Guts: The Endless Follies and Tiny Triumphs of a Giant Disaster (2 page)

ESPECIALLY THE OVERWORKED, UNDERPAID, TALENTED, AND OCCASIONALLY UNPLEASANT STAFF OF THE HOSPITAL.

YOU SAVED MY LIFE,

IN WAYS YOU’LL NEVER KNOW.

OH, AND TO ALL THE FREAKS.

YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE.

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The only way to find true happiness is to risk being completely cut open.

—CHUCK PALAHNIUK

Somebody’s boring me—

I think it’s me.

—DYLAN THOMAS

Introduction

one
I See Nothing, I Hear Nothing

two
The Freak Has Landed

three
Anyone but Me

four
Ye Olde Elvis Catnap

five
The English Patient

six
Dying Is Easy, Living Is Hard

seven
Blink

eight
I Think We’re Alone Now

nine
The Suffolk Strangler

ten
The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come

eleven
Papillon

twelve
Pretty Ugly

thirteen
Welcome to the Planet of the Apes

Epilogue

Thanks. . .

Photo Descriptions

thank you
ever so much for buying my book. I feel as if I know you already, and maybe even kind of like you. You certainly have exquisite taste in reading materials. As long as you don’t talk shit about me behind my back or send me naked pictures of yourself playing guitar, we’re good. (And, yes, I’m referring to you, inmate 49607.)

I thought it might be best if we got a few things straight before I tell you way more about me than you ever wanted to know. For starters, because in recent years the validity of some events in certain memoirs have been called into question, I’d like to begin by vowing to you that every single stupid, funny, tragic, shocking, disgusting, and boring thing in this book really happened to me.

At least, I think so.

No, I’m pretty sure.

You see, there are certain portions of my life that I was wide awake for, yet completely unaware of, even while they were happening. And no, I’m not crazy. Well, that’s not really true. I’m not
mental institution
crazy. Yet.

I can’t begin to tell you how tempted I am to fill you in on the reason I have such gaping holes in my memory, but I think it’s way too early for that. I mean, I can’t very well tell you
everything
in the introduction, can I? Besides, it’s a crucial plot point, and I should probably at least try to make an effort to build up some dramatic tension before revealing it—

Oh, fuck it. I hate waiting. I’m a pill-popping lush.

Your mind is totally blown, isn’t it? After all, “an actress addicted to booze and pills” is relatively unheard of. And “an actress addicted to booze and pills who then writes a book about it” is even rarer. And when I say “unheard of” or “rare,” what I really mean is “disturbingly commonplace.” It was a dark day indeed when I was forced to admit that I was about as “special” and “unique” as a manila envelope. Even worse, I began to have an awful suspicion that my oh-so-fabulous life was really one long, cliché-ridden thrill ride.

I’ve been in recovery for five years, and I’ve worked my ass off to prevent a relapse, but one never knows with something as ridiculously annoying as addiction. I could stub my toe, get a papercut, or just be bored and all of a sudden, it’s “Has anyone heard from Kristen? She was supposed to be my maid of honor last night and she never showed up.”

Because I spent a large extent of my life plowed, you might find yourself longing for more details about certain events. Trust me, so do I. But what am I supposed to do, make shit up?

That reminds me—from time to time, I’ve been known to exaggerate oh-so-slightly to make a story more dramatic or funny. However, I’ve decided to tell the truth this time, even if it kills me. Mostly because I don’t want Oprah to yell at me. (So what if she doesn’t have a show anymore? She still scares the ever-loving shit out of me.)

Oh, righ— I almost forgot, I sometimes, upon occasion, use salty language, but very rarely, and only when it’s absolutely fucking necessary.

So that’s me. Just your simple, everyday, alcoholic, pill-popping addict-slash-actress who periodically indulged in hyperbole liberally sprinkled with profanities. All that really means is I was a lying drama queen with a dirty yap and a yen for chemicals. Go ahead, say whatever you want about me, because you could never come
close
to what I’ve said about myself.

I think that about covers it.

You can’t say I didn’t warn you.

One last quick thing before we begin. I thought this would be a good time to say a simple and heartfelt “thank you” to all of you truly incredible people who are lucky enough to spend your lives in the happy, safe, and lavender-scented meadow of the “nonaddict.”

I know I can speak for all of us addicts when I say how deeply grateful we are to all you fortunate souls who aren’t addicted to anything.. . .

You know, that sounds funny. Let me read it again.
Oh, crap
. That’s right. I’m
such
a flake. I always seem to forget this one little thing:

You don’t
exist.

Everyone’s addicted to something.

Now, before you get your panties in a twist and send me some long, defensive rant (which, by the way, no addict would
ever
do), just hear me out. First of all, I’m willing to admit that there’s a slight possibility I think this way because I live in the Babylon of creativity and mental illness, which is New York City. But, I travel a lot. And I read
In Touch
magazine.

Of course that’s not
all
the research I’ve done on this subject. Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve also spent hundreds of hours exhaustively gathering information from my couch while carefully analyzing the countless hot messes getting smashed and imploding on one of the hundreds of quality “reality” shows offered by almost every single network on television today. That, plus talking to some people has led me to this completely nonscientific yet chilling conclusion: everyone, absolutely every single postpubescent person in the good old US of A,
is
or
was
addicted to SOMETHING.

Let me explain.

I have to admit, I don’t know why people are so touchy about being accused of being an addict. Like it’s some bad thing, when it’s really not. You see, in my experience, most addicts are charming, talented, intelligent, creative, funny, sensitive, and ambitious. Unfortunately, this is the case only while they’re
not
using. While engaged in their “drug” of choice, addicts are either terrifying, mortifying, or so painfully boring that eventually their loved ones find themselves praying that they’ll have an overdose. Just a minor one. A teeny coma. Just for a few minutes of peace and quiet.

Oh, please. You know it’s true. And who could possibly blame you?

But, dear “loved ones,” lest you get too excited because you’ve escaped the drug and alcohol curse (so far), do keep in mind that addiction comes in many shapes, sizes, and forms. Let me give you an example: Let’s say one fine summer day you innocently decide to take a golf lesson. You enjoy it immensely. You then begin to look forward to your weekly Saturday-morning game. Then, without warning, you decide to quit your stupid dental practice, yank your kids from school, load up a moving van, and haul ass to Arizona. You can’t understand why your party pooper of a wife is mad at you.

You do
all this
just so that you can live directly
on
a golf course because you finally realize what will make you happy: playing golf every waking minute of every single day.

This, my new friend, is when you no longer play
golf.
Now, it plays
you.

Ring any bells?

If not, don’t worry, I’ve got another little experiment here that might better illustrate my point. The results can be just between the two of us, no one else ever needs to know. Just take a deep breath and ask yourself if you’ve ever “had an issue” with one or more of the following (
and lest you think I’m being holier-than-thou, I’ve had an issue with eleven of the following, at one time or another
):

Drugs, booze, sex, gambling, work, power, religion, shopping, love, cutting or self-harm, food, cleaning, plastic surgery, lip balm (or is this just
me
?), nicotine, television, porn, gossip, having/being “the best,” toxic relationships, sports (playing and/or watching), tattoos, home decor, cars, exercise, money, being correct, adrenaline, collecting animals, obsessively collecting anything (dolls, stamps, Hummel figurines, etc.), being too invested in one’s kids (I’d like to give a special shout-out to all you stage mothers, you naughty Munchausen syndrome by proxyites, and of course you sexy Little League rage-aholics), makeup, lying, tanning, fame, people addicted to addicts, stimulation, rage, caffeine, and, finally, what I like to refer to as
the umbrella of doom
, under which fall all things computer-related, including the Internet, objects that let you send/receive e-mail, eBay, Facebook, Twitter, online dating, Myspace, Google, and all video games. (Unless it’s Tetris, that’s perfectly healthy.)

Well, Jesus. I don’t know about you, but I’m wiped. I hope I didn’t skip anything. I’m not too worried, however. I’m sure if I did, all of you addicts will let me know immediately.

Now here’s where it can get quite confusing: many of the above are wonderful and fulfilling activities. Many are necessities. What morphs them into addictions is when they become a habit or an obsession to the extent that they “damage, jeopardize, or shorten one’s life. Or when ceasing these behaviors causes physical or psychological trauma.”

That definition comes courtesy of Wikipedia, but it still doesn’t fully encompass what I understand addiction to be. Scouring the Internet, I couldn’t find even
one
definition that fully satisfied me, probably because most of them were more than likely written by well-meaning clinicians who are only addicted to harmless activities like knitting. (Knitting! How could I have forgotten about those damn knitters?) Therefore, because I
am
lucky enough to be an addict, and I happen to know more about everything than anyone else, I couldn’t resist adding my own definition. Hope you like it: