Guts: The Endless Follies and Tiny Triumphs of a Giant Disaster

by Kristen Johnston

  I laughed and said no, but I told her she was my favorite literary agent ever.

  Later that night, I was brushing my teeth and marveling at the fact that I now no longer had pimples. It was much better than that because NOW I was blessed with both wrinkles AND pimples. (A few months ago, I even discovered a pimple within a wrinkle.) Globs of frothy white dripped from my O-shaped mouth as I dropped my toothbrush in horror. Oh, no.

  You see, I knew all too well that the combination of pimples and wrinkles could mean only one thing: I was no longer a spring chicken. And as everybody knows, there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that Hollywood finds more distasteful than a female chicken with no spring. I’ve always found all the bullshit actresses are forced to do to “stay in the game” (waxy, tight face, fat mouth, extreme dieting) to be completely repulsive. Well, I’m fucked.

  If you’re ever unlucky enough to experience this cruel and in my opinion totally unfair combination of pimples and wrinkles (or, as I like to call them “pwinkles”), I really hope you’re not an actress. Because pwinkles are really just braille for “NO ONE WILL EVER HIRE YOU AGAIN.”

  My pwinkle terror was compounded because I’d spent most of the last ten years getting wasted, doing plays, getting sober, and teaching acting, and it had recently been brought to my attention that I was very, very close to being “flat broke.” Of course, when I received that terrible news, I reacted the way any sane, healthy person would—I promptly went on eBay and bought a huge painting of a monkey smoking a cigar. Because, as an addict, whenever someone tells me I can’t or shouldn’t do something, a switch in my brain goes off and I immediately think, Oh-ho-ho, yes I can.

  This becomes quite handy in certain situations. But unfortunately, most of the time I just ended up looking like an asshole with a painting of a monkey smoking a cigar.

  And then it hit me. What if I ended up a sober asshole with pwinkles and a bad painting who’s poor?

  I’ve supported myself since I graduated from NYU, and started making a living acting when I was twenty-five, an age when most of my friends were still living with ten roommates on Avenue C and eating pot for breakfast. I tried to think of what else I could do for a living, and the answer was not a goddamn thing. Other than acting, the only jobs I’ve ever held were “actress jobs” such as waitressing, catering, and a brief stint at the Limited. I’m sure it will surprise no one that I sucked at all of them.

  That night I was plagued with frightening, realistic nightmares, always waking up right after uttering, “Hi, I’m Kristen. That’s right, I used to be an alien. Would you like to hear the specials this evening?” A black hole of hopelessness and fear began to suck me in.

  Then I remembered Lydia, my favorite literary agent ever. Yes! That’s it! I’ll write a book! How hard can it be? I love books! I called her the next morning. We met a week later, and I excitedly told her about the idea I had feverishly cooked up the night before, a safe and charming self-help-type book. And I wouldn’t have to work too hard or expose myself in any real way. She pretended to be interested and asked to see a sample of my writing. Oh, shit. It never crossed my mind that she’d want to read something I wrote.

  After a long pause—Think, Kristen, think—all I could come up with was this nugget: “I’m pretty sure I still have a few of my college term papers. Would you like to read them?”

  To her credit, she didn’t laugh in my face and instead politely demurred.

  Think, chicken, think.

  Out of desperation I said, “Well, friends sometimes say I write funny e-mails.”

  “Forward them to me.”

  I left the meeting feeling like a total asshole. But I forwarded her a few of the longest ones I could find, and among them happened to be an e-mail I had written my newly sober friend Chris when I had been clean five months.

  I knew I’d never hear from her again.

  She called an hour later. “This e-mail you wrote to Chris, this is your book.”

  I started laughing. “You have got to be kidding me. Listen, Lydia, I appreciate your passion, but there’s no way in hell I’d ever write about my addiction. Ever! Never ever.”

  About ten minutes later, I started writing and couldn’t stop.

  I proudly tell people I wrote every word myself, but I’m not sure that’s true. It’s as if some unknown part of me, some mysterious creature hidden deep inside (the truth-telling ghoul?) was guiding every sentence. I know one thing, though: from that first second I started writing, this book went from just another way to afford more flea market nonsense to mattering far more to me than anything else I’ve ever done in my entire life.

  In some ways, this process was even harder than those months I spent alone in the hospital, because I had to relive every detail of it while being stone-cold sober. Some parts were so awful that I had pushed them far, far down in my memory. Some parts still make me blush from embarrassment. Besides, I’m an instant-gratification kind of gal, and no one applauds after you’ve written a good sentence. But as each horrible, embarrassing, funny, or miserable detail was exposed, I found myself feeling lighter, happier, freer. I’ve never shared the details of what really happened to me in London with anyone until now, and I think it’s because a huge part of me still felt that I had gotten exactly what I deserved.

  I’d like to make it very clear that I no longer feel that way. Now, the pride I feel in fighting this damn disease, and in my teaching, acting, writing, healthy relationships, and other accomplishments far outweighs any residual shame I may feel.

  By the way, I intentionally chose not to go into a great deal of depth when it came to my loved ones, whether it be friends or my family, because I don’t think it’s fair to reveal someone else’s personal details just because I’m dumb enough to reveal mine. No one has the right to tell someone else’s story.

  Until they’re dead, that is.

  There are exceptions to this, stories I felt vital to mine that involved people dear to me. I’m so honored they let me include them, especially the bullying suffered by my brave, kind, and truly gifted brother.

  The e-mail I sent to Chris, which started it all, is actually the final chapter of this book, “Welcome to the Planet of the Apes.” Admittedly, I’ve added and removed some parts and fleshed out others. But it’s pretty much what I wrote him. It was strange to have the ending done the entire time I was writing. It loomed over my head the whole time. I tried a few other endings, but finally I had to face that it’s the only ending this story could have. Because even though it’s the end of the book, that e-mail really signifies the beginning of my life.

  It took me a while to realize I didn’t just write that e-mail to Chris. I think I wrote it to anyone out there who’s struggling to become the person they know they should be. But mostly, I think I wrote it to myself. Almost as if I needed proof, in black and white, that it had actually happened.

  Recently, I was out in LA for a job. While there, I went to a friend’s birthday party and ran into someone I hadn’t seen in years. He’s a genuinely good man, and I’ve always adored him, in spite of his career choice (he’s an agent). The last time we had hung out, I had been a shit-faced shipwreck. Which is why, after we hugged and told each other how awesome we looked, I was excited to tell him I was sober.

  A few hours later, as I was leaving, he pulled me aside and asked me if I wanted some free advice. Uh-oh, I thought. Would it be weird if I said no?

  “Oh-kay, shoot.”

  “You really gotta stop telling everyone that you’re sober.”

  I was completely flabbergasted. “What? Why? I mean, I’m writing a freaking book about it!”

  “That’s different. I’m just saying that telling people, it could get into the wrong hands, and it could really hurt your career. Besides, it makes people uncomfortable.”

  I left seething. And feeling as if my hand had been slapped, as if he would have preferred it if I had gotten trashed and puked on his shoes. As if I was supposed to be embarrassed that I w
as sober. As if I should keep my mouth shut like a good little sober girl.

  It made me feel like a Freak. That’s when I remembered that comments like that are the entire reason I wrote GUTS. He’s probably right, I don’t know. But I simply don’t care anymore. I refuse to feel ashamed of who I am. I most certainly won’t be embarrassed that I’m an addict. So screw my career or my privacy or other people’s sensibilities. I’ll tell whomever I damn well please.

  I don’t think we should be told to stay silent, locked away in church basements. I think it’s time for people to tell whomever the hell they want to about it, whether they’re still sick and suffering and need help or are twenty years sober. Or, if you need it to be a private matter, then keep it private. Whatever helps you not to use.

  If pushing a peanut up a hill with your nose keeps you sober, well, then, just push a peanut up a hill with your nose.

  There’s simply no possible way to have a legitimate statistic regarding the exact amount of deaths every year that are caused by drugs and alcohol. I’m not just talking about overdoses, even though those are impossible, too, due to families’ embarrassment. But think about all the murders, carjackings, car accidents, suicides, “heart attacks,” “accidental deaths,” and robberies that occur while the person is high or drunk. If you entered a prison and asked, “Will those of you who weren’t on drugs or alcohol while committing the crime that got you in here, please raise your hands?”

  I promise you, not one hand would go up.

  Whether we want to admit it or not, this is our black plague, a terrible scourge that’s just as deadly as cancer or AIDS. It is destroying people by the untold millions. And I believe, without a doubt, that the shame and secrecy that shroud the disease are just as deadly as the disease itself.

  In my opinion, the best “slogan” when it comes to addiction isn’t found in some church basement, or some book. It’s a phrase six gay activists from New York City coined in 1987 in the midst of the AIDS crisis: Silence equals death.

  I won’t stay silent any longer.

  I hope you won’t, either.

  The author is donating a portion of her advance from this work to SLAM (Sobriety, Learning and Motivation), a board of New Yorkers dedicated to the creation of New York City’s first sober high school. For more information, or to see how you can help, please call (855) SLAMNYC.

  thanks . . .

  To my mom, who inspired my love of storytelling. (By the way, I’m really sorry for all the F-bombs.) My brother, for giving me permission to share a difficult part of his story. My sister, for laughing at almost everything I’ve ever said since I was a kid. My dad, for such great memories. And my entire family. Whether we make each other laugh or cry, you’re beautiful people one and all, and I’m deeply grateful to each of you.

  And then, of course, there’s Team GUTS:

  My aforementioned literary agent, Lydia Wills, for not only convincing me to write this book, but for being able to effortlessly run around Manhattan in six-inch heels.

  To everyone at Gallery Books at Simon & Schuster: My editor, Patrick Price, for his keen mind, obsession with formatting, and his heartless (and usually correct, dammit) blue pencil. Kate Dresser, who looks like she should be exchanging witty barbs with Cary Grant in some Capra film and is instead relegated to dealing with people like me. She does it beautifully, and I could never put into words how grateful I am for all of her hard work on GUTS.

  But there would be no GUTS without the soul of my stunning, hilarious, and very wise editor in chief, Jennifer Bergstrom (well, she’s wiser than me, sometimes). From our first meeting, her incredible passion for this book was obvious. (I kid you not, she entered the room crying, laughing, and quoting from the two chapters I had sent her. What a dork.) Her support and generosity has never once wavered, and it’s meant more to me than I could ever put into words. She’s become a dear friend, and I’m excited to prove to her that I’m capable of discussing something other than this fucking book.

  I’d also like to thank everyone at Paradigm who works so hard for me, especially Sarah Fargo, Erwin Moore, and Jack Tantleff. I owe so much to my friend and manager Becca Kovacik at the Hofflund Company, who has had the misfortune of working with me for almost twenty years. Despite looking like Lily Pulitzer’s granddaughter, she’s one of the least pretentious people I know. Oh, and Rick Miller, her assistant, for keeping me sane(ish).

  To Dr. Barry Cohen, who’s not only a terrific and caring physician, but a great human being, who took the time out of his incredibly busy practice to help me make sense of my over seven-hundred-page hospital file. (If there’s any medical misinformation, however, the blame lies solely on my shoulders.)

  To David Newsom. Whose brilliant photographs (including the cover) added so much to my story. Thank you, truly, for your talent and generosity.

  To Dr. Scott Beinenfeld, for his guidance during my sometimes bumpy, always difficult first year of sobriety.

  I also have to thank my dear friend Joe Schrank, who met me when I was at my most vulnerable. I don’t know what I would have done without him. He’s an interventionist, runs the coolest after-care facility in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, and has become an inspiration to me on so many levels. Check out his amazing recovery website, thefix.com.

  There are a few friends of mine whose thoughts and ideas really helped me shape this book: Bruce Cohen, Jeff Richmond, Laura Berwick, David Dieguez, Scott Elliott, Wally Shawn, Michelle Lipinsky, Dixie Chassay, and especially Andy Cohen, John Benjamin Hickey, and Joe Mantello.

  A special shout-out to Erica Smith, David Khinda, Rob Burnett, and Julie Davis for their annoyingly spot-on notes.

  To Marci Klein and Laura Bauer, for being brave enough to help me build my coconut boat.

  For their generosity, love, patience, and support, I’m so grateful to Cadee Viele, Chris Miller, Briget Ann Rein, Chris Bauer, Harper Simon, Jamie Tarses, Jason Blum, Thomas Krauss, John Early, Joe Reilly, Nicholas Famularo, Frank Selvaggi, Kate Moira Ryan, Brad Johns, Tatum O’Neal, Karen Kawahara, Gaetano Romeo, Deanna Swanson, and Kathy Najimy.

  To my fairy godmother Wendy Neu. You supported me in such an extraordinary way right when I needed it most.

  To her beautiful sister Jackie Bisbee, who’s been my best friend since we were freshman at NYU. Thank you for always loving me, especially when I couldn’t. Jackie, I’ve always wanted to ask you something, and for some reason this seemed like the appropriate moment: How the hell have you managed to be such a fascinating, fabulous, and massively successful woman, CEO of your own huge company, have a brilliant husband, fantastic kids. . . and yet remain the least crazy person I’ve ever met in my life? It’s weird. No secret obsessions, no self-harm, no quirks. It’s weird, and it’s wrong, Jackie. And I’m letting the world know.

  To my English friends Daisy and Joanna, who showed me such compassion while I was sick. They were my only regular visitors in the hospital, and would bring me pillows and books. Thank you both, so much.

  And to my excellent shrink, Dr. Mary Frederick. I know, it’s a bit embarrassing to thank one’s shrink. But every time I got scared, or wanted to skate over certain things, or simply wanted to give up on this book altogether, her enthusiasm and excitement were what inspired me to keep fighting to be as honest as I could, and to keep writing. Week after week, I couldn’t wait to read the next chapter to her. (Besides, I’ll admit, it was nice to have the occasional diversion from having to discuss how fuckedup I still am.) I don’t think I’ve ever met a smarter or more generous person in my life, and it’s because of her that I’m continuing the difficult process of trying to live a “mask-free” life.

  To Natasha. We all miss you so much. The world isn’t nearly as sublime or complicated without you in it.

  There are probably so many other people who showed their support in different ways, but due to my prolific drug and alcohol abuse, I can’t remember who they are.

  So if I neglected to mention you, I suggest you go to an Al-Anon meeting
and get over it.

  Last, but never least—thank you to all my fellow warriors out there who are fighting bravely to get and stay well. I don’t think it makes a difference if you’ve been sober thirty years, an hour, or the length of time it took you to read this sentence. Remember, we’re all just Freaks in the same leaky coconut raft. Hold on. Life just might surprise you if you give it a chance.

  Love, Kristen

  photo descriptions

  Cover photograph, by David Newsom, circa 1997. Taken in his dining room, with no special equipment. As you’ll see, there are many photographs taken by David sprinkled throughout the book. This is because not only is he a truly brilliant photographer, but also because we were dating at the time, and he just happened to chronicle me as I began to slide into the darkest depression of my life. Lucky man.

  Introduction photograph also taken by David Newsom in 1996. I had just become famous, and I was too dumb to realize that agreeing to be the grand marshal of the Fourth of July parade might be just slightly mortifying. Besides, could no one find a good, old-fashioned convertible? I mean, a Tracker?

  “I See Nothing, I Hear Nothing” photograph, taken by Chris Miller at a party at Morningwood Farm, Pine Plains, New York, summer of 2006. One of the last photographs I have of me wasted. The expression on my face pretty much says it all.

  “The Freak Has Landed” photograph, taken by my father, circa 1978, in our backyard. I was around ten years old.

  “Anyone but Me” photograph was my school ID when I was a senior in high school, in 1984–1985. And yes, that’s a perm. Deelightful.

  “Ye Olde Elvis Catnap” photograph, taken by my dear friend and photographer David Khinda, in July 2011. It was a glorious day, surrounded by friends Kent Cummings, Chris Miller, Karen Kawahara, Gaetano Romeo, Becca Kovacik, and her daughter, Eloise.