Acrobaddict (40 page)

My roommates tried preparing me for the audition: Kip took a decent picture of me and said, “Joe, this is your headshot”; Keith handed me a piece of typed paper and said, “This is your resume.” I wanted to cry, never having noticed how loving and caring they had been this whole time. Like proud, protective parents they were nudging me out of my nest, telling me to fly. But, fresh out of rehab, I was in no condition to audition. How would I handle personal judgment after all that time? Didn’t I go to drugs to escape having to cope with rejection, jealously, and competition? Still unsure, I trusted them, my recovery, and the very small signs the universe seemed to be carefully placing before me—so exquisitely crafted that there was no denying they were there for me to follow.

After a sleepless night I walked to the audition a few blocks from our apartment, arriving an hour early. In my brief period of recovery I showed up to places much earlier than needed, trying to take control, thinking extra time would allow for a clearer understanding of the situation. I started stretching and warming up, focusing on my body and walking through my fears, trying not to obsess over the outcome. The other gymnasts started coming in, some I knew from the past, and I was embarrassed that my once-muscular champion body was now emaciated while theirs had remained strong. I wanted to run and hide, but I stayed put, breathing deeply. Then the dancers began flowing in—superhumans beautifully trained in the art of movement, seemingly able to do anything through space. I sat in the corner.

The choreographer came in, making us run from one side of the stage to the other, zigzagging amongst each other. It was fun, and the
feeling of playing a game made me feel less awkward. Then came the tumbling audition. While I wasn’t the best, I wasn’t the worst. The casting was for a specific look and most of us didn’t have it, myself included, but surprisingly, I wasn’t that disappointed being let go. It felt like a huge personal advance to garner the strength to audition in front of strangers, while in the daily life of recovery I still had trouble ordering coffee, opening mail, or going to the bank.

As I left the audition, a tall, attractive dancer with muscular legs like a horse approached me. His name was Jason and he stood out by being big yet moving with ease and grace in both his dancing and tumbling. Without an ounce of fat on his body, he was well trained and familiar with the industry. We exchanged phone numbers, and even though I didn’t want another boyfriend, we hung out a few times and I saw him dance with the company Momix—making difficult skills look easy through his artistic passion, strength, and flexibility.

I continued training hard at the gym, going to twelve-step meetings and working at the
Times
. I had my sights set on a future at the paper, but Jason continually told me to keep auditioning and to take classes. While it felt good to move around again, I believed that without dance training I couldn’t compete in New York, where everybody seemed to be a world-class somebody. He took me to Manhattan Gym one day to train in the gymnastics space—the same place I had come to years before, high on heroin, for the Disney audition. But now, somehow, his enthusiasm and talent inspired me to train more seriously and regain my body and fire.

Three months passed, and even if I didn’t want to be in a relationship, I had settled into one. Everything was perfect—until he came to me with the news that he had been offered a job with Cirque du Soleil’s
Zumanity
and would have to quickly leave for Canada, and then Las Vegas. I was thrilled for him, but devastated that he was leaving me. I had never been in recovery this long, and I had never been in recovery this long with someone else in my life, almost five months. It was unusual, new, and special for me to remember every moment with someone, and I didn’t want to part with that.

34

SPINAL COLUMN

I
N HUMAN ANATOMY, THE VERTEBRAL COLUMN (BACKBONE OR SPINE) USUALLY CONSISTS OF THIRTY-THREE VERTEBRAE, THE SACRUM, THE INTERVERTEBRAL DISCS, AND THE COCCYX SITUATED AT THE BOTTOM OF THE TORSO
. T
HE SPINAL COLUMN HOUSES AND PROTECTS THE SPINAL CORD IN THE SPINAL CANAL.

I had five months of recovery when I picked up heroin again. I had stopped taking my opiate blocker and didn’t tell anyone. Once again I chose death instead of life. I was searching for a feeling; I wanted to rebel and destroy. I didn’t care about the consequences. I didn’t understand why I would do that, because things had been so good. I hadn’t missed a day at the gym. I had gone to my old gymnastics gym in Boston and made amends to my coach Antonio.

Maybe I missed Jason out there in Vegas, or maybe I just felt sorry for myself. I was brokenhearted and I hated it. I was scared and I didn’t know how to stop again. I would stop for two or three days, but physically couldn’t get beyond that. I hadn’t gone to a meeting because I was afraid that everyone would be mad at me. I was angry, confused, guilty, remorseful, and anxious, and I just needed more heroin to forget all about it.

I had gotten two gigs outside of the
Times
, working with a group of acrobats and doing some modeling. Why would I go out and use? I prayed to God, asking him to unlock my willingness, to give me hope and faith to take on my disease one hour at a time. I begged him to give me the strength to sit through the withdrawals.

One day in the spring I woke up from a two-month run. My last use had been an overdose. Balancing heavy weight lifting and heavy heroin use finally resulted in injury—the opiate pain-numbing effects blocked my awareness of how hard I was working out. I torqued my bones and tore the muscles in my back. I went to the ER with a well-rehearsed act guaranteed to coax out something stronger than the usual Vicodin remedy and got a small prescription for Ativan and OxyContin to loosen the back muscles surrounding my spinal column.

I filled my prescription, went home, shot up, and took a handful of pills. I felt incredible, and, as I sat cross-legged on the floor, my sweat-laden forehead slumped forward. I slowly fell facedown to the ground, alternating between sleep and vomiting. The urge to vomit again woke me and raised me from the floor, and I ran at full speed toward the bathroom but miscalculated the location of the door. Running with the speed of an Olympic sprinter, I hit my bedroom wall with a force that rebounded me flat on my back. I burst out laughing, rolled on the ground, stared at the ceiling, and turned my head to vomit all over the floor. I didn’t wipe the contents of my stomach off the side of my face—my arms were too heavy to move. My eyes rolled back into unconsciousness, and I woke the next morning to a room full of puke. I needed to stop using . . . again. That day I went back to my meetings, admitting failure and begging for help. They welcomed me back and were glad that I was still alive and safe.

The beginning of summer brought my fortieth magical drug-free day. Jason and I were trying to make our long-distance relationship work, and he invited me to see his show in Las Vegas. He knew I had relapsed, but wasn’t sure how bad it was. He only knew me in recovery so had never had the opportunity to observe my decadent dance in death. I didn’t have any money for the ticket, so he bought my flight to Vegas. The city was shocking to me. I had never seen anything so false. Old men walking the Strip with their breast-inflated, liposuctioned, plump-lipped Kewpie dolls, arm in arm, painted with the color of money and arrogance.

Two months apart had created a noticeable distance between us, and despite our being together again, Jason felt far away. Seeing him perform his passion in
Zumanity
made me proud, and I realized I wasn’t as removed from the world on stage as I had thought—I could still do many of the skills that they were showing up there. The production transported me back to watching my first Cirque show on HBO, enthralled by the athleticism and grace. Jason embodied those qualities and belonged there, and maybe I did too. I vowed to try again, even though I had just come out of another major relapse.

The circus seeded a new idea, spurred by jealousy and a desire to keep Jason emotionally nearby after my return to New York. Like most of my drug-induced ideas, it was completely fantastical. I would train harder than ever, get hired by Cirque du Soleil, and make him want me. I believed keeping him would keep me in recovery, and, though the distance might dismantle our emotions and the Strip’s vices might lure him from my grasp, he would fall prey to my desire to love and be loved. He admired the circus artists of his new reality, and, through my hard work, he would admire me too. I put this sharp sword of inspiration in its case, said goodbye, and carried it back to New York with my new mission for love and recovery.

The relapse filled my spirit with shame and anger, but my new motivation thrust me forward to do everything in my power to get back in shape and stay in recovery. I auditioned and was hired to perform with an acrobatic group for Broadway Bares, a fundraising show by the theater community raising money for Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS. The show was for one night, and it would be my first New York performance.

While I was bigger, stronger, and back in great shape from lifting, arriving at the huge event space full of half-naked dancers with impeccable bodies brewed more jealousy and envy inside me. Unable to see my own assets, I only focused on others’ attributes, pushing me to get to their level. There were no drugs going around, which was a relief, but there was a lot of drinking. I managed to stay abstinent, focused on our number, and found joy in flipping again with a group. As a competing gymnast I had had no idea this performing world
existed, and wished my coaches or parents had shown me this athletic option. I should have been doing this with my life all along. Our performance and the evening were a huge success, and I connected with a wide range of people in the performance industry. The night was a tiny reward for staying in recovery, and I continued to commit my time to training, working out, and stretching.

My enthusiasm paid off. I was hired as an acrobat in Puccini’s
Turandot
at the Metropolitan Opera House. My roommates couldn’t believe my luck in getting to work at such a prestigious venue. I was ecstatic. That would be my first paid performance. Rehearsals would start in a few months and I had to stay abstinent, or else I would lose it and again destroy all I had been working toward.

During a long, slow day at work I started searching the Web for different forms of acrobatics. Images of contortionists filled the screen and pulled me in; there were women able to arch their backs practically in half, to the point where their spinal cords seemed ready to snap. Having never seen a man do that, I searched for male contortionists, and Jonathan Nosan appeared. He was extremely flexible and had made a huge career from dedication to his art form. I was very flexible as a young gymnast, almost to the point of contortionism, but an older gymnast had made fun of my flexibility at the Olympic Training Center by saying, “Only girls should be able to bend like that.” Humiliated, I stopped working on it and let my flexibility deteriorate.

I had just turned twenty-seven and wondered if it was possible to regain my past flexibility. If I stretched all day long, could I get back to the range I had when I was younger? Unsure of the answer, but sure of my desire, I started my quest into the world of extreme physical pain. Instead of taking a lunch break, I went into the copy room where I mindlessly made hundreds of copies for editors and reporters, and stacked up large boxes filled with blank white copying paper. I put my foot up on top and began my training. Most people don’t stretch, because it’s slow and painful. Nobody wants to be in pain—especially a heroin addict. I didn’t know where this would lead, but I knew that to achieve my goal I needed to stretch all day
long, and since I was at work I had to do it there. Regardless, it was a better in-between-tasks hobby than shooting heroin.

I took every opportunity I could find to stretch: under my desk, in the copy closet, at home, on the street. My body resisted the pain and gravity resisted my pushing, but I continued lengthening my body and muscles. I was extremely tight, and the smallest, simplest stretch shot nerve pains throughout my body. The path in front of me seemed impossible, but I was determined to make this dream a reality.

After a month of deep stretching on my own, I asked an acrobat I worked with at Broadway Bares if she knew Jonathan and if he ever taught classes. She sent me to his website, I sent him an email, and then I arranged to attend a class he taught at a yoga studio in Chelsea. I was terrified of meeting Jonathan and ashamed that I needed to relearn how to stretch after having once been flexible. He was tall, very attractive, and lean and muscular, with a magnetic quality and a boyish smile. We walked into the studio and started; he was very serious and ready to work. Leg flexibility was my major weakness, but I had great strength and stamina for holding handstands. Everything in nature stretches to unrealized degrees of plasticity, and within that movement, as we release, connect, and dissolve our ego of physicality, stretching can take on a spiritual dimension.

As I stood with my back against the wall, Jonathan would lift my leg to its limit and then beyond, telling me to breathe deeply. Breath is our primal connection to movement; it is our first bodily expression out of the womb, and will be our last. Raising my leg beyond my extreme, Jonathan kept repeating, “Breathe,” though my body resisted the rigorous pain.

He said, “You’re not breathing; you’re in pain and holding your breath, not exhaling, not letting it out.” He was right, and it wasn’t just in that training. I could never breathe. I was always fighting to get air inside my lungs, and when I was introduced to some sort of pain or crisis I held my breath, denying my body life and air. I found relief through drugs, which eased me into breathing more naturally. Who or what was constricting my breath?