Given the lack of posting I have been doing, compounded by the fact that the last two posts I have uploaded have been a cut and paste job of brilliantly written articles (with a link and full credit to the original writer for fear of a lawsuit in my face), it's about time I wrote something decent, with my own ideas, words and all.
It is the sad passing of Cory Monteith and Paul Bhattacharjee, the topic of the Guardian's article, that shall be my focus for the next few hours. And as beautiful as the sun shines on this July summer morning, I couldn't dedicate my time to a better reason. Michael Simkins has done an important job of bringing out some truths of the industry. I have noted a few commentators and actors referring to this article as 'depressing', and 'negative'. Call it what you will, there is no denying that what Simkins speaks of is simply the truth.
It is with regret that I must add the name of Briony McRoberts to a list that has formed in all too short a period of time, each with its own tragic storyline, each with its own devastated next of kins.
I cannot confess to being a Glee Groupie, but being someone who owns a TV, a computer and under the age of 103, I was aware of the global phenomena. When I read of Cory Monteith's death, a pang of pain cut sharply through me. It was as if I knew him and he was dear to me. I couldn't work out why this was: I hadn't seen much of his work, I'm not in love with him, so what's going on? Then it dawned on me. What happened to Cory Monteith can happen to all of us. Me, my friends, my colleagues; the sharp pain that my body produced upon learning of his death was a self-protection device designed to remind me, 'you've been there, you know what that's like'.
Cory died of a heroin and alcohol overdose at the age of 31. I have never used heroin, nor any drugs for that matter, and while I do drink (and am usually regretful of the decision to do so the next day), I have never used alcohol as a coping device. That is the only difference. Everyone employs different coping and defense mechanisms, some are more harmful and life threatening than others, but the psyche is always the same.
Let's set the scene. My scene.
A few months ago, I was all over the place; both in the media and, in hindsight as it turns out, emotionally. I was on TV solidly, as well as appearing on interviews, press, magazines, cover shoots, being gifted with clothing/shoes/accessories, attending events (even turning down events such as OK! Magazine parties), all that frickin' jazz with cherries on top. My lifestyle became one that most little girls would grow up wanting. That's certainly what I had wanted. To boot my new found sense of 'oh wow, perhaps I'm a bona fide actress now' syndrome, I was performing on stage every night during this intensely crazy period. Everything was snowballing, my career was flying, and I was so busy being an actress, not a struggling one, but a successful one. Top Of The World according to the Carpenter. Sigh, but wait.
I couldn't sleep at night. My mind wouldn't stop talking to me. And I knew that voice all too well. She wasn't excited, encouraging or congratulating me on my hard-earned achievements. She was critical ("you were rubbish tonight, how did you get this job?"), endlessly comparative ("you think you're doing well? Well look at XYZ, she/he is doing so well and is younger/more beautiful/could definitely play your role much better"), and discouraging ("You should just give up, you don't have anything lined up anyway"). Somehow through this damaging chatter, I'd fall asleep to the sounds of birds waking up for their new day. I myself would wake up in the afternoon, to the feeling of pure and unadulterated emptiness. An engulfing tidal wave of sorrow, sadness, and the biggest void. Fearing that any movement would be enough to wake me up fully, I'd lay very still and force myself back to sleep again, slipping back into unconsciousness as the busy world around me had worked a full morning and were returning from their lunchbreaks. When my body couldn't sleep any more, I would reluctantly get up.
I had started smoking heavily again (nicotine is my drug of choice in difficult times. When I light up, it is the first warning signal that all engines will fail soon and that one should familiarise oneself with the location of the ejector button). Towards the end of the play's run, I was counting the down days. Not because of any negative association with the play, the opposite in fact. I loved the show, I loved the people, and the theatre became my home. But I could feel emotionally that I was teetering near the edge. I'm not sure what I was on the edge of, but I certainly wasn't going out of my way to find out. Straight after our end of show party which ended at 3am, and at which I had consumed alcohol, albeit in small and spread out doses, I decided to drive over 100 miles at 5am (after a strong coffee) to be with my family as I did not know what would happen to me if I woke up alone the next morning. I then booked a trip to a mountain retreat to escape it all, only to have a panic attack the day before the flight, cancelling it shortly before buying another flight to the same destination hours later. Aren't panicked decisions expensive?
I was so relieved when I finally arrived after a good 14 hour trip, as I now believed that getting away was the answer to all my problems. Nature, mountains, yoga, detox, good living, not a care in the world. How. Very. Wrong. It is in fact, as it quickly dawned on me, when you have no distractions, noise, and anything to do, do you absolutely get a sense of what the fuck is lying beneath. There is nowhere to hide. Ooh. Hello suppressed issues, hello the ugly side of myself I have not wanted to see and have hidden behind hilarious Facebook statuses, how nice of you to show up here.
Shit, by trying to escape my problems, I had unwittingly checked myself into emotional rehab.
Luckily, like real rehab, I was in a supportive environment. (Unlike a real rehab, the most dangerous drug to hand near me was wheatgrass powder, and had I tried to jump from anywhere, I probably would have ploughed right into an organic olive tree.) Together with great people and clean living, I was able to look at some of my demons right in the eye. I hated what I saw in its very fleeting glimpse, but in order to deal with myself I had to see what the problems were. [Pause for wise old man advise: 'Half the solution is in realising there is a problem'.]
I spent the next two days not being able to leave my room; I couldn't lay down straight as my body was twisted with so much crying, and when I wasn't contorted, I was passed out with exhaustion. I'd wake up and it would start all over again. For two days. It felt like forever. As the days of living hell passed, the same feelings, although present, became lighter, and the attacks less frequent. Manageable. I could step outside my room and I could feel a small change. Nothing drastic mind you. Just like one does not unravel overnight, one does not heal overnight. Britney didn't 'lose it' the night she shaved her head; one can assume that breakdown seed was sown well before she asked us to 'hit her... Baby One More Time'.
I am now back home, and upon reflection I am so proud of myself for not only having got through the last few months of this crazy roller-coaster, but also being able to deal with it in a way that did not result in too much damage to my body. I read a piece of advice somewhere and as rudimentary and obvious as this is, so few people adhere to it: "You only have one body. Use it wisely and treat it with respect". Like with anything, there is a tipping point, and your body is no different. If you use drugs and substances regularly, your body will build up a tolerance, because through thousands of years of evolution, believe it or not, we are actually walking miracles. However, despite its adaptability, we are merely a collection of cells. If you poison these cells too much, they will die. If enough die that, my friend, is your tipping point, and the game is over. Sadly, unlike a 'reload' button on Halo, or 'press YES to continue', you would have already left this world, and those cells that are programmed to do everything they can to keep you alive begin the act of decomposition. Science is science, and talent, wealth, fame do not grant you invincibility. River Phoenix, Amy Winehouse, Janis Joplin - there are too many artistic geniuses who lost the gamble.
Simkin's article already offers great insight into the statistics, fairness and politics of the acting industry therefore it is unnecessary for me to repeat him. What do I want to draw attention to, in my own limited way and voice, is how important it is to look after yourself mentally. Just like having a baby in a problematic relationship will most likely cause a break up or, worse still, an unhappy child, getting an acting job when you're an emotionally unstable person is a one-way ticket to Loonsville.
The mind the a powerful tool. All being well, it can take you to great heights, drive your ambition and fuel your destiny. Flip this on its head, and it becomes the most destructive force, literally driving you to extinguish yourself from this life. Your body cannot naturally produce heroin or cocaine to flow through your bloodstream. Nor can it fall to its death on a sofa.
Every action begins with a thought.
With high profile works comes a myriad of potentially unhinging aspects: you're thrust into the public eye, you are recognised in every day life, once you're out there you're 'public property', people feel they have a right to discuss you and criticise you at will, after all, we now live in an age where the internet has created an anonymous hiding place for anyone to launch the most viscous of insults at others. And this is just the tip of the iceberg, oh how there is more.
As I write this, I have bugger all in the pipeline. Nothing on the horizon, don't know where my next paycheck is coming from, and I'm not even going to bother to dress this up. I may never work again. I do, however, go to bed now at midnight, 1.00 am if I'm being wild (usually due to a good book or a chat with a friend, I'm so rock and roll). I wake up at 8.00am and 9.30am if I'm being lazy. What do I have to wake up for? No job, no rehearsals, the occasional audition, but the difference is that now I get it. And it's very simple. It is actually just exciting and a privilege to be alive, to be safe and healthy. Don't interpret this wrong, I am not celebrating the fact that I'm unemployed. I love my job and yes of course I want to keep working. What I mean is that one cannot find happiness through one's work, if that is what you are looking for, you have to learn from the unfortunate examples of Monteith, Bhattacharjee and McRoberts, otherwise their deaths would be in vain.
Happiness comes from within you. It is in all of us, and I believe one's grand-scheme journey is to find that, and tap the hell into it. This is your true essence of living. We may not be able to produce heroin or other Class A substances naturally, however, we can make endorphins, dopamine, oxytocin all by ourselves, isn't that genius. So ingenious in fact, that illegal drugs are designed to replicate the effects of our naturally occurring feel good chemicals. Plus, it's totes legal, you can't overdose on your own natural production, and it's free. As an actor, we all love free things.
Whether you are working or not, on the dole or sweeping roads, in a relationship or single, happiness does not come from external sources. Should you find an outside source that grants you temporary relief, what happens when they are gone? The job? The partner? The new car? Take it from me, the longer you work, the more the momentum builds for a harder fall (if you let it). Why are there so many long running actors in soaps? Why do so many characters who make a big deal of leaving soaps, return soon after? It is heartbreaking when a job has to end, Simkins observes very accurately that, 'Friendships are intense but brief' (see my post My make believe family for my thoughts on industry friendships). If you work in film, theatre and non-soap TV, jobs will have to end eventually. It is the nature of the acting beast. So be OK with having nothing. Be OK with getting up for no reason except for the fact that you are alive and it is a new day. Be OK with not getting that job. If you can do this, and genuinely do this, you have the building blocks of a successful actor; an unshakeable foundation.
Would the lives of Cory Monteith, Paul Bhattacharjee and Briony McRoberts have ended the same way had they chosen a different profession? I feel it insensitive to comment on this. All I can admit is that it certainly is a difficult industry, but it is not the industry that kills you. How can it? The term 'industry' denotes an idea, a concept, and is essentially an intangible object. An industry cannot hold a gun to your head and pull the trigger. I used to work in a City corporate firm. One day during working hours, a senior employee threw himself off the 9th floor in full view of everyone. People passed his dead body on their way out leaving the office and his blood stained the grey stone floor. It can, and does, happen anywhere.
What has to be taken from the recent spate of deaths is the understanding and appreciation of how vulnerable people are, and in these particular circumstances, actors. Whether you are a heart-throb hunk starring in an internationally hit show, or a veteran having trodden the boards with the Royal Shakespeare Company, you are not immune from yourself. Accidental overdose or not, the intention to harm is still there.
The most important thing in your world is you. Not a job. Not a paycheck or your name in lights. These things are transitory and you're fucked if you crave their longevity. Look after yourself and you will be surprised at how well you will go on to serve yourself. If you can't hurt yourself, then nothing can. Enjoy being you, and trust me, what you think you want is not going to make you happy if you cannot look in the mirror and like what you see. Count your blessings everyday, give thanks for all the good things in your life, and understand that the likes of Cory, Paul and Briony were not victims of the industry, but ultimately and very sadly, of themselves. Through their deaths, they have highlighted the desperation and fragility of human life, at the same time proving to everyone else that does not have what they have, that money, success, a respectable body of work and fame means fuck all. I am so sorry that they had to teach us the hard way. They are not the first, and they will not be the last, but I sincerely hope that if you are reading this, that it'll never be you.
To Cory, Paul and Briony: may you finally rest in peace, thank you for your work and we will miss you.
It is the sad passing of Cory Monteith and Paul Bhattacharjee, the topic of the Guardian's article, that shall be my focus for the next few hours. And as beautiful as the sun shines on this July summer morning, I couldn't dedicate my time to a better reason. Michael Simkins has done an important job of bringing out some truths of the industry. I have noted a few commentators and actors referring to this article as 'depressing', and 'negative'. Call it what you will, there is no denying that what Simkins speaks of is simply the truth.
It is with regret that I must add the name of Briony McRoberts to a list that has formed in all too short a period of time, each with its own tragic storyline, each with its own devastated next of kins.
I cannot confess to being a Glee Groupie, but being someone who owns a TV, a computer and under the age of 103, I was aware of the global phenomena. When I read of Cory Monteith's death, a pang of pain cut sharply through me. It was as if I knew him and he was dear to me. I couldn't work out why this was: I hadn't seen much of his work, I'm not in love with him, so what's going on? Then it dawned on me. What happened to Cory Monteith can happen to all of us. Me, my friends, my colleagues; the sharp pain that my body produced upon learning of his death was a self-protection device designed to remind me, 'you've been there, you know what that's like'.
Cory died of a heroin and alcohol overdose at the age of 31. I have never used heroin, nor any drugs for that matter, and while I do drink (and am usually regretful of the decision to do so the next day), I have never used alcohol as a coping device. That is the only difference. Everyone employs different coping and defense mechanisms, some are more harmful and life threatening than others, but the psyche is always the same.
Let's set the scene. My scene.
A few months ago, I was all over the place; both in the media and, in hindsight as it turns out, emotionally. I was on TV solidly, as well as appearing on interviews, press, magazines, cover shoots, being gifted with clothing/shoes/accessories, attending events (even turning down events such as OK! Magazine parties), all that frickin' jazz with cherries on top. My lifestyle became one that most little girls would grow up wanting. That's certainly what I had wanted. To boot my new found sense of 'oh wow, perhaps I'm a bona fide actress now' syndrome, I was performing on stage every night during this intensely crazy period. Everything was snowballing, my career was flying, and I was so busy being an actress, not a struggling one, but a successful one. Top Of The World according to the Carpenter. Sigh, but wait.
I couldn't sleep at night. My mind wouldn't stop talking to me. And I knew that voice all too well. She wasn't excited, encouraging or congratulating me on my hard-earned achievements. She was critical ("you were rubbish tonight, how did you get this job?"), endlessly comparative ("you think you're doing well? Well look at XYZ, she/he is doing so well and is younger/more beautiful/could definitely play your role much better"), and discouraging ("You should just give up, you don't have anything lined up anyway"). Somehow through this damaging chatter, I'd fall asleep to the sounds of birds waking up for their new day. I myself would wake up in the afternoon, to the feeling of pure and unadulterated emptiness. An engulfing tidal wave of sorrow, sadness, and the biggest void. Fearing that any movement would be enough to wake me up fully, I'd lay very still and force myself back to sleep again, slipping back into unconsciousness as the busy world around me had worked a full morning and were returning from their lunchbreaks. When my body couldn't sleep any more, I would reluctantly get up.
I had started smoking heavily again (nicotine is my drug of choice in difficult times. When I light up, it is the first warning signal that all engines will fail soon and that one should familiarise oneself with the location of the ejector button). Towards the end of the play's run, I was counting the down days. Not because of any negative association with the play, the opposite in fact. I loved the show, I loved the people, and the theatre became my home. But I could feel emotionally that I was teetering near the edge. I'm not sure what I was on the edge of, but I certainly wasn't going out of my way to find out. Straight after our end of show party which ended at 3am, and at which I had consumed alcohol, albeit in small and spread out doses, I decided to drive over 100 miles at 5am (after a strong coffee) to be with my family as I did not know what would happen to me if I woke up alone the next morning. I then booked a trip to a mountain retreat to escape it all, only to have a panic attack the day before the flight, cancelling it shortly before buying another flight to the same destination hours later. Aren't panicked decisions expensive?
I was so relieved when I finally arrived after a good 14 hour trip, as I now believed that getting away was the answer to all my problems. Nature, mountains, yoga, detox, good living, not a care in the world. How. Very. Wrong. It is in fact, as it quickly dawned on me, when you have no distractions, noise, and anything to do, do you absolutely get a sense of what the fuck is lying beneath. There is nowhere to hide. Ooh. Hello suppressed issues, hello the ugly side of myself I have not wanted to see and have hidden behind hilarious Facebook statuses, how nice of you to show up here.
Shit, by trying to escape my problems, I had unwittingly checked myself into emotional rehab.
Luckily, like real rehab, I was in a supportive environment. (Unlike a real rehab, the most dangerous drug to hand near me was wheatgrass powder, and had I tried to jump from anywhere, I probably would have ploughed right into an organic olive tree.) Together with great people and clean living, I was able to look at some of my demons right in the eye. I hated what I saw in its very fleeting glimpse, but in order to deal with myself I had to see what the problems were. [Pause for wise old man advise: 'Half the solution is in realising there is a problem'.]
I spent the next two days not being able to leave my room; I couldn't lay down straight as my body was twisted with so much crying, and when I wasn't contorted, I was passed out with exhaustion. I'd wake up and it would start all over again. For two days. It felt like forever. As the days of living hell passed, the same feelings, although present, became lighter, and the attacks less frequent. Manageable. I could step outside my room and I could feel a small change. Nothing drastic mind you. Just like one does not unravel overnight, one does not heal overnight. Britney didn't 'lose it' the night she shaved her head; one can assume that breakdown seed was sown well before she asked us to 'hit her... Baby One More Time'.
I am now back home, and upon reflection I am so proud of myself for not only having got through the last few months of this crazy roller-coaster, but also being able to deal with it in a way that did not result in too much damage to my body. I read a piece of advice somewhere and as rudimentary and obvious as this is, so few people adhere to it: "You only have one body. Use it wisely and treat it with respect". Like with anything, there is a tipping point, and your body is no different. If you use drugs and substances regularly, your body will build up a tolerance, because through thousands of years of evolution, believe it or not, we are actually walking miracles. However, despite its adaptability, we are merely a collection of cells. If you poison these cells too much, they will die. If enough die that, my friend, is your tipping point, and the game is over. Sadly, unlike a 'reload' button on Halo, or 'press YES to continue', you would have already left this world, and those cells that are programmed to do everything they can to keep you alive begin the act of decomposition. Science is science, and talent, wealth, fame do not grant you invincibility. River Phoenix, Amy Winehouse, Janis Joplin - there are too many artistic geniuses who lost the gamble.
Simkin's article already offers great insight into the statistics, fairness and politics of the acting industry therefore it is unnecessary for me to repeat him. What do I want to draw attention to, in my own limited way and voice, is how important it is to look after yourself mentally. Just like having a baby in a problematic relationship will most likely cause a break up or, worse still, an unhappy child, getting an acting job when you're an emotionally unstable person is a one-way ticket to Loonsville.
The mind the a powerful tool. All being well, it can take you to great heights, drive your ambition and fuel your destiny. Flip this on its head, and it becomes the most destructive force, literally driving you to extinguish yourself from this life. Your body cannot naturally produce heroin or cocaine to flow through your bloodstream. Nor can it fall to its death on a sofa.
Every action begins with a thought.
With high profile works comes a myriad of potentially unhinging aspects: you're thrust into the public eye, you are recognised in every day life, once you're out there you're 'public property', people feel they have a right to discuss you and criticise you at will, after all, we now live in an age where the internet has created an anonymous hiding place for anyone to launch the most viscous of insults at others. And this is just the tip of the iceberg, oh how there is more.
As I write this, I have bugger all in the pipeline. Nothing on the horizon, don't know where my next paycheck is coming from, and I'm not even going to bother to dress this up. I may never work again. I do, however, go to bed now at midnight, 1.00 am if I'm being wild (usually due to a good book or a chat with a friend, I'm so rock and roll). I wake up at 8.00am and 9.30am if I'm being lazy. What do I have to wake up for? No job, no rehearsals, the occasional audition, but the difference is that now I get it. And it's very simple. It is actually just exciting and a privilege to be alive, to be safe and healthy. Don't interpret this wrong, I am not celebrating the fact that I'm unemployed. I love my job and yes of course I want to keep working. What I mean is that one cannot find happiness through one's work, if that is what you are looking for, you have to learn from the unfortunate examples of Monteith, Bhattacharjee and McRoberts, otherwise their deaths would be in vain.
Happiness comes from within you. It is in all of us, and I believe one's grand-scheme journey is to find that, and tap the hell into it. This is your true essence of living. We may not be able to produce heroin or other Class A substances naturally, however, we can make endorphins, dopamine, oxytocin all by ourselves, isn't that genius. So ingenious in fact, that illegal drugs are designed to replicate the effects of our naturally occurring feel good chemicals. Plus, it's totes legal, you can't overdose on your own natural production, and it's free. As an actor, we all love free things.
Whether you are working or not, on the dole or sweeping roads, in a relationship or single, happiness does not come from external sources. Should you find an outside source that grants you temporary relief, what happens when they are gone? The job? The partner? The new car? Take it from me, the longer you work, the more the momentum builds for a harder fall (if you let it). Why are there so many long running actors in soaps? Why do so many characters who make a big deal of leaving soaps, return soon after? It is heartbreaking when a job has to end, Simkins observes very accurately that, 'Friendships are intense but brief' (see my post My make believe family for my thoughts on industry friendships). If you work in film, theatre and non-soap TV, jobs will have to end eventually. It is the nature of the acting beast. So be OK with having nothing. Be OK with getting up for no reason except for the fact that you are alive and it is a new day. Be OK with not getting that job. If you can do this, and genuinely do this, you have the building blocks of a successful actor; an unshakeable foundation.
Would the lives of Cory Monteith, Paul Bhattacharjee and Briony McRoberts have ended the same way had they chosen a different profession? I feel it insensitive to comment on this. All I can admit is that it certainly is a difficult industry, but it is not the industry that kills you. How can it? The term 'industry' denotes an idea, a concept, and is essentially an intangible object. An industry cannot hold a gun to your head and pull the trigger. I used to work in a City corporate firm. One day during working hours, a senior employee threw himself off the 9th floor in full view of everyone. People passed his dead body on their way out leaving the office and his blood stained the grey stone floor. It can, and does, happen anywhere.
What has to be taken from the recent spate of deaths is the understanding and appreciation of how vulnerable people are, and in these particular circumstances, actors. Whether you are a heart-throb hunk starring in an internationally hit show, or a veteran having trodden the boards with the Royal Shakespeare Company, you are not immune from yourself. Accidental overdose or not, the intention to harm is still there.
The most important thing in your world is you. Not a job. Not a paycheck or your name in lights. These things are transitory and you're fucked if you crave their longevity. Look after yourself and you will be surprised at how well you will go on to serve yourself. If you can't hurt yourself, then nothing can. Enjoy being you, and trust me, what you think you want is not going to make you happy if you cannot look in the mirror and like what you see. Count your blessings everyday, give thanks for all the good things in your life, and understand that the likes of Cory, Paul and Briony were not victims of the industry, but ultimately and very sadly, of themselves. Through their deaths, they have highlighted the desperation and fragility of human life, at the same time proving to everyone else that does not have what they have, that money, success, a respectable body of work and fame means fuck all. I am so sorry that they had to teach us the hard way. They are not the first, and they will not be the last, but I sincerely hope that if you are reading this, that it'll never be you.
To Cory, Paul and Briony: may you finally rest in peace, thank you for your work and we will miss you.