In 2009, after a lot of tests revealing nothing, I was sent to a cognitive therapist to see what the hell was wrong with me. Among the homework I was thereafter to be assigned, I was to begin a diary.
…But because I only ever wrote in them when angry, (and because hypochondria is another fun bit to my persona), I told my shrink that I couldn’t do that… cuz what if I died suddenly and then people found and read these moments of anger and thought that that was how I truly regarded them?
…So then she said, “Fine, do a blog then, something in a public forum. This way you will need to find a healthy alternative in which to spin your anger and resentment and frustration for a reading audience. ”
…So I did.
…And you’re still reading it.
…But this is all to set up that: as a writer, as an actor, as a mentally fucked-up human (which we all are, in our own ways, P.S.) I needed a model of study. Because that is what I do in my profession.
…And my profession has–had–(FUCK YOU,”had”!) an ambassador of the first rank.
…It was at that time that this one book just happened to be on the NY Bestseller list, and on all the feature tables of Barnes and Nobles. And I bought it NOT because it was featuring Princess Leia, but because it was written by the author of “Postcards From The Edge, ” a particularly fantastic insider bio of truth and shock and humor, by Debbie Reynolds’ kid. (Cuz that’s how *she* ranked in my childhood priorities .)
…The thing was: at that particular time, I was seriously fucked up. My motor skills were for shit and at times I couldn’t feel my extremities. I couldn’t eat, so dropped 35 lbs and the “new skinny” just looked wrong, I was having respiratory issues, getting winded within six to ten steps, couldn’t sleep because of chronic spins that would make me heavily nauseous when I closed my eyes, my hypochondria was on steroids, and I was on about seven prescriptions to try and counter it all, to no avail.
…Which is when the MD wrote me a prescription to his own personal therapist.
…So: when I say that I was fucked up and in the worst mental and physical place of my life: believe me–it was bad.
I was 29.
…By the end of my first couch session, I’d been diagnosed and told that not only could she source it to age five, but that if I hadn’t totally lost my shit when I did, NOW, I was so bad that by 35, I would likely have ended in a psych Ward.
…Which is never “good” to hear. But even less so when you are an accute anxiety-bent hypochondriac.
…So with the mental picture of a future like Frances Farmer in my head, I went desperately seeking out any –ANY–possible option to the contrary, in my own associated self-help program.
…Which led me to Carrie.
…A Carrie I already liked and was comfortable with not because of an epic Star Wars trilogy, but because she made me laugh and think and commune with her as a fellow single in “When Harry Met Sally, ” and because of her books.
…That brilliant, bombastic, bipolar brain she brandished on the page with liberal seasoning of caustic wit.
…While we shared not the same diagnosis, we did on the levels of frustration at being perfectly functioning people until (for no apparent reason, and beyond our own control) we weren’t. That sense of loss in regards to power and just plain practicality was something she described so perfectly. And the way she could balance that loss with the analytical behind-the-scene viewpoint of a twisted blooper reel, was –God’s honest truth–the first time I had laughed in months.
…Because it was real. NOT of my imaginings or horrors, but truth in its ugly fucked-up form. If it wasn’t real, how the hell could she be writing about the thoughts my own brain was thinking? How could she understand how fucking dark the blackness got? How much of a freak I felt?
…But most of all, how in the name of all that is holy, could she be making jokes and laughing about it, like it was no big deal?! It was a GIANT, ALL-CONSUMING goddamn deal. Wasn’t that the whole point?!?
Nope.
The point was: she was laughing at it.
…Scary as fuck and frequently beyond her control to do anything, but. So: fuck you dibilating mental health issues! And the demon dragon you rode in on.
This beyond all else. THIS. Learned NOT from my super excellent $110 an hour shrink, but from a woman on the inside who knew the road cuz she set fire to the damn path before she walked it, hot coals et al… THIS was the greatest piece of education I received (or will likely ever receive) on what will end up being my lifelong journey as a person struggling with mental health issues.
…Like my own version of AA. I chose my greatest support from one who had been there and fully understood what it meant and took to fight this shit every day.
…Which then got me thinking of one of my alltime favorite Sorkin pieces:
“This guy’s walking down the street when he falls in a hole. The walls are so steep he can’t get out. “A doctor passes by and the guy shouts up, ‘Hey you. Can you help me out?’ The doctor writes a prescription, throws it down in the hole and moves on. “Then a priest comes along and the guy shouts up, ‘Father, I’m down in this hole can you help me out?’ The priest writes out a prayer, throws it down in the hole and moves on “Then a friend walks by, ‘Hey, Joe, it’s me can you help me out?’ And the friend jumps in the hole. Our guy says, ‘Are you stupid? Now we’re both down here.’ The friend says, ‘Yeah, but I’ve been down here before and I know the way out.'”
