by Laura Clery
The best part was the call I got from my old agents at Progressive Artists, the assholes who fired me over email. “Laura, we just wanted to say that we made a terrible mistake. We would love to have you back.”
“You know, that is so sweet. I actually have meetings lined up with Gersh, APA, and WME, but if none of those work out, I’ll call you, okay?”
It was the sweetest revenge.
Out of all of those agencies, I knew I wanted to be signed with APA. They specialized in comedy, and I could feel that it was right. David and I went to meet with Lindsay, the agent at APA, and it was the first meeting I had where I had no reason to feel nervous at all. For the first time, the agency wanted me. I didn’t have to beg or try to change myself to be what they wanted. I was a moneymaker to them and I was ready to utilize my power. I had a list of demands ready.
“I want to be signed literary AND theatrical. I’m a creator. I want to do it all.” It was the first time I had ever said it out loud.
Lindsay wrote this down. “Sure sure sure! I just need to see your writing, but we can make that happen for you.”
I shook her hand confidently. “I will send something over in the next couple days.”
I quickly realized what I had just signed up for. They needed to see my writing? Um, I should write something, then. I went home that night, took out my laptop, and wrote. For the first time, I just wrote. I didn’t think or judge myself or have any idea of what the fuck I was doing or where it was going, but I did it. I ended up with this dark comedy based on my relationship with Rudolf. I wrote it in a Word doc and tried to manually mimic script formatting rather than getting Final Draft script software. It looked like absolute shit. But I sent it over to Lindsay, and we met the next day.
In her high-rise office, she looked at me over her glasses. “The grammar is godawful. Your spelling is illegible. And get Final Draft for God’s sake, I could barely look at the formatting on these pages. But, this is one of the funniest scripts I’ve ever read.”
Just like that, I got my literary agent. I had always been a creator, one way or another. But now, I finally felt like one. I felt all these ideas coming to me. It was incredible.
I told my agent that I had a great idea for a feature and she told me to bring in the script. Again I went home to write it. But, you guys, features are really fucking long. Scripts are usually a minute per page, and when you think of writing a movie, which usually lasts 90–120 minutes . . . that’s a lot of pages. My agents can’t wait that long! I decided to just bring in the first three pages. I’d reel them in and then make them wait a little.
I brought the three pages in, read through it with them, and had my agents laughing their asses off. They wanted to see the rest. Great! Now all I had to do . . . was write it and not fuck it up. And get the structure right. And not spell anything wrong. And not be a fucking failure. And not come up with a pile of trash. I stared at my computer screen for three hours without writing a word. More doubt and fear was creeping into my head by the minute. I couldn’t write, why did I ever think I could? I was so disappointed in myself. I got a glass, poured myself a shot of vodka, and slammed it down.
Days passed, then weeks. The weight of this script was bearing down on me. I knew by now my agents had completely forgotten about it. There was no point in finishing it. Whatever. I wasn’t a writer, anyway.
These were all the things I told myself so I wouldn’t have to walk through my fear of failure. The voice in my head telling me to create and the voice in my head telling me I was a piece of shit were in an all-out battle.
I started to drink and use more, in an effort to drown out both of them. I wanted to be in a steady, unfeeling, neutral state! That’s healthy, right?
I kept up appearances at work for the most part, because I still took that job so seriously, but my lack of a creative outlet made me . . . a worse person. Especially to Brody. I became clingy. Failing to derive my life’s meaning from creating, I looked to Brody for meaning. You guys, no one should be searching for meaning in a guy named Brody. Unless you are a guy named Brody—then by all means, search within yourself.
My clinginess and neediness became all too much for Brody. He could tell that this wasn’t a good relationship and we weren’t right for each other. So he dumped me. And honestly, how DARE he?
“Just go, Laura. Just be independent,” he sighed to me from across the dining room table.
Excuse me?! I WAS independent. I had a job on a sitcom! I knew how to be on my own . . . I just didn’t want to be! It was MY choice to jump from one man to the next. Right?
Okay fine. Ugh, Brody was right—I was so afraid of being on my own. Even in the months that I was single, I had either Leo, Andre, or Colleen looking after me. I had never been independent before. I had no idea how to be.
Looking back, being dumped was the best thing that ever could have happened to me. I should call up Brody and thank that dude. And possibly apologize for what I did next.
Then-Laura did not share current-Laura’s grateful attitude. Then-Laura was filled with rage and pulled a Damon: I trashed his apartment. I threw everything off our (or . . . his, I guess) dining room table. I pulled a framed painting off the wall and smashed it on the ground. Glass shattered everywhere.
Brody watched me trash his house, quietly interjecting “Duuuude” and “Bro, stop it” a few times. But mostly he didn’t do anything. Finally I tired myself out and paused, breathing heavily.
“Just leave, Laura.”
I grabbed my stuff and left. What the fuck am I supposed to do? I thought I was incapable of being on my own.
It turns out, I wasn’t. I had enough money from the show to get my own place.
For the first time, I moved into an apartment by myself. You know what? Living alone is awesome! I went from wearing pants some of the time to wearing pants none of the time. We don’t need pants! (Unless it’s cold, or your couch is made of leather.)
I threw myself into decorating my place. I had a great job, and things were good. My life had always been chaotic. And now, suddenly, it was peaceful.
Thanks, Brody!
* * *
’Til Death, a total shitshow, but MY total shitshow, was not doing well. The ratings were low and though they didn’t express their doubt to us, executives had no idea how to fix it. So their solution was to fire everyone possible. They got rid of JB Smoove, all twenty-three writers, the showrunner, and me. They actually did this pretty often, both before and after my stint. The show had a ridiculously high turnover rate. Over the course of four seasons, ’Til Death had four different women play the daughter character, not including the girl who did the table read and got fired immediately. The script completely ignored this fact. First it was Krysten Ritter, then me, then Lindsey Broad, then Kate Micucci.
Honestly, I don’t know why they thought firing any of us would fix the show. These women are all amazing actresses and comediennes.
I could easily justify being fired. I mean, they fired everyone! It wasn’t my fault. I hadn’t done a bad job. We were all just dealt a poor hand. But in the back of my mind . . . the very, very farthest back corners of it . . . I couldn’t help but wonder if my addiction had anything to do with it. I hid it very well from everyone and never let it hinder my work, but I had the sneaking suspicion that people could tell I was an addict. I used to bring Brody to set sometimes, and he was not, by any means, hiding his drug use from the public. Brad Garrett wasn’t a huge fan of him. I remember showing up to work late once because I was so sick from drinking all night. When I walked in, I just had this horrible feeling that everyone knew. Brad asked with a smug smile, “Where’s skater boy?”
Brody was a good guy, but everyone could see that we were up to no good together.
I tried to brush off the doubt, but I wondered if I would have been one of the people asked to stay if I . . . wasn’t caught up in my addiction.
After I got fired from ’Til Death, my agents at APA fired me as well. When it
rains, it pours! It was the same deal as when I got fired from Progressive Artists: I wasn’t making them enough money anymore, so I was useless to them. I was never a real person to them, I was a commodity. I never took my chance to write them that feature. I wondered if they might have kept me if I had finished it instead of drinking.
Desperate for more work, I reached out to all the agencies that previously wanted me. I called WILLIAM MORRIS. “Heyyyyy, remember when you guys said to reach out if I needed anything? Well if you’re still accepting new clients, I’d love to meet . . . Hello?”
They ghosted me. Pretty sure all those agencies started screening my calls.
WHAT THE HELL, PEOPLE?
I always had this unwavering faith that I was going to make it . . . but I was finally starting to see some cracks in that faith. Light was shining through puncture holes . . . and I was going to have to do something about them. I couldn’t ignore my addiction anymore.
CHAPTER 8
New Beginnings (But, like, for real)
Sometimes it’s hard to figure out when you have a problem. There’s a very thin line between doing something you find enjoyable and destroying your life. It’s thin, people!
For example: hoarding. Sometimes you just want to hold on to your childhood blankie AND the locket you got at your baptism AND all the empty yogurt containers that you’ve ever used. And then all of a sudden you need an intervention. It was the same with me. Sometimes I just wanted to get a little high and drink a little, then do some cocaine, except things got fuzzy and my life was destroyed. How was I supposed to know that it was a problem?
I could count all the times that I thought I was going to die from a drinking- or drug-related issue on . . . two hands and one foot. My aunt had told me I had a problem, Colleen had told me I had a problem, a random stranger at a NIGHTCLUB (where presumably everyone was drinking) told me I had a problem. It was that obvious, guys, but who knew if I really needed to change? Honestly, I was twenty-three years old! Wasn’t I supposed to be going out every night and getting fucked up at this age? Wasn’t I supposed to be in my “party phase”? I thought I was fine. Even after starting to attend AA meetings, I still didn’t stop using. I would go and listen to other people’s stories, hearing some that were eerily similar to mine, but did I really have to change? I thought I was balancing everything well. I was booking jobs and auditioning every day. I was a working actor, able to support myself without a side hustle. I was dating and enjoying that sweet independence I got after being dumped. Things were going great.
I had a great group of friends, and I was hiding my addiction well from all of them. None of them knew I had a problem; they thought I knew how to have a good time!
But then I started to become more aware as the consequences crept up to me. I didn’t have a typical “come to Jesus” moment as many other sober people describe. It was as if I started watching myself from afar. Laura-from-afar started judging me. I would go to an AA meeting and then pick up a bottle of wine on the way home. What the fuck are you doing, Laura?
Then, I started buying cocaine during the day. This was a bad sign. You guys, picking up cocaine should not be on your to-do list. When you’re choosing your grocery store and dry cleaner because they’re on the way to your drug dealer’s spot, you have a problem.
I suddenly realized everything was escalating. I couldn’t drink without buying drugs, and I couldn’t do either of them without getting to the point where I didn’t care if I woke up the next day. I had no control over this. Any semblance of balance I had in my life was totally false. I was completely at the whim of my addiction. I still had the first three pages of that feature script back at home taunting me, because I was always too high to work on it. How did getting high become more important than my career?
Throughout my time in LA, I had still been keeping in touch with my old friends from home. Jack was still my best friend, even if we only talked over the phone and online. He was one of the only people who knew I had a problem and encouraged me to fix it. And just as I reached my breaking point with my addiction, Jack’s boyfriend committed suicide. He was devastated. We both needed each other.
During one of our phone calls I had an idea. “Move to LA with me. Let’s start over together.”
“Are you serious?”
“Why the fuck not, dude? There’s no snow here. People wear shorts in winter.”
There was a pause. I held my breath. I heard Jack sniffle. “I do have a lot of shorts that need wearing.”
And just like that, Jack moved to LA to start a new life. With him near me, I tried to do the same.
It’s weird—I had realized I had a problem over and over again in the past, but this was the first time that I felt truly strong enough to be sober. Maybe it was having Jack around and Colleen nearby. Maybe it was the impending auditions I had to go on. Maybe it was my independence. Maybe it was all the AA meetings I had attended, accumulating in the back of my mind—all the people I had watched become sober and successful. Whatever it was, I could really see that my addiction was getting in the way of my goals. I was finally ready to change.
I walked to the Log Cabin Community Center, where my AA meetings were held, and stood outside for a moment. I could still go back home and light up . . . literally anything. I’d smoke lawn clippings at this point if it could numb my dread. Unfortunately, California was in a drought and there were only succulents around.
There were, however, about fifty twentysomething, punk-looking kids covered in tattoos, sitting around outside, smoking cigarettes. I had seen them before when I had gone to meetings, but never really took notice of them. They were laughing . . . and bright eyed. They looked clear and happy. Is this what sobriety looks like? Nah, they must be high!
I must have been staring for too long, because this badass-looking, tattooed girl came over to me. She did a grand gesture with her arms.
“Welcome.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, but I didn’t move.
“Are you going in?” she continued.
I hesistated. I wanted to get sober, of course, but I had been to meetings before. I knew that when I went inside, they would ask us to turn ourselves over to God, and then I would immediately check out like I had always done.
I could still hear my dad’s voice in the back of my head: “FUCK ORGANIZED RELIGION! It’s bullshit. And eat another hot dog, Laura, you’re too skinny!”
There was no way I’d believe any of this. Okay, bye!!! Yet there was something about this tatted woman’s kind face. I told her everything on my mind. She just smiled at me.
“No, no, we’re not a religious program. God can be any higher power of your own understanding. It could be the sun or mother nature. It can be anything.”
“Penguins?”
“If you want.”
Okay, well, I am deeply fond of penguins.
I took a deep breath and walked inside. And from there . . . I just did it. I was ready and open. I got on my knees and turned myself over to the penguins or whoever the fuck was looking out for me.
I started to learn things that changed my life. I badly needed to find happiness, to let go of whatever horrible feelings about myself that I felt the urge to numb and ignore.
The first thing I learned was the Serenity Prayer:
God, grant me the serenity
To accept the things I cannot change;
Courage to change the things I can;
And wisdom to know the difference.
It sounds so simple, but it was huge for me. If I was unhappy with a situation, I either needed to truly accept it or—if possible—to work through my fear in order to change it. I started to apply this to my acting. If I was unhappy with the work I was getting or the lack thereof, I couldn’t drink and ignore it. I needed to have the courage to change the things I can by putting myself out there in a different way.
After acceptance, I took on forgiveness. A huge principle of AA is forgiving everything and everyone. Resentments are our nu
mber-one offender. If you hold on to your anger, it will take you out. It will eventually lead you back to drinking and using. At the cabin, they asked me to figure out my part in the resentment. Where had I been selfish, self-seeking, dishonest, or afraid?
You guys, I have a lot that I could look back and be angry about, such as what the “abortion money” guy did to me, or what Damon did to me, or what the producer at the W Hotel did to me. There was a lot that didn’t feel like my fault at all. But the only thing in life that I had control over is myself and my reactions. I can’t change my past. I’m allowed to be mad about these things, but I can also work to let them go. I can release the resentment and forgive. Because, honestly, my life depended on it—and I no longer wanted to die. I had purpose on this earth.
It was freeing.
I started to look at other people around me not as inherently bad or good, but rather as healthy or sick and doing the best they can. Everyone is doing their best. Sure, sometimes their best sucks, but that’s okay.
I learned from AA that selfishness and self-seeking are the roots of all of my problems. I started to shift my thinking from what I could get to what I could give. When I felt depressed or suicidal or wanted to drink, they told me to ask myself who I’ve helped that day. Have I called my mom and asked how she was doing? Have I told a friend how much I appreciated them? I got really obsessed with buying homeless people sandwiches. Specifically, sandwiches. Thanks to the program, I had a new person to eat lunch with almost every day. This was my anti-depressant!
Then I started to feel . . . weird. I was smiling a lot? My jokes were less self-deprecating and more . . . joyful? What the fuck was happening to me?
Oh shit. This was happiness. I was happy. The fuck? Being sober was fun. Being single was fun. I didn’t know that I could enjoy doing anything besides getting wasted. Holy fucking shit.
When I opened myself up to sobriety, things started to fall into place for me in my career. Soon after this, I booked a pilot on NBC called A Mann’s World, written and directed by Michael Patrick King who wrote on Sex and the City. It was an amazing script. My character was supposed to be this vacant dumb model, but I took it a step further and gave her a really high, breathy, monotone voice and dead-eyed expression. Man, I really wasn’t born to model, but I was beginning to think I was born to make fun of them. Then, the pilot didn’t get picked up. But this time, I wasn’t devastated. I was fine. This didn’t feel like the end. I had met a bunch of amazing writers and actors through it. And I kept thinking about that character . . . who is she? What is she like when she goes to the grocery store? Sure, I didn’t get to be on a pilot, but this was the inspiration for my Ivy character, who I still do all the time in my videos.