PRAISE FOR
Babylon Confidential
“An honest, page-turning insight into alcoholism and the road back out.”
—Neil Gaiman, New York Times Bestselling Author
“I was gratified my method of alcoholism treatment could play a part in Claudia’s journey from addiction to successful recovery. This vivid and insightful book can help save others suffering from this disease.”
—John David Sinclair, PhD, Founder, The Sinclair Method for the treatment of alcohol addiction
“Warning: Once you start reading Babylon Confidential you may not be able stop until the last page. Just as with a good novel, whenever I wasn’t reading, I found myself wondering what would happen next. Babylon Confidential offers mesmerizing insight into the allure of success, the pressures of Hollywood, the pitfalls of love, and the nature of addiction. Despite putting readers through the emotional wringer as it depicts her struggles, Claudia Christian’s memoir ultimately emerges as a message of hope.”
—Rebecca Moesta, New York Times Bestselling Young Adult Author
“Babylon Confidential is compelling, horrifying, and uplifting. Claudia Christian has an amazing story of glitz and darkness and ultimately a journey as strange and exciting as any of her films.”
—Kevin J. Anderson, New York Times Bestselling Coauthor, Sisterhood of Dune
“[Babylon Confidential] is from the heart, succinct, clear,
and gives hope where there is none.”
—Stephen Michael Cox, MD, President, National Anxiety Foundation
“The dashing and darling Claudia puts herself on the line with her struggles with addiction. Claudia shares and bares it all to help everyone else. . . . A must-read for fans and for folks dealing with any kind of addiction.”
—Pat Tallman, Actress and Stuntwoman; Author, Pleasure Thresholds
“Fearless and inspiring. Claudia not only remembers the torturous calamities of her life, as well as the highs, but she recalls them here with skill, grace, and utterly no apology. If you have an addiction, or know someone who does, you must read this book.”
—Shari Shattuck, Actress; Author, Callaway Wilde novels
“This story is a runaway train on a roller coaster rail. Told with brutal honesty, Claudia Christian takes us on a trip through her life of sex, drugs, despair, betrayal, courage, humor, love, and triumph. She has lived it all and she’s inviting us along for the ride. Hold on to your hat!”
—Walter Koenig, Actor, Director, and Author
“A wild ride. Claudia’s James Frey-like voice reveals the secret life of an alcoholic. Read, laugh, and learn. But most importantly, share—to save a life.”
—Clare Kramer, Actress
“Claudia Christian shares her darkest secrets and greatest fears in her brilliant new addiction memoir—funny, heart-breaking, engrossing, and brutally honest—a book you won’t be able to put down.”
—Amy Luwis, Author, Yoga to the Rescue book series; Cofounder, AdoptAPet.com and adventuresoftoxicgirl.blogspot.com
COPYRIGHT
Copyright © 2012 by Claudia Christian and Morgan Grant Buchanan
Afterword Copyright © 2012 by Dr. Roy Eskapa
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews
BenBella Books, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available for this title.
Ebook ISBN 9781937856076
Editing by Erin Kelley
Copyediting by David Bessmer
Proofreading by Laura Cherkas and Rainbow Graphics
Cover design by Sarah Dombrowsky
Text design and composition by Neuwirth & Associates, Inc.
Ebook production by Erica Jennings/JENNINGS DESIGN
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DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my mother, Hildegard.
Her constant love, fierce loyalty, and utter devotion have taught me that a mother’s love is truly incomparable. You are my best friend, my ballast, and the love of my life, Mama.
CONTENTS
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
INTRODUCTION
PART ONE: THREE STRIKES
Chapter 1: Under the Influence
Chapter 2: One In Five
Chapter 3: Bait and Switch
PART TWO: WHEEL OF FORTUNE
Chapter 4: Bastards and Billionaires
Chapter 5: Cocaine Blues
Chapter 6: Blood, Death, and Taxes
Chapter 7: The Right Hand of Vengeance
Chapter 8: Death By Irony
PART THREE: BAD MEDICINE
Chapter 9: Highland Fling
Chapter 10: The Monster’s Gambit
Chapter 11: White Buffalo Medicine
Chapter 12: The Fall of Babylon
PART FOUR: ONE LITTLE PILL
Chapter 13: (Last) Resort Rehab
Chapter 14: God Save Belinda Blowhard
Chapter 15: Bus Stop
Chapter 16: Extinction Agenda
EPILOGUE
A FINAL WORD
AFTERWORD BY DR. ROY ESKAPA
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
NOTES
INTRODUCTION
No one sets out to become an addict.
When you’re a kid and people ask what you want to be when you grow up, you imagine yourself as a doctor or a teacher (or if you’re five-year-old me, as an actress or the dictator of a small country), something that involves helping people and making the world a better place. You never consider that one day you’ll find yourself sitting at a bus stop on Coldwater Canyon as the morning traffic passes by, your hands shaking as you try to get the vodka-spiked orange juice past your lips. You don’t imagine that you’ll be close to death in a detox clinic with a total loss of muscle function, dehydrated and hallucinating. No parent gives you advice on how to survive the long walk to the liquor store when the cupboard is dry, though you develop strategies. You ration out sips of vanilla extract (35 percent alcohol) and pray that it will prevent a seizure. It keeps the contents of your stomach down and your shaking legs from buckling under you.
You don’t see that coming; I sure didn’t when I followed my dream to pursue an acting career in Hollywood. I’d left behind a family wracked by a tragic loss, was betrayed by the people I loved most, and survived a horrific rape. By the time I was eighteen, I was working on shows like Dallas and Falcon Crest and earning a six-figure income. The Hollywood I found myself caught up in was a whirlwind of beauty, wealth, and power. I made out with stars like George Clooney, Kelly LeBrock, and Rob Lowe in the hottest hotels and clubs in L.A. and New York, rejected William Shatner, traveled the world on private jets and super yachts with lovers like Dodi Fayed, and, in my breakthrough role as Commander Susan Ivanova on Babylon 5, found millions of fans. My life has been one of extremes. The bounty of love and encouragement from family, friends, and fans is in sharp contrast to the unexpected mix of stalkings, shootings, and betrayals.
It took me out of my house at 4 a.m., not caring that Ralph’s grocery store couldn’t start selling liquor until 6. It had no problem making me stand around for hours, killing time while I waited to buy (or if it wasn’t locked up—steal) the first bottle of the day.
I used to camp out at Ralph’s. I’d buy bottles of stuff I didn’t even like to drink—Grand Marnier, crème de menthe, Drambuie—just so I could tell the checkout clerks that I was making a soufflé and throw them off the scent. One time some pimple-faced kid, half my age, gave me a patronizing smile and said, “A little early for this, isn’t it?” He was right; I left the store mortified. I’d get in my car, twist the top off a beer and start drinking. After only a few gulps, I was throwing up all over the parking lot.
I was out of control and more than a little frightened. After finishing my bus stop screwdriver, I went home and looked at myself in the mirror. I barely recognized the puffy, yellow-eyed monster looking back at me. I’d even come to refer to the addiction that overtook me in those terms, as a monster, the monster within me. Even if one of my fans had come and sat down right beside me while I watched the morning traffic, I think my identity would have remained a secret.
I love life. I always have. If I can get that close to utter self-destruction, then there must be other people suffering the same or much worse. I’m writing this memoir for them.
And it’s no easy thing—opening the doors to my past—sharing painful and personal memories that I’d hesitate to confide to even my closest friends. But I feel that the story of how I rose to become a star and then came crashing back down to earth at the hands of my addiction is worth sharing—it contains a message of hope.
For over a decade, I lived in a shadow world, one which is easy to enter and not so easy to leave. But I did. I came back. I found a way out of a life filled with shame and despair.
Even at my worst, having gone from working as a successful actress to clinging to a bottle at that bus stop, I never gave up hope that I could reclaim the dream of using my talents to help other people.
UNDER THE INFLUENCE
It was 1973. I was eight years old, and about to learn that fate can be a stone-cold bitch.
That was the year that Shell Oil ordered my dad to pack up our lives and move to Texas. I found myself in the sauna that is a humid Lone Star September with my parents, James and Hildegard, and my three older brothers, Patrick, Jimmy, and Vincent. In place of the beautiful autumn foliage that we’d left behind in Connecticut, Houston greeted us with shrubs, flatlands, and mosquitoes. None of us were happy about leaving our home back East. There was a palpable tension in the air. My mom had stopped eating and had lost thirty pounds; she’d had a premonition that something terrible was going to happen.
Less than six months later, we would return to Connecticut, having suffered a blow that would continue to impact us until it eventually destroyed our family.
Before the move to Houston, I grew up in Westport and Weston, Connecticut. That was where we were at our happiest. I would tag along when my brothers built snow forts and tree houses and was appointed the unofficial fourth boy, unless they needed someone to gross out. Then I would revert to being their little sister and be forced to watch while they fed live mice to their pet snakes.
Patrick, my oldest brother, wanted to be Hawkeye from The Last of the Mohicans. He beaded things and worked with suede. He used to find dead animals and skin them for his projects. He even made his own moccasins. In the past the Paugusset tribe occupied the land near where we lived, and Pat would lead us in the hunt for old flint arrowheads that were still scattered around the woods.
Some little girls fantasize about being princesses or models. When I read stories about the Pilgrims and their problems, I used to side with the Indians and hope that one day I’d be carried away by a chief to live with his tribe.
Patrick was suitably impressed when, at age five, I landed my first big role: playing Chief Massasoit in a school play. This was a revelatory experience for me. I had three rowdy brothers—I could barely get a word in edgewise—but when I stood on the stage, everyone was quiet, their attention completely focused on me. When I delivered my heartfelt Thanksgiving monologue, I saw adults in the audience listening intently with tears in their eyes, and it astonished me that I could affect them on that emotional level. After that experience, I was hooked. I auditioned for as many plays as I could. The desire to connect with others in that meaningful way, to bring people with me, out of their everyday lives and into another space as I perform, that’s exciting and powerful. It has sustained me in my career for over thirty years.
We were close to nature in Westport. The sea was nearby, and if I was good my mom used to let me camp out in the woods and eat Kentucky Fried Chicken with my girlfriends (that being the staple diet of woodland survivalists). Sometimes we’d even spend the night out there, unless someone started talking about murderers or ghosts, which would send us running back to the house, shrieking loudly enough to wake the dead.
So when my dad announced that Shell was transferring us to Houston, land of 64-ounce Slurpees and steaks the size of hubcaps, we were horrified. My brothers threatened to run away from home, I retreated sullenly into my books, and my parents’ arguments broke out into full-scale war. The word “divorce” was overheard on more than one occasion, leaving us kids huddled in the corners of the house, drawing straws to see who got to live where. My mom usually got her way, but this time the decision had been made by a higher power—Shell Oil Company—and if my dad wanted to get ahead in his career, then he had to go where they sent him.
So my mom stopped eating and started crying all the time. She clung to us and kissed our heads as if we were all she had left. Her desire to stay was more than a fondness for Weston. She’d always had an amazing sixth sense. It wasn’t uncommon for her to tell one of us to get the phone before it rang or to dream about things that would come to pass. She was sure that some terrible storm was brewing and that we were sailing right into it. My dad didn’t want to hear about it; he just started packing.
My dad, Jim, was eighteen years old when he was stabbed, right in the heart. He was a student at the University of Southern California and used to drive around in a red Corvette Stingray. He’d been walking to Van De Camp’s drive-in with some friends when they got jumped by a Mexican gang. My dad was walking in front and got the worst of it. The gang leader’s wife had been cheating on him with some gringos; my dad and his friends were in the wrong place at the wrong time when the leader went looking for blood. When my dad reached the hospital, he became one of the first recipients of open-heart surgery. Back then they hadn’t invented the small, vertical chest incision, so they cut him in half and left him with a long scar that looked like a magician’s trick gone wrong.
The surgeons saved his life twice that day. The first time with the heart surgery—he appreciated that—but he was bitter about the second. Since he was laid up in the hospital, he couldn’t ship out to the Korean War with his buddies. None of them came back. Dad had been sent to military school from the age of five, and there was an expectation that he would follow in the footsteps of his father, Charlie, who’d received a Purple Heart and the French Croix De Guerre in World War I. He was hit by shrapnel in the left lung while leading a French-American force in the Meuse-Argonne offensive.
Charlie was a second-generation Irish immigrant, born in Boston to a well-to-do family. He was a real-estate tycoon, a respected surgeon, an all-round society type w
ith one large skeleton in the closet.
He’d bought a large parcel of desert land in Palm Springs and fitted it out with a trailer. There were no neighbors, no passersby, no one to come between Grandpa Charlie and the trunk-load of whiskey that he would use to drink himself into oblivion. When he was done with his binge he’d dry out for a few days, head back home, and go on with life as usual until the trailer, like the nesting ground of a migratory bird, would irresistibly draw him back.
My mom, Hildegard, was, and still is, a stunningly beautiful woman. Born in Germany, she lived through World War II being evacuated from one small village to the next. She was five years old when Hitler passed through town in one of his flamboyant, goose-stepping parades. Pushing through the crowd to see what all the fuss was about, she found herself face-to-face with the man himself, who passed her a little swastika flag. She turned to run home and show her mother, but as she did she fell and the sharp end of the flag cut her chin open. She decided it was a bad omen and that Hitler was not to be trusted. To this day she still has what she calls her “Hitler scar.”
And, of course, she was right about Hitler. He led Germany to ruin as well as her family. They lost everything when the Nazis evacuated them and took over their home as a base camp.
As a little girl my mom sometimes had to steal cabbages so they had enough to eat, and most evenings found her walking the streets searching for her papa until she found him asleep in a bar or singing with his drinking buddies. Both wartime poverty and her father’s drinking were deeply humiliating for her.
When she was older, she was sponsored by a fiancé to come to America and work as a dental hygienist. That relationship fell through, and she ended up living with the owners of the Brown Derby, the famous Hollywood restaurant. She worked on Mae West’s teeth and dated William Frawley, who played Fred Mertz in I Love Lucy. She never sought out celebrities, but she was classy and extremely attractive and so naturally found herself moving in circles that attracted them.
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