It was my very real fear of becoming this hologram that inspired me to hand my ass back to New York the second my time as a Famous Hollywood Celebrity ended (in other words, 3rd Rock was canceled). I just wanted to go back to acting in plays, which is what I was doing before I was sidetracked by that damn alien show. I started getting roles I could have only dreamt of when I was a kid, in brilliant plays. I loved it.
Unfortunately, people in Hollywood confuse “having a theater career” with being dead. “I totally saw a Dateline about her last year. How sad is it that they never caught her killer? Hon, we’d like two Cobb salads, please.” To those who didn’t think I was dead, I was labeled “A Has-Been.” Which is totally different from being dead. I think.
Ah, what the hell did I care? I was doing what I loved! Rehearsing (drinks after with the cast), performing (drinks after with friends), auditioning (if I got the role, drinks. If I didn’t, more drinks). Enormous dinners at midnight (drinksdrinksdrinks). I gotta tell you, for a while there it was fun, fun, fun. Until my devotion to an incredibly unhealthy lifestyle blossomed out of control, as did my ass—and I became fat, fat, fat.
At the time, however, I was convinced I was simply “bloated,” which for some insane reason, I found preferable to “fat.” Therefore, when I was occasionally dubbed “a Fat Has-Been,” I was filled with righteous indignation. “That’s Bloated Has-Been to you, National Enquirer!” Thank God I gracefully graduated from that label era, which I stupidly assumed was as bad as it was gonna get for me. I mean, a Fat Has-Been?
Yucky, right?
Turns out, a few brand-spanking-new (and far worse) labels were breathlessly waiting for me just around the corner, absolutely giddy with anticipation.
Up to this point in my life, I had convinced myself that I was a fairly “tough broad.” When confronted by anything terrifying (or when simply confronted by anything), all it took was twenty-four hours of weeping on my kitchen floor combined with a bottle of painkillers and a box of red wine, and the next day I’d be good as new.
But because I’m the direct result of generations of people who believed it was a matter of life or death to keep every single flaw or weakness one may have had strictly to one’s self, I had always found being the object of any press scandal (whether it be true or false) to be devastating. Not to mention terribly mortifying.
To illustrate what I mean, let’s say (and this is purely theoretical) that there was a young lady who hated her thighs. She hid these thighs from everyone, for years. Even with her boyfriend of two years (let’s call him Mr. Wonderful), she continually thought of new and creative ways to hide her thighs from him. When naked, she’d either talk as she backed out of the bedroom, “Did I tell you this hilarious story? About Andy being kicked off the plane? Okay, so Andy says. . . wait, I’ll tell you after I pee.” Or she’d cleverly plant a towel bedside for future coverage. “Gosh, it’s freezing. Oh, thank God, here’s a towel.” This goes on and on. She’s thirty-five years old.
Then, one sunny morning as our heroine was innocently walking her dogs, she happened to walk by a newsstand and was astonished to notice her bathing suit on the cover of a tabloid magazine. That’s funny, I wonder who bought the same suit as me, she thought to herself, before it hit her. That was her bathing suit. And she was, tragically, IN IT.
After pinching herself to make sure this wasn’t a nightmare, she grabbed the offending tabloid, and her face drained of all color. There they were. Her thighs. Her secret thighs, in all their vast and bumpy glory, were being showcased on the cover of the National Enquirer under this succinct (yet irresistible) headline “LOOK WHO HAS CELLULITE!”
Certainly at first she probably felt horror and shame and embarrassment. Maybe she even wished she had never been born. She’s only human. But really, now that everyone (including her second-grade math teacher and that shithead who broke her heart two years ago), oh, my dear baby Jesus, now every single soul in the United States who went grocery shopping that week had ALL seen her thighs? Well, then so could Mr. Goddamned Wonderful!
Not that this really happened to anyone I know (okay, it was me), but if it had, I’d certainly hope that the next day I would have been brave enough to rip my clothes off, turn around, and fucking walk to the bathroom, my thighs proudly sloshing hither and thither. And if Mr. Wonderful didn’t like it, well—screw him. (Sadly, I don’t think he noticed either way because, like me, he was a total lush.)
It would take a few more years, and one massive disaster, before I would fully understanding the enormity of this. But the exposure of my cheesy thighs was the dawn of understanding. Part one of the most important lesson of my life. Part two would come later. I’ll go into greater detail about this, but about five years ago while I was doing a play in London, something truly devastating happened and I underwent a very risky emergency stomach surgery. Months later, when I finally returned to New York, I was sixty pounds lighter, I was also a terrified, raw, unmoored, and very sensitive version of my formerly well-armored self.
Which of course meant that I was in the perfect headspace for my brandnew press labels, which were: “SCARY SKINNY!,” “ANOREXIC!,” or (my personal fave): “LOSING WEIGHT IN A DESPERATE ATTEMPT TO REVIVE HER STALLED CAREER!” Isn’t that just the cutest?
Believe it or not, being savagely attacked in the press with total lies wasn’t even the worst part. Suddenly it dawned on me that my very first instinct was to agree with the stories, even though I was well aware that every single one of them was categorically untrue.
Oh my God—realization slammed into me, almost knocking me to the floor. I have spent every single second of my sorry life as a prisoner of what other people think of me. I had absolutely no concept of myself, not a clue as to who I really was or what my actual feelings were about anything—because I could only see myself through your eyes. If you thought I was funny or clever, then I was. If you thought I was pretty or charming, then I was. If you happened to think I was homely, idiotic, annoying, unattractive, talent-free, and worthless? That would’ve made you perceptive, clever, wise, and bizarrely intuitive.
My mouth went dry. Oh, my God, I thought, that’s not only scary—THAT’S FUCKING STUPID. Finally my thick idiotic skull thought: It’s all in my head. If I don’t want to care what other people think of me, then I simply don’t have to.
Jesus, I was overwhelmed. Thousands of hours since I was a kid of wishing I was other—all wasted. I knew I needed to start accepting that I was me—and I needed to do it pronto—because life, it is short. And the very notion of spending the rest of my life still desperately wishing I was anyone but me? Unacceptable.
Coming from a deeply private family, I now know that somewhere along the line I had lost the very important distinction between privacy and secrecy. And since both brought me nothing but confusion, anxiety, and misery, I’ve decided to try something new. I’m giving up on trying to control your mind.
Of course, I’d prefer it if you thought I was fabulous; after all, I’m human. I’d prefer it if you thought I was a wonderful actress and a hell of a writer. I’d prefer it if you thought I was funny, and kind. I’d prefer it if all men found me charming and beautiful (not just the gays). But if you don’t? That’s cool, too. (I’d think you were out of your fucking mind, but that’s neither here nor there.)
Last year when someone suggested I write a book, I pooh-poohed it at first. But then I started to warm up to the idea. After all, any bonehead can write a book these days. Who’s to say mine would suck any worse? Besides, when I took a gander at the overflowing “drunken celebrity memoirs” section, I got the feeling there just might be room for one more poorly written, terribly reviewed, slightly funny, and occasionally moving look at recovery and redemption through the eyes of a giant-Freak-ex-alien-recovering-addict-cellulite-ridden-has-been-actress
If anything, to get a new label. Really. Oh, come on, go ahead. Toss one at me! After Amy, I can take just about anything.
Or who knows? Maybe, just maybe,
I’m finally becoming that “tough broad” I always pretended I was.
Therefore, without further ado, I proudly present to you my thighs, in all their vast and bumpy glory.
four
YE OLDE ELVIS CATNAP
my life changed forever in London on December 4, 2006. I was thirty-nine years old.
I was doing a play called Love Song by John Kolvenbach on the West End with Cillian Murphy, Michael McKean, and Neve Campbell. The director was a lovely and brilliant man named John Crowley, who had dazzled me with his direction of The Pillowman on Broadway a few years before. Now, since I’m bored by most theatrical productions unless I’m in them, this is saying something.
Unlike a lot of actors and actresses, I’ve never understood the whole “I’m too fabulous to audition” thing. I loved the play, I wanted the part. I couldn’t wait to get in there and earn it.
I’m lucky that I’ve always had a fairly solid and sane view of what roles I’m right for. In other words, my agents have never gotten a call from me where I whine, “Why didn’t I get an audition for Julia Roberts’s role in Runaway Bride?” Nor have they ever heard, “Why don’t I have Nicole Kidman’s career?” (Not that I haven’t wished, believe me.) I’m oh so sorry to say that you’ll never see my portrayal of the painfully shy, gimpy Laura in The Glass Menagerie, nor will you ever get to hear me say, “O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou, Romeo?”
I’m certainly not right for every role, but when I am, I really am. Take Sally in 3rd Rock, for example. I was being sent every single funny television script (this is back when they actually made television comedies, before The Bachelor and Wife Swap ruined everything.) Anytime a show called for a funny girl, I’d audition for it.
If the role was written for a tiny Jewish spitfire, I kid you not, I’d throw on a dark wig and mortify myself. Whatever, I needed the money.
I’ll never forget reading the first episode of 3rd Rock, which at that time had the lame title Life as We Know It. For the first ten pages the aliens spoke in fluent Spanish (with subtitles of course) until they realized they had landed off-course and were in Ohio. I laughed my ass off. I thought this was the most arbitrary, stupid, and brilliant thing ever. Then, as I started to read the part of Sally, the weapons expert who lost a bet and ended up in a woman’s body, I just vowed, No one else will play this role no matter what.
I fought my ass off to get that part and went through a grueling eight auditions for it. I’d leave the room, flush with certain victory, only to hear my agent say, “They love you, but they love the idea of Kirstie Alley more.” But I’d be called back, again and again and again. I wasn’t just waltzing in from ten minutes away, mind you. A few times I’d have to fly back from New York. Over and over I’d think, Okay, now they have to give it to me! and I’d hear, “They adore you, but they’re checking Ellen
Barkin’s availability.” Even after I read for Sally in front of the entire staff of the network with John Lithgow and they gave the thumbs-up to cast me. . . the producers made me come in again!
They wanted a “private work session” with John and me first thing in the morning and didn’t seem to care that I had to fly in a third time from New York on the red-eye. Okay, now I was starting to get pissed off. This is my part, you weenies. For Christ’s sake, what else do I gotta do to prove it to you? I was sorely tempted to say, “Oh, fuck off, maybe Queen Latifah’s available,” but I knew I couldn’t. They could make me audition twenty more times and I would, because I would not be denied. And thank God (for everyone), I wasn’t.
This all helps me illustrate my point, which admittedly I could’ve made a bit more succinctly, but who can resist a fun trip down 3rd Rock Lane? My point is, when I’m right for a role and I want the role (unfortunately a fairly rare combo), I’ll do anything to get it. Get your mind out of the gutter; of course excluding sexual favors! Although, come to think of it. . . I’ve never even been confronted with that dilemma. Oh, crap. . . Well, now that I’ve never been hit on by some lecherous, revolting studio executive, I’m offended.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, London. I’m getting there. The idea of leaving now-boring old New York and doing a play in a city I loved sounded thrilling. So, even though it had been a long time since I’d had to audition for a theater role, I excitedly went in there and got it. (Lest I give you the wrong impression, the combination of perfect role and then actually being cast in that role happens—oh, I’m gonna say, about 8 percent of the time. Out of 1,000 percent. Usually I’d end up drunk in a bar, throwing darts at Lisa Kudrow’s headshot.)
But somehow I got cast (clearly Kudrow was busy), and I excitedly began to prepare for six months in London. Only thing is, I had that nasty little pill problem to contend with. Doesn’t matter! I thought to myself. It’s a perfect opportunity to stop, once and for all!
I had stopped before, many times. Withdrawal is no fun, and if you feel the need for a bit more detail, just watch that scene in Trainspotting when Ewan McGregor’s mother locks him in his room while he detoxes from heroin. I never saw dead babies crawling on my ceiling, but other than that, Vicodin withdrawal is pretty damn close.
It’s awful, horrific, but it’s survivable. What I was most terrified of was the tsunami of depression that would crash into me and would continue to crash, over and over for months after. Which is why I couldn’t ever really stop, once and for all.
But I decided I’d worry about that later.
Later came (she always does), and immediately upon landing I solved my quandry. I was thrilled and deeply relieved to discover that one can buy codeine over the counter in London pharmacies. Codeine is a less intense opiate that is turned into morphine once in your system. But because it’s much less powerful than Vicodin, I discovered (after much experimentation) that if I took thirty to forty pills a day, I’d be just fine. I was almost proud of myself. I’m like the Nancy Drew of painkillers!
The truth was, I had long ago stopped getting high or feeling great or even halfway decent from painkillers. Now, the sole purpose of taking any derivative of codeine or Vicodin was simply to feel okay. Whatever the hell that meant. Or I should say, I took them simply to avoid the dreaded Tsunami of Tsorrow. The only problem with my self-prescribed Rx was that the codeine was mixed in with a bunch of aspirin. Unbeknownst to me, at this time I was already suffering from a gnarly peptic ulcer, and ingesting the equivalent of forty to fifty aspirin pills a day was probably the worst possible thing I could be taking.
Taken by the fistful, for a long time, and combined with alky-hol, they eat away at the lining of your stomach and intestinal wall. Somehow, all throughout the heartburn, difficulty urinating, bloat, exhaustion, depression, anxiety, and generally feeling icky, never once did it cross my mind that I had an ulcer. Ulcers were for stressed-out caffeine addicts, not stressed-out painkiller and red-wine addicts.
During rehearsals, I felt really, really awful. I was starting to feel much worse than I ever did in the States. But doctors had become people to lie to for painkillers; it never once occurred to me to go to one for a real reason.
Opening night, and we were a smash hit. The place was packed, and the reviews glowing. We stayed up into the wee hours getting trashed and celebrating our awesomeness.
Then the next night, my intestines ripped open.
I swear. I was at my flat, after the second night’s performance, sitting on the loo, when I remember feeling a terrifying rip in my stomach area, and I’m convinced I actually heard a horrible ripping sound. This hideous sensation was immediately followed by a hurt so powerful, so all-consuming, that, to escape its clutches, I did what any sane person would do and passed out. I had, of course, been endlessly peeing right before said moment, and I barely had time for this quite heroic and even Schultz-like thought before I plowed headfirst into the white tile: Uh-oh, I must’ve really pulled a stomach muscle or someth—
It occurred to me much later that if I had died then and there (and by all rights I should have), and assuming it had been a sl
ow news day and Victoria Beckham had decided to stay home, the front page of one of the trashier UK papers might have looked a little something like:
“3rd ROCK”-ER
SHOCKER!
Star Found Rotting!
Once Beloved Ex-Alien Dead
“It was the worst thing I’ve ever seen,”
says horrified witness. “She was completely
covered in blood and sick.”
(FULL STORY PAGE 16, JUST PAST HOROSCOPES)
GUTS November 25, 2006 16
HOLLYWOOD TRAGEDY RIGHT HERE IN THE UK!
Kirstine Johnson, 39, found dead on her loo!
THE ACTRESS, whose success began (and unfortunately ended) with the absurd american television comedy 3rd Rock from the Sun, had recently arrived in the UK to perform on the West End in a misguided attempt to revive her stalled career. She had just opened in the romantic comedy Love Song at the ambassadors and was staying in a rented flat near King’s road.
The cause of death is still undetermined, but due to her youth, nationality and occupation, it’s clearly either a drug overdose, suicide or murder. Rumour has it that the forensic examiner is leaning towards homicide. Fingers crossed!
Whatever the cause, the scene was so troubling that a paramedic was witnessed vomiting as he stumbled from the building. Later, a constable commented that the gruesome scene brought to mind the death of Elvis Presley, another bloated (though obviously far more successful) American star, because he also happened to meet his maker whilst on his loo in 1977. “Bless her heart, her poor knickers were still round her ankles,” the constable said.
The corpse was discovered by a Mr William Sloane, the building’s caretaker. He explained that he was simply responding to neighbours’ persistent complaints of a terrible odour. He said he expected to find dirty socks or perhaps a rotting plate of bangers and mash. The very last thing he expected to find was a blood-and-vomit-soaked, B-list actress from the US decomposing next to her toilet.
Guts: The Endless Follies and Tiny Triumphs of a Giant Disaster Page 5