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Die Another Day

I think I’ll find another way
There’s so much more to know
I guess I’ll die another day
It’s not my time to go

paranoia, 2007.

paranoia, 2007.

Reading of the NSA domestic spying scandal, and of the fiery Highland Avenue 4 AM car-crash death of investigative journalist Michael Hastings – who was reportedly writing an expose on the FBI and NSA – that old, familiar shiver of fear riffled its way down my spine.

Oh shit,  I thought. Is it back?

By it, I meant paranoid psychosis, with which I was diagnosed in 2007, after nearly six months of living in constant fear, feeling like I was being constantly surveilled, and trying to rationalize multiple strings of coincidences that would have probably gone unnoticed by anyone who wasn’t entrenched in a years-long crystal meth addiction.

It subsided quickly, but it did leave behind some residual feelings that I associate with those long-ago days: anxiety, paranoia, and the biggest of all, plain old fear.  I truly believe that a large number of meth-related suicides are instigated not primarily by the overwhelming hopeless feelings of addiction, but by fear.

I remembered my  attempts at suicide…most fairly half-hearted, since I never truly wanted to die. I only knew I was too scared to keep living.  I remember the time in our pool shed, where voices from unseen people directed me to swallow a bottle of sleeping pills, place a large plastic bag over my head, and to then bind my own hands together with plastic cable-ties.

Obviously, it didn’t work. I vomited into the plastic bag and somehow, in my drugged stupor, managed to break out of the ties and rip the bag from my head…though I remember nothing except waking up on the floor of the pool shed, woozy and sticky in my own mess.

My last attempt was slightly more effective: downing every pill in the house (and after years of psychotherapy and addiction, there were quite a few of them lying around), writing a paranoid and ridiculous  “they forced me to do this!” suicide note, and then collapsing on our bed. Patrick had been working, taping an episode of the cable comedy show (wait for it…) Head Case, and returned home from work to find me unconscious, barely breathing, covered in blood and (yes, again), vomit.  Paramedics pulled me back, and a weeklong stay at the House of Horrors that is the County USC Psych Ward (6 crazy men to a room and wet, stained bandages covering the shower floor tiles, anyone?) ensued.

I’ve been sharing about these feelings of residual fear with sober friends, and it helps, though it’s difficult at times. Anyone who hasn’t experienced extreme paranoid psychosis finds it hard to understand the depth of the sheer terror of being in that state of mind, and most people who have experienced it are extremely reluctant to revisit it…understandably.  Even though it was years ago, the feelings that my brain registered at the time were real, even if the situations that inspired those feelings were not.

It certainly doesn’t help matters much right now that my paranoia involved being targeted for surveillance by some shadowy civilian security entity…I was under the delusion that my large number of anti-Bush-era policy emails and postings on internet bulletin boards had made me a target. I also thought that…wait for it, this part’s funny…because I’d had an article published in a national magazine, and because my husband was a fairly prominent television character actor, I had somehow made the list of those who needed to be “monitored.”   Funny, I know, but at the time…in the throes of post-meth-psychosis, it all seemed completely rational.  Of course, there were some things I simply couldn’t explain: cars that seemed to constantly swarm me, headlights on bright even in the middle of the day, strange hang-ups on my cellphone, just a whole host of things that terrified me beyond belief but might have seemed perfectly  normal if I hadn’t been operating from a place of drug-compromised intelligence.

So, reading about secret domestic surveillance and wiretapping programs, and the death of a reporter who was reportedly working on a story to expose government secrets, there was a  weird sense of deja vu.

Fortunately, today I’m clean and sober, almost a year now.  I’m sane.  The paranoid psychosis has been gone for years.  My head is on straight. Though I remember those thoughts and feelings I no longer believe an y of them.  I can fully appreciate the fact that there is nothing about me that would warrant surveillance by anyone. Delusions of grandeur, my therapist had referred to it. Grandiosity. 

Today, I still suffer from feelings of grandiosity, but in a different way: today, I love myself, I love God. I take care of my mind and my body. I no longer live crippled by fear of things real or imagined.

Today, I not only don’t want to die, I want to live.

And as my friend Maria told me the other day when I shared these feelings with her, “it’s different now, honey. You have  people who love you, you have a support group.”

So, if you’re one of the unlucky ones who is dealing with paranoid psychosis, and you’re feeling like it’s never, ever going to end…trust me, it does. Find recovery, find the right meds, find a safe place among friends who are also recovering. It will end. The wait will be hard, but it will go away.

Smoking on the Devil’s Johnson

June 1993, en route to SF Pride.

June 1993, en route to SF Pride.

In June of 1993, my friend Eddie and I made a road trip to San Francisco to attend that city’s Gay Pride festival.

The night before the festivities kicked off, we discovered that a favorite new band of ours, the industrial/alternative  ‘Ethyl Meatplow’ was playing a gig in a small venue in Berkeley (or was it Oakland? doesn’t matter, I suppose.)

During the show, we pushed our way to the front of the crowd, pressing ourselves against the lip of the stage, enjoying the highly sexual, often vulgar antics of co-lead singers John Napier and Carla Bozulich (later of “The Geraldine Fibbers.”)

During the performance of one of my favorite songs of theirs (they only released one album during their short-lived career, the epic “Happy Days, Sweetheart,” so there really weren’t too many to choose from), the extremely handsome Napier climbed down from stage, mic in hand, and began simulating fellatio on me in front of the crowd. Fortunately, this was when I was in my twenties when alcohol was still my drug of choice, so rather than blushing I drunkenly went along with the obscene pantomime, enjoying every second of it.  I have no idea if Napier was gay or bisexual or straight…the whole idea of Ethyl Meatplow seemed to be pansexual hedonism…but it was a fitting kick-off to the debauchery that was to follow that weekend: lots of cocaine, my friend Eddie and I strapped to motorcycles wearing only g-strings as if we were captured ‘trophies’ during the parade lead-off procession of the legendary “dykes on bikes” contingent, and – on my part at least – several raucous sexual encounters.

the closest I've ever come to doing drag: the wild days of Sin-a-Matic & Club Louis

the closest I’ve ever come to doing drag: the wild days of Sin-a-Matic & Club Louis

Since then, my musical tastes have evolved (or devolved, my younger self might say), but “Happy Days, Sweetheart” still remains one of my favorite touchstones of that insane early 90’s era where pretty much everything was a go: dancing beside Madonna and her posse at the semi-underground Club Louis, taking off my clothes and having my ass whipped in public at the dance/fetish club “Sin-a-Matic,” and partying as if there were no such thing as Monday morning.

The track i’ve attached below, the cautionary tale “Devil’s Johnson,” was my favorite Meatplow song, the one to which I received that mock-blowjob so long ago. It details the plight of a drug user…crystal or crack…who devolves into paranoia and insanity.  I had no idea at the time of the album’s release that the scenario in this song would, in fact, be my own life in less than a decade’s time.

Today, I discovered that John Napier died last year of a drug-related cause.  That brief interaction in that tiny club seems strange to me now, like some foreshadowing event. There really isn’t much to read into it, I suppose, most clubs are chock-full of either current or incipient drug addicts…but my narcissistic, terminally-unique, addicted brain keeps trying to tell me that there was some bizarre passing-of-the-mantle going on.

I’m going to go to the gym now, and focus on getting my body back into alignment with my mind and my spirit. Still, I’m going to allow myself to feel sad for the passing of this beautiful man who succumbed to the same fate I am now working my ass off to avoid.

RIP, John Napier.

 

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