Guts: The Endless Follies and Tiny Triumphs of a Giant Disaster (3 page)

Pretty good, right? Wanna take a quick gander at that list again? Seriously, go ahead, I’ll wait. I gotta call a toxic friend back anyway.

Now that my self esteem is in its proper place, I sincerely hope you won’t lie to me. If you do, I deserve it. If you can still honestly say to me (well, okay, say it to my book, but I’ll know it if you lie, even if you think I can’t see you skulking in the back of that airport bookstore) that you have
never
had an addiction to
any
of the above?

Well, then, my sincere apologies, I stand corrected. You are one lucky soul.

Unfortunately, you might also just be the dullest person alive, and I kind of feel even worse for you than I do for the rest of us lunatics. (Oh, and by the way, I could
not
agree with you more, hon. This is
so
not the book for you. That new James Patterson hardcover is just two shelves over, you go enjoy!)

Anyone still here?

Oh, goody, let’s go.

I got some stories for you.

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.