by Cat Marnell
“Were you drunk onstage at [the Oscars of Hair]?” Jean said incredulously.
“No! I didn’t touch alcohol in Vegas!” And I was actually telling the truth this time. “Who on earth told you that?” I never found out. Not that it mattered. This time my boss definitely didn’t believe me.
* * *
On September 10, 2009, I turned twenty-seven.
“Are you doing anything special tonight?” Simone asked. We were having the usual Billy’s Bakery banana cake in JGJ’s office. I was wearing a gold lamé Marc by Marc Jacobs shift dress and had my hair in braids wrapping around my head.
“I’m not sure yet . . .” The despair crept up all day.
After work, I took the train downtown. Somewhere between Herald Square and Union Square, I just started crying—right there in the orange plastic seat. In my stupid shiny party dress.
It was still summer weather. I got off and walked through the East Village until I reached a church on East Thirteenth Street. Inside, starting any minute, was a women-only Narcotics Anonymous meeting. I’d looked it up on the Internet.
I opened the door to the basement and stepped inside. It was dark in there. The Chairwoman had long brown hair, tattoos, and sexy-nerd glasses and looked about thirty years old. Since the group was small, she said, we’d go around the circle and share in order; I could pass if I wanted to.
I counted: I would be seventh. I wasn’t sure I could make it that long. I sat and tried to listen, but the tears came again, and no matter what I did I couldn’t make them stop. I was shaking in my seat. We were still going around the room, but people were turning to look at me.
Finally it was my turn. I inhaled, exhaled, and tried to regain my composure.
“My name is Cat,” I said—with considerable difficulty. “And I’m an addict.”
“Hi, Cat,” the group said.
“And I’m here because . . . because . . .” The room was silent. “Today is my birthday . . .” Uh-oh. I was about to lose it completely. “. . . AND I DON’T HAVE ANY FRIENDS OR ANYWHERE ELSE TO GO.” Bwaahhhh.
It all came pouring out.
“I’M SO FUCKED UP. I’M LIVING SO MANY LIES . . . I WALK AROUND GOING TO FASHION SHOWS ACTING LIKE I HAVE THIS GLAMOROUS LIFE AND ALL OF THESE FRIENDS BUT I DON’T . . . IT’S ALL A LIE.”
I was bawling. I wiped away tears with the back of my hand. Someone handed me a tissue box. Every time I had a new thought I doubled over again.
“THE GUY I THOUGHT WAS MY BEST FRIEND ATTACKED ME AND ROBBED ME . . . I WORK AT CONDÉ NAST . . . I’M A BEAUTY EDITOR . . . IT’S THE ONLY THING I LIKE ABOUT MYSELF. IT’S ALL I HAVE . . . THEY—LUCKY—H-H-H-HELPED ME GO TO REHAB . . . NOW I LIE TO MY BOSS ALL OF THE TIME AND TELL HER THAT I’M IN NA WHEN I’M NOT . . . SHE DOESN’T EVEN ASK, I JUST OFFER THE LIE. IT’S SO FUCKED UP.”
Sob.
“WHEN I WAS YOUNGER, I GOT KICKED OUT OF SCHOOL AND MOVED TO NEW YORK . . . I WAS SEVENTEEN . . . I JUST WANTED TO BE HERE. AND BE IN THE ‘IN CROWD’ . . . WHATEVER THAT MEANS . . . YOU KNOW?” A few women nodded. “IT’S NEW YORK . . . DOWNTOWN . . .”
Sob.
“I DIDN’T FEEL GOOD ABOUT MYSELF WHEN I WAS LITTLE . . . OR IN HIGH SCHOOL . . . SO I MOVED HERE AND TRIED TO BE COOL . . . TO FEEL . . . B-B-BETTER, I GUESS . . .”
Sob.
“MY WHOLE TWENTIES I WAS LIKE . . . LIKE A GROUPIE FOR ALL OF THESE DOWNTOWN GUYS . . . I WAS—I AM—BULIMIC AND OBSESSED WITH MY LOOKS . . . I THOUGHT THAT MY BODY WAS ALL I HAD TO MAKE PEOPLE LIKE ME . . . I WAS ALWAYS GOING TO CLUBS ALONE . . . PATHETIC . . . GOING HOME WITH GUYS AND LETTING THEM CHOKE ME AND COME ON MY F-F-FACE . . . I WAS ALWAYS DOING COKE. AND I FELT JUST WORTHLESS AFTER A WHILE . . . I DIDN’T KNOW WHO I WAS.”
Sob.
“BUT THEN I STARTED WORKING IN MAGAZINES AND IT GAVE ME HOPE . . . LIKE I DIDN’T HAVE TO BE TRASH ANYMORE . . . I WORKED SO HARD . . . I THOUGHT I WAS GOING TO HAVE THIS AMAZING CAREER . . . BUT NOW I’VE TOTALLY SCREWED IT UP BECAUSE I’M ALWAYS ON DRUGS. I’M SO TIRED ALL OF THE TIME.”
Sob.
“I STAY UP ALL NIGHT TEARING MYSELF APART WITH TWEEZERS . . . I HAVE A HORRIBLE INFECTION. I TAKE LIKE FIFTEEN PILLS A DAY . . . IF I GO OFF THEM I CAN’T MOVE . . . I’M SO SICK. I’M SO SICK. I AM SO SICK. I CAN’T BELIEVE HOW BAD IT’S GOTTEN. I AM SO FUCKING SICK. I DON’T LET MYSELF THINK ABOUT IT.” Sob. “AND I CAN’T TELL ANYONE.”
Sob.
“BUT I ALSO THINK, ‘CAT, EVEN IF YOU DID GO OFF THE PILLS, NONE OF THIS WOULD BE DIFFERENT. YOU’D STILL BE A LOSER AND A MESS. YOU’D STILL—YOU’D STILL—YOU’D STILL HAVE NO F-F-FRIENDS. YOU’D STILL NOT HAVE A BOYFRIEND.’ I’M TOO SICK FOR ANYONE TO LOVE ME. I KNOW THAT. I’M NOT STUPID. I DON’T L-L-LOVE ME!”
Sob.
“I KEEP WAITING FOR IT TO GET B-B-BETTER. BUT IT DOESN’T GET BETTER. I KEEP WAITING FOR IT TO GET BETTER, BUT IT JUST GETS WORSE AND WORSE. I GET LONELIER AND LONELIER. I GET MORE AND MORE TIRED. I NEVER SLEEP. I CAN’T SLEEP . . . I DON’T KNOW.”
Sob.
“I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO. I GET ON MY KNEES ALL THE TIME AND ASK GOD TO HELP ME. BUT I DON’T THINK HE’S LISTENING. HE DOESN’T HELP ME. I HAVE JUST GIVEN UP. I WANT TO DIE. BECAUSE THE OLDER I GET THE WORSE IT GETS. IT JUST GETS WORSE AND WORSE. I’M TWENTY-SEVEN TODAY—”
Just then a man stepped into the basement from the street. Everyone except me whipped around in their seats. It was a man with a briefcase.
“WOMEN’S MEETING!” the women roared.
“Er,” the man said, backing up. “Sorry . . .”
I took a few deep breaths to regain my composure. The women glared at the man until he left. When the door closed behind him, everyone turned back to me. I’d calmed down.
“Okay,” I sniffled. “As I was saying . . . um . . .” Sniff. “I just . . . I don’t want to be twenty-seven today.” Sniff. “It’s not about age. I don’t want to be anything. I just wish I was dead!” Sniff. “Thanks for letting me”—sniff —“share.”
Everyone sat quietly for a moment. I stared at the ground. Then the next person began.
By the end of the meeting, I just wanted to get out of there. Had I really come out of my face like that? I tried the ol’ Irish good-bye, but the women weren’t having it. They swarmed, giving me their phone numbers on scraps of paper and asking me for mine.
“I’ll text you first thing tomorrow,” the Chairwoman said. “Text back.”
“I will,” I lied. Thank God I’d never see these people again.
* * *
I slept like a clubbed baby seal that night. The next morning, my BlackBerry was lit up with messages from the NA chairwoman and a few other women, but I didn’t write back. I was too embarrassed. Besides, I felt so much better now that I’d gotten some rest. And it was Fashion Week! I had the Charlotte Ronson show that morning. I dabbed on some NARS Heat Wave lipstick and pulled an Isabel Marant Étoile floaty dress over my head. I was a Condé Nast editor, goddammit. How bad could my life really be?
I took the F train up to Bryant Park, hit the tents, plunked down into my not-swaggy-at-all assigned seat, and immediately scanned the crowd. That’s when I saw her: CHRISSIE MILLER.
I’ll give you a chance to stop swooning.
Okay.
Who was Chrissie Miller? Only the coolest girl in all of downtown, motherfuckers! At least I’d thought so ever since I profiled her in Lucky. Where to start? Chrissie’s clothing line, Sophomore, had made the PAGE SIX SIX SIX T-shirt famously worn by Britney Spears in 2003; Chrissie’s mom was Susan Miller, the A-lister astrologist; Chrissie’s boyfriend was the artist Leo Fitzpatrick, who’d played Teli in Kids; Chrissie’s friends were the model Jessica Stam and Sopranos actress Drea de Matteo. Chrissie had long blond bangs and wore vintage seventies clothes and DJ’d at Lit. She was just so cool. Her whole scene was so cool. I saw her on Purple Diary all of the time, but hardly ever in
person.
And there she was—in the front row! Duh, she was BFF with Charlotte Ronson, too. I had to say hello. The show was going to start any minute, but I clomped down the bleachers in my Sergio Rossis and crossed the runway anyway.
To say I approached her obsequiously would be an understatement. I mean, Kimye have approached Anna Wintour with less sycophancy.
Chrissie looked up from her phone.
“Oh, hey!” she said. “How’s it going, Cat?”
“Good,” I lied. Then, lamely: “I’m reporting on this show for the magazine.”
“Oh, nice,” Chrissie said. “You should meet my friend—she works in magazines, too.” She nudged her neighbor, who was talking to someone in the second row. “Lesley! This is the girl who wrote that story about me in Lucky.”
Lesley turned to face me. She had long brown hair, tattoos, was wearing cool glasses and—wait. What?
It was the Chairwoman from the Narcotics Anonymous meeting.
I felt like someone had hit me in the head with a frying pan.
“H-h-hi . . .” I stammered.
Lesley looked stunned, too.
“Hi,” she said.
We stared at each other.
Chrissie Miller glanced at me and then at Lesley.
“Do you two . . . already know each other?” she asked.
“Uh,” I started. “Not—”
“Yup.” Lesley smiled. “We hung out last night. Hey, Cat.”
“Hey.” I tried to smile back.
“I’ve been texting you all morning,” Lesley said. “How was the rest of your birthday?”
“Pretty good,” I croaked.
“I didn’t know you were friends with my friends, Cat,” Chrissie Miller said. Suddenly the queen of downtown was looking at me very approvingly.
“Oh . . .” I didn’t know what to say to that one. “Well, I’m . . . uh . . .”
“Text me later, okay?” Lesley rescued me—with a wink.
“’Kay.” I nodded. The lights flickered. “Er, I’m gonna go sit down.”
“Good to see you!” Chrissie said. “Bye, Cat!”
“Bye, Cat,” Lesley/Chairwoman echoed. I could feel her eyes on me as I climbed the bleachers again.
The lights went down just as I settled back in. Then the music started: Charlotte’s DJ sister Sam opened with “Dominos” by the Big Pink. Then the models came out, but I couldn’t focus on the clothes. I knew something nuts had happened. It would be years before I learned about synchronicity—Jung’s theory of “meaningful coincidence”—in a “Higher Power” workshop in (yet another) rehab. But when I did, I thought back to this profoundly crazy moment at Fashion Week, and everything made sense. Back then, though, I was very confused—trying to make sense of everything. All I knew was: God was trying to show me He was there. Remember when I told all those women in the NA meeting that I got on my knees and begged God to help me? Well, I guess someone had been listening to me after all.
Chapter Seventeen
THE SECOND HALF OF SEPTEMBER was flat and gray. I never returned to NA. Instead, in the evenings, I lay on the charcoal midcentury modern sofa I’d bought from Nev, staring at the ceiling. Even though my new apartment was chaotic with half-unpacked boxes, it felt very empty. So did I.
I needed drugs—hard ones. I hit up SAME and those guys, whom I’d partied with on and off over the years. They were doing coke at a penthouse in Union Square, and I dropped by. I flirted with their friend, a DJ from Los Angeles. I’d never met him before. He walked me home to Avenue C at dawn. Then he told me he needed a place to stay.
“Well . . .” I said. He was sort of charming.
It had been a long time since I’d brought a guy up. My apartment was a disaster. So was my body.
“What’s that?” he said when he got my Topshop tights off. I’d forgotten the raw pink mess—healing now—on one side of my bikini line. A few weeks ago, I’d gone into a hyperfocused state during a speed binge and done it to myself with tweezers.
I wasn’t sure what to say.
“Self-mutilation,” I finally mumbled.
The DJ from LA shrugged and did his thing anyway—which turned out to be demeaning, marathon “coke sex” that challenged both my dignity and my gag reflex. Still, I gave him my number before I left for work, and we hooked up a few more times. Then he flew back to LA, and I was alone again.
October was even more flat, and darker. I went to dinner at Gemma with girls from the magazine. They talked about Pamela Love. I felt like a space alien. I stared grimly at a pile of arugula. It was the most boring salad in the world.
On the walk home on the Bowery, I listened to “Confessions on a Dance Floor” and tried to resist the . . . ennui that felt like it was about to overcome me like a cloud of poisonous gas. It’s not always going to feel like it does today, I told myself. I absolutely could not give up. I was going to get through this strange, joyless, barren patch. I was going to meet new friends. My ambition would return, too. The “lightning flash” moment with Lesley had been God’s way of telling me: believe. I pulled on a Marlboro Ultra Light. I mean, I just had to be patient.
I repeated this stuff in my head over the next several weeks. And guess what? All that positive thinking really made a difference. Slowly—day by day—I started to feel better: more social, more creative, more at ease around other people. Healthier. I refocused on my career. I even went out on a few dates.
Just kidding! I caved and called Marco.
* * *
He walked into my new apartment on a Friday night like he owned the place.
“This is great,” Marco said, nodding. It had been two months since I’d stood at Nev’s window and watched Marco fleeing East Sixth Street.
Now he was looking around. There wasn’t much for him to see. My passport was underneath my mattress. My beloved Louis Vuitton–Stephen Sprouse scarf was inside a kitchen cupboard. I’d secured the closet with a bicycle chain lock. Smaller items—jewelry, pill bottles—were in pillowcases or at the bottom of my hamper. The keys to everything were on a neon-yellow lanyard around my neck. The place felt sufficiently Marco-proof.
Now I could relax and get high with my horrible BFF. We sat cross-legged on the floor by my coffee table. But Marco was no Lester Garbage Head, let’s put it that way. He kept jabbing my arm. The plunger would pull back empty instead of drawing blood.
“OW!” I screeched.
“You have impenetrable veins!” Marco insisted. He was high already.
“No, you are just horrible at this,” I said. “I’ll just snort it—”
“I’m gonna try it in your neck,” Marco said. He pushed my hair away.
“AUGH!” I yelled. “NO!”
“LET ME SHOOT YOU UP IN THE NECK!” Marco said. I smacked the needle out of his hand.
“Get away from me, you freak!” But I was laughing. We were blissed out for two days.
We were up until four in the morning on Sunday. Marco was still sleeping as I glued myself together—as Andy Warhol would say—on Monday morning. I sat on the messy bed and took his hand.
“You look so pretty,” he said, opening his eyes. His hair was soft and fine like a baby’s. The sun was streaming in. I gave him a tiny smooch.
“Look, you can stay and sleep if you want,” I said. “But I’m only giving you one chance. Do you understand?” Marco nodded. “This is a test.” I rubbed the lipstick trace from his head with my thumb. “Do not fuck around.”
“I’ll be good. I swear,” he said. “I’m just so glad that we’re friends again.”
I looked at him.
“Me too,” I said.
When I returned at seven, Marco was waiting with neat piles of pills on a mirror. Nothing seemed out of place or missing. I was very pleased. I sat down to do some drugs.
* * *
&nb
sp; Three days later, I was in the same hole as before.
“AUUUUGHH,” I shrieked. It was five in the morning, and I’d stepped backward and fallen off a drug dealer’s stoop in the West Village. Wham. I hit the ground on West Tenth Street. I was wearing dirty white Sass & Bide jeans. “OW!”
“What happened?” Marco laughed, emerging from the town house. He picked me up and helped me toward Sixth Avenue. I’d just bought us two hundred dollars’ worth of cocaine, and he was on his very best behavior. I leaned up against my best friend, walking at an angle.
“Oww-www,” I moaned. “Let’s take a cab.” We hailed one.
“Second and C!” Marco said to the driver. I was snuggled into his armpit in the backseat. Now we were heading east on Eighth Street. I smelled like Mustela vanilla, Kiehl’s Coriander lotion, and marijuana. As per usual, Marco didn’t smell like anything. He was scrolling through his phone.
“You can still get phenobarbital in Mexico,” he murmured. “I think we should go.”
It was just getting light out when we got to 252 East Second Street. There were peachy streaks in the gray sky.
“Keys, keys . . .” I murmured, patting my pockets. I was wearing an ancient Juicy Couture pea coat with a raccoon fur collar.
“Around your neck,” Marco said helpfully.
“Ahhh . . .” I took the lanyard off slowly and unlocked the door.
We took the elevator to the third floor. My apartment looked like a crime scene. I fixed a Ketel One–and–SunnyD in a laboratory beaker while Marco polished off the smack.
“Jean won’t let me get lip injections,” I babbled. Now I was fussing with a vintage Cramps T-shirt that I’d cut into scraps on too much Vyvanse—trying to safety-pin it back together. “But I want them!” Marco smiled sleepily. “I wouldn’t get big ones—just a little . . . sexy-baby look, you know.” I’d been blathering for five hours straight. “I don’t even think I could have big lip injection-y . . . lip injection-y . . .” What was I talking about? “Lip injection-y . . .”