired I was, tired of the life I’d been living, tired of running. I felt like I’d been running all my life. I was ready to be still. I was ready to rest.
We reached Ensenada. Following the directions, we pulled into a cobblestone driveway lined with swaying palm trees. This was the hotel we would be in before and after I underwent the treatment. As we approached, I swallowed hard—and realized that my hands were clammy. I didn’t feel well at all. Our arrival could not have come a minute too soon.
A petite woman emerged from the hotel and cheerfully waved us to a stop. She had a strong yet slender body, dark wavy hair, a pleasant face, and piercing blue eyes. Laughing, she remarked that only we could have arrived in a “car like that.” I suppose our periwinkle hot rod was a bit out of place.
The woman was Clare Waismann, sister of Andre and director of the treatment center. The moment she spoke, I knew she would become a friend. Her manner was soft and safe but also very firm and certain. Clare had seen it all, done it all, and at one point had gone through the Rapid Detox treatment herself. Despite her tiny frame, I wanted to crawl into her lap and cry. Clare seemed to notice my vulnerability and made a point of directing Mickey to his room while taking me aside so we could “chat.”
The hotel was an extension of the hospital. It was by no means beautiful, but it was comfortable. Clare led me to her office, a converted bedroom with a breathtaking view of the ocean, the sky, and the crashing waves below. She knew I was scared. She acknowledged my fear. And in her gentle yet strong manner, Clare dove right into answering my questions. She explained that it was her brother, the famed Dr. Waismann, who would oversee my treatment. Andre, she told me, had performed this Rapid Detox procedure on hundreds of people—from babies born addicted to drugs and their addict mothers to other doctors, and of course, celebrities.
This was the first time that I realized how widespread opiate addiction was—and still is. Opiates include not only street drugs like heroin but medications like morphine and codeine. True opiates are derived from the opium poppy plant, but in the treatment community the term “opiate” is widely used to refer to other synthetic drugs that work the same way in the body. In this sense, opiates include prescription drugs as diverse as Valium, OxyContin, Dilaudid, and Vicodin. A lot of suburban housewives are hooked on these drugs, as are millions of other people around the world. One thing that all the opiates have in common: They’re hard drugs to kick. Detoxing from a prescription-pill addiction can be as tough and dangerous as detoxing from heroin.
Clare also wanted to talk with me about Mickey. She was concerned that his presence would put me under greater stress and would jeopardize my recovery process. Almost as important, she was worried that he might take advantage of my vulnerability and pressure me to recommit to our marriage. I agreed with her; I was worried about that myself. But Mickey had driven me down from Los Angeles, and Mickey was paying the tab for my treatment. The whole trip had been Mickey’s idea.
Talking to Clare, looking out at the serene sky and the sea from her office window, I realized that this had always been part of Mickey’s pattern with me. On the one hand, I really believed he wanted to be my rescuer—and on the other hand, I couldn’t help but think that he wanted to crush any sign of independence in me. I remembered how strong I’d been when we first met. I had just come off that retreat in Ojai, and though I was only nineteen, I was so sure of myself and my place in the world. Mickey had been instantly attracted to those qualities, to how centered I was. As time went on I think he grew to love and hate that strength. He seemed to take it as a challenge until somewhere along the way, it became a sport for him to try to break me, to make me dependent upon him. If I was right and that was his aim, consciously or unconsciously, he had succeeded, at least for a period of time. But we had both paid a price for that. Sitting there in Ensenada, I could feel again just how high that price had been.
At that particular moment, I didn’t doubt that Mickey wanted me well, though his fear that I might leave him once I was healed was palpable.
What was interesting was that Clare didn’t give a shit who Mickey was. She had a lioness’s heart and would not be intimidated by him or anyone else. She saw me as an individual separate from him. She cared about my recovery and my growth. And she was determined to see me overcome every challenge. She saw the dynamic that lay behind Mickey’s decision to bring me down to Ensenada. And she wasn’t going to let him do anything to interfere with my detox and the healing process that would follow it.
Everything happened quickly, smoothly, and efficiently under Clare’s watch. The cash was handed over, and I entered the hospital. I was led down a long hallway to the room I would occupy. It was clean and bright; like her office, it had a spectacular view of the ocean. I dropped my bag and went over to the window. Looking out at the vast expanse of sky and water, I took a deep breath and said a prayer, letting my mind drift and merge with the infinite. To all the Buddhas out there, may I be protected and may I return soon to you. A big tear slid down my cheek. I longed for my parents. I wanted to be with my family. To go back in time, to be held and reassured. I was so far from home.
Clare and Andre came in while the nurses prepped me. They told me I would be under anesthesia for up to eight hours while they administered the drug that produced the Rapid Detox. During those eight hours, my body would go through what it would in any detox—sneezing, vomiting, convulsing, and so on—but I would be monitored medically the entire time. I could expect to wake up and feel like hell, but I could also expect to be free of any physical symptoms of withdrawal. That was the first step.
The next step would be getting my energy back and dealing with my mind. I would need to face all the reasons I’d gotten myself into this situation in the first place. Even before I went under, that was the part I was most scared about. Andre told me that many addicts come out of this treatment and keep their eyes shut for a long time. He wanted to remind me that when I awoke, it would be time to truly ope
n my eyes. “Get ready to see a new world, my dear,” he said with a reassuring hug.
I do remember counting backward and the room fading to black. And although they say you really can’t remember anything from the treatment, I do recall something—the sounds. As powerful as the anesthesia was, it couldn’t stop me from hearing those otherworldly sounds emanating from my body. The memory of those unforgettable sounds brings tears to my eyes today.
Clare and Andre hadn’t been joking when they said I would wake up and feel as if I’d been hit by a train. It was horrible. Every muscle in my body was sore. Every hair follicle hurt. My skin, my eyes, my joints, my limbs—it all seemed to be one throbbing ache. Andre and Clare were there to greet me when I came to. Their smiles were encouraging. They informed me that I had done very well. “Rest,” they said gently. The next twenty-four hours passed in a daze. I floated in and out of an uncomfortable sleep. I was cold and then hot, sweating and then freezing. As I was told, these symptoms were all part of the flushing process.
I was moved back into the hotel to regain my strength. It was a very emotional time. I was flooded with uncertainty, overwhelmed with emotions. So much had been blocked while I was addicted, and now those blockages had been removed. I was overcome with fear. I was on the border of a black depression. But at the same time, I felt something wonderful. I knew I was on my way back to health, to being myself again. I knew that I had taken a huge step on my way toward a life of balance. During those first few days, I spent what seemed like endless hours watching the surf on the beach. With a sea of emotions let loose inside me, I felt as if I were made of ocean, nothing but the pounding waves, the endless ebb and flow. I felt a sense of total surrender. A big part of me was gone, but another part of me was becoming whole.
Having Mickey around during this stage proved to be harrowing. We had both wanted to get me off heroin. But now that I was clean, this concern had morphed into constant, needy demands from him. As predicted, he wanted me to make a decision about our marriage and our life together. He had gone from bringing me into recovery to being the biggest threat to that recovery. I was in no shape to answer his endless questions about what would happen to us. I felt cornered, my back against the wall. I was drained. I didn’t have the strength yet to fight him. Though somewhere within I was able to identify the emotion of anger. Mickey was nearly twenty years my senior, and yet here he was trying to get me to take care of him, to soothe his anxieties. It was so fucking typical, and so fucking inappropriate at a time like this.
As Mickey’s demands grew, Clare and Andre intervened. They made it clear that I needed time to focus on my recovery without any interference. They were really quite firm with him about this, and I was so thankful to have them setting limits that I wasn’t ready to set myself. It would be several years before I could successfully implement my own boundaries around Mickey. He wasn’t pleased, of course, but he was forced to give me the space I desperately needed.
Andre had been right. My eyes were open. I was seeing a whole new world, and a whole new reality. Not all of it was pretty; in fact, most of it wasn’t. And it was clear to me that by coming down to Ensenada to get clean, I had only just begun. Back home I had a big mess to clean up. I would have to deal with friends, habits, places I frequented; I would have to cut unhealthy ties (as I had done with Myka) and create new, healthy ones. I would have to deal with Mickey. But one thing was certain: I was on my way. I had taken the first and the hardest step.
When I had said yes to Mickey’s request that I come to Ensenada, I had said “Yes!” to living. “Yes!” to changing my life. And I knew now that there wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do to stay on the path of recovery. You don’t get many chances when you’re a hard-core addict. You don’t have many opportunities to find your way out. Heroin had brought me to my knees; Mickey had brought me to Mexico; Clare and Andre had brought me to this point of clarity. It was a powerful confluence of circumstances. It was a perfect storm in my life, a perfect storm that created an opening, a grace-filled clearing, for me to walk through. Once I was on the other side, there was no turning back. Although the task at hand—changing everything about my life—was daunting, I was determined.
Somehow Mickey and I managed to get through the last few days in Mexico without completely collapsing. He was hurt and scared. Now that I’d gone through the treatment, he was even more frightened than I was. He knew he had a lot to lose and that the likelihood of losing it had just increased. Between us there were many secrets and painful truths being revealed. But whatever the truth might do to Mickey, it was paving my way for a new life. As we left Ensenada for the long drive home, a new strength was rising up in me, giving me the courage and confidence to not only go home but to transform my life when I got there. I was readying myself for whatever might come.
And boy, oh, boy, was something coming.
EARLY SOBRIETY
A few months later, I was living in Beverly Hills, clean and sober. I had been on Tranxene to help with the detox and was finally feeling the kind of stability I had enjoyed at the farm. Outwardly my life still looked the same; I was living with Mickey again. But inwardly I felt that a shift was under way. Having found a chance at peace, I desperately wanted to maintain some sense of equilibrium in my day-to-day life.
I knew the odds. Living with Mickey had its risks. There was our medicine cabinet full of prescription drugs and there was the pressure of simply being in our incredibly volatile marriage that had me on edge. And that edge was a very slippery place for a newly sober individual. I was fighting to get my feet under me, create a routine, and interact with a newfound support system. Neither of us was ready for me to leave him behind. I didn’t yet know that for me to continue my growth this was exactly what I would have to do. Nor did I know that my leaving him might actually benefit him as well.
In the meantime I waited and watched. Observing Mickey, I was beginning to realize that actions speak louder than words. He had decided to go to Paris and film the sequel to the famed 9½ Weeks with Angie Everhart. I was opposed to it. But again my opinion did not seem to matter. When asked if I would join him in Paris, I opted not to, knowing that if I made my life Mickey’s life, I would end up in real trouble again. I’d seen how my drug use could escalate to the point that it threatened everything. I was taking my recovery seriously, and that meant not putting myself in a situation where I’d be likely to relapse.
Mickey seemed both relieved and furious. Relieved, in all likelihood that he would have the freedom to indulge himself in yet another sex-filled movie role without me watching over his shoulder, and furious probably because he was losing his control over me. I could see all this from the new perspective I had, and although I was not yet willing to leave him, the picture I was starting to see was far from pretty.
Just before Mickey left for Paris, I’d undergone a laminectomy for a back issue that had been bothering me for years. Unfortunately, postsurgery I began to experience severe pain in my foot. Night after night I would lie awake, a tickling sensation running down my leg and a maddening nerve pain thumping away. Because I was also on Naltrexone, an opioid receptor blocker, pain meds were useless. Naltrexone kept me from getting high, but it also kept me from getting relief.
I don’t even remember how she found me, but an angel walked into my life at that time, in the form of ex-model Rita Souki. Rita was a forty-year-old bombshell from New Jersey. She had modeled in the day with Janice Dickinson, Joan Severance, Kim Alexis, and Gia. Dark and gorgeous, with two beautiful kids, she was introduced to me at a dinner party for my old client Paul Guez of the Marciano Brothers and Guess Jeans. Rita and I had laughed loudly, gotten along easily, and exchanged numbers.
Mickey was gone for a few months, though he’d call incessantly, usually in the middle of the night California time. Despite my need to recuperate and find alternative and healthy options to manage my pain, he’d beg me to come visit him. Again, things were not going as well as planned on the set.
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�Mickey, I can’t. I need to heal,” I would cry in the phone.
“You can’t or you won’t?” he would demand, angry that I wouldn’t just get on a flight to take care of his needs.
“Sitting for ten hours would be the worst thing for my back, Mickey. I can’t do it.” And as I said those words, I heard his question again, and the answer came to me more clearly: “Actually, you’re right, Mick. I won’t do it, because it’s not okay for me to do it.” I was beginning to see his selfishness and to really dislike who he was. What’s more, I was beginning to see myself, too, and to recognize the need to make my own demands.
Then, for the first time ever, I hung up on him.
I was terrified yet exhilarated. I had power over myself, control over my life. I had a choice in what I did and how I lived. Imagine that. The phone rang again and again—until I finally unplugged it.
And this is when Rita appeared, dropping by for a welcome visit. Standing at the foot of the bed in which I lay recuperating, she put her hands on her hips and looked around our rental. “You’ve got to be kidding me. This is where you guys live?” she said. “This is your bedroom and that’s Mickey’s?” she asked, pointing down the hall, looking baffled.
“Yeah. What of it?” I asked, not understanding her point.
“You are how old? And you have separate bedrooms? Carré, you’re young and beautiful. Don’t you fucking dare give your life up to this shit!” she declared, her voice firm and yet matter-of-fact. “Get the fuck out of bed. You’re coming with me.” And with that, Rita was in my life. She was amazing, both empowered and empowering. She would save my ass in more ways than one.
We spent the next month hanging out at her house—by the pool, sunbathing, going to the gym, eating healthily. We had dinner with her husband and kids, making home-cooked meals and barbecuing. It seemed like forever since I’d had a girlfriend, an ally, a family. I wanted the life they had. It nourished me to the core.
