So the big question arises: what the hell does one do if experiencing some or all of these issues? It’s not my job to diagnose mental disorders, nor do I want to. It’s also not my business to evaluate the paths other people take or the choices they make to help themselves or their loved ones. I do not presume to know what is right for everyone. The choice is always their own. It was my personal quest, as I suffered from anxiety and depression, to find alternatives to drugs. It’s also fair to say I suffered from chronic anxiety prior to taking cocaine. For my own answers, I researched different options and different schools of thought. Being an ex–drug addict, I wasn’t necessarily looking for the next drug to solve my problems, even if it wasn’t a street drug.
I discovered two distinctly different schools of thought on the subject. One school of thought is that of psychiatry, medicos, and Big Pharma. The other is the school of thought I discovered in Scientology. The first school has concluded that these diseases are genetic and/or problems of chemical imbalances in the brain, such as low serotonin levels. Because their assumptions are based on the body itself, their solution is to first treat the body with talk therapy and powerful mind-altering drugs that affect brain chemistry. If that doesn’t work, it’s on to electroshock, and as a last resort, a lobotomy (currently called psychosurgery), whereby holes are bored into the brain with lasers. Many of you might think I’m nuts for insinuating people still get electroshock in the year 2012. You might even think I made it up! Jack Nicholson’s character received electroshock in the 1975 Academy Award–winning movie One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, and after that electroshock took a dive. There was such an outpouring of public outrage at the brutality of electroshock that it was renamed electroconvulsive therapy (ECT). According to Mental Health America, 100,000 Americans yearly receive ECT. The tally is one million worldwide and includes the elderly, pregnant women, and toddlers.
I didn’t invent psychiatry, psychopharmacology, or psychosurgery—they evolved. According to Medco Health, a leading prescription drug supplier, one in five American adults is now taking psychiatric drugs, to a total of 49 million Americans. That number does not include the 10 million American children currently taking psychiatric drugs. Worldwide, 120 million people are taking psychiatric drugs (including those 49 million American adults). If this is not considered an epidemic, I don’t know what would be.
So there we have the psychiatry school. Recapping, their tools include analysis, drug therapy, ECT, and psychosurgery. Their bible is the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders), which cites 374 mental disorders and their symptoms. Phew!
Then we have a school of thought that is 180 degrees opposite, and that school is called Scientology. You see people with the same disorders come through the doors with their multitudes of manifestations. But what happens within is different. Mr. Hubbard has no dispute with the various bazillion diagnoses within the pages of the DSM. Anxiety, depression, grief, psychosis, and more all exist, and we can see they do with our own eyes. But what I learned from Mr. Hubbard, and what I’ve now experienced myself and witnessed in thousands of others over my 33 years practicing Scientology, is those people can be made better, dramatically better, without drugs, without analysis, and without psychosurgery or ECT. Seems impossible, right?
The function of Scientology churches is to make the able more able. They are not rehab facilities for criminals or predators. There is a social betterment program called Criminon based on the writings of L. Ron Hubbard and geared to help rehabilitate criminals in prison, but it is not part of the church.
Dianetics was fascinating, but was it just fiction or did it work and do what it said it could do? I’m a curious girl by nature but wasn’t necessarily adventurous. I was cautious yet willing to observe. This is a good quality I believe, so I decided to take a look for myself. By the time I headed out to California to see if Scientology was real or fake, I was a colossal skeptic—another good quality.
I’d gone to a psychologist for about a month before I read Dianetics. His best advice was to stop doing cocaine and do manual labor, like cleaning my house and mowing the yard. He also advised staying away from my mother for a while. I immediately did all those things and felt better. On subsequent visits, though, he began to analyze me and tell me why I was the way I was, and he lost me. It didn’t help that he was wearing socks with sandals. And it really didn’t help that his evaluation was dead wrong. No, I hadn’t been molested or wanted to screw my dad, nor was I a bedwetter.
In Scientology it is theorized that you and you alone know everything that has happened to you, and also what you’ve done to others, even while you were unconscious. So I surmised that at least my experiences belonged to me, and yes, I could remember most of what had happened to me. And yeah, I could kinda see how, under the right circumstances, I might be able to recall what was going on while I was sedated. I mean, I was there; Dr. Socks with Sandals wasn’t there, that’s for sure. So I decided to go find out for myself, and against all odds I made it to Newport Beach from Kansas. It took 26 days to make the 19-hour drive because I had to score cocaine along the way, or not along the way, as I backtracked and zigzagged my way across the country.
• • •
I arrived, immediately got loaded, and called the Scientology place.
“Hi, it’s me, I’m here.”
“Hehe, what took you so long?” Jim, the person on the other end of the line, chuckled.
“Family problems,” I lied.
It really doesn’t seem like I could have been more screwed up and still standing. I was drugged out, depressed, riddled with anxiety, and laced with cocaine, Valium, Percodan, and some drug I snitched from my sister’s medicine cabinet. My weight was 112 and I was five foot eight. I’ll admit, if you didn’t look at my glassy, dilated eyes, just from the neck down, I looked badass in my skintight Fiorucci jeans and five-inch heels. But my mind and spirit were as dead as dirt.
“When are you coming in?” Mr. Scientology asked.
“Um, in a few days, I need to get settled in.”
“Okay, whenever’s good for you. Oh, one question, when was the last time you did drugs?” (You can’t do Scientology counseling if you’re on drugs—mind-altering drugs, that is, and my stash was definitely mind altering.)
“Yeah, let me see,” I pondered, “I think, um, yeah, yeah, it was . . . it was six weeks ago.” It was actually five minutes ago.
“Good, then you can get started,” he responded.
Yes, yes, I couldn’t wait to get started . . . As soon as I hung up I got started all right. My drug dealer guy had just flown in to LA to assist me. Oh yeah, I forgot this part. I’d just broken up with Jake before I left Kansas. It was sad for both of us, but the day Jake left Wichita to work on an oil rig in Texas, I slept with Greg, my drug dealer. How could that have slipped my mind? Greg brought all sorts of pre-Scientology party favors, including heroin. I did enough cocaine to kill four people, plus Valium, Percodan, hash, and booze. But I didn’t do the heroin, thank god. I just sat there and did lines of coke while Greggy chased the dragon. It was quite spectacular, as I’d never seen anyone smoke heroin before. Then I topped it all off with Dalmane—you know, to take the edge off?
Three days passed, and I got a call from Jim the Scientology guy.
“Hey, Kirstie, how ya doin’? Are you coming in?”
“Um, yes, I’m just getting situated here. I have an idea! Jim! Why don’t you come to the beach with me?!!”
“What time?” he calmly asked.
“Now! Come now! It’s insane here! It’s gorgeous!” I asserted.
Something deep inside me was trying to save my life, but it certainly didn’t seem to be me. Jim was this really big, tall guy, sorta handsome, really funny and easygoing. We mostly just joked around for two or three hours. It could have been six minutes for all I knew.
“So, you wanna come with me and see what Scientology is?” he asked.
Now that was the million-dollar questio
n. Did I? I mean, I’d just driven 17,000 miles to LA and all. I’d just broken it off with my boyfriend of four years. I’d quit my job and sold my stuff and packed what was left in my black BMW. I’d lugged my dog and cat to California and told all my friends I was going to LA to go “Clear,” the object of Scientology counseling. I’d endured my mother throwing a dictionary at me on my birthday, demanding I look up the word “cult.” Hadn’t I put everyone and everything on hold just to have a shot at being sane and happy? Why yes, I had. So, DID I wanna go with Jim? Why not?! I was out of coke and I’d just sent Greggy packing to Hawaii to visit friends and advised him to read Dianetics because I was so hip to the subject.
“Yeah, let’s go.” I rallied from my drug stupor.
I had Scientology counseling that next week, and after my first session I have never wanted to do another drug. Of course it was a lucky break and probably not something you would see happening every day in Scientology, but it happened to me.
Apparently I was ready to confront the dreadfulness called me, and I prevailed. I never turned back. Every day I worked on some part of my screwed-up life until the anxiety dropped away. I handled all the losses of people I’d loved who had died. The depression went away fairly quickly as I discovered the reasons I’d been depressed in the first place. It was like digging for gold. First dirt, then mud, then bits of mica, then bedrock, then bingo! I would find smatterings of gold—I would find the truth.
The reason Scientologists and L. Ron Hubbard don’t support mind-altering drugs is because they only prolong or obscure the truth. They impair a person’s ability to find and dissect the truth of how they got in the state they’re in. Mr. Hubbard’s philosophy calls for zero tolerance of the Scientology counselor evaluating for the person or invalidating his answers. The person must come to his or her own conclusions, with the assistance of a counselor guiding him through, kinda like a tour guide. But the counselor is ONLY allowed to acknowledge those conclusions, never interjecting his own personal opinions. Hubbard’s philosophy is analytical, gentle, and effective. It feels like peeling an artichoke, pulling back the leaves one by one, only experiencing the pricks of life, not the degree of physical or emotional pain one felt when it originally happened. It is so full of care; you just peel the leaves back and back and back, one by one, until you get the reward deep inside. In an artichoke it’s the heart, and in Scientology it’s the truth. Scientology isn’t addressing the body. It is addressing you as a spiritual being.
I’ve known hundreds of people who have been diagnosed with chronic anxiety, clinical depression, bipolarity, ADHD, psychosis, and hyperactivity. They, too, went in and peeled the artichoke, leaf by leaf, with no invalidation, no evaluation, no interpretation, no drugs, no hypnosis, no lobotomy, no electroshock, and no restraints. But don’t take my word for it. Ask them. It was their journey, not mine. I’ve often thought it would make for an interesting research project. There are millions of Scientologists out there, and they and their children don’t take mind-altering drugs to end their mental suffering. I think it would be terribly important, even to the medical community, to find out how and why.
So there you have it: the flip side of the “How do you help someone become sane and happy” coin. There are really no similarities to psychiatry whatsoever. The schools truly are 180 degrees apart from one another. I chose Team Scientology.
• • •
Mr. Hubbard did not profess to be a god or a savior. Scientologists do not worship him or pray to him. He is not a deity. In fact Scientology does not deal with the subject of deep-seated concepts such as God. A person will believe what they believe, and that’s how it’s possible for a person to practice their own religion while practicing Scientology. They usually just don’t conflict.
Many people ask me why Scientology is a religion. My answer is that it deals with you as a spiritual being. Yes, there are real things that attack the body, including cancer, diabetes, polio, viruses, infections, encephalitis, and the bubonic plague. People die from these or get treatment and recover. But Scientology deals with the spirit and its effect on the mind and the body. Mr. Hubbard taught me how to situate myself and view all aspects of life and then act according to what I observe and know. And to participate in life!! It’s not much good to sit on top of a mountain and contemplate life. It’s also not much fun.
He showed me how I can make my dreams realities. How to climb out of the rabbit holes that I’d plummeted into along the way.
Before I started Scientology, my life was myopic. I could barely see in front of my face. I would never have dared to dream of becoming an actress; by age 10 I’d had that thought thoroughly smashed out of existence.
L. Ron Hubbard has had a profound effect on my life, and I consider him one of my best friends, although I never even met him.
All discarded lovers should be given a chance, but with somebody else.
—MAE WEST
The Art of
Making Love to an Unfortunate Man
BEFORE I was an actress, but after I moved to LA and stopped doing drugs, I began dating. I remember this one particular “date” vividly. I’ve told this story before, but some stories just bear repeating . . . I mean, REALLY bear repeating.
He was on a Harley-Davidson, and I was in a $16,000 stereo system disguised as a convertible Toyota Celica. He and I zigzagged flirtatiously, winding around each other on a well-known canyon road in LA. He motioned for me to follow him—something I was not inclined to do, but it was springtime, my top was down (no pun intended), and after all, he was an actor I’d seen before. So I accepted the invitation and followed.
He spent the afternoon boxing with a friend of his, and I was the audience—very macho stuff, that boxing, and admittedly it was sexy watching two guys beat the hell out of each other. He asked me out for the coveted Saturday nighttime slot—reserved only for important dates.
During the evening it became quite clear that he was somewhat of an idiot and that the boxing had been the high point of our tryst. He drove me home, and to be polite (the downfall of my personality) I agreed it would be fine for him to come inside for a late-night coffee. I don’t drink coffee, didn’t know how to make it, and really wanted to get rid of the actor, but it did sound like the civil, adult thing to do.
After I pretended to drink the coffee, he made a proposal: “I want to make love to you.” All of my friends had recently told me, “God, Kirstie, you don’t have to marry a guy just because you sleep with him.” Now, that sounds like very hip single-girl advice, doesn’t it? Actually I aspired to be the kind of girl who could participate in lovely casual sex and then just move on to the next casual sexer—so in this five-second period of time I made my decision.
“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea . . . we’ve only just met and as fun as this date was, I think the timing is not right.” Man, that sounded smooth! I was shocked that this came out as if I were so, well, experienced! But then an odd thing happened—something I’d really never seen before. The actor began to weep. Great big crocodile tears.
“Wow—I just feel so close to you—I just . . . well . . . I know it’s corny, but I’m falling in love with you.”
Corny? Hell, no! Not for me. Love? Love, did he say? Well, even though I thought he was a complete idiot, “love” might be at stake here—love, marriage, children, ding dong! I might be passing up my future as Mrs. Actor!
“All right,” I said, “I didn’t know that’s how you felt.”
He took my hand and walked me up the badly carpeted chocolate-brown steps to my bedroom. He undressed me. I knew my body rocked, so I proudly stood there like the model-slash-goddess-slash-stunner I thought I was.
Then it was my turn. I took off his shirt to a previously choreographed rendition of the song “Ring My Bell.” I unbuckled his very groovy biker belt and let the pants drop dramatically to the floor. I slid ever so stealthily, like an Abyssinian cat, between the TJ Maxx sateen sheets. He equally professionally slid in beside me—no
se to nose, eyes to eyes—and my hands (as they say in romance novels) began to read his body.
Then a strange thing occurred. While I was reading his body I realized he had no hair on his chest. Or his arms or his legs, actually. No, he wasn’t a chick—not that that didn’t cross my mind. I began to sweat, and the anxiety began to sweep me away. In my head I thought, Shut up, shut up Kirstie. So what if he’s hairless, so what? Stop only thinking about the physical. Get into it, for god’s sake! I slipped my hand ever so gently down his throat, across his barren chest and nonexistent treasure trail onto what could best be described as a small child’s thumb. Or should I say, small child’s erect thumb.
Panic and terror blasted through me in waves. I’d read about something like this, with Jean Harlow and her husband who committed suicide because of his miniature equipment. I didn’t want the boy to kill himself . . . or did I? At one moment it seemed that one of us surely would after this encounter, and I was certainly too young to die. Thoughts I’d never had raced through my head: Is this for real? Is this guy a chick with a dick? Does this moron not know he has the world’s smallest johnson—by Guinness standards? Would he not think it appropriate to announce beforehand, “Hey, my penis is the size of a cheap eraser, so before we embark I’d like you to have the opportunity to decide whether or not to proceed?” But the most pressing thought was, How in the hell am I going to get him off with a baby cock like this?!
I calmed myself before taking control; I knew I’d gotten myself into this mess, and hadn’t I heard on 60 Minutes that many serial killers had no hair and little wieners? Oh my, back to the responsibility; but wait, he was beginning to speak. Maybe he would explain that perhaps he’d had polio in the penis as a child or maybe talk about his time in ’Nam and how Agent Orange had caused all of his hair to fall out and his watson to shrink from its original size to that of a toddler’s. Instead he said—with bold virility—“What does baby want?”
The Art of Men [I Prefer Mine al Dente] Page 8