I got some stories for you.
one
I SEE NOTHING, I HEAR NOTHING
sometimes people’s lives change because of the smallest thing: a song, a comment, a fight, a dark night of the soul, or simply a decision.
I’m just a wee bit denser than that. I’m sure that there were many, many signs that I was killing myself, and I was probably given thousands of opportunities to change my life and make it wonderful, but once you’ve washed down a handful of Vicodin with a bottle or two of a full-bodied cabernet, even reading stop signs while driving a car becomes a tad tricky.
I remember going for week after week to some poor therapist, sobbing about how shitty I felt, how awful my life had become, how alone I was. It did occasionally occur to me that I should perhaps clue her in that I was a raging alcoholic and drug addict, but I quickly banished that ridiculous thought. That stuff is “private.” I learned that a long, long time ago. Instead, I wasted hundreds of her hours (not to mention my cash), asking her (and anyone else stupid enough to be my friend at the time) the one question no one seemed able to answer: “Why, oh why, am I so unhappy?”
On the long, bleak nights when my sorrows and fears were so unbearable that no amount of pills or booze would knock me out, I would stare wide-eyed into the darkness, begging it for an answer. Sometimes a blurry clue would start to form, but just as it started to come into focus, it would disappear, like a ghost. It teased me, always sneakily crawling way back deep inside to snuggle in the dark cavern where I hid all things I deemed “scary” or “unpleasant” or “a bummer.”
My father used to be obsessed with the TV show Hogan’s Heroes (alas, now you know the secret inspiration of my subtle comedic choices). In the show, there was a stupid, fat German guard named Schultz, who would nervously sing, “I see nothing, I hear nothing!” whenever he was accidentally made privy to the prisoners’ weekly escape plans.
Basically, the small remaining part of myself that was still sane became Schultz. Which is not saying all that much for my sanity. I avoided thinking too much about how, no matter what I did or how many times I weaned myself off pills, eventually I couldn’t go more than a few excruciating days without them. Or how I was feeling worse and worse every day, suffering from agonizing bouts of searing heartburn. Or, how I was starting to look really, really bad.
You know, it just occurred to me—I think I was beginning to look like Schultz. Oh my God. Listen, I wasn’t always this way, dammit! I wasn’t always some fat Nazi’s doppelgänger. I used to be the rowdy, fun girl at the bar, or the dinner party, who was chock-full of sassy, dry witticisms you might chuckle at the next day. I was just very, very social, that’s all.
Who could’ve imagined that the totally together, funny, ambitious, generous, and smart girl would slowly morph into a lonely couch potato who spent her free time hiding her wine and pill bottles from her cleaning lady?
I’ve probably been an addict since I was born, but my love affair with chemicals started in high school. “I can totally slam that bottle of Wild Turkey faster than you, entire basketball team!” But, because it ebbed and flowed throughout the years—hiya, Schultz—I convinced myself that everything was fine.
Or sort of fine. Kind of. Sometimes.
I mean, when you’re in a play and all you care about is where you’re getting loaded afterward, that’s slightly worrisome. But if you can’t fucking wait for the fucking audience to get over it and stop giving you a standing ovation already, because you’re dying to get to the bar? Well, then—that’s just a whole other kettle o’ crazy.
But it was all I knew, really. Plays were simply a conduit, an appetizer to the most important event of the entire day: getting hammered. Endless, sometimes heated arguments between the cast over which place had the best martinis would continue right up until entrances. (And sometimes even beyond.)
Nowadays when I’m in a play, the first thing I do when we move into the theater is to grab a red lipstick (seriously, did you think I’d have a frosty pink?) and scrawl in my dressing-room mirror my new mantra:
Yeah, yeah, yeah, Shakespeare ’tis not. But that’s not the point. You see, it means something to me. Besides, “one day at a time,” while an excellent motto, doesn’t really work for me. I can’t help but picture Bonnie Franklin screaming “Schneider!” for the umpteenth time, to canned laughter. You’re more than welcome to borrow my mantra, but to be fair I must warn you about a scary potential mind-fuck—which really only applies if you’re a gay male and over forty. Whatever you do, please try not to think of the poster for the film The Main Event, which showcases a tightly-permed Barbra Streisand in one of the most nauseating costumes in all of celluloid history: boxing shorts and nude pantyhose.
Or, if you are gay and over forty, perhaps that would help?
Wait. Hold up. Am I gay and over forty?
Regardless, I make sure to write THIS IS THE MAIN EVENT! as big as I can, so that as I get ready to go on-stage, I will never again forget how lucky I am to be alive and that I get to do something I love with all my heart.
But back when I was bat-shit crazy, I grew used to waking up having absolutely no recollection of the night before. Every morning, any triumphant performance I may (or may not) have had was consistently diluted by a queasy stomach and a grim fear of the unknown. However, it was far, far worse when I wasn’t in a play. Because then I was bored. And boredom and addiction absolutely adore each other. In fact, they are insane for each other. It was right around 2001 when every night became lost to me, never to return. Of course, I never blacked out. I left that to tacky people and frat boys. I simply drank until I fell asleep. And on really naughty nights perhaps I’d oh-so-elegantly pass out. And, yes, there’s an enormous difference, I’m just still a bit unclear as to what it is.
Soon, I found myself pushing “cocktail hour” earlier and earlier, until three o’clock in the afternoon seemed perfectly reasonable. I wisely took great pains to avoid calling anyone back after 8:00 p.m., realizing that if I couldn’t say “Hi, it’s Kristen” without it sounding like “HizzKrissen,” returning my LA agent’s call would perhaps not be a good career move.
Unfortunately, as some of you may already know, one of the glorious gifts of alcoholism and addiction is a severe lack of discernment. Thankfully, another gift is memory loss, so I’m spared most of my more mortifying drunkdialing moments. However, I wasn’t spared the daily ritual of waking up in the morning only to be slammed with the terrible knowledge that I had called someone and, try as I might, I had no recollection of who that might have been nor what the fuck I had said to them.
I was also becoming hideously bloated, and having long ago been blessed with a face prone to fatness (which my mother would lovingly refer to as “full”), I now had a double chin in all photographs, even while I was looking up. Plus, I started making BIG mistakes. Whoppers. You see, addicts’ most important objective in life (after, of course, obtaining their drug of choice) is to convince everyone that they’re happy, healthy people who just enjoy a cocktail or two. That they’re “normal.” Whatever the hell that means. I still don’t know. At any rate, I found myself forgetting important rules that are indispensable to all addicts who’d prefer to avoid an awkward “get-together” with their loved ones and some stranger who’s been paid to drag their ass to rehab. Here’s a big rule I broke, over and over: after the age of twenty-five, women no longer look hot with a red-wine mustache and purple teeth.
Sorry if you don’t like that rule, ladies; unfortunately, I have another one just for you: the day you graduate from high school is the day it no longer matters how darling your outfit is or how big your boobs are; if you slur, girl, you are pathetic.
You may be thinking, “Well, she’s way off on that one. I happen to know from firsthand experience that some guys find slurring irresistible.” And I wouldn’t even think of disagreeing with you, gorgeous. In fact, I’m sure you’re right. Only bummer is, they’re the kind of guy who prefers to gaze into the whites of women’s eyes
, think talking’s overrated, or trip a woman and laugh hysterically at her when she’s on the ground. Which means these heart-stoppers either dislike women, have no teeth, despise women, are on parole, or simply believe women are evil. For God’s sake, scoop him up, girl, what are you waiting for?
Oh, and don’t think I forgot about you gents. While it’s frustratingly true that you age far better than we do, if you’re over thirty-five and the highlight of your entire year is the day you get to host your office’s tailgate party at Lambeau Field, well, that’s a bit sad.
However, if you wind up getting so hammered at said party that you poop your pants in front of your ten-year-old son, then welcome to the Land of the Truly Tragic. Go, Packers.
This land, also known as Schultz-ville, is a charming enclave where esteem-shattering events become the norm. Picture Mayberry, except that Charlie Sheen is the mayor, Courtney Love is the chief of police, and Lindsay Lohan is the local librarian. Every day is new and exciting.
Want proof? No problem. Just off the top of my head, here are a couple of examples of how awesome this place is: First, only in Schultz-ville would it occur to you to give your brand-new, married boss an impromptu lap dance at your firm’s Christmas party (adorable!). It’s also the only town I know of where it’s just understood that the best place to vomit is right on top of a party’s coat bed (bathrooms are a pain in the ass, anyway). Or, for you couch potatoes, another superconvenient vomit receptacle is right in front of your face—the mouth of the girl you’re making out with. (You had me at hello.)
Still not convinced that this is the greatest place ever? Good, because I’m not done yet. How would you like to be woken, instead of by some hideous alarm clock, by screams of rage emanating from the mouth of your ex-girlfriend’s father? At that exact same moment, you’re slammed with the revelation that not only have you passed out right on her family’s fancy front lawn but that you’ve also clearly enjoyed a profound case of explosive diarrhea while doing so. You have no idea how you got there, but it’s clear by the faces of the horrified neighbors and her revolted family (not to mention the sound of approaching police sirens) that you’d better skedaddle, but quick.
See what I mean by new and exciting? And it’s not even over yet! The cherry on top of this glorious morning is when you get to take the overcrowded forty-five-minute train from Dobbs Ferry to New York City with a broken heart and the most stomach-churning hangover of your life, all while sitting in your own feces.
Man, I love this town. No wonder the population’s booming!
By the way, I didn’t make any of these up. They’re all things that really happened to people I know. If your face is burning with shame or recognition, don’t feel too bad. More than likely, almost everyone you know has spent a nice chunk of time in Schultz-ville.
Or if you were really lucky like me, you had a lovely time-share, right on the beach.
The longer I lived there, however, the worse I felt. And looked. Besides my fat face, double chin, sallow and acne-prone skin, and the fact that my teeth were constantly stained a gorgeous grape color, I soon began to suffer from a lethargy so profound that sometimes the act of brushing my teeth felt like a long day at the office, and I’d fall, winded, back to sleep. Then it started to take me forever just to pee. Eventually it took a twenty-minute ritual of deep breathing combined with the faucet on full force and the latest issue of O magazine. Unfortunately, these exhaustive efforts usually resulted in a depressingly sad little trickle.
Plus there was that constant heartburn. Now, the heartburn I’m talking about has nothing to do with those commercials featuring balding, shame-faced men being scolded by their nagging wives for eating too many meatballs. This heartburn meant business. The only way I can describe it is. . . imagine a thousand splinters in your throat. Or a hundred paper cuts being doused with lemon juice. Or being forced to listen to Sarah Palin discuss foreign policy. Let’s just say it was exceedingly uncomfortable. I told myself I must have developed an allergy to some unknown substance (not alcohol, never alcohol), such as MSG, tomatoes, or peanuts.
Listen, I wasn’t a complete idiot. Oh, okay, I was. But I can remember saying to myself quite a few times, “This cannot be good, Kristen. In fact, I think this could be very, very bad.”
But most of the time, I was far too busy enjoying the amenities of Schultz-ville. Which, by the way, goes by a lot of different names to a lot of different people. For example, in the Midwest, it’s known as Schlitz-ville. Augusten Burroughs calls it Magical Thinking, and for Carrie Fisher it’s Wishful Drinking. My shrink likes to call it denial, but I’ve told her it just doesn’t have the same cozy ring as the others. I don’t think it really matters what name you call it; the important thing is that we all know how to get there. If only leaving were as easy. Unfortunately, the longer you stay in Schultz-ville, the road out becomes harder and harder to see. Until eventually, it vanishes.
But what did I care? While there, I didn’t waste my time thinking about icky things like going to rehab or dying. I would simply crack open my second bottle of merlot and revel in the lonely luxury of being able to concentrate on truly meaningful and challenging things, such as mastering the increasingly difficult and decreasingly rewarding art of “feeling better.”
I became a master of this delicate and oft-misunderstood life skill. I’ll admit, it’s not as lofty as curing cancer, but the dedication it takes to procure drugs, understand dosages, obsessively count pills so you know exactly when you’ll run out, and keep track of which doctors know what story, what pharmacy has filled which prescription when—well, I think it’s fair to say healthy amounts of organizational prowess, intelligence, and people skills are needed to be as successful at drug addiction as I was. I was also a pretty damn good liar, which didn’t hurt. Somehow, I managed to keep my addiction a secret from everyone (other than those who really knew me, but most of the time, even they only had niggling suspicions or a vague feeling that something was off).
And, I mean, you didn’t know, did you? You never saw any TMZ footage of me leaving Bungalow 8 with white powder on my upper lip, right? And that’s not luck, my friends. That takes some skill. (It was mostly luck.)
I may have been adept at addiction, but unfortunately, this also meant that for many years I was a card-carrying member of what is referred to as “functioning addicts,” which, trust me, are the worst kind. Because we’ve devoted so much time and energy toward keeping our addictions alive and happy and well fed, by the time we’ve made that oh-so-subtle shift to “nonfunctioning addict,” our brains are so fried we’re unable to grasp the concept that things have shifted drastically, and not in our favor. We have absolutely no ability to see the desolate disaster our lives have become, how many family, friends, and lovers we’ve lost, or how close to death we actually are. Judgment has disappeared along with everything else good in our lives, and we cannot stop.
To me, it felt like I was speeding on the Autobahn toward hell, trapped inside a DeLorean with no brakes. And even if I could somehow stop, I’d still be screwed, because there’s no way I’d ever be able to figure out how to open those ridiculously stupid, cocaine-designed doors.
It was indescribably awful. I felt no hope, no joy, no nothing.
Only a powerful and all-consuming hatred for my own guts.
Which is especially fascinating when you take into consideration that my guts hated me right back, a neat fact I became aware of only when they blew themselves up in a brutal and shocking act of revenge.
Well played, guts. Well played.
two
THE FREAK HAS LANDED
In 1967, my beautiful parents had been blessed with a gorgeous and brilliant blond boy, so they rolled the dice, knowing that a darling, well-behaved little girl would be the perfect addition to their charming, sunny family. Too bad that what they got was a loud, cantankerous, funny, moody, weepy, dramatic, temperamental, ornery, and occasionally truly awful little girl with a fondness for both drooling and scream
ing “No!” at every opportunity. Eventually my parents did get their sweetheart of a daughter, my beautiful younger sister, Julie.
But it was too late. The Freak had landed. In her very own DeLorean.
“. . . And then you’ll all walk, single file, into the church for the graduation ceremony!” Sister Anita breathlessly finished, her face aglow with excitement.
Right on cue, Sarah Smith shot her annoying hand into the air. “How will we know the order of the procession?” (She was not only charmless, but wore a scoliosis back brace and had a lisp. So she pronounced it “prothethon.” We ate lunch together every day. Not by choice.)
I’m sure Sister Anita must have found Tharah Thmith to be as irritating as the rest of us, but because she was having a passionate love affair with Jesus, she instead replied, “Well, isn’t that a wonderful question, Sarah! You’ll be entering the church according to height. Shortest first, meaning the girls, of course! And then finishing with the tallest, you boys.”
Uh-oh. That finally got my attention. I looked up from my notebook, where I had been drawing a bunch of different eyeballs. All the air had left the room, and everyone, even Sister Anita, was suddenly wondering the same thing:
Where the hell do we put the Freak?
It was a beautiful and unseasonably warm April day in 1980, and we were discussing the details of our grade-school graduation. I had just slogged through a painful, confusing, and mostly pretty unhappy eight years at a Catholic grade school, located in a gorgeous and wealthy suburb of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. In a few months, to my everlasting relief and excitement, I’d be attending a public high school, which meant no more endless hours spent in the hideous beige-brick church (conveniently attached to the hideous beige-brick school), no more nuns who thought I not only had “terrible social skills” and an “unpleasant disposition” but that I also was “very difficult to teach.” (They left out terrible bowler, serial arsonist, mouth-breather, and kitten killer.)
Guts: The Endless Follies and Tiny Triumphs of a Giant Disaster Page 2
