Love Life (11 page)

After a grueling session where he grilled me about every detail of the threatening stranger, the sketch artist produced his rendering of
the suspect. No one seemed to notice that when I was done describing him, he looked exactly like Clarence Clemons from the cover of Springsteen’s
Born to Run
.

The cops, who had more pressing business than a drunken teen shoplifter with a clearly bullshit story, took pity on me. My parents were called and they drove all night to San Diego to pick me up. My grounding lasted longer than any sentence I would’ve gotten from juvenile court.

I suppose it would be easy to focus on the terrible adolescent decision-making and total lack of impulse control, and I’m sure that’s what my parents did. But today I know that none of those admitted shortcomings come into play without my being drunk. And that having a sneaky six-pack didn’t lead any of the other guys in our group into trouble. No, that only happens to the one with the
real
problem, or, to put it another way, if ten guys jaywalk, but only one gets caught, he’s likely your alcoholic.

But our world is full of folks who have addiction issues and, for one reason or another, never have either the moment of clarity and stop or the life tragedy that forces them to. I see a lot of them, many who are perfectly successful or seemingly so, with their red wine every single night or their martini at the country club, or their joint before every concert or movie. I have no judgments. I have no problem with people having fun and getting blasted if that’s the only way they know how to do it. However, I do wonder what greater achievements, what deeper relationships, could have been had without a lifelong relationship with drugs or alcohol. It’s obvious to wonder at the what-ifs of the fatalities; I wonder at the what-ifs of those who still function year in and year out.

That’s why I am so thankful that my life had stopped functioning by 1990. What cruel descent awaited me for the rest of my days as a
recreational abuser? It probably would have been worse than death, a kind of nonlife of unmet expectations, promises unfulfilled, in terms of both my own potential and being the man I wanted to be for those I love. It would have been a slow slide into a smothering malaise of mediocrity and diminishing returns. I’m not sure my addictions would have ever killed me; I wasn’t that type. But it easily could have been even more tragic; I would have died on the inside.

I wrote about the road that led me to rehab in my first book, so I don’t need to elaborate much here. Also, there’s nothing worse than a parade of “crazy partying” war stories that are meant as a sort of mea culpa confession but are really just darkly self-aggrandizing, tawdry tales. I was a world-famous actor, single, in my early twenties, with money, too much free time, a big libido and a drinking problem. I don’t think you need F. Scott Fitzgerald to make my story more clear.

I’m really glad it didn’t take a family intervention to get me to find help. I’ve been a part of these over the years and they are always harrowing. For once, reality television gets it right. And if you watch shows like
Intervention
you know all the storytelling tropes. The subject is always freaked out, there are always family members who think the whole idea is bullshit and there are tears and testimonials, some devastatingly eloquent and some unwatchable. It’s sort of what you get at a wedding. Or funeral.

The results are usually decidedly mixed. In fact, come to think of it, I’ve never been part of an intervention that worked. And by that I mean where the subject says, “Thank you. You are right. I need help. Tell me what to do now and I’ll do it.” Maybe it’s because many of the interventions I’ve been a part of involved fellow actors. Looking back, I’m not sure that hooking Oliver Stone in via conference call would convince anyone to get sober. But I don’t run these interventions,
I just participate when asked, and the good news is that most of the subjects did eventually get help. The intervention, however ugly and unsuccessful at the time, turned out to be the first small step on a very long road.

I can only suppose that mine would have been no different. Although it probably would have given me something to laugh about today, over two decades later.

“Rob, holding on line three is the director of
St. Elmo’s Fire
. He’s very worried for you.” Can you imagine? Well, in
that
case I’ll change my life completely!

Twenty-some years ago, rehabs were different. In fact, most people hearing that word would have thought of an athlete “rehabbing” a sports injury, not a chai-tea-latte-clutching starlet looking to rehab her image. Because there is such a media obsession with the “high and mighty” being laid low by addiction, you see tons of coverage of folks checking into rehab. And in sobriety, as in marriage, the odds are not in your favor. So unfortunately I think there is a sense among some people that maybe recovery doesn’t work.

That is simply not true.

Although there are many who get sober through support groups, I could never have taken my first steps without the knowledge I gained in rehab. Like anything in life, you get out what you put in. I gave my all (I knew the stakes), and I came away with tools I use to this day, every day. I saw talented and dedicated counselors lead some very broken people through unimaginable barriers to come out on the other side with the possibility of a new life. To witness it was life-changing. Seeing others face their ugly secrets and inner conflict gave me the courage to do it myself. That’s something I will never forget.

One day, in group therapy we turned our attention to our newest arrival at the facility. I will call him Buck to protect his anonymity, and some of his personal descriptions have been altered as well. Buck
was a towering, hulking professional athlete. He may have been the largest man I have ever seen up close. Although one of the elite in his field, he secretly had a substance-abuse problem and on the eve of a world championship it caused him to flame out.

For two weeks he sat in our circle of six, including the counselor, silent and remote. Each of us had our time in the barrel, where we would be on the hot seat, facing probing, often deeply uncomfortable questions and exercises designed to get down to our core issues. Mine dealt with broken-family stuff, teen alienation, fame at the age of fifteen and the ensuing craziness. (I dealt with these themes at length in my first book.) Some days I felt like I had discovered a key to why I was the way I was, some days it all felt like nothing but pain and bullshit.

In fact, it was on one of those latter days, probably halfway through my stay, feeling stalled out and doubtful, that Buck began his time in the barrel and I witnessed a human awakening that has inspired me every day for over two decades.

“Buck, why do you think you have a drug problem?” asked Mike, our counselor.

“Dunno. Just do I guess.” We waited for more, but Buck was silent.

“What are you looking to get from your stay here?” asked Mike finally.

“I just want to stop.”

“Why do you think you can’t?”

“Dunno. I’m . . . I’m helpless,” said Buck impassively.

“You’re a disciplined, world-class athlete. You come from a broken home, poverty. You’ve made it to the top of your sport. It looks like you can beat anything, if you set your mind to it,” said Mike softly, matter-of-factly, looking him in the eye.

“Like I said, I’m helpless.”

“Why do you think that is?”

Buck shrugged. For a long time he said nothing. It got uncomfortable. The people-pleasing part of me, the performer who always wants a happy room, wanted to jump into the conversation to cut the tension.

“Felt that way since I can remember. From a little boy,” Buck said finally. I studied his face for emotion but if there was any, I didn’t see it. The room felt stalled. But none of us were going anywhere, so there was no choice but to stew in the silence together.

Mike tried another track.

“You have a lot of responsibilities, don’t you, Buck.”

Buck looked away, focusing on the window.

“Lotta family you take care of? People who depend on you?” Mike said, pressing him.

“Yeah,” he said finally, turning back to the group. For the first time since he’d arrived, I saw emotion flicker on his giant, Mount Rushmore face. But after a moment the wall was back up; I could see him retreat completely. Mike saw it too.

“Buck, I want to try something with you. An exercise. Would that be okay?”

Buck said nothing but nodded. Mike went to the couch in the corner and retrieved a big, sturdy blanket. He laid it on the floor in front of our group.

“Buck, would you take off your shoes and lie on the blanket?”

He did as he was asked.

“Rob, can you get the lights?” Mike asked me. I had no idea what was happening but from day one at the rehab I’d made a rule to do whatever I was told. I turned out the lights.

The giant man lay on the blanket. “Close your eyes,” said Mike. “You don’t need to do anything. We’ll all just be quiet for a while.” Then, “Everyone, why don’t we all get down on the floor with Buck.”

Slowly, the group of us slid to the floor in the dark, surrounding him like he was the campfire we would tell stories around.

Buck’s eyes were closed; he seemed to relax, but his guard was still up, as always.

“Buck, I know how strong you are. You’re a big man. Your sport requires you to be tough. I know you take care of business in the arena. I know you have familial responsibilities, a large bunch of people who depend on you to look out for them. But I want to know this: Who takes care of Buck?”

With that, Mike silently motioned to us to close the blanket. His eyes signaled that he wanted us to do as he did, to follow his lead. He wrapped the man in the blanket and we all helped. I pulled the soft, sturdy fabric to the man’s barrel chest. All our hands were on him.

“Today we are going to take care of
you
,” Mike whispered to him. “Today no one wants anything from you. Today, you just worry about you.”

We stayed like that for a while, our hands softly on him, and he began to breathe deeply. A few minutes passed. Then:

“I think it’s probably been a long time since anyone picked you up. Since anyone held you,” said Mike. He instructed us to get to our feet, each of us holding the blanket underneath Buck.

Together we pulled. We lifted him up.

We began to rock him slowly, back and forth, almost like he was in a hammock or was a baby in a bassinet. Buck was a monolith, maybe 295 pounds or more, but we held him and rocked him, together.

“I want you to think about little Buck. Really go back, and feel what it was like when you weren’t big, when you weren’t strong. Be that small boy again.”

He began to cry. We kept holding him up, wrapped in his blanket,
rocking him in the darkness. Soon his body was wracked with almost inhuman-sounding sobs. I wanted to look away, to avoid seeing a man in such pain.

“What’s happening?” Mike asked him evenly, softly. He wasn’t pushing; in fact he almost sounded like his mind was elsewhere. “What’s going on with you right now?”

The big man gasped. He began to moan like an animal.

“Oooh. Ooh. Oh no!” He was agitated now, and we couldn’t hold him up in the blanket, so we laid him down gently in the darkness. “Oh God. Oh God!” he exclaimed. He was writhing on the ground but we held him down and caressed him, like a parent would a newborn.

Mike’s voice became clear. “Buck. I need you to talk about what you are remembering.”

“I— I— Oh God.”

“Shh, shh. We’re here. It’s okay. You can talk to us.”

“I couldn’t stop them! I had to stop them! But . . . but . . . they—aaaaah.”

It was excruciating. We waited, none of us daring to look at each other. Buck heaved and buckled, dissolving into himself. I thought he might be sick.

“Talk to me, Buck,” said Mike.

“I, I was left . . . alone . . . with my baby brother. We were all alone. No one was home. My brother and me . . . we . . . we . . . we played out on the street.”

He stopped breathing heavily.

“How old is your brother?”

“A baby. Maybe one and a half.”

“And how old are you?”

“I’m, I’m four years old.”

“It’s okay, Buck, keep going.”

“Aaaaah. Uh . . . those boys, the big boys, they took him. They took him.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was babysitting. But they wanted to put my brother in this box. I didn’t want to. They took him . . . Oh my God.”

Buck was shaking. His slab of a chest rising up and down like a hydraulic platform.

This time, Mike didn’t step in to guide him. Whatever it was that Buck had suppressed, whatever awful memory it was that was struggling to erupt, it would come out on its own. Finally.

“I fought them. They were too big. There were a lot of them. They put my brother into the box right there on the sidewalk. Then . . . then they were rollin’ it and jumpin’ on it and I said, ‘No! Stop!’ but they wouldn’t stop.”

“Buck, what happened to your little brother?” asked Mike.

“They killed him.”

We tried not to gasp. I wanted to throw up.

“When they were done messin’ with him and that box he wasn’t breathing anymore. He died.”

Even Mike couldn’t speak. Most of us were crying. Buck’s knuckles were turning white gripping the blanket.

“No one did nothing. Those kids told everyone he got in there and some kind of accident happened. They told me they’d get me if I told, so I didn’t.” He began to sob, and I thought he was going to a place so broken that no one could ever come back from it. I looked at Mike, scared.

“Buck, you need to know that you didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t kill your brother, a gang of kids did. You were only four years old! There was nothing you could have possibly done. You were helpless and you are still helpless.
A four-year-old should never be put in a position to care for a baby. Would you do that to a four-year-old?”

“No.”

“So you see how unfair it is. Do you see that?”

“Yes.”

“I need you to listen to me: You need to stop punishing yourself. You are not going to carry the shame that belongs to others. I ask you why you do drugs; you say, ‘I’m helpless.’ You have it backward. You were helpless
then.
Today you’ve got to forgive yourself for that. You won’t ever be sober until you do.”