Addictions and artistry often go hand in hand.
When people jokingly ask me why, as a fabulously talented writer, I'm am not sitting next to a full ashtray and smelling like a week's worth of gin, I'll usually chuckle politely and say 'You should have seen me a few years ago. Actually, be glad you didn't. I smell a lot better now.'
For those who don't know me beyond the beautiful children I raise and write about, I'm also a recovering addict. I tell people because it's not a secret and it's nothing to be ashamed about. Alcohol was my drug of choice, but I would use just about anything my teenage self could get her hands on. By the age of fourteen I had been expelled from school, was drinking every day, using drugs whenever they were available, was suicidal, self-injured regularly (the polite way of saying 'I cut myself to deal with my pain') and wanted to die.
I so very badly wanted to die.
It took six months in rehab, countless therapy sessions and step-based meetings to get me where I am today. I am now 18 years clean and sober with no desire to ever go to back to that life. I'm a wife, mother to three, live in a four bedroom house in the 'burbs and drive a minivan. I lead a disgustingly normal and, in the global scheme of things, incredibly privileged life. There isn't a day that goes by when I'm not grateful for what I have -- because I know damn well I could easily lose it all if I make the wrong choices.
How do I manage to stay away from the glug-glugging? Simple: I take things one day at a time. Later today, when Gutsy is throwing his Wii controller on the floor and the back flies open and a battery rolls under the couch and then he screams even louder and makes Spawnling cry who then comes running to me clinging to my leg while Intrepid starts yelling at Gutsy for making Spawnling upset, a little voice inside my head will say 'I will not drink today. Instead, I will go make a tea and sit in the kitchen and look at the pictures in a National Geographic magazine because I can't possibly focus on any articles but if I stare hard enough I might think I'm actually in the rain forest and not at my kitchen table listening to this crazy shit.'
And there you go. It's as simple as that.
Corey Haim died today of a drug overdose at the age of 38. He follows a long line of drug-addicted predecessors who graced Hollywood's red carpet: actors, directors, writers, producers. Some of the most talented people on the planet work or have worked in Los Angeles, and many of them are as drawn to drugs and alcohol as a PMSing woman is to the supermarket junk food aisle.
What feeds addictions? Excess and ego, of course; there's nothing like partying it up with the bigwigs and snorting some coke off a stripper's boobs in the bathroom to feel like a god. But what can make life even worse for Hollywood addicts is when the golden studio gates are shut abruptly in their faces and they're given their walking papers:
I used to want to be an actor. My parents even enrolled me in a great local theatre group. I had dreams of Broadway and blockbusters. I wanted to wear the beautiful gown on award night, get my picture taken as I stepped out of a limo, do interviews with big name reporters.
See? Addicts love the high life -- pun intended.
These days I'm glad for normalcy. I like my small little life of no major worldly importance, raising my kids, cleaning my house, writing my blog, drinking my coffee. I recognize how the lifestyle I used to dream of corrupts and corrodes even the best of us, but especially someone like me -- or Corey -- who is only ever an arm's reach away from a drink, a drug, and a life destroyed.
Corey Haim was used up and spit out unceremoniously the minute he stopped being what people wanted. And he couldn't cope with it, so he dove into what he felt would take the pain away. It ultimately took his life, too. Rest in peace, my preteen crush. My heart hurts for you.
When I become a world famous author, I promise not to start drinking just to prove myself a talented one. I'm badass enough without using anything, believe me.
Now to go hug the child who is not in school and remind myself how good it is to be alive. My demons are controlled today. My disease is quiet. I am grateful.
When people jokingly ask me why, as a fabulously talented writer, I'm am not sitting next to a full ashtray and smelling like a week's worth of gin, I'll usually chuckle politely and say 'You should have seen me a few years ago. Actually, be glad you didn't. I smell a lot better now.'
For those who don't know me beyond the beautiful children I raise and write about, I'm also a recovering addict. I tell people because it's not a secret and it's nothing to be ashamed about. Alcohol was my drug of choice, but I would use just about anything my teenage self could get her hands on. By the age of fourteen I had been expelled from school, was drinking every day, using drugs whenever they were available, was suicidal, self-injured regularly (the polite way of saying 'I cut myself to deal with my pain') and wanted to die.
I so very badly wanted to die.
It took six months in rehab, countless therapy sessions and step-based meetings to get me where I am today. I am now 18 years clean and sober with no desire to ever go to back to that life. I'm a wife, mother to three, live in a four bedroom house in the 'burbs and drive a minivan. I lead a disgustingly normal and, in the global scheme of things, incredibly privileged life. There isn't a day that goes by when I'm not grateful for what I have -- because I know damn well I could easily lose it all if I make the wrong choices.
How do I manage to stay away from the glug-glugging? Simple: I take things one day at a time. Later today, when Gutsy is throwing his Wii controller on the floor and the back flies open and a battery rolls under the couch and then he screams even louder and makes Spawnling cry who then comes running to me clinging to my leg while Intrepid starts yelling at Gutsy for making Spawnling upset, a little voice inside my head will say 'I will not drink today. Instead, I will go make a tea and sit in the kitchen and look at the pictures in a National Geographic magazine because I can't possibly focus on any articles but if I stare hard enough I might think I'm actually in the rain forest and not at my kitchen table listening to this crazy shit.'
And there you go. It's as simple as that.
Corey Haim died today of a drug overdose at the age of 38. He follows a long line of drug-addicted predecessors who graced Hollywood's red carpet: actors, directors, writers, producers. Some of the most talented people on the planet work or have worked in Los Angeles, and many of them are as drawn to drugs and alcohol as a PMSing woman is to the supermarket junk food aisle.
What feeds addictions? Excess and ego, of course; there's nothing like partying it up with the bigwigs and snorting some coke off a stripper's boobs in the bathroom to feel like a god. But what can make life even worse for Hollywood addicts is when the golden studio gates are shut abruptly in their faces and they're given their walking papers:
Thanks for stopping by. We got what we needed and you got your money. Now go watch helplessly as everything you've come to expect disappears. The fairytale's over, kid. Go rent an apartment miles away from the mansion you just lost and pray every day that you don't turn into a pathetic joke.
I used to want to be an actor. My parents even enrolled me in a great local theatre group. I had dreams of Broadway and blockbusters. I wanted to wear the beautiful gown on award night, get my picture taken as I stepped out of a limo, do interviews with big name reporters.
See? Addicts love the high life -- pun intended.
These days I'm glad for normalcy. I like my small little life of no major worldly importance, raising my kids, cleaning my house, writing my blog, drinking my coffee. I recognize how the lifestyle I used to dream of corrupts and corrodes even the best of us, but especially someone like me -- or Corey -- who is only ever an arm's reach away from a drink, a drug, and a life destroyed.
Corey Haim was used up and spit out unceremoniously the minute he stopped being what people wanted. And he couldn't cope with it, so he dove into what he felt would take the pain away. It ultimately took his life, too. Rest in peace, my preteen crush. My heart hurts for you.
When I become a world famous author, I promise not to start drinking just to prove myself a talented one. I'm badass enough without using anything, believe me.
Now to go hug the child who is not in school and remind myself how good it is to be alive. My demons are controlled today. My disease is quiet. I am grateful.
