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 probably was 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 perhaps I should clue her in to the fact 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 I am 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 I hid all things I deemed “unpleasant” “scary” 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). 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 the fact that, no matter what I did, or how many times I managed to wean myself off pills, eventually I couldn’t go more than a few excruciating days without them. Or that I was feeling worse and worse every day, suffering from agonizing bouts of searing heartburn. Or, that 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’m pretty sure I’ve 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 afterwards, that’s slightly worrisome. But if you can’t fucking wait for the fucking audience 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 very first thing I do when we move into the theater is to grab a dark red lipstick (frosty pink just doesn’t have the same panache), and scrawl in my dressing room mirror my new mantra:
“THIS IS THE MAIN EVENT”
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 very 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 an tightly permed Barbra Streisand in one of the most nauseating costumes in all of celluloid history: boxing shorts over thick nude pantyhose.
Or, if you are gay and over 40, perhaps that would help?
Wait. Hold up. Am I Gay and over 40?
Regardless, I make sure to write “THIS IS THE MAIN EVENT” as big as I can, so that as I get ready to go onstage, 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 the 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 are not friends. In fact, they are each other’s mortal enemy. 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 3 o’clock in the afternoon seemed perfectly reasonable. I wisely took great pains to avoid calling anyone back after 8pm, 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 drunk dialing 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 may 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, an addicts’ most important objective in life (after, of course, obtaining their drug of choice) is to convince everyone that they’re a happy, healthy person who just enjoys 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, which 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 again: After the age of 25, women no longer look hot with a red wine mustache and purple teeth.
Sorry if you don’t like that one, 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 know from first-hand 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 kinds of guys who prefer to gaze into the whites of women’s eyes, think talking’s overrated, or like to trip a woman just to 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 offices 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 examples of how awesome this place is: First, only in Schultz-ville would it occur to you to give your 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, anyways). Or, for you lazy couch potatoes, another super convenient 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, instead of some hideous alarm clock, to be awoken by screams of rage emanating from the mouth of your ex-girlfriend’s father? You greet this fine sunny day with the dawning realization that not only have you passed out in the dead center of her family’s fancy front lawn, but 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 morning is when you get to take the overcrowded forty-five minute train from Dobb’s 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 there. (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 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) like MSG, tomatoes or peanuts.
Listen, I wasn’t a complete idiot. Oh, Okay I was. But I can remember saying to myself a 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 refer to it as “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, keeping track of which doctors know what story, what pharmacy has filled which prescription when – well, I think it’s fair to say there’s a healthy amount of organizational prowess, intelligence and people skills 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 ”).
My real triumph (if you could call it that) was that somehow, the press never found out. No TMZ footage of me leaving Bungalow 8 with white powder on my upper lip. And that’s not just luck, my friends, that takes some serious skills. (It was mostly luck.)
I may have been adept at the art of addiction, but unfortunately, this also meant that I was a card-carrying member what is referred to as a “Functioning Addict,” which trust me, is the very worst kind. You see, we “Functioning Addicts” devote so much time and energy towards keeping our addictions alive, happy and well-fed that by the time we’ve made the inevitable and oh-so-subtle-shift to “Non-Functioning Addict,” our brains are so fried that we’re incapable of grasping 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 therefore we simply can not stop.
To me, it felt like I was speeding on the Autobahn towards 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 insane, 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 fact I became aware of only when they blew themselves up in a brutal and shocking act of revenge.
Well played, guts. Well played.
Guts will be published by Gallery Books on March 13. Order it here.
