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The Hole

March 22, 2014, 3:20 pm
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So, I figured since I get fired up about stuff & blather endlessly about it, why not have a blog?

Thank you so much, Sir Fagsy Malone (above) for helping me design this.

We'll see how it goes, I'm not exactly renowned for meeting deadlines. Or responsibility. Or arriving anywhere on time. Or knowing anything about computers.

At any rate, I really wanted this to be as interactive as possible, so it's not just me babbling to myself (although I enjoy that too). I really hope you're inspired to comment or ask questions about anything you wish.

I'll eventually be adding all sorts of cool crap, like videos & pics & guest posts, etc.

Believe it or not, I actually appreciate opinions that differ from mine, as long as they're expressed in a constructive, respectful manner. Like: "I disagree. I believe the more secrecy the better for addicts. I've found keeping silent has helped keep me sober."

As opposed to: "I hope you relapse, bitch." (An actual comment sent to me by one of my lovely comrades in recovery)

To start this blog off with a bang, I wanted to dust off something I wrote last year, I hope you like it.....



THE HOLE

You know that hole inside of you?       

That cavernous pit where your soul should be?       

The one you've desperately tried to fill with drugs, booze, food, shopping, kids, relationships, work, sex, and whatever else for as long as you can remember?                                        

Yeah, that's the one.

Those things work, for a while.
But one day we start to suspect that all these things we'd been buying & fucking & drinking & smoking & marrying & starving & eating & snorting all these years, so confident they were the answer were, in fact, only Febrezing the awful stink of reality:
They weren't filling the pit at all.
In fact, they had only served to make it much, much bigger.
A bottomless crater the size of the world.

For me, recovery and happiness only began when I started the difficult process of understanding the hole.                                                                                                
Then and only then could I begin to figure out how to fill it.

The hardest part is the realization that it won't instantly fill itself up just because you want it to. I remember being so utterly frustrated at HOW LONG it was taking - I mean I'd been sober a WHOLE 3  MONTHS. But this thing took years to excavate. I'd been on a bender for 36 years, so I needed to be patient.

Besides, once I began, it felt so right, so liberating, so soothing, it became easier & easier to keep at it.                      
      
You know, this thought just occurred to me ... perhaps the process of filling the hole is all life is really about.
Holy shit.
Now, how to fill that damn hole, once and for all?

Some fill it with religion, which didn't work for me.
Some fill it with their recovery program, which actually helped me start to fill mine.  
I struggled for a long time, and only then did it dawn on me that, as usual, I was making things much more complicated than they needed to be.

The shockingly simple truth was that the only thing that could fill up the hole was learning how to first tolerate, then like, then love myself.
I accomplished this by trying to become a better person.                                                                                       
Someone who puts myself first, but also does whatever I'm humanly capable of to help others.           
This is why, when people babble about me being a good person, I shrug it off. I'm not being self- deprecating. (For once.)
It's just that I know all of it's really self-serving.                                                             
I'm just filling my hole.
Well, now it's more like a ditch.

I'm not saying your hole will be filled the same way.
Each of us, in some way, can do something to help others in need.

Did you suffer from depression? Maybe volunteer once a week/month at a teen crisis center.
Do you love animals? Maybe volunteer at a rescue.
Are you in recovery? Maybe start just being open about it. You'd be stunned how many will say "You know, I'm kinda worried about my own drinking" or "I think my best friend might have a problem" etc...
Or just simple things, like donating to a cause that matters to you. Or running a marathon to raise $$ for something (but that's only if you're fucking nuts). Buy a homeless woman a sandwich.
Or just take 5 minutes to talk to her with kindness. Teach kids an art class. Visit sick kids in a hospital. I don't know... the possibilities are endless.

One of the very best moments of my whole life was when I had this epiphany, maybe a year ago ... it suddenly dawned on me that all those years I spent in the penitentiary of addiction, all those years I knew were gone forever, where I took up space & did nothing good for the world, all those years I wasted my life - weren't, in fact, wasted at all.

They all  happened for a very important reason: They made me who I am today. Instead of  shame,  now I'm so happy & deeply grateful they happened.

This is why even if I have a shitty day, or I'm diagnosed with Lupus, or someone hurts me, or I screw up--- deep down inside none of it matters.

Because I no longer have the hole.

A ditch? Please. Now THAT I can handle.
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The Reality of Oprah

March 24, 2014, 9:40 pm
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The lovely Sharon Smolarz O'Hara asked me this question on Face Book:
"Wondering if you think Oprah's intentions for Lindsay was to help her? Or help others to see what Lindsay went through post rehab? Or help herself?"


Honestly? Don't get me started on Oprah. I haven't seen the Lindsay show, but since OWN offered her a reality show before she even left her umpteenth rehab, and because OWN is desperate for ratings, I can't help but question their intentions. 
All under the guise of “helping an addict get her life together.”
Yeah, right.

Despite 100 people dying A DAY, it still doesn’t seem to register with people that this is a life-long disease that kills.
Instead, most are led to believe you’re "cured" after rehab, which even Ms. Lohan can attest is far from the truth. In fact, 40 -60% of people relapse after drug treatment (NIDA).
Spending 28 days in rehab barely scratches the surface of recovery.

Dr. David Lewis, Vision’s medical director, who in the 70’s helped establish the first addiction treatment program in the U.S. Air Force, told the LA Times that 30-day stays were scheduled for bureaucratic reasons -- men and women didn't need to be reassigned if they were away from duty for no more than 30 days. Other treatment centers followed suit, and insurers adopted the standard of 28 or 30 days of inpatient care.

Obviously, it’s ridiculous to continue with this brief time frame, especially since addiction experts say that longer treatments (90 days) lead to far fewer relapses.
It’s medically proven that the longer the treatment, the higher the success rate.
For me, I ended up staying for 3 weeks at the aftercare program my rehab offered. Aftercare programs are set up as a sort of “bridge” between the safe cocoon of rehab and the real world. You’re given counseling sessions, but you also have a lot of freedom, too.  (Which, in Wickenberg, Arizona, meant spending a wild afternoon at the Piggly Wiggly.)

Despite the fact that I found the counseling offered at my aftercare a bit too “earthy” …acupuncture, EMDR sessions, meditation, etc., it was essential for my recovery.  We finally had unlimited phone & Internet usage, and I spent many hours sitting in the dusty backyard, setting up my “post-rehab” life.
I was able to connect with Joe Schrank & Dr. Scott Beinenfeld, who run Loft 107 & Rebound Brooklyn. Both of them saved my life that first really terrifying year. I made sure to find out where AA mtgs were, and scheduled who I was going with. I had a cleaning lady rid my apt of all remnants of drugs & alcohol. I found a therapist. I called everyone I knew who was sober (back then, a MUCH shorter list) and asked them for help.

The day I was tempted to buy a cowboy hat, I knew I was ready to get the hell back to NYC. I attended 90 meetings in 90 days, which I highly recommend even if you don't like AA. Because what an addict in early recovery needs most is support, a regular schedule & stability.

What nobody really tells you is that staying sober in rehab is a breeze. It’s learning how to stay sober everywhere else that’s unbelievably difficult. Recovery experts all agree that the weeks immediately after rehab are when the addict is most vulnerable to relapse. 

As Dr. David Sack says : "It can take up to a year for the areas of the brain responsible for impulse control and emotion regulation to return to normal functioning. In addition, people are often still struggling with powerful drug cravings and then return to an environment where they are surrounded by reminders of their drug use. Particularly when addicts receive short-term treatment (30 days or less), they haven't had much time to address the issues underlying their addiction or practice their new coping skills. Old, familiar coping strategies remain far more comfortable and automatic. A recovering addict who thinks they’ve got their drug problem under control after a short stay in rehab is likely to return to life as usual rather than creating a new life in recovery, greatly increasing the risk of relapse.”

I believe what would have helped Ms. Lohan’s recovery would have been a 90 day stint at rehab, as well as a few months of aftercare.
Not a reality show.
Now, someone with a few years of recovery under their belt? That’s another story.

But to offer Ms.Lohan a few million dollar contract before she’s even had a chance to figure out just how she’s going to stay sober was so fucking wrong on OWN’s part. Not only did  it once again send Lindsay the message that no matter what she does, she’ll be rewarded.
It also keeps addiction a scandalous spectator sport.
And addicts remain a joke.
I mean, where are all the "celebs with breast cancer" shows? Or "Alzheimer House"?

Finally, to expose someone just out of rehab to camera crews and all the pressures that Ms. Winfrey knows first-hand comes with creating “an interesting show,” is the height of callousness, irresponsibility and desperation.
Shame on Oprah.
I will not be watching.
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I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here!

March 29, 2014, 11:02 pm
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The instant one becomes a "celebrity" they are given a bounty of extraordinary gifts, dazzling rewards and incredible riches. In return, there's just one little rule they must abide by:  They must never, ever complain again.

For me, abiding by this rule has always been pretty easy, because I was raised to hate complainers. This could have something to do with the fact that, in the Johnston household, if we complained about anything (whether it be valid or not), we would be instantly given a horrible and lengthy chore as punishment. Whine about your sister stealing your pencils? Guess who's cleaning out the garage? Or all three kids rooms? Or washing the cars?

I've always had a healthy disrespect for people who bitch and moan. Especially when wankers like Goopy Gwyneth say dumb shit like raising kids as a kachillionare actress is so much harder than moms who work 9 to 5. Trust me, when I heard that I was so offended I wanted to smack the shit out of her, too. (I say, as punishment, we make her live in America, where people talk about "inconsequential" things, and force her to eat cheese out of a can.)

However, at at risk of being forced to mow the lawn, I've found I do have one teeny tiny complaint. I've tried to keep my mouth shut about it like a good little celebrity, but the fact is...
I just can't stay silent any longer.

I hate it when people kiss my ass. 





I know, I know, that's absurd! Who wouldn't want to have their ass kissed all the time?
Who wouldn't adore whipping people into a frenzy of ecstatic delight, merely by their presence?
Or inspire worship with just a banal facebook post?
Or instigate screams of delight while waiting in line to buy tampons at the pharmacy?
Who the fuck wouldn't want to be told  "I love you!" or "You're the best!" or "You're the best person ever!!" every single day?

A terrible, spoiled celebrity, that's who.
But it's true. I don't like it. It makes me feel uncomfortable, unsure how to respond, and eager to discuss anything else.

Now, before I explain why, let me assure you that I ADORE compliments. Are you kidding? Fuck yes. Bring 'em on, baby! After all, I'm human. And an actress. And a woman. And an addict.

When people are moved by my work or my writing and tell me so, it makes me so happy. It's unbelievably touching and flattering and thrilling if something I did or wrote made you laugh or cry or think.

But that's not what I'm talking about. A compliment is far, far different than having your ass kissed. 

Here's what sets them apart:

General excessiveness (Usually accompanied by caps & many exclamation points.): 
YOUR THE BEST ACTRESS EVER!!!!!!!! or YOUR THE FUNNIEST!!!!!!!! or YOUR THE MOST BRETHTAKINGLY BEAUTIFUL!!!!!!!!!!!, 
(I find them often rife with misspellings, I assume due to excitement?) 
Honestly, instead of being flattered, all I can think of is the 300 other celebrities they sent the same thing to. After so many years, I have a great nose for bullshit when it comes to compliments. I usually can tell when someone is being truthful.
(Sadly, I'm not quite as adept at discerning those struggling with addictions from those who simply want my attention & will pile on addiction horseshit as a way of sucking me into their world. I'm getting much better at this, but only after a few painful lessons.)

These raves are often immediately followed by something they want me to do for them, whether it be to send them a signed copy of my book (umm, ok sure. I'll buy that & send it off to you asap) or to watch their 6 hour student film or to read their unpublished book or to fly myself to wherever to talk sense into their lush of a sister or get coffee with them or call them or email them or follow them on twitter.

I can't even guesstimate how many tweets I've received from total strangers that go like this: "OMG  U R MY FAVE ACTRESS EVER, OF ALL TIME!!!!! PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE FOLLOW ME!!!?? I LOVE U!! UD MAKE ME SO HAPPEE!!!!" 

I usually respond nicely & say I can't follow everyone, and suggest that maybe after we chatted and I got to know them a bit I would?
I'd say 99% of them I never, ever, ever hear from again. Now, I'm no detective, but I'd say that calls into question their level of truthfulness, no?

I have no qualms about doing favors for people. Seriously. In fact, it's one of the great joys of my life, as you can tell by my first post, The Hole.

I do, however, have issues with doing favors for ass-kissers. 

Another bummer about having your ass kissed is that it somehow gives people the impression that you like it,  or crave it, when nothing could be further from the truth. I had a disagreement with a facebook friend recently, and when we emailed to discuss it, she kept saying she didn't care if I was a celebrity, she was going to be honest. Or that she wasn't gonna kiss my ass just because I'm a celebrity. And that I must be treated like a celebrity and she wasn't going to, etc.
I was baffled. Who the fuck even brought celebrity into this?

Then I realized why. She thinks I like it, from witnessing it on my Face Book page.
(She later apologized.)


Sometimes, people say utterly ridiculous things. Some people want to be "friends" with a celebrity so badly they think excessive compliments they don't even mean are perfectly acceptable.
Do they think I can't tell the difference?
Cus I can.

Look, when you like someone's work or art or soul...of course, tell them!
Just keep in mind that most of us know when we're being fed a load of bullshit. 

And that, ladies & gents, is my one and only celebrity complaint.
I know, I'm no Paltrow, but I try.

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Becoming Perfect

April 2, 2014, 7:37 pm
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I lived most of my life as a liar.
From birth, I was taught that other people's realities took precedent over my own, and I that must do whatever I could to be exactly whom others wished me to be.

I was told that this would make them happy, which would then, in turn, make me happy.
I could never understand why I consistently failed at both, in such monumental ways.
It wasn't for lack of effort.

Never once did it occur to me that perhaps who I am is perfect.

Slowly, through recovery, much therapy, introspection, and a million other very painful lessons, I began to become me. For the first time in my life I began to value myself enough to establish boundaries. I began to understand that if you hurt or betray me, it's not actually my fault.
I began to be able to take ownership of the mistakes I made and not a smidge more.

Unfortunately, before I was me,  I became famous. I was 25 years old.  For the next 15 years I existed in a state of almost total panic. Mostly because of how I was raised.

My father was a Republican state senator, and my mother a stunning Washington D.C. heiress. The 3 Johnston children made no mistakes, never raised our voices or swore. We were perfectly dressed, perfectly behaved, perfectly clean little towheads.

Except we were none of those things.
We were square pegs being shoved into round holes, and we each paid a terrible price for not being exactly who we were supposed to be.  My main goal in life was to be whoever I felt you wanted me to be, so you would like me. This facade was becoming too difficult to keep up until I discovered drugs and alcohol. Somehow, these helped me keep my mask on longer.

The real trouble began when I became a "famous" person, because now I not only had the familial pressures of behaving perfectly in public so as not to bring shame to the family, but I was terrified my addiction would be discovered and I would become just another late show punch-line. I was told to say "no comment" to any and every rumor or lie in the press.

I lived like this for almost 20 years.
Living in fear that the real me would some day be revealed. That people would discover what a lost, lonely, scared, weak pill-popping lush I really was.
And my perfect family would be forced to bow their heads under the weight of my shame.

Once I got sober, I finally began to appreciate the massive and terrible impact lying has had on my life.  I now know that I have no choice, I must be honest, especially with myself, or I will begin to use again. And this time I wouldn't survive it.
For me, to lie is to die.

Not everybody likes how honest I am, and I've gotten some hardcore hate thrown at me. I honestly don't mind it, because I finally have a voice to correct misunderstandings, clear up rumors or wrong assumptions about me.
Which I do, happily.

What bothers me is the constant wrist slapping I get from people for addressing them. I'm not sure why, but people feel the need to tell me to "chill out""let it go" or "stop caring so much about what others think of you," every single time I attempt to clarify myself.

Which begs the question: Why can't I address negative comments? What's so upsetting about clearing  up rumors or correcting false assumptions?
Just what is it about someone explaining their position that's so unbearable?

Last week, someone wrote that it must be "exhausting" being me.
That made me laugh. Because "exhausting" is keeping lies straight, pretending you're happy, silently allowing nonsense and rumors about you to flourish.
THAT'S exhausting.

Telling the truth is never exhausting, even if I have to do it over & over.
I don't do it because I care what others think of me. Believe me, I'm not everyone's cup of tea, nor do I wish to be.
I don't do it because Im upset.

I do it because, after all these years of being forced to be quiet, I'm finally free.
It makes me happy.
This is how I chose to live my life.
You can live yours your way.
But kindly keep your advice to yourself, unless asked.

I finally found my voice, and I'm never shutting up again.

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Slaying a Different Dragon

April 5, 2014, 8:23 pm
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Way back in yesteryear, pre-blog, whenever I had something longer than a sentence to share, I had to settle for posting it on  FaceBook as well as (my twitter folks will attest) a reckless overindulgence of twitlonger.

A few days ago someone asked me to re-post a twitlonger I once wrote about toxic people. However, since so much has happened since then, I was excited to have the chance to expatiate on this topic even further.
(Actually, the thought of expatiating further on any topic gets my rocks off, I dunno why. Frankly, just typing the word expatiate is a goddamn good time.)


For me, kicking my addiction to booze & drugs was a cinch, compared to what came later. Sadly, once those dragons are slain, all these other villains pop out of their hide-y holes.

The dragon I still struggle with the most is my hopeless and lifelong addiction to broken people. Or toxic people. Even now, with my shrink’s wise words about establishing boundaries ringing in my ears, I can’t help it. They manage to worm their way into my life, feigning normalcy, only to eventually whip off their cloak of sanity and reveal their true nature: a nasty-faced combo of manipulation, deceit and fraud.

I’ve guess I've just always had a thing for a good, old-fashioned toxic gal. And man, do they love my ass. Thank Christ I’ve always managed to also combine my toxic friendships with long-term, healthy, sane ones. 

But even way back in high school, "toxicity" equaled "interesting" in my warped head. 
Yvette made fun of my chicken legs in Gym class? God, I love Yvette. 
Cynthia falsely accused me of stealing her gold necklace? No one is cooler than Cynthia. 
Let’s not forget Denise, who told the whole school I’d hit on her. Trust me, in her dreams. 

These darlings didn’t know it, but the moment they betrayed me, made fun of me, insulted me or gossiped about me, they had became my Holy Grail. 

I would not rest until these bitches were my friends.
I’d laugh hysterically at Yvette’s crappy algebra jokes. 
Cynthia worshipped George Michael? That would be two tickets to a Wham! concert, m’dear! 
Denise was a wee bit harder to woo, since she clearly already thought I was a lesbian, and we all know lesbians want to have sex with every female in eyesight, so I had to be subtle. But I managed.

I cluelessly engaged in this drama for decades. It was only through incredibly hard work and lots of therapy that I was able to even comprehend that this was some twisted shit.

I can't begin to describe the euphoria I experienced when I finally realized that I don't have to live my life at the mercy of someone else's mood swings. That I can actually make the choice not to be manipulated by someone. And nothing, not even Opiates can compare to the high I felt when I finally began to believe that I have every goddamn right to expect to be treated by people the same way I treat them.

The sky's parted. Angels sang, accompanied by Kenny G's lilting sax.
Oh my God.

You guys know what I'm talking about.
Unless you've been raised by completely sane & wonderful parents, have no insecurities, esteem, or addiction issues, and never befriended or dated a toxic person?

Well, congrats, but what the fuck are you even doing here? This blog is for the hot messes of the world, trust me, it aint for a non-freaky, happy, kind & secure person with only wonderful and fullfilling friendships such as yourself.

This blog is for the teensity tinesity little fragment of you who understand. 

Maybe you have that friend who always manages to make you feel really bad about yourself. 
Or maybe you have a co-worker who, bores you with her endless gossipy emails, which you unenthusiastically go along with to placate her and keep her focus off you. "Yeah, Mitzi can be bitchy." That's nothing. How about when she sends your half of the conversation to the very person she was trashing. "Can you even believe she called you a bitch!?"

What about that friend who's so hypersensitive that sending them an email establishing any boundaries for yourself takes weeks to write, trying so hard to be kind and avoid all emotional sand traps. (As if!)

Here's a good one...how's about that boyfriend/girlfriend who twists every word you say and uses it against you, incorrectly, weeks later?

And let's not forget that family member who, instead of saying they miss you, and despite never once calling or emailing you, decides to call you out of the blue and leave a message that's verging on hysteria: "I'm VERY, VERY CONCERNED about you!! Please, call me, I'm very worried about you. I'm just...I don't know WHAT to do." (This awakens in you a terrible, almost irresistible need to immediately call back & verbally tap dance until they believe you haven't relapsed. You don't, but that pull, it is very powerful.)

God, this is fun! I mean, I could go on and on and on and on, but I write this shit for free, so...

Detoxifying my life has been a long, painful, and difficult process. There've been some devastatingly hurtful confrontations, betrayals so cruel at times they took my breath away. Not to mention dealing with the residual rage from the toxies I've jettisoned.

In fact, a few relationships I let go on far longer than I should've, just to avoid the backlash.
I'm happy to say that I've finally started figure it out- why I have the hots for the tox, and why they me. (That I won't share with you, out of respect to others.)
But let's just say toxic people were the norm for me for many, many years.

These experiences, combined with therapy and a great deal of research I've done on this little personality quirk of mine have inspired me to pass on some info on the off-chance anyone else out there is screaming "YES! YES! HELP ME LORD YES!"

By the way, according to a Today show survey, 84 percent of women — and 75 percent of
men — said they'd had a toxic friend at some point, with 1 in 3 survey takers fessing up to a toxic BFF.

So I know you're out there.

WHAT MAKES SOMEONE TOXIC?

In my non-professional opinion, a person is toxic if they:

Don't respect your boundaries
Complain constantly
Gossip frequently about others
Are manipulative
Project a great deal of anger
Put you down
Are hyper-sensitive
Are very jealous
Are very bitter
Blame everyone else for their problems
Hate when you succeed
Lie about you to others
Frequently freak out/throw fits
Ice you out/stonewall you
Get too close too soon
Always want something from you
Refuse to accept fault
Talk negatively about your friends
Flake out on you (More specifically, blow you off)

A while ago I stumbled across a blog called tomsplace.com, and a few things he wrote really popped out at me:

"Criticism is good, when offered with kind words in a helpful
tone. However, a toxic person derives pleasure from
telling you what is wrong with you.
When someone is critical of you, perhaps they should examine
their reasons for doing so. People who behave better with
strangers than the people close to them usually lack self esteem.
Toxic people hate you when you succeed, they also hate you
when you fail.

If a person is toxic it's not your fault.
What is your concern is whether you're treated with the respect & dignity you deserve.  Remember that people that are toxic to you aren't always toxic to everyone."

WHAT THE HELL SHOULD I DO?

If you feel you're in a toxic relationship (whether it be a friend, a mate, or even a friendship on social media), and you feel you've done everything possible to establish your boundaries, express your feelings, and taken ownership for your part in creating this dynamic...yet you know your life would be better without them? 

You have to end it.
I know, it sucks. But you do.
(I'm still working on this, God it's so hard)

The consensus of all the articles I've read mixed with my own wise therapist and lessons learned due my own painful experiences is that LIFE IS TOO DAMN SHORT. Get out as soon as you can. Eliminate them from your life and move on.
"The reason it's hard to dump a toxic friend is the same reason people stay in all kinds of dysfunctional relationships," says Dr. Gail Saltz, associate professor of psychiatry at New York Presbyterian Hospital and a TODAY show contributor. "There's something in it that you find compelling or familiar. Depending on the nature of what's going on in the relationship, you may feel guilty [about breaking things off]. Or it could be that the person has implied you need them in some way — that you would be a bad person to walk away."
The relief you feel will astonish you. It's like getting out of prison..

But if, for whatever reason, you can't remove yourself from the relationship?

STOP taking their dramas seriously
STOP pretending their toxic behavior isnt happening
DON'T take their behavior personally
SPEAK up for yourself.

But I still think cut 'em loose if you can

THE AFTERMATH

For me, this was (and is) the worst part. Because a few ex-toxies refused to comprehend why I wouldn't simply accept their apology and let them in my life again. They spewed their rage about me at anyone who wold listen. (Which only made me exceedingly glad I didn't give them another chance.)

But deep inside I wondered if maybe they were right. Maybe I was some hideous, unforgiving monster. That is, until I read this blog in Huff Post written by Nancy Colier, a psychotherapist. She captures how I feel perfectly. I was going to share a paragraph with you, but it's so powerful I had to toss the whole damn thing in.

"We all have people in our lives who have profoundly harmed us. Sometimes the situation with the other person has changed. You may have forgiven them and they may even have taken ownership and expressed remorse for their harmful actions. Other times, the same harmful behavior goes on with no change or responsibility. To your reptilian brain however, it often doesn't matter which of these scenarios is true. With trauma, the body's memory of a harmful person can remain frozen at the time of the trauma.
This is not a blog on trauma, however.

Rather, it is about our expectation of what we are supposed to do with the people who make us feel toxic. Many people believe that in order to be "spiritual" they need to:
        1.Be able to open their heart to the people who have done them harm.
        2. No longer experience a negative reaction in their company. 
I am often asked, "What is wrong with me that I can't feel open, loving and calm in this person's presence?""Isn't being spiritual about being able to love the person who hurt me?""Isn't forgiveness the essence of spirituality?" 
Firstly, the body's reaction to someone who has harmed you is simply that: the body's reaction, something that happens. You don't choose it. It is not an indicator of your spiritual maturity, nor a gauge of your growth in life or in relationship to the trauma. In many cases, no amount of psychological or spiritual work will change your body's chemical response to the person who inflicted harm; it is hard-wired into your biology, an aspect of survival.
So the first thing to take off your plate is the idea that you "should" be able to feel good in their company. Any notion that a negative physical response makes you un-spiritual or un-evolved is, quite simply, hogwash. 
Secondly, being able to "open your heart" to someone who has caused you tremendous pain is also not a test of your spirituality. Many people deliberately put themselves in company with family and "friends" who are profoundly painful for them to be with -- in an effort to develop forgiveness or compassion -- and because they feel they "should." And yet, if your heart is not open, and the desire to be with this other is not emanating from a place of true compassion, it does you no spiritual good to do what you "should." 
The choice to exclude a person or experience from your life can be the more compassionate choice -- for yourself. And indeed, when your heart opens to your own suffering, and your own well-being, that compassion for yourself can open wide enough to include even the one who caused you suffering. But this is something that your heart will tell you -- not something that your mind can decide or force.
Spirituality is not a test. Being spiritual is about being with what is. If you feel toxic when in the company of someone who has hurt you, then you earn no spiritual points by forcing yourself to be there, and enduring that toxicity. We behave with spirit when we accept our experience the way it is. Deciding to not be with someone who makes you feel terrible, even if that person is your family or "friend," is an act of courage -- honoring yourself and the truth. 
Trust your heart; if it is ready to embrace someone who has harmed you, it will open, without force. Indeed, by giving yourself permission to say "no," to follow your truth, you are offering yourself the only real chance you have to genuinely want to be with them, at some time. Without permission to say "no," we cannot find the authentic desire to say "yes." 
And if that desire never comes, that too is as spiritual a path as any other. 
Spirituality is not about becoming the person that you are supposed to be -- not about doing the "spiritual" thing. To be spiritual is to compassionately welcome your truth -- what you actually feel -- whether you like that truth or not. To be spiritual is to stop trying to be a more spiritual and open-hearted version of yourself, and instead, to open your heart without judgment to who and how you actually are. Perhaps the hardest task of all, being spiritual is about letting yourself -- and what is so -- be."

It's called taking care of yourself. 
A novel concept, I know.

We have one precious life.

Besides, we've slayed other dragons before.
What's one more?

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Embracing My Inner Bitch

April 9, 2014, 6:20 pm
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A few months ago, I wrote a guest-blog for someone else's blog. My first entry (and believe me, the one I wish I'd gone with) is below. I tinkered with it and I hope you like it.

Something's been bothering me for a while now, but I haven't mentioned it since it's one of those tricky subjects that could easily make me seem bitter and bitchy.
But then I thought to myself "Well, you are bitter and bitchy about this, why not just own it?"
Yeah, why not?

Therefore, in the interest of embracing my inner bitch, I'd like to ask you this question: 
When buying a famous person's autobiography, does it matter to you whether or not they used a Ghostwriter? (A ghostwriter would be the teeny tiny name usually found way underneath the celebrity's name on the cover.)

But wait! Before you answer, let me tell why I'd like to know:

It happened when I was about 6 months into the terrifying, exhausting & overwhelming process of writing my first book, with zero outside guidance. (Unless you count the few unlucky friends I forced to read each chapter the moment it was finished & then would grill mercilessly for hours afterwards for their feedback.) Other than them, of course.

It was mid-March. A dreary, rainy, freezing New York City day (my favorite kind.) I was meeting with my publisher and a bunch of others at the colossal and formidable offices of Simon & Schuster, right near Radio City. Jennifer Bergstrom, the publisher of Guts, is one of those brilliant, funny, gorgeous women you instantly want to be best friends with. I'll never forget how she entered our first meeting - laughing, shouting out her favorite quotes from the 3 chapters we had sent her. I instantly just adored her. She's worked there for a long-ass time, and has had a hand in publishing hundreds of books and memoirs, ranging from actors to politicians to comedians to filmmakers to singers to reality show people. Gallery Books, her division within Simon & Schuster, has published every single kind of autobiography imaginable, ranging from high to low-brow fare. And Guts, which is mid-brow?

Usually, I'm totally entertained by her (translation: she laughs at almost everything I say), however this meeting was different. I was crabby, pooped from late nights full of self-doubt and the sheer effort it took to keep up the charade that I was actually writing an actual book. I got distracted for a minute, and my gaze wandered over to the profoundly enormous bookshelf in her office, which was stuffed with years & years of many of the best-selling books she'd published. 
"God, that would be intimidating" I thought to myself "If I weren't so confident & experienced."

I tried to refocus on what was being discussed, after all, we were there to discuss my book, which was my favorite (and sadly only) topic I seemed capable of discussing at the time. But I couldn't concentrate. 
Instead,  for some reason, I interrupted the meeting to blurt out this question: "Hey Jen. Of all the people who've written memoirs, about what percentage of them was stupid like me and didn't use a ghostwriter?"
I assumed she'd say "Oh, probably 40%" or something similar.
"None."
I thought she was joking.
"Wait. What? NONE? Not one?"
She laughed.
"Not one." Everyone else in the room nodded the affirmative.
I was gobsmacked. 
"Wait…hold up. NOT ONE person other than ME wrote their memoir on their own? Of all these thousands of people??"
But the meeting continued, while I just sat there in a daze.
How could this be?
Do people know this?
I sure as hell didn't.

Now, I'm not the only "celebrity" (Good Lord that word makes my skin crawl) who wrote their own book, of course. I know for a fact that Andy Cohen wrote his, as did Rachel Dratch,  Lisa Ann Walter, and many others, I'm sure.
But it's obviously quite a rarity. I've even discovered some books I'd always assumed were written by the person alone had a ghostwriter. (Due mostly to the fact that theirs was the only name on the cover.)
Honestly, you'd be amazed.
Or maybe not….am I the only one that finds this a bit disturbing?

I know many really cool & smart people who used a ghostwriter for different reasons: their publisher made them use one, they didn't have the time it takes to write a book, or their skills lie in other areas.
So using a ghostwriter doesn't automatically mean anything negative.
However, it is different than the blood, sweat, tears, time and effort it takes to write your own book.

Since I've never attended a ghostwriting session, here's how I imagine it goes: 
An actress pacing by her pool, chain-smoking & telling war stories to a recorder held by a brainy gal wearing sensible shoes. After six hours of talking about herself, the actress finally gets momentarily distracted from her favorite subject by her trainer, and sensible shoe gal is dismissed. She then takes 4 buses home to her tiny apartment in the valley and spends hours trying to somehow create a linear book out of the mishmash of stories this whack-job just told her. (If this were a movie, sensible shoe gal would be the true beauty, the one Cary Grant falls head over heels with after a chance meeting at his movie star girlfriend's mansion. If only.)

At any rate, what the movie star did isn't writing. 
Where I come from, that's called talking. 

The only real, honest-to-god writing here is being done by the Ghostwriter. 
I know a few of these people, and they work their asses off. Their job can't be easy, plus they get no love, no glory, nothing except a nice check, and they're off to Nashville to write that country singer's memoirs (fresh out of prison, no less.) You go, girl. Just watch your back.

Are  there instances where the ghostwriter simply assisted the celebrity, perhaps helped them organize their thoughts? Absolutely. 
And trust me, I have nothing against ghostwriters. In fact, I admire them.

But it just kinda chaps my ass that the book-loving public either isn't told, doesn't seem to notice, or they simply don't care that their favorite reality darling didn't actually sit their bony ass down and write that book they just plunked down 25 bucks for.
They talked it.
It's a big difference, at least to me.

Lest you assume I'm consumed with bitterness, let me assure you that I absolutely am.
Wouldn't it bother you if Snooki's 4th novel, Tori's 12th opus or that NJ housewives' book advising you to never pooh in the same building as your hubby, all far outsell your little homemade drivel?
If the answer is "No. That wouldn't bother me."
You're lying.

And now that my Inner bitch is out, you might want to tread carefully.

Love ya!
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One Last Big Break

April 12, 2014, 7:05 pm
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When did it happen? That subtle shift? When did addiction evolve from something unspeakable to fun entertainment for the whole family?

Today, when a celebrity begins to emanate that now-familiar whiff of an impending crash-and-burn (hospitalized due to "exhaustion"? A drunken talk show appearance, perhaps?) we all make popcorn and pull up our chairs.

When David Hasselfoff has a makeout session with a big mac (apparently after a makeout session with a bottle of Wild Turkey), we can't tweet that shit fast enough. The ongoing Lindsay nonsense is obviously fascinating enough to earn her a cool $2 million. We revel when housewives get shitfaced and begin fighting. We smile, feeling superior, when paparrazzi capture Brandi barely walking out of a bar, her tampon string dangling in the breeze for all to see. Thank God I was never like that. We think smugly. Was I? We stare, open-mouthed, at the woman who's trailer is so crammed with years of trash and rats she has to bungie cord herself sitting on her toilet just to get some shut-eye.

Addiction as entertainment has troubled me for a long time, as I wrote in the New York Times this summer (article here). But of all the addiction shows, there were two that troubled me the most. Both were created with the best of intentions, I believe. And thankfully, both were recently canceled. I think it's fair to say one started it all...I just wish I could say the other ended it.

The first is A & E's "Intervention." Yeah, yeah, yeah, it was well done. Yeah, it saved people's lives (At least I fucking hope so.) All the people involved are incredibly respected interventionists. It had classy music. It was well-edited.
But I also know what goes into making a show, what producers can be like, and especially what happens overnight to your life once you've been on TV for one night.
I can't begin to grasp how it would feel to live in a small town & have my intervention filmed. All my family's dirty laundry exposed, for everyone to see and judge. My weeping mother. My crushed father. My betrayed sister. My shame.
My nightmare.

Oh, it gets better. Turns out you've been duped into this whole thing. Yep. A & E was even proud of it. Each episode of "Intervention" opened with: "June (or whoever) has been asked to do a documentary about heroin. She has no idea her family is planning an intervention on her in 2 days."
Exciting!
So, after shooting up/nodding off/ rambling about nonsense for 48 hours, June is hit with this double-whammy: her family, shaking and sobbing with grief as they read letters detailing her sins from their perspective and demanding she leave this second for some tiny rehab...AND IT'S ALL CAUGHT ON CAMERA!!! 
That's why I hated it. At the core of the show, it's really about deceiving someone stupid enough to be an addict.
The ethics of that were never questioned, to my knowledge. Why?
Because they're addicts. They deserved it.
Another show that troubled me was “Celebrity Rehab.” "CR" was the brain child of Dr. Drew, and while I actually agree with many of Dr. Drew's views regarding addiction, it's his ethics I question. To be totally fair, I've spoken with a few people who were either treated themselves by him, or a family member was, and across the board, people adore him. They say he really and truly cares and not just when the cameras were on.

That said, in my opinion, all the show accomplished was to further push people away from any real understanding of the epidemic that’s killing millions and destroying lives. I just don't believe you can effectively help addicts while exploiting them so you can be on TV.

(OK, I almost choked on a Twizzler just now.  Did you guys know Dr. Drew once wrote a book called "The Mirror Effect: How Celebrity Narcissism Is Seducing America"? Me, neither. You know, not to be a total smartass, but I'm thinking that's a book he might want to get reacquainted with at the beach this summer.)

There have been a few participants of the 6 seasons (SIX!?) of the show who seem to have found some real recovery, like Mackenzie Phillips and Jennifer Gimenez (two women I adore, who's recovery I admire). Also, I can understand why some of them did it...they'd tried other rehabs before, maybe doing it in public would finally work?

However, a staggering number of participants have also died. This caused a great deal of backlash in the press against Dr. Drew, which I found ludicrous. Addicts die. Many of us lose the battle. That’s simply the horrifying reality.

Then this niggling question began to haunt me: Well, what if those people had gone to an actual, non-televised rehab? Instead of filming a TV show with people messed up in the same way they were, they went for 90 days to a place with real people? Would they be alive today? 
Who knows?

But If Dr. Drew was so committed to helping addicts, (and from all reports, he is) then why couldn't he simply have donated his money or his time? Why did it have to be filmed? For 6 years?
I don't believe Dr. Drew's intentions were in ANY way malevolent.

His addiction got in the way, and like all addicts--he was simply feeding his own ravenous beast. He just happens to have an addiction to fame.

Whether you're an addict or not, I don't think it's a huge leap to imagine that when one is at the point of needing rehab, or an intervention, things are usually pretty fucking dire. Therefore, like the addicts on "Intervention," could any of the participants of "Celebrity Rehab" really be expected to be of sound enough mind to make best decision whether or not to televise their rehabilitation?

Did they look at their drunken signature and think what the fuck have I done?

I’ve been to rehab. People (and yes, I do sadly include myself) show up drooling, weeping and bombed out of their minds. One lovely fellow showed up, and while being checked in, decided to defecate in his pants, which sent his bride of a week (who was dropping him off) into hysterics so loud & dramatic we gave him shit about it for weeks. My point is, it's usually the very hardest, scariest, embarrassing & vulnerable day of your entire life. To be honest, remembering how much self-hatred and despair and terror I felt, I think I'd rather be dead than have that moment, or any of my rehab, televised.

It must be said that the participants themselves (with all due respect to the lovely Ms. Gimenez & Ms. Phillips) were mostly people who used to be famous, yet to be famous, or were simply "infamous." It amazed me, how many were clearly seeking 15 more minutes of fame, When they had yet to deal with their first 15.

I managed to watch parts of different episodes of "CR", but I could only last a scene or two before furiously changing the channel to Animal Planet, praying a gorilla show would kick this imagined scenario out of my brain:

A flea-infested, dirty shithole, filled with empty bottles, syringes, old headshots and loneliness. The phone rings, and the addict is startled awake. His bleary eyes finally focus on the number. His agent?                                                                                        She hasn't taken his calls for 3 years, why would she be calling him? 
Unless--Hope begins to blossom in his chest as he answers it. As he clears his throat, he imagines his comeback film. Maybe Tarantino, finally!
His smile stays plastered on even as his agent perkily explains that theres a show about former celebrities who are now addicts and need rehab. They've offered him a slot for the next season! Isn’t that exciting?
He is crushed, mortified. He once worked with great directors & went to the Oscars & slept with gorgeous women. He's better than this!
But he needs the money, desperately. And the exposure. And help....
And THAT is how, instead of the real rehab with real people he so desperately needed, he ended up doing a television show. By the time he's sobered up enough to realize what’s really going on, it's too late. The very last of his pride has been demolished.

How do I know this? Well, I happen to know something that Dr. Drew doesn't. And that is - fame... It breaks your heart.
I know it's so hard to believe, people don't want to believe it, but it does. I swear. There's this moment when you realize what a lying, deceiving, cheating bastard fame really is. You are slammed by a crushing betrayal and unimaginable depression as it begins to dawn on you that this THING you'd been doggedly pursuing for so long, this THING you were convinced would finally fill that cavernous hole in your soul, this THING that would mean your life was wonderful and you weren't broken, this THING you've given your heart, dreams, soul, trust & love to since you were a kid....
It's been laughing at you behind your back the whole time.

The best way I can describe it is this: Imagine digging in the hot sands of Egypt & stumbling across an undiscovered pyramid and spending years and years of backbreaking labor and every dime you have breaking into the thing-only to find it empty with the sole exception of a long- ago discarded McDonalds wrapper.
That's what fame feels like.

It's the disappointment of your life, even as people around you are giddy with pride and excitement. It sure seems to fulfill them. But you stay, because it's what you've sacrificed everything for. And you got nowhere else to go. You cling to the hope that maybe, just maybe, it will become all those things your heart aches for.

And that, my friends, is why so many famous people either become addicts, go bonkers, or become unfeeling monsters. Some become all three. It takes a lot of hard work to become a happy human being after becoming famous. Most fail. I’m still working on it.

Hey, I wonder what would happen if all addicts decided to never again watch anything that exploits addiction? And that can be whatever you define it to be. This has nothing to do with 12 steps or anonymity. It's your private conviction, your way of saying "No more. I am not a joke, or your evening entertainment." As Greg Williams points out in "The Anonymous People"-people in recovery have a voice. A huge voice, 25 million strong. Could you imagine if we used it?


FYI...this is a clip from Letterman that a commenter below wanted to see.





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Morgan Asked

April 15, 2014, 1:35 pm
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My memoir GUTS was released in March of 2012. Before it’s release, my Literary agent convinced me to join twitter & facebook. Eww, blech. Why would I want to read mean crap people thought about me? Besides, what if the book was poorly received? 
She ignored me (as usual) and insisted.

I’m so glad she did.
Because while I most certainly have had my fair share of insults (curiously, often misspelled) and trolls, I’ve also met some truly incredible people who’ve really impacted my life.  Morgan, then only 14 years old, is one of them. 
We met on twitter, and from the start, she asked questions that would take me hours, sometimes days to answer.
I wanted to answer truthfully, but I also knew how important words are to teens, and I didn't want to say the wrong thing.
These are just a few of our exchanges....

PLEASE note that I do not in any way claim to be an expert on the human condition or psychology. These were just as honest as I could answer at the time.
(These are our exchanges verbatim)





March 10th, 2012
Morgan asked:
"What qualities do you think makes a good person?"

Morgan

After giving a lot of thought to it, I came up with these 10 qualities:
10. People who are quietly generous, and ask for no glory.
9. People who are trustworthy.
8. People who have the ability to admit when they're wrong.
7. People who can laugh at themselves.
6. People who tell the truth, even if they’d rather lie.
5. People who are brave
4. People who don't bring others down, especially those “weaker”
than themselves.
3. People who accept themselves for who they really are, flaws and all....
and not who they (or others) wish they were.
2. People who try to make the world a better place.
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1. People who listen.

I’m not saying I’ve mastered these (especially no 1!!)...but I’m working on it....

March 23,2012
Morgan asked:
"How do you determine whether someone is trustworthy or not?"

I believe people tell you exactly who they are within moments of meeting them. (Unless they’re a sociopath. I’ve found those take a lot longer.) Unfortunately, I don't always listen to my instincts.
Here's what you (and me, dammit) should look for:

Are they reliable?
Do they do what they say? (ie, if it’s someone you like & they say "I'll call you tomorrow", and they don't, I don't care how foxy they are: not trustworthy.) 
Do they trash others? (Funny we never consider the fact that more than likely, they'll happily trash you to the next person they see.)
Do they tell you secrets others have shared with them? (HELLO)
Are they toxic?
Do you feel badly about yourself in their presence?
Do they try to manipulate you?
Do they lie to you?
I guess what I'm trying to say is this: If your gut tells you something's "off" about someone....IT IS.
But Morgan, I still have trouble listening to my instincts. Later, I think “I knew it! I knew I couldn't trust this person! I knew they were lying, manipulating, toxic and not good for me. But I chose to ignore my GUTS.”
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Ironic, yes?
I’m working so hard on this. Hope this helps!

March 26, 2012
Morgan asked:
"How do you deal with the rejection that comes along with acting?"

Here’s what I do (and tell my students to do as well). When you go to an audition, your goal can’t be to “get the job”. If it is, I guarantee you: you will suck, instantly. If you walk in with some other goal "I'm gonna breathe today" or "I'm gonna be in the moment" or "I'm not gonna try to impress anyone. Just gonna tell the truth."“I’m not going to take this all so seriously”, etc.
If you leave an audition and you achieved your goal, GREAT!
If not, something to work on for next time.
That way, your self-esteem isn’t totally dictated by the whims of others. And if you actually get the part? That's gravy.
But statistics say, you probably won’t.
For every role I audition for, I still get a “no” 95% of the time.
I ain’t gonna kid you, as many of my fellow actors will attest I'm sure...
It's really hard, Morgan. Otherwise everyone would do it.

To be an actor, you must be vulnerable, truthful and raw. Open.
Yet you get stomped on thousands of times. So you have to be a hardcore tough-as- nails badass too.
A really tricky combo.
I’ve watched even the finest actor turn into a bitter mess due to all the rejection.
Two things I know for sure: if you TRY to make sense of why you didn’t get a certain part, you'll go mad. And if you walk in trying to be who they want, you most definitely won't be.
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Love K

April 7, 2012
Morgan asked:
“How do you always look so beautiful?”

After resisting the temptation to tell Morgan I wake up looking gorgeous, I gotta props where propage is due.
I actually love doing makeup, and I do my own for ‘the exes’ and most talk shows. However, if it’s a crazy day or a photo shoot, I’ll use a makeup artist. My favorite is Garret Gervais in LA.
My locks however, I suck at. I just throw it up in bun. My hair for almost everything you’ve ever seen me on has been done either by Gaetano Romeo or my dear friend David Dieguez. David works at Jonathan George salon in Beverly Hills & also does my hair now for ‘the exes’. Color done when in NY by Brad Johns.
I'm telling you. IT TAKES A VILLAGE.
And I'm an old hag who hasn't had facelift/fillers, etc. So I need all the HELP I can get!
Oh, and being happy sure helps.

May 21 2012
Morgan asked:
“For two years I’ve been bullied by someone. Any advice? And do you know if your bully, Amy ever read the book?”

First I want to say that I was never bullied. My brother certainly was, but I was relentlessly teased. I think there’s an important distinction.
"Amy" is really a composite of 2 mean girls who ruled the school. One was gorgeous, the other not quite as much. But both equally cruel. 
I ran into the gorgeous one years later in the mall where she wanted my autograph. So all the events happened, but I combined the girls because I’m not into trashing people decades after the fact. We were kids, you know? So I made sure they were well- disguised.
But the actual events occurred. Same with ‘Sully.’ Certain physical details were changed.
By the time I reached high school, most of the teasing ended. But if I was teased, I learned its much smarter to try to rise above them. You know the expression "never let 'em see you sweat"? Like that.
Be graceful & smile at people, if they say degrading things say "feel better about yourself yet?”
I know this is really hard.
And it sounds like you’re having a brutal time of it, and I’d give anything to have a little one on one with those girls.
I know you’re smart enough to know this...but it’s all about their feelings of insecurity & self-loathing.
Besides, do you really want to peak in high school?
FYI, every single successful person I know was a dork who was tortured as a kid.

May 21 2012
Morgan asked:
“A friend of mine has been acting really mean to me all of a sudden. I keep trying to ask her whats wrong, but she won’t answer. Now she’s spreading terrible lies about me. What should I do?”

A friend should bring out the best in you. You should feel safe, trusted & loved. You should be exactly YOU in a friendship. (Or any relationship, for that matter.)
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You're not alone, Morgan. I've had toxic friendships my whole life. (Thank God I’ve been blessed with a great many non-toxic ones as well.)
Unfortunately, it still happens to me. Now, pretty much only on social media. But it doesn’t lessen the confusion and hurt. Not to mention the shame. When will I finally learn to listen to my instincts?
I'm so sorry this happened to you, sweetie. But YOU know the truth, and that's all that matters. I swear to god this will make you a more compassionate, loving, INTERESTING person in the long run.
Check out this article: http://www.helium.com/items/1415930-toxic-friends 

*I just wrote a blog about this very topic as well, calledSlaying A Different Dragon


July 12, 2012
Morgan asked:
"What advice would you give someone (like me) who is trying to figure out who they are and find their purpose?"

Oh, goodie. Another easy one. (?)
Jesus.
Honestly, I would tell you to continue to do everything you're doing. Ask lots of Questions (not just of others but yourself.)
Do 1 selfless thing a day.
Try to live a self-examined life.
Be open to the twists & turns life offers.
Know that it's the people you struggle with who have the most to teach you.
Then, your purpose will reveal itself. K
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Aug 4th 2012
Morgan asked:
"What advice would you give someone who's struggling to be happy and confident about themselves? Me & a friend need your advice!"

I guess I could say all that stuff you've already heard "act confident & you'll be confident" or "ignore what other people think" or "follow your dreams", etc etc etc...are true.
But the simplest & best advice I have for you might not be what you want to hear: live as generous a life as possible.
Now, I know it sounds weird--"how will helping OTHER people make ME happy?"
I'll tell you: I'm 44 (I know, I know "WHAT??? NO WAY!", etcetc) and I lived most of my life as a selfish person. I wasn't necessarily mean or a jerk, really. I was just interested in making myself as happy as possible without much thought to others. Which didn't work AT ALL. (See: GUTS) Then, after rehab, I came home to my dusty, empty apartment & thought "How on earth could someone with so much have so little?"
I've slowly learned over the past 6 years that if I help people, whether it be teaching at NYU, helping a homeless guy, or taking time out of my day to reach out to someone who's struggling---THAT's what makes me feel happy & vital. 
Same with writing to you and others, sometimes when I really didn't feel like it or was having a crappy day myself.
You're so young, I don't expect you to run to the nearest soup kitchen. But what about reading to kids in a cancer ward once a month? or simply stopping to listen to that lonely, annoying neighbor who talks too much? Or volunteering once a month at an animal shelter? Or seeing something on twitter & writing that person words of encouragement? Or ask your dad if he needs help.
If you start to live a life of generosity, it will bring you more joy and confidence than you EVER could've imagined.page8image17672
I think you are a really exceptional young woman & gorgeous to boot. Honey, when you're about 18 you're gonna have all the boy worship you want. Just make sure you remember that beauty starts & ends within.
I hope this helps! 
Love, KJothewindbag

Aug 28 2012
Morgan sent me this:

“I just started riding the bus home. The first time I rode it was on thursday and I had never ridden a bus before in my life. I was a little terrified, nervous, and kind of upset about it at first. I didn't know a single person on my bus. But then, as I was sitting on the bus on Friday, and something crossed my mind: "We're all just freaks in the same leaky coconut raft. Hold on, life just might surprise you if you give it a chance." I'm not saying they're freaks (although some of them are) but I looked around me and realized I wasn't anywhere near being the only one in that situation. Thinking of that made me feel a lot more open minded, and turns out I've made a few new friends and it's not as bad as I thought it would be.
This may sound kind of stupid, and I feel lame for being so worried about it, but I thought I'd tell you because it's just another example of how you've helped me! xo"

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And finally....
Morgan’s review of Guts, on her extraordinary blog, Becoming Morgan

I have GUTS
A review by Morgan Craven
GUTS The Endless Follies & Tiny Triumphs of a Giant Disaster
by Kristen Johnston.

This book couldn’t have a better, more accurate title. I never thought something as simple as a book could change my life.
I found Kristen on Twitter in December of 2011. We both had just joined, and I was amazed and overly excited that she took the time to actually respond to me. When I heard she had a book coming out, I pre-ordered it immediately.
I spent several agonizing weeks waiting until it finally came in the mail, and the second it did I plopped on the couch and proceeded to read the entire book, cover to cover. 
From that moment on, my life was changed. Right then and there, I began seeing things differently. I didn’t know it then, but ‘Guts’ came into my life at the perfect time. I was at a point in my life where I was ready to start breaking out of my shell of shyness and insecurity. This book gave me exactly what I needed to do that.
I’ve read ‘Guts’ religiously, countless times since then, and every time I do, it seems like I learn something new or I make a new connection between some of Kristen's experiences with my own.
First and foremost, ‘Guts’ helped me realize than I am not a victim at all... of anything or anyone. I'm not a victim of those who viciously bullied me for years, nor of the difficulties life throws my way. Simply by reading it, I was able to discover my own power and strength, as Kristen discovered her own.
Also, as someone who has addiction in my genes, it really struck a nerve. Not just how dangerous drugs and alcohol can be, but also understanding that addiction is not a choice, but rather a disease. So many people are so angry with addicts, understandably thinking that they are choosing the drug or the booze over them. But I see now that this isn't true. I realized that addicts are some of the most misunderstood people in the world.page10image16856page10image17016
I learned so much as an aspiring writer. I know how nerve-wracking it can be talking about personal struggles with a friend. But to tell the truth about who you are, with all the gross, crazy, funny, gory, embarrassing details, to the world? seems unimaginably terrifying to me. The fact that Kristen did this is so inspiring and still amazes the crap out of me.
Both ‘Guts’ and it’s author have helped me become stronger in ways you cannot begin to imagine. She's given me the inspiration and the courage to do things I never would have been able to do two years ago. I am a better person because of her.
So, my advice to you? Get ‘Guts’. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll scream, you'll wish to God you could've been there to help her at times. But in the end, you certainly won't regret it. Bearing witness to her overcoming all that she's gone through, as well as seeing her so happy now and helping others, addicts and non-addicts, is the most admirable thing I've ever seen. “Tiny triumphs”? I don’t think so.
Kristen is the strongest, sweetest, most beautiful person I've ever met. I'm very proud and honored to call a friend, and she is and always will be my biggest role model.


In the 2 years I've known Morgan, I've witnessed an unbelievable growth. Initially, she was shy, bullied, sick all the time, but (as you can see) wise beyond her years. 
As we began to communicate more, I began to understand that her living situation was terribly unhealthy for her.  
One day last summer, she visited me in Ct for a few days and from the moment she arrived she began dreading going home, and that's when I actually became worried for her well-being. Perhaps Morgan will one day share the details, but since then, I've watched this 16 year old girl FIGHT for her own health and happiness.

I've witnessed her face situations that would scare the shit out of any adult with bravery, elegance and class.
She and her dad now live with his sister, and she's blossomed beyond anything I ever could have hoped for.
Who’d have ever thought a teenager would have so much to teach a woman in her 40’s? Thank you, Morgan. I’m so incredibly proud & grateful to call you my friend.
Love, Kristen
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STELLA

April 16, 2014, 5:28 pm
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                 STELLA




The Endless Farts and Tiny Mind of a Darling Disaster

by Kristen Johnston

Within the first 8 months of my sobriety, I lost both of my beloved dogs, Stella & Lulu.  Lulu had been my constant companion for 16 years, Stella for 12.  Lulu was drop-dead gorgeous, flirty, and without question, the smartest animal I’ve ever known. She had glossy, fluffy, black fur, always smelled good (even after a hike), and her two front paws looked like they were dipped in dalmation.  She was remarkable. 
Stella was...well, Stella was none of those things.  She was like the homely sister of a model or a movie star.  She was stout, snorty, stinky and her lower jaw jutted out (all the better to see her hilariously awful teeth).  She was blessed with the remarkable skill of ripping indescribably awful farts seconds before you sat next to her. Her timing was uncanny. 
Oh, and it’s worth mentioning that she had the mental capacity of a stick of wood.
Poor Stella.  
Think Helen Klum,  Jessica Aniston, Candy Theron or Ashley Jolie.  However, instead of being jealous, Stella was oblivious to all the attention Lulu would ineveitably draw from the throngs of admirers on New York City sidewalks. Instead would waddle along; a happy, stupid, kind creature.  They utterly adored each other.

Lulu & Stella bore witness to the darkest period of my life, years of a hideous clinical depression, which I wisely treated by self-medicating with enormous amounts of opiates and red wine. Because, after all, I am a Doctor.  Well, that’s not quite true. However I am a nurse. Oh, alright, so I played a nurse on ER for 6 episodes, same thing.  

Until you’ve experienced the endless, muddy swamp of clinical depression, it’s almost impossible to comprehend.  I was desperate for relief.   I can think of a number of times where the only thing preventing me from swallowing the entire bottle of pills was my concern for the fate of my dogs.  At the time I almost resented them for hindering my plans. Now I’m so grateful. Without them, I'm fairly certain I wouldn't be here.
Many years later, after I finally got my dumb ass to rehab, I was slammed with a few monumental buzzkills immediately upon my return: First, living life without drugs or alcohol was way easier to do in a rehab.
And second, Lulu was dying. 
For years she had a terrible, deep cough that no medication seemed able to touch. So we all lived with it, despite the fact that she hacked like Bette Davis after a bender.  However, it had now clearly progressed to the point where her quality of life was awful - she coughed so consistently she barely slept or ate.  Plus, she was really, really old. As anyone who’s experienced it can attest, euthanizing a pet you love like a child is excrutiating, unbearable.
Compounding the nightmare was that Lulu was so intelligent I swear she  KNEW what was happening to her and once inside the room in the veteranary hospital (where she’d been many times before, with no problem), she began freaking out, fighting desperately to escape, to live.  Instead, Stella licked her face while I held her still, screaming and weeping as I allowed a vet to kill my dog.
Thank God my friend Joe was with me, not just because of the steady comfort he provided, but because he bore witness to something I still have a hard time believing actually happened.  If he hadn’t been there, I think I would have convinced myself I had made it up, because it’s simply too strange to comprehend. 

Once Lulu was finally gone (of course the first shot didn’t work), Joe, myself, and my suddenly sister-less dog all stumbled out to my car, in shock.  When I turned the car on, the radio was blaring. What the fuck? I knew it wasn’t on when we drove over there (“Yeah! Let’s jam to some tunes as we drive my dog to her death!”), and if it had been, it would not have been on some golden oldies station.  
Huh. Oh well...

I reached up and was about to turn it off just as I heard the words “Lulu’s Back in Town.” (I later found out it was a famous Jazz standard and it was sung by Mel Torme, but at the time I had never heard it before in my life). 
I looked at Joe, who said succinctly “That’s weird.” I turned my head and looked at Stella, who was staring  back at me, stock still.  Then I turned back and the three of us just sat in that car, lost in our own thoughts as we listened to Lulu’s goodbye...     

Gotta get my old tuxedo pressed, gotta sew a button on my vest,
'Cause tonight I've gotta look my best, Lulu's back in town.

Gotta get a half a buck somewhere, gotta shine my shoes & slick my hair,
Gotta get myself a boutonniere, Lulu's back in town.

You can tell the mailman not to call, I ain't comin' home until the fall,                      
And might not get back home at all, because Lulu’s back in town....



 Stella and I became very close the next few months.  She came with me everywhere. I brought her to a play I was in every night, and the cast adored her.  Finally, she was the superstar.  While I was onstage she whiled away the hours by farting on the futon in the green room. The play ended in October, 2007.

The following are a series of emails I sent to a few friends and family in November & the beginning of December 2007.  I've never quite known what to do with them - should I make them a chapter of a book? 
Instead I've decided to share them with you.
To me, they’re an homage to the deep, powerful connection we have towards our pets, but also a truthful snapshot of somebody experiencing brand-new sobriety. A time when I was a lost and terrified foreigner trying to clumsily negotiate the utterly mysterious and completely unfamiliar land of the alive.

Kristen


Lulu & Stella
Los Angeles, 1998


From: Kjo
Subject: Stella
Friday, Nov 9 2007 3:32 am

My dear Friends who love Stella....

It doesn't look good for Stella. She was admitted to the hospital late last night after suddenly getting really sick. 
Still have more Q's than A's. Waiting for last blood work, but basically, there will probably be surgery, and recovery looks grim. The Dr said she wanted to be clear with me and that the prognosis isn't good.   
Just waiting on last blood test & a chest x ray before they can do the surgery. 
She's lived a great life, due in no small part to all of you loving her so much. 
I'm ok. Teary, but I know whatever will be, will be. 
I promise I'll keep you updated as soon as I know anything definite.
I'm just praying, and I guess if you pray, toss one her way. 
I'm still hopeful she'll surprise the shit out of everyone by simply being too dumb to die.
Love
K

From: Kjo
Subject: Stella
Sunday, Nov. 11 2007 5:10pm

So here's the update:

She just went into surgery. 
There's a mass, which could be anything from cancer to a fucking tinker toy.  And since Stella would happily eat pretty much anything, including her own puke, I wouldn’t be surprised. The problem is, her pancreas is 3 times it’s normal size.  
Just hung out with her for a half hour in the icu. Feel a little better, brought her my pillowcase so she’d know I was there. Also, everyone in the ER loves her and they all went on & on about her expressive face. So she's been getting lots of love.  

She looks miserable & stupid, I don't know why that comforted me. They'll call mid surgery (tonight I guess) & we'll go from there. If it's cancer, well - she was very clear that she may not wake up. 
Thank God one of her Vets, Dr. Fishkin, is so incredibly nice, she has 2 pit bulls, and was just very  sympathetic. 
If it isn't cancer, or just regardless, the chances of a dog her age...
well, she's mostly worried about the next 48 hours. The chance of infection after an operation there is REALLY high. I told her I knew only too well, because of my stomach disaster last year.

So I'm walking home & crying & writing to you guys.
Please pray for her. 
I know you all loved her in spite of her mental disability. 
Xx

From: KJo
Subject: Re: Stella
Sun, Nov 11 7:42pm

Thanks so much for all your emails and calls. The Surgeon called, Stella's on the table.
She has an (almost definitely cancerous) tumor in her pancreas. 
He presented me with 2 options, neither thrilling. In fact, both just terrible, terrible options.  (And I had to decide which one that instant, as he was speaking to me while standing over her still cut open):

1.They could be aggressive, and perform a pretty rare & delicate procedure to take it out. Which is tricky, the outcome is usually grim and the recovery is very painful & difficult. Not helping matters is the fact that this surgeon, reportedly one of the best in the city, admitted he’s done this surgery only once before. And that dog died.

2. Or they could kill her now.

I chose the surgery.  

I hope that was the right thing. I asked him what decision he would make, and he said “I never feel comfortable sharing that. This is your choice.”

This has all been so sudden, literally overnight, and I know she's not ready to quit fighting. The operation takes many hours, IF she makes it thru AND makes it thru next 48 hrs.....maybe there's hope. I would never want her quality of life to be bad, but at least I'd KNOW....you know? Then I could say “This sucks, we’ve done all we can, let's stop torturing her.”

I think the surgeon wanted to put her down. But he doesn't know her. Or me.
So that's it. It helps to write it all out. I'll let you know what happens.....but I will say, this apartment is a whole lot better when she's in it.
I miss her.


From: Kjo
Subject: So far, so good
Sun, Nov 11, 10:26pm

Just got off the phone with her surgeon. She made it through, so that's one big hurdle. Turns out, she had a very similar surgery to mine! They took out a chunk of her duodenal intestine. (I told the surgeon what happened to me and he said "Wow. I can’t believe you’re alive.") 
The next 2 to 5 days are critical, but I really think she's maybe got another year or 2. 
Slower, dumber, more annoying, but I think she's gonna do it. I hope.
I can visit her at noon.
Oh, btw, the Dr said "you made the choice I wouldve made for my dog.".....
Which would’ve been way more helpful to know about three hours ago.  
Dick.          
                     
From: Kjo
Subject: Re: Stella
Mon, Nov 12 2007 1:39pm

Just letting you all know Stella pulled through like a champ, she seems to be blowing the mind of the vet, and I get to see her this afternoon. 
It's still very iffy, trying not to get too excited, but I'm so relieved, and maybe all the good vibes sent her way helped.
Or again, maybe she's too dumb to die.
Xxxx



Stella & her new sock monkey, given to her by one of the vet techs

From: Kjo
Subject: The latest...
Tues, Nov 13 4:50pm

Jackie & I just visited her. She's actually able to walk a bit, recognize people--
but mostly, she's wasted, and looks a lot like her mommy circa 2005.
I'm hopeful, but the reality is, 80 percnt of dogs who have this surgery don't make it. 
I mean, they basically took out a bunch of her innards & drastically moved the stuff that's still there. Plus, the biopsy results aren't back yet. 
But I'm hopeful. I really am.
She's at the hospital @ 15th & 5th, so if any of you want to visit her, let me know. 
Jackie cracked up today cause I was pretending to be a munchausen by proxy doggie mother with the Nurses. 
They didn't get it. 
But Jackie did.
K


From: Kjo
Subject: Update
Weds, Nov 14 2007 6:23pm 

Hi guys,
So, here's the deal. I've been trying to wait to write you guys in case I had more news, but I haven't heard back from the Vet yet, so I'll give you what I know:

Stella seemed to be doing great.  Jackie & Hickey came to the Hospital today, she really seemed better. (By the way, thank you both so much for coming, you both are 
amazing.) 
Then, about 2 hrs ago, I got a call from the vet. There's a buildup of fluid in her body, and they don't know if its an infection, or if something ripped open. 
So I had to again make the split-second decision whether to put her down or open the poor old girl up yet again.
After 20 minutes of hysteria, I decided they should open her up again.
She's on the table now. 
I haven't heard anything yet.
When I do, I'll let you know.
But just thank you all for loving her & me. And your calls.
I do feel blessed, I really do, to have you all in my life.

Always & forever,
Stella's mommy


From: Kjo
Subject: She just won't die!
Wed, Nov 14 2007 9:56pm

Well, once again, she defies the odds. It WAS a terrible infection, and there was some leaking. 
I know, eeew.
But, she pulled through yet AGAIN!, and I'm so happy I made the right call. If we hadn't decided as quickly as we did, the surgeon felt it wouldve been too late & he wouldve had to put her down.

Oh my god. Seriously, I feel like I'm in some sort of lifetime movie, where Tiffani Amber-Theissen’s kid is dying from some mysterious disease.
Except this one isn’t funny. 

Who knows what tomorrow will bring, but tonight Stella's alive.
That's all I got.
K


From: Kjo
Subject: 
Thurs, Nov. 15, 2007 11:07am

She's stable today. But critical. No visitors today (even me).
Update you all later, but thanks for offering to visit.
Xxx


From: Kjo 
Subject: Days Of Our Lives, Stella Style
Thurs, Nov 15, 2007 8:44pm

Hi everyone
I just saw her for the first time since the 2nd operation. She is just lying there. 
Its just a killer, it really is. But the sweet vet tech sat next to me (after I burst into tears) and said that despite how bad she looks, she has defied ALL expectations, and is the talk of the Hospital. Just her sheer will to live.
They really can't believe she's made it this far. 

Which was a good kick in my ass....I mean if she's fighting so hard, then I will too. 
She knew I was there, and moved her head to look at this other toy I brought from home. She's out of it, but she's still Stella. I know she wants to live. I can just tell. 

They really do seem to care about her there, everyday I see more & more toys & blankets & fuzzy pillows in her cage. She's worked her Stella magic on all of them.
What a Lady.

I keep asking, “When is she out of the woods, when can I start to get my hopes up, 
when will she maybe, maybe come home?”

All are answered the same way every other Goddamn question in my life is: 
"Let’s just take it one day at a time."
Thanks, Jesus.
Like I needed THAT reminder again. 
(I actually kind of did)

K




From: Kjo 
Subject: Re:
Fri, Nov. 16 2007 6:34pm

She's having a transfusion today. Things aren't working the way they'd hoped. Her stomach isn't "moving,” it’s just not working right.
I just left her, she perked up a LOT during my visit, sat up, drank her first water in 2 days.
Everytime I visit, at the beginning, she looks so bad that I start bawling & asking everyone if I should just put her out of her misery. But always, I leave knowing she wants to keep fighting. 

Sometimes, I am just confounded by the decision before me.
Keep fighting, exposing her to countless agonys, Or let her rest, finally.
To be honest, it is like nothing I've ever felt, every instinct in me is crying out for my own relief, a pill, a glass of wine. But I won't.

I’ve had the best time with her the last few months, being a sober, good mom for once....taking her to the dog park, playing with her, letting her lie next to me watching tv so we can snuggle. I used to make her lie on the end of the couch, because she’d knock over my wine. What an asshole. Me, not her. 
Besides, I'd usually end up spilling it myself.
Every night we’d walk to the theater and she’d lounge backstage while I performed 'Scarcity,' and every night she and I would walk home together as the cast went out for drinks. My little sober companion.
So, I'm not going to relapse. Life on life's terms. 
I wouldn't do that to her.
But I want to.
I've never gone through something so powerful sober. It sucks. I can't quite express in words what it's like to enter my apartment. An unbearable silence in place of her noisy greeting. 
Year after year, day after day, she's been there. 
I realized that I never really grieved for Lulu, because Stella was there. 
So, I'm IN it. 
It's scary & powerful. Then it hit me. 
Sometimes life is just awful & mean & unfair. But you have to be IN it in order to honor it. 

I hope you don't mind these updates, they help me so much. Oh, and I found out Stella had a visitor earlier. Eric G took it upon himself to see her, which made me burst into tears for the 500th time today.  Shocker.

I love you all
Stella's mom


Wearing Dr.Fishkin’s frog.



From: Kjo 
Subject: 
Sun, Nov 18, 2007 10:26pm

I try to wait as long as possible to write these, so I'll have as much information as I can.
But the crux is, as always, that it doesn't look good. It's frustrating to keep writing that, every fucking night, but trust me....it's far more upsetting to hear it.
Because, there are a million highs & lows in between that.
Last night was the best, cause she was so STELLA. Of course, watching her walk towards me hooked up to this massive IV stand, and needing 3 people to escort her, that is brutal. 

But last night Dr. Fishkin said "I'm not supposed to say this, but I am so hopeful! She's a miracle. As long as we don't see any bacteria in her stomache tube, by Monday we can start getting REALLY excited!!!"
This morning, they found bacteria.

Infection.
Crushing. 

I went to see her, as usual, she loves all of us sitting there, talking about her. She seems okay. Which actually is why it's so frustrating. 
While speaking to her vet (I did NOT like the one treating Stella today.....pompous, condescening and cold), I said no to any more surgery. BUT I told her I had a similar infection, and they just shoved a tube in me (at site of infection) & let it drain. 
She said they were already thinking about doing something similar. I said “So what’s the hold-up?” (Don’t fuck with me, bitch.  I can give as good as I get.)

So they went ahead and did that, getting a lot of bad stuff out. Plus changed her antibiotics. 
I guess that was good, but I can't wait for her real Dr to see her.
I have to explain, and if you'd see her you know what I mean--She really & truly SEEMS good....like "When are you taking me home, and then the park?"

She really does. People who've been to see her agree. She is Stella & wants to come home.
I'm just saying this because as much as I love her, I'm not some crazy dog lady who 
wants to keep her alive & have a pet sematary dog. 
She doesn't want to stop.
No one (I know I keep saying this) but no one can believe how resilient she is.
So that's where it is today. More purgatory.Thanks for your calls, etc. 
Love, K


From: Kjo
Subject: Big News
Tues, Nov. 20th 2007 5:15pm

Hi guys
Stella is actually slightly improving. The great news is, they aren't seeing any bacteria. Her spirits are up. But she still won't eat, and her stomach won't work yet. That's critical, but they feel she's now strong enough for them to try some more aggressive treatments.

I'm seeing her in a few hours, when she's done with a treatment.  Whenever they say that, it always makes me think she's at some fancy spa getting a mani/pedi or a deep tissue massage. I wish.

That’s not the big news though. Before all this happened, I was gonna get her a low-key sister to play with. A few nights ago, while I was in the waiting room, I struck up a conversation with 'Bunny', a cat lady who volunteers @ the ASPCA. (Need I tell you how crazy she was?) 

She told me about a gorgeous white Pit Bull they had that was 7 yrs old & really sweet. I’ve dying to see the place anyway, since they did the huge renovation.....and it is the greatest, cleanest, most incredible place.

So I go up there with Anouk, take photos & whatnot with everyone and finally met 'Cookie', a white pit who'd been rescued by police after they saw that she was badly emaciated & it was clear she'd been very badly abused. They think she was a breeding bitch for fighting dogs. 
I took her home of course. Gonna give her to Joe the dog walker, or the kennel, the first few weeks Stella's home.
Her name is 'cookie', but I'm thinking of changing it to 'Pinky', altho nothing's set. 
I'll also send some pics taken by the over excited ASPCA lady.
Seeing Stella soon.
Love you all


The day I got Cookie (Pinky)


From: Kjo
Subject: Stella
Tues Nov 27, 2007 6:08pm

Some of you have been asking for an update, so here goes.....she's still fighting. Everyday are little or big battles, but the jist is, she's getting ever so slowly maybe sort of better, baby, baby steps. It’s heartwrenching & exhausting & insanely expensive (we hit the 40 grand mark today). 
But she's playful & fighting & wants to live, so I am just gonna keep fighting until she stops. 
I brought her favorite green frisbee back from Ct dig, dig, dig and she became so intense & crazy & the vets laughed their asses off.  They only bring it out once a day because of how completely unhinged she becomes. 
I thought of you, Hickey. You would’ve loved it. 
Dig dig dig.
She is still not eating though, and is so skinny. I kind of broke down today, little bag of bones. She has so many tubes in her, argh. 
But she occasionally holds down food thru her stomach tube.
Pinky is a doll, loved the country, but its weird there without the grand dame of outside play.
So that's where its at.
I hope you all had great thanksgivings!



Dig. Dig. Dig.

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From: Kjo
Subject: End Game for Stella
Thurs, Nov. 29, 2007 3:50pm

Hi guys
I just found out that Stella, despite her sunny disposition, all the endless treatments and all the love in the world - is not gonna pull through.
Her GI tract just won't work, and they think it's pretty much dead. It's crazy-making, because she SEEMS okay. 
I'm giving her another 24 hours of aggressive treatment, but it's just.....end game.

The good/bad news is, I get to take her home on Saturday am.  She'll be so happy to be home & I hope some of you can visit. Then she'll be euthanized at home on Sunday, with me & all her stuff around her. 
It's the definition of bittersweet. 
So, if any of you would like to say hi/bye to her, call me. She is still the same cute Stella. But I also know that that's so hard for some people.

Anyway, thank you all so much for being my friends, and for caring about me & Stella, two pretty messed up ladies. I have a million memories of all of you with her - Hickey holding that frisbee in the pool, making her 'tap dance' - oh, it just kills me.  


To this day, one of the funniest memories of my life.
Thank you, Hickey



From: Kjo
Subject: RIP Sweet Stella
Sat, Dec 1 2007 5:58pm

Stella's finally at peace. 

Jackie & I brought her home to my apartment, and I was hoping to have one last night with her, but it didn't work out that way. She started breathing so hard, and finally I saw in her eyes something I'd never seen in all these weeks - she was finally done.  The fight was gone from her eyes. 
(Although, even with belabored breathing, goddam if she didn't STILL want to "dig dig dig" at that green fucking frisbee - Gasp dig dig gasp dig dig.)
Unreal.
Me & Cadee & Jackie drove her to the hospital, where they had agreed to come out and euthanize her in my car, so she didn't have to die in that fucking place. I couldn’t bear her having to go back in there, I just couldn’t. 
Jackie drove, and I'll spare you the details of her "hysterical-slash-I'm-perfectly-fine-and-not-at-all-devastated" driving.
Only cause I can’t wait to act it out to you all in person.

The only thing I will say is that if there was a pothole, that lady found it. 
God, I love you Jackie.  Thanks for loving Stella as much as I did.
You are one hell of a friend.
But it was pretty funny.
 I was riding in the back holding Stella, and even she looked up at me as if to say What’s happening? Am I in hell? I'm scared mommy.

Suddenly, we were there and Dr. Fishkin came outside with a needle.  Jackie & Cadee gave us some privacy. I held Stella’s body in the backseat, and before you knew it, her head landed right where it should have, on her Frisbee. I didn’t even know it was there.
I swear, Hickey. 
She died in my arms, her head on her frisbee. 

My heart broke. I felt it. Tears were dripping all over Stella . Then I heard a noise and looked up and saw that  Dr Fishkin, who had done so much for her & tried so hard to save her, was loudly sobbing herself. 
That did it.

The floodgates opened and I was gone. Lost to a meltdown that was dramatic even by my very loose standards. A meltdown that if you saw in a movie, you’d roll your eyes and think (or in my case, say out loud), "Jesus, trying for an Oscar much?"She’d win, of course. 

Things are kind of blurry after that - I do remember as Dr. Fishkin gently carried Stella away forever,  I’ve never wanted to run so badly in my life. I wanted to run down Fifth Avenue as fast as I could. Away. 
I needed to not feel this.
I’m not equipped to feel this.
I pushed the car door open & ran, slamming instantly into into Joe Schrank's chest. (Thank you so much, big Joe, for being there to catch me.....a lesser man would’ve folded, or at least faltered, but damn if you're not as sturdy as a Redwood).

For the longest time, me & Joe & Cadee & Jackie just stood there on the corner of 15th and 5th, holding each other, weeping.  
Well, maybe not Joe cause he's a straight man who likes football, but the sight must’ve been pretty amazing. Three loudly sobbing women all hanging on to one enormous man right on 5th avenue.

So, that's the very end.

I'm so gratefull you've been patient with my endless updates. As you know, its weird & foreign for me to let people know when I'm hurting, so this has been a challenge.
I never ever expected to feel grief & pain like this. 

I know normal people go through this stuff all the time, but I'm a sick person who has never allowed herself to feel. I'd have been drunk or on drugs the whole time. 
I'm so glad I'm feeling the whole weight of it, she deserved that from me.  
We ended up getting french toast afterward, which worked out just fine anyway.

Today, I woke up happy, knowing these two things are true: she was finally ready to go, and she's already somehow found a green frisbee to play with forever & ever, which is all she ever really wanted anyways.

Love,
Kristen



Stella Johnston
1995 - 2007













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The Dreamcatcher

April 20, 2014, 9:33 pm
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I decided to dust off a few other old writings. This one was written on March 10th of this year, my 7 year sobriety date.


Seven years ago today I walked into rehab a shivering, mortified, miserable, drunk & high mess. I went to The Meadows, in Wickenburg, Arizona...a town out of the old west, with cowboys, Indians and old storefronts. It looked like a set from 'High Noon.' 

I swear to God  I actually saw tumbleweeds blowing across the dusty road as we pulled in. It was a Sunday, so there was only one Nurse on duty who took her sweeeeeet time checking me in. I was utterly dreading the opiate withdrawals, and begged her for something to offset the symptoms. However, she insisted that I was way more of an alcoholic, and made me take Librium instead. Which is why I stumbled around the rest of the evening in a dark murky haze, slurring my words & barely able to walk. NEVER check in to rehab on a Sunday.

 A friend who's struggling recently wrote me to say he knows he needs to stop drinking, but the thought of the spiritual journey he knew he would have to embark on in order to get well overwhelmed him. This reminded me of something that happened to me all those years back in Wickenberg.

After the inevitable the shock of being in rehab wore off, and my ass sobered up a bit, I began to notice that people kept talking about things like "my spiritual journey"or "my higher power" and "God." 
The message was subtle yet absolute: if I didn't believe in a higher power (preferably God), I would never stay sober.
Oh, shit. I racked my brain, desperate to find a loophole so I could suspend my disbelief in this "faith" crap and join all the shiny happy sober people. 

You see, I went to Catholic grade school for 8 years. Therefore, to me, "God"& "religion" represented  punishment, judgement, scratchy uniforms, miserable old priests, nuns who hated me, constant torment from schoolmates & endless, droning masses. 
I left the school believing in nothing. 
Kind of the opposite of a 'Born again.' 
'Dead Again'?

There was this spiritual counselor at The Meadows who I avoided like the plague, mostly because, well, she was a spiritual counselor. Also, she wore tons of enormous turquoise rings on every plump finger, feather earrings, Birkenstocks, and she stank like patchouli. 
As if her occupation & hairy legs weren't enough, she topped the whole look off with a PERMED MULLET. Yes, my friends. A full-on biz/front, partay/back. BUT WITH TIGHT CURLS.
When I'd see her in the cafeteria, I'd stop whatever I was doing & stare open mouthed at her, imagining the discussions she had at her hair salon.
"Hi, Louise. Same as last time, but could you make the curls even tighter? I have a blind date Friday."

A few weeks into my stay there, she gave the Friday evening group lecture. 
I was surprised and a bit ashamed at myself when I discovered she was incredibly smart, quick witted & dry. I couldn't help but like her. She had survived the death of a child, her husband's suicide and stage 4 breast cancer. Oh, and alcoholism. All with her sense of humor intact. My kinda gal.

Two days later, I was on my early evening walk to kill time/not smoke, and I happened to walk by her open door. She was at her computer. I knocked, not even sure why or what I was going to say.
"C'min" 
"Hi, Sorr-" She held her hand up, not looking at me.

I stood there for about 3 minutes while she typed. I've never been good with silences, especially back then. I saw the Dreamcatcher above her desk & suddenly deeply regretted being there. I could hear the evening Volleyball game in the distance. Maybe I should g...
"Hi Kristen. What's up?" She was looking at me expectantly.
"Hi...um, sorry, I, umm....well,I was thinking today and, um.....well, I'm sure you can't answer this....?" I asked hopefully. 
She just smiled and waited. 
So I looked at her dreamcatcher & took a deep breath.

"Ok. Everyone around here talks about spirituality & God, and for many reasons I don't believe in any of it. I WANT to, but I'm sorry, I just can't & I'm worried I won't get sober if I don't."
I couldn't believe I was crying. 
"I guess I was wondering - what's been weighing on me is....what exactly IS a spiritual journey, and how do you start one?"
She smiled.
"You're already on one. You started the minute you asked that question."
"I know, but...Wait. Really?"
She laughed.
"Yes, Kristen. A Spiritual Journey is just being curious, asking questions & trying to find the right answers for you."
I can't put into words the relief I felt. I left her office with such hope in my heart. Hope that maybe, just maybe this was possible....that I could live my life sober, but still be me.

Before, the words "Spiritual Journey" had always brought to mind some lonely gal who watched way too much Oprah. 
Or a very thin, dirty bearded man who wandered the desert for weeks with no food or water, wearing nothing but a cloth diaper.
Or people who go to Church everyday, and have the Bible memorized.
Or people who attend self-help seminars every weekend.
Or people who hang dreamcatchers above their desks.

But it's not really about any of that, at least to my understanding.
To me, a spiritual journey means you're simply searching for your own answers,  trying every day to learn from your mistakes, forgiving yourself for yours & others for theirs, if possible.
But mostly, it's learning how to love yourself no matter what.

In these past seven years, I've made many mistakes. The road to sanity is not smooth. No one's journey is the same, and sometimes our paths require us to make choices others don't understand or agree with.
The minute I began to accept that, I began to let go. 

After a lifetime of drugs, alcohol, disappointing people, hurting loved ones, lying, people-pleasing, despising myself, so much heartbreak and sorrow...

Today I'm proud to be 7 years sober, I'm proud that I'm no longer 'Dead Again,' I'm proud of the person I'm still becoming and I'm very proud that I actually like who I am. And sometimes, if it's a foggy day and I squint, I even love myself.

Not enough to buy a dreamcatcher, but still...


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Jenny, I Got Your Number

April 24, 2014, 2:42 pm
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“Better a witty fool than a foolish wit”
                  -Shakespeare, 12th Night


Perhaps the most gratifying part of becoming an old hag is finally understanding that there’s a yin and yang to almost everything in life.

Yes, even with social media.
The beauty of it is that it gives a voice to so many deserving people.
The ugliness of it is that it also gives the same to so many undeserving.

I’m not proud of the fact that for a great portion of my life, I had a profound mistrust of people. In fact, I’d go so far as to say I even disliked most of them. This is partially due to the “ick” factor that happens when one becomes suddenly famous: There you are, the same idiotic buffoon you always were, and overnight you’ve become the prom queen. 
It’s just kind of gross. So there’s that.
But admittedly, most of my aversion to people I attribute to my chronic, life-threatening addiction, and the horrific depression and self-hatred that accompanied it.

Which is why, pretty much from the age of 25 until I got sober at age 39, I trusted only a tiny group of people I’d known for many years. The rest of the world I would smile politely at, certain they wanted my friendship simply because I happened to be smashed on the head with the famous stick.

For years I walked the streets of NYC with a baseball cap & sunglasses, wearing a grimace so icy it would rival Victoria Beckham’s. I emanated “STAY AWAY FROM ME” from every pore of my being. This was not because I was snotty, or had a glorified sense of who I was. It was out of fear, mistrust and misery.

As I got sober, and the shackles of doubt and shame were shed, I slowly became open to people. I began to enjoy life again. I was utterly shocked to learn that I actually enjoyed  meeting strangers, and had fun talking to just about anyone. The biggest shocker was when I realized that I didn’t even hate being famous anymore. 
In fact, I found it kind of sweet. Wow, people saying nice things to you, everywhere you go? Yeah. Torture.

I became soft and happy and trusting.
Unfortunately, this evolution coincided with my first foray into social media.
I’ve always had slight timing issues, so I wasn't all that surprised.
What did surprise me, however, was how easy it is to be catfished when you can’t see someone’s face or hear their voice.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m still a savvy bitch who can smell a liar or a con artist 10 blocks away.
In real life.

However, on social media I’ve made a few truly terrible choices, stupidly believing that people were exactly who they presented themselves to be. I’ve been burned badly a few times, people lying about their addiction or exagerrating crises to get my attention.
Recently I was betrayed by a popular blog writer I had begun to trust as a friend. 
I’m not going to refer to her actual name, or the name of her blog, not because I’m concerned for her privacy or any sort of retribution from her. I could care less. 
I just refuse to give her or her blog anymore interest, attention or hits. 

Let’s call her “Jenny.”

Some of you may have no interest in this post whatsoever, and some might find it interesting. But I found out there are many out there who were also taken in by this same woman, so I decided to finally speak out about what happened to me. I know there are some (a rapidly dwindling number) people who still believe in her. I'm hoping that this will at least make you stop and think. Because it will happen to you, too, sooner or later.

For months, I bit my tongue as she spread devastating and completely false stories about me, my health, my sobriety, and even the legitimacy of my beloved non-profit organization. 
The worst part?
She did all this to me for absolutely no sane reason. I was completely supportive of her, constantly telling my followers about her, tweeting about her and offering her nothing but kindness and friendship.

She decided to attack everything I held dear and besmirch my reputation for one reason, and one reason only: To entertain Jenny.
Tee fucking hee.

I'll be the first to admit that I have many flaws. I’m bossy, impatient, easily frustrated, jump to conclusions, like to think I know better, interrupt often and, like any good addict/actress, I've been known to occasionally lean ever so slightly towards self-involvement.

However, I’m loyal to the death. I would never intentionally hurt anyone. I’m generous to a fault, loving and I do my damndest to never lie. To myself or anyone else.

Despite doing not one thing to warrant Jenny’s sudden and public smackdown of me on twitter, in the months since I did  my best to ignore the nonsense as she and her followers went to town ripping me apart. 

However, recent and incontrovertible facts have come to light. People who once believed in her like I did have been very hurt. And I finally became aware of the damaging and  horrible lies she gleefully spread about me to anyone who would listen.
Finally I decided to take a stand and clear my name.

Jenny, Jenny, Who Can I Turn To?

Jenny is a very clever gal wrote an entertaining blog about nonsense. At the time I discovered her, she had a large, passionate and devoted fan base. Her blog was sprinkled with occasional posts about her personal life, but it was mostly comprised of very detailed and shocking  “blind items” about this c-lister or that d-lister. 
She presented her information as absolute truth. 
She claimed her sources were either her favorite subjects’ personal assistant, her best friend from childhood, an oscar nominated actress, or another dear friend who's a tabloid staple.

I’ve since discovered that her blinds were either false (an easy deduction, since almost all never came to fruition) or they were plagiarized from another gossip blog. As for her sources? Well, since nobody in hollywood would be stupid enough to hire an assistant without having them sign a legally binding confidentiality agreement, and since this particular assistant is still employed by the celebrity Jenny loved to write about, there goes that source. As for her two super famous bffs? Apparently neither of them know who she is.

Regardless, I'm sure these people have way too much going on to be constantly feeding complete nonsense about Leanne Rimes or Brandi or me to some insane blogger in Chicago. But that's just a guess. 

Right about now you might be asking yourself “You, Kristen? You, blessed with such class and elegance? How did you ever become a fan of a gossip blog?!!”
I know, I know. In my defense, Jenny, like all good sociopaths, was really charming and funny. And, as totally repulsed as I am now by everything about her, I concede that she’s a pretty decent writer. 
Plus, there was this...

Last summer, I was sicker than I've ever been in my life. I had no idea what was wrong with me, and no Doctor seemed capable of giving me a diagnosis. For the next 6 months I was so weak I couldn’t stand, walk or even hold my own head up. My white blood cell count was that of a dead person’s. Most of my days were spent lying in bed. The few times I ventured out to either go to yet another fruitless Dr appointment, or to force myself to go to work, I had to wear a neck brace (otherwise my head would limply fall forward on to my chest) and I was confined to a wheelchair. I saw many, many specialists, and lived a nightmarish existence I’ll share with you in greater detail some other time. (I'm sure you can't wait!)

The bottom line is, I was finally diagnosed with Lupus Myelitis in late December, and, after some intensive infusions and treatments, I’m almost in complete remission and I feel fantastic. I've never been so grateful in my life. I kid you not when I say the experience was even worse than what happened to me in London when my Guts blew up.

Since I couldn’t go up or down stairs without agonizing effort during those long, lonely 6 months, I was pretty much a prisoner in my bedroom.  
It would have been the perfect time to write a brilliant novel or simply read a trashy one. 
But I couldn't really concentrate, so I ended up whiling most of the days away on the computer. Jenny’s blog became kind of a way for me to connect to the outside world. She made me laugh and I instantly liked her. We had begun tweeting each other, and eventually began exchanging emails.

It was at this time a few trusted people I’d known on twitter for a long time began warning me away from Jenny. They told me she was a scammer, a con artist, and a felon. She’d embezzled a ton of money and even spent time in jail. Rather recently, she'd been accused of fraud.

This gave me only the briefest of pauses. 
After all, I’d done some pretty embarrassing things when I used, and she had already paid the price for her mistakes. I decided to ignore all the warnings.
I'm an asshole.
This is how it went for months. Me, bored out of my skull, being entertained by Jenny’s blog posts & the amusing people who commented on it.

Then, in October, Jenny offered to wear a SLAM t-shirt as she ran in a Marathon. She said this would bring some much-needed attention to my non-profit foundation dedicated to building NYC’s 1st sober high school. Even though I didn't really look at it as a huge deal, I thought this was a lovely gesture and thanked her profusely both privately and on twitter.

The day of the marathon, I even tweeted my thanks to her while being prepped for a spinal tap at the Mayo clinic, where I was for two weeks. I shared what was really going on with only a small number of people, and by this time, Jenny was one of them. 

Remember those friends of mine who had warned me about her? Well, it turns out they were trying to warn others about her and basically causing Jenny hurt and pain. I wrote one of them a few times and pleaded with her to stop saying mean things. 
Here's one of the letters I wrote, which I eventually shared with Jenny:

Listen, I wanna talk to you abt Jenny. You of course are TOTALLY welcome to your beliefs, and who knows? Maybe someday I'll say "you were right!"
But the one thing I wanted to say is: she says she was struggling with addiction stuff when all this was going on yrs ago. Yes, she did wrong shit, she went to jail, and decided to change. She's worked hard to stay drama free with all the blogging stuff.
I guess what I'm saying is, if people judged me on who I was 7 years ago, I'd have no friends.
If you don't like her for what she does today, well, then that's your biz. .
But it seems most of your anti-Jenny stuff is abt her past.
She has never mentioned you or any of this to me, in a tweet or DM, ok?  But just as I would try to defend you, I'm trying to defend her.
If you don't care about any of this, and just don't like her, cool. That's your deal. I respect that.
But if I saw someone I liked saying something about you, I'd do the same.  I'm just sensitive to someone being hated for behavior they regret deeply. I'm a big believer that people can change...after all, I did.

And so they stopped, despite their strong feelings that Jenny was a con artist. Not a negative word was uttered about her for months, at least that I saw.

Okay, so you know how you get that funny tickle on the back of your throat when one of your friends is angry with you? Or that odd feeling in your chest when you feel something you’ve done or said has maybe hurt someone you care about? But you're clueless as to what you did? If you think back, there were warning signs that they were gonna blow. Oh shit, I knew something was off! Or Fuck me, I knew I shouldn't have hit on her husband at their wedding! Dumb, dumb, dumb! Then, when the bomb goes off, there’s almost a relief.

But our gal Jenny doesn’t believe in warnings. No sir. Our gal Jenny's more like an Al Quaeda terrorist who happily munches on warm nuts in First Class seconds before causing death and destruction. In January she lashed out at me so suddenly, with such stunning force, that when I read her tweet during a rehearsal, I recall actually saying the words “What the fuck” very loudly.

She was enraged that I didn’t thank her properly for wearing a SLAM t-shirt for
the marathon she had run months ago. She accused me of being unsupportive, and was furious that she paid $300 to run in this marathon, all for nothing. She was sick of me “playing both sides of the fence” and “not standing up for her when it counted.”

It was an absurd, insane display of pettiness, jealousy and madness. (Not to mention I subsequently found out the entrance fee for this particular race was $63.00. Not $300)

She then wrote a vicious blog about it, which I chose not to read. But I got the gist. I was a fucking D-list, ungrateful psychotic cunt.
Wow. Okay then. See ya, psycho. Sorry I stood up for you & supported you.
At the time, I wrote this twit longer about it:
I know there's been lots of twitter drama since last night, and since I don't have a blog (nor will I read anyone else's)...here's my truth. Take it or leave it.I don't know how I stumbled onto Jenny's blog/twitter, but she made me laugh my ass off. Her writing is superb, cutting, observant. I became a big fan fast, and soon we struck up an email friendship.When this happened, maybe 6-8 months ago, suddenly people I've known for years warned me off her. She's shady, she did this & that, felon, blah blah blah. Which I didn't care about. Since I'm an addict in recovery & have made so many mistakes in my past.... I would hate for someone to judge me based on those, only to throw them back in my face years later.However, a few longtime pals felt very differently about Jenny. This was awkward, and I was very clear with them that I hated that they were talking about her. I approached them on numerous occasions, asking them to stop saying such negative stuff about Jenny. As my friend T will attest, I wrote LONG emails to her on Jenny's behalf.I never did so publicly on twitter because, frankly, I wasn't interested in getting a rise out of everyone else & inspiring even MORE feuding.Unfortunately, I guess my friendship with Jenny and the other ladies made it seem like I "played both sides of the fence" which in my opinion, is not true. I NEVER ONCE said a negative word about Jenny to them, and vice versa. I LIKED THEM BOTH.
I totally enjoyed reading Jenny's blogs, interacting with her followers, and our occasional emails. I did, and still do, think she's incredibly talented. I'm also very grateful she volunteered to represent my non-profit organization by wearing a t-shirt in a marathon she ran, which I expressed to her at the time.
 However,  it has clearly become too uncomfortable & hurtful to Jenny to be friends with her. This really bums me out, and even though I don't like the way she did it, I guess I understand why.
I really wish old crap could stay in the past here on twitter. But, I always say "it's my twitter, I'll write what I want"....so I guess I have to respect the same toward others.I will not trash Jenny or anyone involved with her, I'm not interested in more drama. I'm serious. I'm still really sick with Lupus, I have IV infusions nightly, and frankly...I hate it.If anyone's looking for me to join some feud, I got better shit to do.And, as always with this stuff, I wish my friend Lynn were here.I will always remain a huge fan of Jenny's writing.
KJo 


And that has been the only thing I’ve said about Jenny publicly since January.
If only she had done the same. I guess her meltdown was questionable for even her most devoted followers, and she was called out on it. To such an extent that she was pressured into making up shit about me to explain the reasons for her insane behavior.
I don’t know this for a fact. It’s just a guess. 
But how else to explain the fact that she proceeded to tell many people such libelous and damaging lies about me, my sobriety, my sanity, my reputation as an actress, the veracity of my illness and the legitimacy of my non-profit organization?

I can't go into further detail, for many reasons. But lets just leave it at: this woman did everything in her power to destroy the very things in life I've worked hardest for. The things I hold most dear.
Jenny. Jenny. Jenny. 
You went way too far.
You should NOT have made up such horrible, blatant lies about my sobriety.
You should not have made whatever you wanted and claimed it as truth.

You’re very, very lucky I’m not suing you. 
When you spread lies about my sobriety, you potentially negatively impacted my book sales.
When you make up hideous shit and claim it’s “insider scoop” from a beloved, Oscar nominated comedian, you potentially negatively impact my career.
Unlike you, I work for a living. 
You are a lying, stealing, con-artist who’s spent a nice chunk of time in jail for embezzlement.
I hear one more word out of you about me or anything I’ve spent my life busting my ass to build, I will call my attorney.
And I will sue you.

My management team is reaching out to your famous "friends" right now.

I’m from the midwest too, bitch. I throw down just as hard as you. And I’m sane.
I win.


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The Ghost of Arzy

May 9, 2014, 10:22 pm
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I don’t know about you guys, but I'm desensitized to almost every awful news story.   
For example, when Matt Lauer says "A man in Florida (Or Texas, it's usually one of those 2 states for some reason) was arrested yesterday, charged with the murder of  45 little schoolgirls,” or I hear that  “A bomb went off in such and such High School”
or a friend tells me that a  “Mudslide killed thousands in Italy, " I may feel a small ping of  sympathy or fascination. Sometimes I may even get upset for a few minutes, until my roommate’s dog Rio decides to shit on my bed or I’m running late for a dinner date, and poof. Like magic, I never think of those poor wee schoolgirls or those muddy Italians again.

Thankfully for the most part I'm inured to disaster or pathos or another's pain. How else would I survive? It doesn't trouble me too much, I know I'm not alone. We all do it, in one way or another. I mean, I'm pretty sure that very few surgeons or Nurses or Doctors were instaneously cool when groping through someones innards the very first time. Right? I bet most of them were as grossed out as you or I would be at the idea of touching someones rotting bowel. (I betcha some even had difficulty keeping down the delicious egg sandwich they had recently eaten in the cafeteria.)

But I wonder how soon  the sights, smells, the textures  all started to feel familiar? To feel like "just another day at the office"?  I'm guessing much faster than we might think. Within a few days, at most. A man who'd been clammy & nauseous one day, is suddenly calm as a cucumber.

I haven't read any surveys, but I'll venture to say we’re all like this.
We become so inured to others pain & misery that it simply doesn’t register, because we have to protect ourselves.

However, every now & then something I read or hear about will punch through my chest,  grab me by my throat and haunt me, like a fucking ghost.  And he only way to exorcise the damn thing is to try to do something about it.

Sometimes the hauntings are relatively brief, like Katrina or 9/11. Oh, they're still there, mind you. The images, the feelings, the horror. But they've quietly stepped aside, making room for other ghosts.
Others seem to be more permanent. Like the desperate need for a sober high school in NYC. I’ll never forget`hearing about it for the first time-- I was 7 months sober and walking in the West Village with Joe Schrank on a gorgeous fall afternoon.
Joe told me how many lives sober high schools save, and that there are so many successful ones all over US, yet not one in New York City or State. Now, I don’t have children. I don’t really like most teens. Until this day, I certainly had zero investment or interest in the NYC public school system. 
Good for Joe. I’ll give him a donati...
But then he tells me that the Boston area alone has 4 such schools. That teens in NYC who want to stay sober are forced to go to school up there.
And that the NYC Board of Ed wouldn't even entertain this idea.
That pissed me off.
I immediately joined forces with this fight. I emailed the Chancellor of schools office  and explained that Sarah Jessica Parker and I needed to see him urgently. (Settle down, she's a friend of mine.) When I showed up alone, I explained she was ill.

This bitch (the ghost, not SJ) has haunted me for six long years as I created a board (www.slamnyc.org) and have fought for one simple goddamn thing: a “yes” from The NYC Board of Ed. No money. No space. We will provide all of that. JUST A YES so we can begin plans.

But the ghost that’s been with me the longest is how some human beings treat animals. My oldest & best friend in the world, Jackie, her sister Wendy and their entire family are staunch rescuers. I’ve been with Jackie on a freeway when she somehow saw a dog darting through trafffic, and spent the next 4 hours trying to capture the terrified pooch, taking it’s stinky ass to a vet, and driving it to one of the many rescue organizations she knew of.

In college, I spent many a hungover Saturday am helping them set up the weekly pet adoption fair her family organized. It’s through Jackie that I was blessed with Stella and Lulu. Not to mention I became a life-long supporter of rescue organizations, and will always admire the crazy, loving people who do this work.
Jackie made me see a film ‘Blinders’ by Donny Moss (Chilling & magnificent. If interested, I think they sell on Peta website) which is about the horse-drawn carriages in Central Park. The film angered me so much that I even agreed to pose in the altogether. Come on-- fighting abuse with nudity? That works, no?


All this preamble is because this week, I saw something happened that made my blood run cold. And  I was grabbed by the throat by the ghost of a sweet gentle dog and knew I needed to do something. His name was Arzy.


Here’s a part of the tale, from The Bangor Daily News:
Maine man fighting back after police allegedly shot, killed his dog in Louisiana
Brandon Carpenter, a  musician from Portland, said Wednesday that a Louisiana police officer shot and killed his dog Monday morning, even though the “incredibly friendly” dog was on a four-foot leash.
“That dog wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Carpenter said of his 90-pound dog. “Everybody loved Arzy. Everybody said, ‘Oh, he’s so friendly. So gentle.’ He was an angel in dog form.”
The 28-year-old musician had hopped a freight train from Lafayette, Louisiana, to Sulphur, Louisiana with a friend. The duo was on their way to stay with friends in Lake Charles, Louisiana, their backpacks, guitars and the 14-month-old Newfoundland-Labrador-golden retriever mix in tow, when they got off the train in the early morning.
“We were exhausted, and as we were walking, it started to rain,” Carpenter said.
They decided to find a place to sleep a little out of the rain, and clambered into the back of an empty box truck that was parked in the lot of the city newspaper, the Southwest Daily News. About 10 minutes after they got in, Carpenter said, they jolted awake by a police officer who drew his gun and ordered them to get out.
“We did everything he asked us to do,” Carpenter said, adding that he tied Arzy to a fence with a short leash when Officer Brian Thierbach of the Sulphur Police Department told him to secure his dog. Thierbach put the men in handcuffs and ordered them to get on the ground, facing away from the dog. Then the officer asked if the dog was going to bite or attack him, Carpenter recounted.
“I said no, it’s an incredibly friendly dog. He’s a big teddy bear,” he said.
According to Carpenter and a witness, the officer pet the dog for a few seconds.
“His tongue was out. His tail was wagging. That’s my dog,” Carpenter said. “Arzy maybe did a little sniff, like do you want to play? Then [the officer] jumped down from the back of the truck and shoots my dog in the head. I watched him convulse his last breath and twitch the life out of him.”
Carpenter said that the officer threw their belongings out of the truck. Carpenter said “‘You didn’t have to shoot him.’ The officer smiled at me and said, ‘He nipped at my foot.’ But Arzy did nothing like that.”
Eyewitness Eric Midkiff said in an official statement to police that Arzy did not attack the officer. “He also stated that he saw the dog wagging his tail and acting in a friendly manner, and that it was when the dog bumped against Thierbach that the officer immediately responded by shooting the animal,” the newspaper account stated.
A few days later, The Huffington post  gave more details and an update:
While Carpenter could not see what happened between Thierbach and the dog, Eric Midkiff could. Midkiff, the circulation manager for the Southwest Daily News, told HuffPost last week that he drove into the parking lot at some point after Thierbach had cuffed the men.
Midkiff said he stood about 20 feet away, and could see the officer standing on the back of the box truck petting Arzy.
"The dog was rubbing up against the cop," Midkiff said. "He would rub the dog's back and then push him away. All of a sudden, he just jumped down and shot the dog in the head."
Though Thierbach later claimed the dog bit him, Midkiff was adamant that he could see both the officer and dog clearly and that no bite occurred.
"That dog did not bite that officer," he said. "The dog was wagging his tail, his tongue was hanging out."
Carpenter whipped around when he heard the gunshot. "I saw the blood start to run down his face," he told HuffPost. "I'm watching my dog die while I'm sitting in cuffs."
He also said Arzy, who he raised since puppyhood, was an "incredibly friendly dog" and had never acted aggressively towards anyone. "He was just a big teddy bear that you had to feed," Carpenter said.
Carpenter added that Thierbach "seemed to be fighting back a smile" after the shooting, and when he asked the officer why he was smiling, he "smirked" and replied, "Well, he nipped at my foot."
The Sulphur Police Department and the Calcasieu Parish Sheriff's Office launched a joint investigation into the shooting that found Thierbach "violated the Sulphur Police Department's Departmental Policy and Procedure regarding Use of Force and Personal Conduct and Behavior," Sulphur Police Chief Lewis Coats said in a Thursday news release obtained by KPLC-TV.Thierbach resigned before "final disciplinary action" was taken against him.
"The resignation of Officer Thierbach was accepted so that the officers and community can heal and move forward," Coats said in the release.
I believe that this deserves justice. As does Arzy. Brandon and his supporters have started a FB page Justice For Arzy. Please, visit it, like it, voice your support.

I would be destroyed if some officer shot my pit bull Pinky. 
Thank you to Carly for keeping this issue front & center. I hope this helps.

We support you, Brandon! 

And Arzy clearly was incredible. He must've been, it takes a lot to grab my throat these days.

KJo


Post-script:

Since I was 20, I've rescued many dogs. Especially those considered "hard to place" (slightly older, difficult breeds like pit bulls or German Shepherds.) As you guys know from my post Stella, I have a special love for these kinds of dogs. They won't win any beauty competitions, but each & every one of them was kind, obedient, grateful, loving, and non-aggressive.

I love it when someone who's paid 2 grand for their dog from some fancy breeder comes over and is shocked by how well-behaved my dogs are. "You mean they don't eat your shoes? Or bite children? Or jump up on you? Or piss all over your house?"

Nope. None of them have. Some people say I've been lucky. But I know the truth....in almost every case, rescued dogs are eternally grateful. They will never be spoiled. They will love you for the rest of their life.

Now, if someone I know buys a dog from a store (meaning a puppy mill)...well, I'm happy to say that's never happened. But if it did, I daresay I'd like them a lot less. Jackie would de-friend them.

I rescued Pinky from the ASPCA around 61/2 years ago. She was a breeding bitch, used to breed fighting dogs.
She was starved. Here are 2 pictures from the day she was rescued (By a cop, not all of them are bad):


Note the owners' leg to the left, and the officers feet on right. I've thought many, many times about this woman. How well-fed her leg looks. And, despite obvious mistreatment, Pinky was looking at her the way she looks at me...with adoration & love.



See?


She is the light of my life.

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Looking into the Belly of the Beast

July 11, 2014, 4:46 pm
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Belly of the Beast (definition) - To be in a dangerous place.

This has been an incredibly challenging blog post for me to write. I've gone back and forth for weeks, so torn. I considered not writing it at all, or waiting until much later, but I know I can't truly move on until it's out there. I've only told close friends and family, because I still wasn't certain if I wanted to share it publicly at all.

I decided to do so, because even though it's quite harrowing and painful, very personal and deeply humbling, I honestly believe it may give hope to those who need it...People who don't think they can get through terrible events and stay sober. But mostly, I wrote this for people in recovery from opiates who find themselves in a situation where they must take them.  I want them to know that it's possible - that if care is taken, relapse isn't inevitable.

Many of you already know of my should-be-dead experience I had due to my addiction to opiate medication (My tummy blew up in London). If you don't, please get GUTS. Seriously, you can buy it used for 4 bucks. I'm not trying to sell it to you, I was paid handsomely 21/2 yrs ago, and I'll never see another dime. The days of Oprah throwing her weight behind a book & shooting it from #40,000 to #1 on bestseller list are over. Now she's doing important work, like following freshly rehabbed actresses around with camera crews.
But I digress.

The point is, I survived one massive, horrific health disaster, I learned my lesson and got sober. Phew! Dodged that bullet.
At the time I guess I just assumed we each had to survive one massive health disaster in our lifetime. (Until of course, after age 75, when all bets are off.) 
Oh, you silly, silly girl. How wrong you were. What, you thought Bad Health was like lightening? That it couldn't possibly strike the same person more than once?
Bad Health doesn't care how hard you try to be a good person, or whether or not you're sober, or that you try to help others or even that you eat your fucking wheaties every day.
Bad Health finds all these efforts amusing, and even kind of adorable. Because he knows he can hit your life with the force of a hurricane without breaking a sweat, whenever the mood strikes him. A flick of his fingers shatters your little life into oblivion within seconds. 

It's early August, 2013.
Without warning I'm felled by some mystifying illness that causes me to be to weak to walk, or hold my own head up. I wear a neck brace and weep with dread at the thought of having to get up to pee. I  can't walk to the pet store around the corner without constantly sitting on a stoop until the painful lactic acid in my legs dissipates.  But onward I push, glancing at a reflection in a store window, thinking "Oh, look at that poor old lady" before I realize it's me.
I'm scared.
Just a few weeks before I was a relatively healthy, pretty happy, young(ish) woman who'd been through some tough shit and finally loved myself and was proud of my very busy life as a sober person. Now, I'm a terrified bedridden bag of skin and bones.
I see the finest specialists in Manhattan and then Los Angeles. Neurologists, Hematologists, Infectious Disease Specialists, Allergists, Endocrynologists, Epidemiologists, Immunologists, Rhuematologists. Some many times. 
I'm tested for every disease known to man.
I even go to the Mayo Clinic for 2 weeks, where I'm subjected to endless and agonizingly painful tests.
Yet still no diagnosis.

The lowest point is when I'm back home and a kindly Neurologist looks at my Mayo file and says "Kristen, I'm sorry. You might need to begin accepting that this is what the rest of your life will be like."
46 years old. Bedridden. Unable to feed my own dog or shampoo my own hair.
I consider killing myself but lack the energy.

Finally, begrudgingly, I see Dr number 18, Daniel Wallace. He looks at my recent blood work and instantly diagnoses me with a rare form of Lupus, Lupus Myelitis. Only 1-2% of all Lupus patients have this form, which is where your immune system begins attacking your spinal cord.
I find out much later that if I'd waited even a few more weeks, odds are I'd have been a paraplegic. 
After a week in the hospital, and infusions of steroids, chemo and IVIG, I begin to be able to hold my own head up. Within a few weeks I'm back at work, and by our shows hiatus in February I was slowly starting to feel like me again.
It doesn't even cross my mind until my mother says something, much later....that not once, in all those Dr's offices, through all that despair and terror--Never once did it occur to me to ask any of them for painkillers.

I had looked into the Belly of the Beast and survived, sober.
Phew! Dodged another bullet. Miracle! Who dodges two medical should-be-dead disasters?

 If only I'd known that Bad Health had simply fired the first salvo. A warning shot. He was far from done with me.

In late May, a few weeks before work began again, and just as I was beginning to feel as though I was truly over the terrible hump, I fell while hiking.
I had no idea that due to the incredible amount of steroids I'd been infused with to help treat my Lupus, my bones had become very porous & brittle. Someone may have mentioned this to me, but with all the reams of information I'd been given about my disease, I clearly didn't retain this little tidbit. Oh, how I wish I had.

Instead, I walked with Pinky near the Hollywood sign, enjoying my newfound gift of wellness and energy. It was magic hour, so we finally sat on a mound not far from my car, and enjoyed the sunset. I thought about work, and how I couldn't wait to arrive on set feeling great, my old energy back. I was so happy to be alive.
Before I knew it, it was dark, but I wasn't worried. I'd wisely left my hazards on, and Pinky and I confidently strolled the final 50 feet or so back to the car. That's when I stepped into nothingness.
I fell at least 3 stories on to a flat grassy knoll that might as well have been cement. After I caught my breath, I knew I was hurt, badly. My left arm jostled about, clearly badly broken. I could barely breathe. Everything hurt. I knew I was in terrible trouble, but didn't yet know that in addition to shattering my upper arm bone, I had broken my collarbone, shoulder blade, pelvis, foot, and nine of my ribs. I had also punctured my lungs.

 All other hikers had long since wisely departed, and were likely enjoying a spaghetti dinner surrounded by loved ones.
No one knew I was here. My roommate David didn't know, I'd told no one.
Despite an enormous cell tower mocking me from the nearest hilltop, my phone had no reception. I had a brief, hopeful fantasy of Pinky finding the nearest house and pawing madly on the door, barking until the owners followed  her into the pitch black night. But that hope was soon dashed. Pinky is many things, sadly she's no Lassie. 
I screamed for help, over and over and over until I passed out. I came to and screamed some more. I did this for three hours. Finally, out of mad desperation I began scooping twigs with my right arm into a small pile next to me. I shakily took out my lighter, intent to set the mound  ablaze. I never considered that I would likely go up in flames as well. A huge, idiotic funeral pyre. Shock, pain and the will to survive seemed to drain all common sense.

Thankfully, before I set fire to the Hollywood sign, the Hollywood Hills, and myself, I heard a far away "HELLOOOO?"
"Yes!!!!" I screamed, hoarse and desperate "Helloooo!!!! I'm hurt, call 911!!!"
The voice came closer.
"My friend has already gone home to call 911. We found Blinky wandering the neighborhood looking lost! He's so sweet!"

And for reasons I'm still baffled by, this is the moment I decide to be a snotty twat. 
"It's Pinky"I corrected him "And she's a girl!"
silence.
Oh no. I blew it. Dammit. Now my incredibly slender corpse would be found by hikers in a month. 

Twenty minutes later, I heard the familiar whoosh of helicopter blades, followed by the sirens of two fire tucks and an ambulance. The helicopter hovered just above me, shining it's impossibly bright light on me and blowing my funeral pyre pile all over me. I'd still be picking twigs and grass and brambles out of my hair a week later.
The next while is a blur, mostly due to the extreme agony I was in. I know I was loaded into a stretcher, which jostled my arm and caused me to  pass out. I wasn't sure if I was taken to the hospital by the helicopter or the ambulance, but I told people I was flown. It sounds cooler. Sadly, I recently learned it was ambulance, only after receiving an extraordinarily hefty bill from the ambulance company.

The next things I remember are brief moments of horrible lucidity, followed by darkness, with no comprehension of the passage of time.
I woke up in the ER, to a nurse screaming my name.
I soon found out all ER personnel scream at you, even if it's something like "Can you wiggle your toes?"
Because of the extreme volume of their voices, and the nature of their questions, instead of "MISS JOHNSTON WHO CAN WE CALL FOR YOU?" It sounds like they're saying "YOU ARE A STUPID, IDIOTIC ASSHOLE. WE HATE YOU."
I begin blubbering, passing out, blubbering again. Like a four year old.
"MISS JOHNSTON WE'RE TRYING TO SAVE YOUR LIFE" Is their favorite refrain.
Blubber.
Agony.
As they coldly slice my clothes off me, I manage to gasp "My dog...Pinky" and they tell me she's being taken care of at the firehouse. The shock is wearing off, and now I'm overwhelmed with pain, everywere. Somehow, knowing Pinky's okay combined with unbearable pain inspires me to turn to a nurse and with absolute sincerity, beg her to kill me.
Big mistake.
A horrible, mean Dr. suddenly demands "MISS JOHNSTON, WERE YOU TRYING TO KILL YOURSELF?"
Fury overrides everything else, and I recall looking at him with such disgust and coldness I'm fairly certain his penis didn't work properly for weeks. "Doctor" I gasp  "If I wanted to kill myself, trust me,  I'd be on a very different table right now. I certainly wouldn't have jumped 40 feet with my dog wandering lost and my fucking hazards on."

I never saw him again.
I passed out, only to be rudely awakened by a different Dr shouting "MISS JOHNSTON, WE HAVE TO FLIP YOU ON YOUR SIDE TO INSERT AN EPIDURAL."
Oh, no no no no. I begged them not to. No one yet knew 9 ribs were broken. All I knew was my body was not to be touched, and certainly not flipped!
Despite my pleas, they flip me.
Stars. A searing hurt ripped through me unlike any I'd ever felt, and I couldnt breathe.

After an endless few moments, they flipped me back.
I tried to catch my breath.
When a Dr leaned in to scream "NOW THAT WASN'T SO BAD WAS--" I punched him.
Immediately a nurse leans in "MISS JOHNSTON WE'RE TRYING TO SAVE YOUR--" and I slapped her.
Thankfully, for everyone's safety, I finally fully pass out.
I wake up 2 days later in a hospital bed.

When I recall my antics in the ER, I feel terrible.
But as awful as the bedside manner of the ER staff was (each of whom I'm eternally grateful to for SAVING MY LIFE), the nursing staff of Cedars Sinai are all extraordinary people. I'm not kidding. Every single nurse is smart, kind and sweet.
It turns out I'd had to have surgery to screw a plate to hold all the broken bits of my arm together. But quite honestly, I didn't give a shit about my arm.
Or my pelvis or my shoulderblade or my collarbone or my foot.
How could I? All I thought about were my 9 broken ribs.

The pain was so profound, they summoned a small, elite team of Anesthesiologists trained in the delicate art of blocking nerves. This is a relatively new practice, not yet available in every hospital. A few men who's names escaped me came in with a sonogram machine, and after finding the clusters of nerves between each broken rib, insert a needle and numb them.

The relief is instant, like jumping into a cool lake on the hottest day of the year. I loved these men as deeply as I've ever loved anyone else. They came every twelve hours to kill the pain, which helped me take far less pain medication. Every single Dr and Nurse knew of my history with addiction, I told them all. 

On the second day, my beloved Lupus Doctor, Dr. Daniel Wallace, came by. He excitedly told me that all my blood work indicates that my Lupus is in full remission!
I really didn't care about that at the moment, but his enthusiasm was so infectious I managed a smile and said "That's great!"
"Great? It's more than great! It's incredible, and it means your body will heal that much faster!"

It was a brutal few days, but I finally wobbled down the hallway (with a cane), and was deemed good enough to recover at home.
My assistant, Holly would live with me (my roommate was out of town) and dole out any pain medications.
I had two weeks before "The Exes" began again, and wanted to do everything humanly possible to be 100% by then. I'd put these people through enough with my Lupus bullshit. I worked with a physical therapist almost every day, and by the end of the first week home I'd triumphantly flushed the remaining painkillers down the toilet.

I'd done it. I'd looked into the belly of the beast & survived. 
Again.

But Bad Health had another trick up his sleeve, and like the overwrougt finale to a 4th of July Fireworks, it was the most majestically awful of all.
Just a week before work began, I noticed a very weird feeling in my arm. It wasn't pain, as much as it felt wrong. I mentioned it to the physical therapist, and she moved my arm around a bit. "It's probably just healing."
But the next day it was far worse. It felt like my arm was disintegrating. For three days I walked around in a mixture of terror, pain, and light-headedness.

Oh no. I called Holly to take me to the ER, and the X-ray revealed not only had my plate popped off, but I'd actually re-fractured my arm.
The Ortho intern was incredulous "You've been walking around like this for three days?"
All I was worried about was work. "I have to, have to be at work by Wednesday. Whatever you do, do it now."
Friday they rushed me back into surgery, where a rod was drilled in, from my shoulder to my elbow. 

No problem. A little pain, nothing I haven't dealt with before.

Except Saturday I woke up to the most screaming, evil agony I'd ever felt. They'd had to flay my arm entirely open, taking off the bicep, and screwing in a million screws. No painkiller touched this. I kept begging the nurses for "those nerve block guys" but they couldn't do it without permission of the pain management team.
And the pain team, for some reason, refused to call them. Instead, they loaded me, a known recovering Opiate addict, more and more painkillers. Oxycontin, Dilauded, Methadone, Ketamine. The most intense painkillers available.

All it did was create a wasted person in agony.

The worst hours of my life crawled by, minute by hellish minute, until at 3pm, Dr. Matthew Eng rushed in. I recognized him as one of the nerve block Doctors, and burst into tears.
"Oh I need your help so bad!"

He explained that one of the nurses called him. As he did this, he was jamming a needle into my neck, slowly blocking the nerve clusters that ran down my arm.
Sweet, sweet relief. 
The relief of being lost at sea for weeks and finally seeing a coast guard helicopter.
The relief of finding out your loved one hadn't been on the plane that crashed.
It just courses through you, and overjoys you. The pain is gone.

Dr. Eng wasn't on call that long weekend, but he gave me his cell phone & insisted I text whenever I needed him. I'm not proud to admit I texted him every six hours, as soon as I felt that terrible white hot agony building. And, like clockwork, within 10 minutes he'd be there.

I'll never forget what this kind man did for me. We forged a friendship, and he's become inspired to begin a program of teaching residents about addiction, and how nerve blockers can really help someone like me. I've been invited to speak at a huge conference Cedars holds every year, to educate the Drs and residents about the disease of addiction.

This time, leaving the hospital, I insisted they give me enough pain medicine for 5 days, no refills. It worked out perfectly.

Two days out of the hospital I showed up at work with a huge ugly scar & a sling, limping slightly. But I showed up, goddammit.

In the long run, I know that this most horrible of years has given me countless gifts, many of which I have yet to discover or understand.

But today, I know a few very important things I didn't know before. I know I need to learn how to take care of myself better, and stop trying to save the broken or lost. I need to show myself the same love I shower on others.
I know I can survive a shitload.
I know that there is nothing more beautiful than a nurse and Dr who actually care.

And I understand something about my addiction. Now that Im no longer in emotional pain, opiates worked on me just like they do on everyone else. Because they were taken for right reasons: to help with physical pain.

I'm not saying I'm cured. But I am saying it's possible to look into the belly of the beast not one, not two, but THREE times in one year, and stay sober.



UPDATE

I'm truly blown away by the overwhelming amount of positive responses I've gotten here, as well as on Face Book & Twitter.
I sincerely wish I could thank each of you personally, but that would be impossible. So please know I've read every response I could, and am so grateful for your lovely words. (Except for Fran, who tweeted that as soon as I'm well she's going to punch me in the face for hiking so late, like I don't already deeply regret my idiocy.)

I felt the need to let you guys know a few things...
Many of you have asked how I'm doing today, and I'm happy to report that, all things considered, I'm doing pretty damn good. I began work back at The Exes  2 days out of the hospital, which was challenging the first few weeks, but I think (hope) I've delivered. The scripts just get better & better, so even if I feel yucky, I damn well am gonna turn it ON for the cameras. It's my favorite non-theater job I've ever had, and I honestly think it's every bit as well-written and special as 3rd Rock was. The best part is, I've lived through enough to fully appreciate it... I'm well aware that, as a 46 year old non-facelifted woman, a great role in a brilliant show with people you adore doesn't come by every day. (Or pretty much ever.)

So, I'm healing well. I have a huge motherfucking scar on my left arm, which has been kind of amusing. I've found that when people stare at it in a store all I gotta say are these two words: "Bar fight" and they immediately scurry. Evil,  I know, but I have to amuse myself somehow.

Oh, alright...since you asked so nicely...here it is. (I'm holding a gorgeous crystal butterfly my spectacular friend Steph gave me last week after the taping of the show. Oh, and yes, I'm totally fucking crying, it was one of the loveliest gifts I've ever gotten.)


PRETTY, right? The butterfly, of course. My arm, not so much.

I shared the blog with Dr. Eng, who has decided not only to work on a narcotic reduction program at the Hospital, but also just reported to me that they have recently doubled the number of fellows training to do nerve blocks.
(He was also very flattered, as he damn well should be.)

Many of you have written how strong I am to have made it through all this, and without relapsing. However, I beg to differ. As anyone faced with medical challenges will tell you- you simply do what you fucking have to.

In terms of not relapsing? I believe it has everything to do with the length of time I've spent in recovery, combined with the fact that everyone in my life and at the hospital were well aware that my sobriety matters more to me than almost anything else. 
I literally couldn't bear the thought of disappointing my family, my friends, my co-workers, all of you guys, but especially myself.
It's not strength. I'm simply a woman who, despite having a shitty year health-wise, loves her life. Since I'm no longer self-medicating my depression and I'm simply no longer interested in being "Other," Opiates hold no appeal for me. 
FOR NOW. I'm WELL aware that could change tomorrow, but that's where it stands at the moment.

 A few of you were disappointed that I didn't give the finger from my hospital bed.  Silly people...did you really think I wouldn't?



FINALLY....

I know this isn't some goddamn award show,  and I encourage you to read only if on the tiolet or bored. (Or both.)

I just really wanted to say a public thank you to every single person involved with the Exes, from TVLand, to the compassionate crew (led by the amazing Rusty), to the truly generous and patient cast...what an extraordinary group you are.  I love you all.

But a few deserve some special props:

Mindy Shultheis, one of the executive producers of The Exes. She was astonishing, tirelessly calling the finest specialists in Los Angeles, even coming with me to several appointments.  She basically "produced" my diagnosis. But I'm most grateful to her because when I was truly at my Lupus bottom, she convinced me to see one last Doctor, Dr. Daniel Wallace. They both saved my life.

Mark Reisman and all the writers of The Exes. These geniuses, led by the head writer & show's creator, Mark, did the impossible. Their lead actress got ill two weeks before production started, and they had to basically scrap an entire season's worth of storylines and write around my illness. They never knew, from one week to the next, if I'd be well enough to shoot or not. NOT ONCE did they blame me, or make me feel bad or guilty. (Even though I managed to do that to myself.) I'm dazzled at the incredible comedy they managed to come up with on the fly.

Sheryl and Paula, the two extraordinary souls from The Exes wardrobe department. Sheryl had to dress me lying down more than once, and put up with lots of weeping and feeling sorry for myself.  Paula's small acts of kindness stun me. (The other day, she knew I was having a rough day, so she placed a white rose in a water bottle in my car.) Shit like that. Plus Paula might actually love Pinky more than I do, and lets Pinky fart up her office while I'm rehearsing.

Holly Atkins, an actress & makeup artist who moonlights as my assistant. She went above & beyond the call of duty for me, and has done so many lovely things for me I tear up just thinking about it. One example? She and her boyfriend sat for HOURS with me in the ER. She's someone who forever has my respect & friendship & gratitude.

Last, but far from least, I need to try to put into words what my dear friend and housemate David Dieguez did for me. We thought it would be "fun" to live together in LA... little did he know what he was in for. Month after month, he has been there as a very independant woman suddenly became completely dependent. He did thousands of things for me, bringing me water, taking care of Pinky, cooking me food, all without complaint or even a secret eye-roll. He's also the one who came to the hospital and told me I needed to stop trying to save everyone else, start reflecting that goodness back into myself for a while.
I've never met a better person in my life, and I honestly don't know how I could have survived this year without his friendship.
The fact that he also does BRILLIANT hair is just icing on the cake. Want proof?



Thank you all. I love you.

KJo
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One More Tale

August 4, 2014, 11:36 pm
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I'm so over discussing my past medical woes. Believe me, I can't wait to move on.
But before I do, I knew there was one last part of my tale left to be told, a last chapter, if you will....
The overwhelming reception I've received from people suffering from auto-immune diseases,  have inspired me to share with you a few emails I wrote to a small group of my closest friends & family throughout last fall/winter. 
They are verbatim, with certain names and identifying characteristics removed to protect other people's privacy.
 I'm hoping this can shed even more light on the baffling and chronic disease of Lupus.
While many suffer for years, or remain undiagnosed or improperly treated, I know damn well I'm beyond fortunate to be in remission (for now.)
However, I didn't feel very lucky at the time, as you'll soon see. 

I began feeling terrible in August of last year...


On Oct 5, 2013, at 3:09 PM, Kristen Johnston wrote:

Sorry to write a group email, but I wanted to fill a few friends & family in on what's been up with me.  
First of all, I'm ok, ok? Don't flip out.

Here's the scoop, nuts & bolts:

Over the course of  mid Aug/early September, I began to notice a rapid decline in my physical strength. When lying down, I felt fine. 

But it's become impossible for me to walk a block without resting. Like an old lady. On a stoop. Stairs? Impossible. I take it one step at a time like a toddler. My legs fill up with lactic acid, and my heart pounds out of my chest. My limbs feel like they weigh 300 lbs each. I can no longer lift my purse and my head has literally become too heavy for my neck to hold up.

I kept convincing myself I was just under the weather, not eating right, needed more sleep, etc. (Except none of those were true.) If I DID exert myself (like teaching an NYU class, or speaking after a screening of a documentary I'm in, 'The Anonymous People'), I'd have to sleep at least 24-48 hrs straight.

I finally decided to visit to my internist and he became alarmed at how low my white blood cell count was & sent me to a Hematologist.  After testing me, she suspected I had Anaplasma, a tick-borne illness.

I got on heavy duty antibiotics and the next day I felt a bit better. But then on Monday my health took a huge nosedive. (I prefer not to use the word "relapse," for obvious reasons)...I was teaching class & had to literally hold my own head up with my hands for the last half of it. I could barely walk out of the building.
Turns out I tested negative for tick (but sometimes you can still have a tick-borne illness & test negative)...but also everything else. No issues w: liver, kidneys, heart, pancreas, stomach. I'm totally, shockingly healthy...so she became concerned it could be my bone marrow.
Which would be bad. Leukemia bad.
However, if it WAS cancer, other aspects of my blood results would be abnormal & they're totally normal.
I've been back to her a number of times, each time testing for different things & my white blood cell count.

To get perspective, a normal white blood cell range is anywhere between 4.3 to 10.0. Mine has been fluctuating btw 1.8 to 2.0...which is, like, I dunno, a dead person's? Finally, I went in yesterday for a scheduled bone marrow biopsy - which is supposed to be agony. Dunno why, I mean a huge needle jammed into one's pelvic bone? Sounds fun to me!

However, she took my blood again before the procedure, and suddenly my wbc count was up to 2.8. (From 2.0 a few days before.) This made her VERY happy.  She decided she didn't want to do a very painful procedure unless totally necessary, which made me VERY happy.  I'm going back in 1st thing Monday am, and if it dives again, bone marrow biopsy.
I'm praying that tons of bed rest & turbo antibiotics do the trick.

Yesterday she said that I "completely baffle" her. (Duh. Who don't I baffle?) 
But in this case, she was referring to my blood results. I found out that if it IS a tick thing, all of this is really a new frontier for them, and they're learning new stuff every day. I did have a weird bite on my leg in Ct....so who knows? 
So, it's marathons of Long Island Medium & Dateline episodes for me.

You can all support me by not diagnosing me (I LOVE to do this, too...but YES I've been tested for EVERYTHING, and YES if it's low on Mon I'm getting 2nd opinion, which Dr supports).

If anyone in NYC wants to pay a very brief visit to me next week, I'd love it. I just can't get overwhelmed. (And the house is a mess, deal with it.) I have tons of  friends helping out.

I love you guys, and will do my damndest to keep y'all updated as soon as humanly poss. But don't fret if I don't respond to "how are you?" emails. Doing my best, promise. And the answer today is: better than yesterday. But I haven't moved much, so hard to be definite. Like I said, lounging, I feel 100% normal.

Last, please don't tell people about all this...you are who I'm updating for now & I don't want rumors spread. You'd be surprised how fast something like this can turn into CRAYZEE. 
Sorry if TMI. Just wanted to be clear. 

Love....
K

On Fri, Nov 8, 2013 at 7:24 PM, Kristen Johnston wrote:

Hi my dear friends...

I figured I've put it off long enough and it's time for an update. In LA doing my damnedest to shoot 'the exes' but it hasn't been pretty.

I can't believe it, but after three long months I'm still really, really sick. I've been to a grand total of 12 Drs now, (each numerous times): Neurologists, Endocrynologists, infectious disease specialists, hematologist's, etc etc...
I've had every possible horrific procedure done, CT scans, nerve tests, blood test after blood test...and other than my white blood cell count being terrifyingly low, being unable to walk or stand  & my muscles being so weak I need a brace to hold my neck up, they can't figure out what the hell is wrong with me.

Yesterday, I spoke with 'the exes' producers and we all agreed that I need to go to the Mayo clinic next week and get this shit figured out. Which means I'm out of 2 episodes, which KILLS me. I'm already basically a ghost this season. But I know I have to. Trying to be 'funny' has been the challenge of my life, and this has thrown everything on the show completely out of whack.

I do know what it ISN'T. It's NOT: ALS, MS, cancer, anything involving thyroid or pituitary, a degenerative muscle disease, or AIDS. My liver, heart, pancreas, spleen, etc all normal. My lungs & chest are fine. (Phew!)
It's a complete mystery.

And truly humbling...
Walking up the stairs in my LA house is excruciating, so once I finally crawl up to my bedroom, I'm stuck. I have to have my roommate David or assistant Holly or friends bring me food & take care of Pinky.

I walk like a 90 year old. I need a wheelchair for anything more than 10 paces. Not exactly ideal when you're one of the leads in a physical comedy.

I've lost 25 lbs in 2 months despite eating well & drinking these horrible pressed juices Holly brings me every day.

Look, I'm not writing this to alarm you or get sympathy. I just felt you ought to know.
I'm sure I'll be fine, but almost 3 months of being unable to do anything for myself has taken a toll & I've become weepy.

However, I am still sober.
Don't know how I've managed that, but I have.

I love each of you a lot.
K

On Nov 14, 2013, at 6:20 PM, Kristen Johnston wrote:

Finally at Mayo clinic in Scottsdale, Arizona.

I never would have thought this before, but being pushed in a wheelchair everywhere isn't nearly as fun as this lazy gal imagined.  I mean, you think it'd be kinda cool,  just sitting & being pushed everywhere, but there are really no positives. The Airport?  Your face at everyone's ass level, and I discovered that waiting in the line at security has somehow given people carte blanche to recklessly fart to their hearts content. You're pushed by deeply unfriendly people, until you start spewing 20 dollar bills at them. Curbs mean nothing to these people, and after you're crammed a few times into them, you begin nervously pointing them out blocks away. One of the best parts is being shoved through a door, and they become distracted and the door slams back on your knees.

People discuss things about you behind & above you, as if your inability to walk has spread to your ear canals. Which is why I finally understand why old people are constantly yelling in paranoia "What? What are you saying? I can't hear you!"

I'm pretty used to being stared at, but I gotta say, it's way funner now--not to mention, you all know how much I ADORE when people feel sorry for me. People look at me with pity now. I can read their thoughts "OH MY GOD, what happened to that actress lady?"or "I had no idea that 3rd Rock lady was THAT old!"

If I wasn't sick, the hotel would be amazing. I have to be golf carted everywhere (a HUGE improvement over the chair...I just feel like I'm on a lot).

At the crack of ass this morning, as I was being carted to my car, I watched a very old man & his ancient wife as they hobbled towards the pool & I swear I was overcome with envy.  Because I knew I couldn't even walk that far. Impossible.
Envy was quickly replaced by fear.

In Scottsdale, everything  everywhere you look is brown adobe, which I'm guessing they insist folks do, so as not to distract your eyes from the giant brown mountains. Unfortunately, at certain times of day the effect just ends up  resembling a big ole pile of gorgeously sunlit poop.

Another disconcerting element I didn't consider until today is that the pooh-brown drug rehab I went to 7 years ago is very close to here.

Which is why, at 6am, as I drove through the murky brown morning, I suddenly had déjà vu....There I was, checking myself into another brown adobe building in Arizona desperately hoping  that the people within it would somehow save my life.
Yet again.

The people here at Mayo are incredible. My neurologist Dr. S met with me for a full hour in the am, and following that, I gave at least 1/3 of my blood.

Then, I had a few tests I'd had before (and oddly, didn't miss one bit), except these guys were WAY more thorough. (Translation: MUCH more painful) These tests included the ole "push a needle directly into a muscle & then send electric shocks into that muscle." (In all muscles of legs and arms. Repeatedly.)
Then there's part 2, where they shove a needle deep into you & move it around a bunch & it makes noises & info is somehow poured into a computer. When it touches a nerve it's beyond awful.
But this is just a prelude to another nerve/needle/electricity combo that was so painful it was all I could do not to scream. After I unclenched my jaw, I shakily asked  how many more times she'd have to do that.
She said, without a hint of irony "A thousand."
Literally, one thousand more jolts.
Then, it's time for my wrist. Same thing. 1,000 jolts.

The only way I stayed sane(ish) was by remembering that James Franco movie where he's hiking & a boulder traps his arm & he has to cut it off with a Swiss knife. So comparatively, a few thousand electrodes are NOTHING. The oddest part is, after a few hundred jolts, you kinda get used to it. It evolves from someone jabbing a hot screwdriver into your bicep to a bee stinging your arm over and over. 

At the end of today, I asked Dr S what he thinks it possibly could be so far.
He said we'll know once blood and test results come back, which is a phrase I never, ever want to hear again.

Despite all this I'm VERY glad I'm here!
If you got this, I love you dearly 

Kristen

On November 15, 2013 at 4:36:14 PM Kristen Johnston wrote:

I have a few fun & helpful  tid-bits for all you out there who's always drempt of someday going to the Mayo Clinic:

*When anyone says "Not really" in answer to"Will this hurt?," they're lying.
What they REALLY mean is, "More than childbirth."

*Whenever anyone says a procedure will take "20 minutes," this actually means at least 2 hours.

*Having an MRI finally answers this age-old, burning question:
"What would it feel like to be buried alive with the Muzak version of 'Evita' blaring in your ears, all while Governor Chris Christie jumps up & down over & over on the roof of your coffin?"

Not THAT bad, right?
Except for the fact that it goes on for 90 mins straight.
Oh, yeah...and you have to remain perfectly still the ENTIRE TIME.
Which means your face instantly becomes unbearably itchy. It's mental torture. All you can think about is that itch on your nose. On your chin. On your arm.
"Don't think about the itch. Don't think about the itch. Don't think about the itch."

*Last, just when you think "You know, I'm starting to miss having my nerves stimulated with painful electric jolts," are you ever in luck!

Today, I was treated to 2 hours of having 1st my foot & then my wrist be electrocuted.
She strapped something around my ankle, glued a bunch of electrodes all over my head, and WOOHOO!!!! PARTY TIME!!!!

The lumbar puncture (spinal tap) is Mon. Super excited.
I won't have any answers until Tues.

Of course, I'll keep you posted!

Well, I sure hope these nuggets of wisdom  come in handy for all you "Mayo-niacs" out there!!!

Love
K

On Nov 19, 2013, at 7:34 PM, Kristen Johnston wrote:

It's hard not to get disheartened. After countless Doctors ( in both NYC & LA), and two weeks here at Mayo, they still don't know what's wrong with me.

Dr. S said it's a 50/50 chance it's either a bug bite & immune system went haywire, OR I have something else, Transverse Myelitis, a neurological disorder affecting the spinal cord. OR something else.

So, the treatment for 1st option is to infuse me every day for an hour with steroids. If I show no improvement, it's time for a muscle biopsy (which can be performed at back in LA at Cedars Sinai). Everything is "and then we 'll move from there."

The GOOD news is, no cancer, bone marrow clean, no tumor etc.
My wbc count is 2.7, which still sucks.

But there is definitely an issue with my nerves & muscles. (Duh). He's narrowed it to top of my spine or base of my brain.
So that's the deal. 
I'll be home on Sun & continue my treatment with Dr. L, one of the neurologists.
Dr. S said it's a very confusing case.
No shit, Sherlock.

I'm sure you guys have many questions, so I've asked Dr S to write out his assessment in a email so I can fwd to you all.
I'm frustrated & sad. I just was so hopeful it would be something definitive. I know some of you want to talk to me, but right now I'm not in the mood. Gonna take a bath & crash.

Hopefully, my neurologist in LA can make sense of all these results and give me a goddamn diagnosis.
I LOVE YOU

Thanks for all your support!

I miss you guys.

But mostly Pinky.

Love
K 
Dear Kristen:
Your evaluation to date suggests a problem in the central nervous system (spinal cord or brain) that may be causing you weakness. This is supported by abnormalities found on your neurological examination, abnormal somatosensory evoked potential testing (the one with the little shocks on the wrist and ankle, recording over the scalp with the glue-on wires) and the quantitative sensory testing (the test of feeling with the vibrating blunt stylus as well the warm and cold blocks on your hand and foot). Unfortunately we still can't specifically diagnose you, but great news in that there is no evidence of anything like a tumor or multiple sclerosis - the spinal fluid and MRI scans of brain, neck and midback are essentially normal.
The preliminary impression is therefore: 1) presumed transverse myelitis 2) possible additional muscle disease of unknown cause (due to a previously mild muscle disorder you didn’t even know you had). Consider this impression as tentative at this point. I have discussed your situation with your neurologist in LA, so he knows where we are.  If, after the prednisode infusion you are not noticeably and measurably improved (in terms of strength)  in 7-14 days, I would recommend pursuing a diagnostic muscle biopsy of the left shoulder (deltoid muscle.).
Sincerely,
Dr. S
On Dec 1, 2013, at 1:04 PM Kristen Johnston wrote:

Hi all....

Thank u so much for checking in....I can't tell u how much it means to me.

Short answer? I'm doing really really bad.
Sorry, there's no 2 ways about it. I am way fucked my friends. Ain't no funny spin I can find.

Basically, what happened is the steroid infusions made me feel slightly better. But 2 days after the 5th & final one I was worse than ever.

It didn't help matters that on Tues my neurologist (very esteemed, kind Dr, in his 60's) looked at all the Mayo results, ran tests & then said that he felt it was time I faced that there was a very real chance I'd never improve.
I was totally shocked.
"Are you saying that at 46 I could be bedridden the rest of my LIFE??!" 
"Yes."
"But... I've done EVERYTHING you people told me to! I fucking went to Mayo for 2 weeks! You need to fix me!"
He didn't know what to say, I could tell he felt bad.
"Look, Kristen, I've never seen a case like this before in my life. And I'm old."

Whatever. He took away my hope. I hate him. I'm switching Doctors on Monday.

So that afternoon my family arrives (staying at a hotel, trip scheduled long ago). My mother, sister & her family came to this giant house I'm renting & of course I'm lying upstairs in the bed like Baby Jane & I burst into tears when I see them.

I'm the girl who once left for a semester in Sweden at 15, a semester in Colombia at 16, & moved to NYC at 17 & has always been fiercely independent. I'm now utterly bedridden & unable to take care of herself.

It was decided that I should join them at their hotel for Thanksgiving. (I'd been in Mayo & hadn't even thought abt it...David was leaving to see his family, and I sure as hell couldn't be here alone for three days.)

So Julie's hubby says he'll make sure to book a sweet room for me & Pinky.  I stupidly insist upon driving myself there the next day. (I drive fine. Just can't walk. Weird.) I guess I still refuse to accept that I can't do anything I used to.

Ok, so let me give you guys a window into the reality of what this is truly like, without any jokes. 
I no longer have any strength in my upper spine, so unless the neck brace is on, my head flops totally forward onto my chest. All my muscles are gone, I'm so, so thin.

In the early afternoon, I begin. All I have to do is toss a few things in a duffle bag, and Pinky & I are off. A task that would take healthy Kristen about 5 minutes.

Here's how it really goes, now that I'm this creature...
Shove stuff in bag. Lie down, rest 15 min until heart rate calms & lactic acid leaves trembling arms & legs.Drag bag to balcony. Despite containing my computer I shove it with my foot until it tumbles down stairs.
Go back to bed, Rest 30 mins.
Pull on leggings. Rest. 
Shirt. Rest. 
Shoes. Rest.
Put on neck brace &  lie in bed, trying to work up the strength to move.
After a long time, I know it's now or never. 
I slowly shuffle toward stairs. Pinky follows.
I sit on stairs and slowly slide my bony ass down each step.
Exhausted, I lie in a puddle at bottom of stairs. My heart pounding, legs aching.
I pull bag on wheels outside & lie on chaise. So utterly exhausted I know I can't even walk back the few steps to shut the door (later, I have to call a friend to do it.)

I stumble down the outer steps to driveway & lie facedown on asphalt, weeping.
Legs trembling, I crawl in car, Pinky hopping in next to me. Rest.
With the last reserves of my strength, I somehow shove the bag in car. 
I sit there, gasping, heart pounding. I can't fucking believe this is my life.
I started this process in the early afternoon. 
It's dark now. I arrive at the hotel at 9 pm.

And that is what it's really like.

I will fight this thing, hard.
But I will not live like this for the rest of my life.
Sorry, maybe I'm a pussy. But I can't be this THING for the rest of my life.

I'm seeing new autoimmune dr & new neurologist Mon (Drs 16 & 17, including Mayo) on Mon.

But now this show I adored, worked so hard on, I'm now  dragging the whole thing down. If something doesn't change in the next week or so, I'm going to beg them to fire me.
Having some dark, dark days, my dear old friends.
Relish your legs. For me.

I really love you.
KJo

On Dec, 16, 2013  at 1:05 PM KRISTEN JOHNSTON wrote:

FINALLY.

It only took 5 months, 2 weeks at Mayo, and 18 Drs to FINALLY diagnose me with.....Lupus Myelitis!!!!


I've been tested before for Lupus, many times, all negative. But last week I saw Dr. Wallace, lucky Dr. 18 and an expert on Lupus and auto-immune diseases, and he was immediately fairly certain I have a rare form of Lupus, Lupus Myelitis (or Lupus Myositis). So, he submitted labs for a very specific Lupus test , and it's positive!

I never imagined I'd be so happy to have a diagnosis of chronic disease in my life.
But at least now we KNOW. At least we can take ACTION. 

I figured you'd have many Q's.... I pulled this from a Lupus website.
It's not curable, but very manageable through meds & nutrition.
I'm in a rush to try to shuffle to work (in 1 whopping scene this week), so there you have it.

Thank you all for your support.
Oh, and all F-bombs removed cus my mom doesn't like foul language.

Love
K

Goddamn Fucking Lupus!!!  (sorry ma)
What is lupus?Lupus is a chronic, autoimmune disease that can damage any part of the body (skin, joints, and/or organs inside the body). Chronic means that the signs and symptoms tend to last longer than six weeks and often for many years.In lupus, something goes wrong with your immune system, which is the part of the body that fights off viruses, bacteria, and germs ("foreign invaders," like the flu). Normally our immune system produces proteins called antibodies that protect the body from these invaders. Autoimmune means your immune system cannot tell the difference between these foreign invaders and your body’s healthy tissues ("auto" means "self") and creates autoantibodies that attack and destroy healthy tissue. These autoantibodies cause inflammation, pain, and damage in various parts of the body.Lupus is also a disease of flares (the symptoms worsen and you feel ill) and remissions (the symptoms improve and you feel better).These are some additional facts about lupus that you should know:
  • Lupus is not contagious, not even through sexual contact. You cannot "catch" lupus from someone or "give" lupus to someone.
  • Lupus is not like or related to cancer. Cancer is a condition of malignant, abnormal tissues that grow rapidly and spread into surrounding tissues. Lupus is an autoimmune disease, as described above.
  • Lupus is not like or related to HIV (Human Immune Deficiency Virus) or AIDS (Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome). In HIV or AIDS the immune system is underactive; in lupus, the immune system is overactive.
  • Lupus can range from mild to life-threatening and should always be treated by a doctor. With good medical care, most people with lupus can lead a full life.
  • Lupus has many different symptoms, and because of that, affects each person differently. Lupus can cause a mild skin rash or achy joints, or can involve the kidneys, heart, lungs, brain, or other internal organs. What most people do not realize, however, is how much effort it may take you to function day-to-day when you have to cope with extreme fatigue, chronic pain, memory loss, medication side effects, and/or visible skin lesions.
  • Lupus is unpredictable: It is a disease of flares (the symptoms worsen and you feel ill) and remissions (the symptoms improve and you feel better). Knowing that lupus is unpredictable may help other people understand your physical and emotional ups and downs as well as the changes that you may have to make to schedules, plans, and commitments.
How is lupus treated?
Lupus symptoms vary from one person to another. In many cases, the best treatment approach is with a health care team that will tailor treatment to your specific condition.
Today, physicians treat lupus using a wide variety of medicines, ranging in strength from mild to extremely strong. Prescribed medications will usually change during a person’s lifetime with lupus. However, it can take months—sometimes years—before your health care team finds just the right combination of medicines to keep your lupus symptoms under control.
There are many categories of drugs physicians use to treat lupus. However, the U.S. Food and Drug Administration or “FDA” has approved only a few specifically for lupus, which include:
  • Corticosteroids, including prednisone, prednisolone, methylprednisolone, and hydrocortisone
  • Antimalarials, such as hydroxychloroquine (Plaquenil®) and chloroquine
  • The monoclonal antibody belimumab (Benlysta®)
  • Aspirin
A rheumatologist, a doctor who specializes in diseases of the joints and muscles, generally treats people with lupus.
Once you have been diagnosed with lupus, your doctor will develop a treatment plan based on your age, symptoms, general health, and lifestyle. 
On Dec 17, 2013 at 3:30 PM Kristen Johnston wrote:

Hi Guys,

Looks like I get to spend another Christmas in the hospital. Can't wait. (actually, I'm so excited to have a diagnosis, I really CAN'T wait.)

Lemme explain: It's official. I have a "Lupus Myelitis" (or Myositis) which is…

"An inflammation of the skeletal muscles that causes weakness and loss of strength. Lupus myositis often affects the muscles of your neck, pelvis, thighs, shoulders and upper arms; difficulty in climbing stairs and getting up from a chair are early symptoms. Later symptoms may include difficulty lifting objects onto a shelf, lifting your arm to comb or brush your hair, getting out of the bath, and even raising your head or turning over in bed."
Gee….that sure SOUNDS EXACTLY like my symptoms. IN EVERY SINGLE WAY.

Yet, NOBODY could  figure it out?????? I'd been tested for Lupus, a number of times, it was negative. What I didn't realize, is there are many different tests. They just didn't do the correct one. (Seriously?!!??)

So heres my deal…..I'm checking in to Cedars 7am Thursday for 5 fun-filled days of IVIG, steroids, chemo and a whole bunch of other stuff. Dr. Wallace said if this works (and he's completely confident it will), I should feel WAY better within a week.
One week.
5 bedridden months spent in a quagmire of confusion & loneliness, and it could have been solved in A WEEK. To say I feel frustration would be a gross understatement…
There's not only the hellacious nightmare I've gone through, the SHITLOADS of money I've spent,  the thousands of hours spent in Drs offices, what my friends, family and all the people who had to endlessly take care of me & feed my dog did…There's also this tv show, that I love so passionately & believe in so much.
I know, I know, it's "just a TV show, your health more important", and of course I agree…but this is my career, my passion, my joy. I love it. I've worked so hard for many years to be sober & sane enough to appreciate it, and to me it's almost as important as anything else.

Just imagine all written scripts & planned plots being tossed a week before production. Not to mention imagine trying to write a different script, unsure if I'd ever be healthy enough to do it. Mark and all of the writers re-writing constantly, never sure if I'd even be able to show up, the actors trying to rehearse w/my stand-in, the stress on everyone "Does she have a tick disease? Oh, Thyroid? Now they don't know? When will she be better? Does she think she can do 2 scenes? Can this be over yet?",  Mindy & all producers in a perpetual state of scrambling & solving, all the talk shows & press I was supposed to do, promotional stuff, all cancelled, Sheryl the wardrobe gal dressing me as I lay on my couch, sobbing, David, who somehow did my hair in same position, while I tried to put on my makeup,  etc etc, etc...

It felt like we all worked so hard  for 21/2 years to reach a common goal & suddenly it was gone.

So many Dr's, so many opportunities to help me get better. So many agonizingly painful tests, all for naught. THAT IS WHY I"M PISSED. 

I mean, why on earth didn't  Dr. L, the guy who said (when I came back from Mayo) " You know, there's a good chance you'll feel like this for the rest of your life", that he was "baffled" by my case, and "had never seen anything like it in his 40 years in the medical field"….Why didn't he JUST SEND ME TO SOMEONE ELSE? 
How can all these Drs Why just shrug their shoulders & give up? How?

I have great insurance, access to brilliant Doctors & hospitals.
So if I was screwed, what about all those other people with no insurance, funds, access to great medical care? What are they supposed to do?

I'm filled with equal parts relief and rage, it's the oddest feeling.
Love, Kristen  


On Dec 22, 2013, at 1:20 PM, Kristen Johnston wrote:

Hi all...

Well, as I'm sure you saw from the multitude of news stories, I have Lupus & am dying. (Kidding! But some of them sounded that dramatic! Slow news day, perhaps?)

I wanted a few weeks to recover from the Lupus before people knew, so I was intentionally non-specific with the press, saying only that it was an auto-immune disorder. 
Sadly, people started saying really cruel things, making up awful rumors... that I had HIV, was dying, was just "trying to stay in the news" (??), even that I'd relapsed, etc.
So the next day I wrote on Facebook that I have Lupus Myelitis, to put an end to all the stupidity.
I would've preferred a month to acclimate to what I have & become more informed before everyone else knew...but as the song goes "You can't always get what you want..."

I checked into the hospital first thing Thurs to begin my treatments and I was shoved in the most depressing, tiny, beige room I've ever seen in my life .
The man next door was older than dirt & clearly the only objective he had left in life was to cough. Endless, loud, non-stop hacks. Then an occasional moan. Silence. Dead? ...and the coughing began anew.
The only thing preventing me from leaving was the fact that I was connected to a machine pumping steroids into me, and that I still can't walk.
I just lay there, getting more freaked out & pissy & weepy until finally Dr Wallace came by. 
"I HATE IT HERE" I said and he laughed.
"Kristen. You have an enormous amount of steroids in you. OF COURSE you're miserable."

We had a long talk about what medication would be ok to give me to chill me out, and we decided one Ativan would be okay. (Benzos were never my thing.) So that helped A LOT. Then, they started with the rounds of IVIG & chemo.

I was there 41/2 days, came home yesterday, and I really do feel MUCH better! I'm still weak & all that, but better.
Dr Wallace has a whole plan for me. Basically, I see him Fri where he's gonna hook me up w/a physical therapist, and start me on a daily pill called Plaquenil that supposedly works wonders.  He wanted to wait to make sure all these IV drugs accepted ok first. I get IVIG infusions every month for 6 months. 
Dr Wallace, a lovely man (who read my book, how cool is that?!), said he's fairly confident I'll be in full remission in 6 months-year.
Until then, I'll get better & better every day.
We hope.
I wanted to start on physical therapy this week, but he doesn't want to push it...he said my body is adjusting to A LOT. 

So that's where I'm at. 
Listen. I know I've said this to most of you...but THANK YOU. For all the love & care you've shown me. The visits, the emails, the concern...I feel very loved.
I can't WAIT to kick this fuckers ass once & for all!
Sorry for the F-bomb ma! But you gotta admit, in this case it fits!!!

I love you all & thank you so much for loving me.

I'm excited to slowly get back to work in a few weeks!

Love
Kristen 


There it is. My story.
Now I can move on.

I hope it helps someone out there feeling lost & lonely.

Love
KJo
↧

I Hate Women

August 10, 2014, 7:23 pm
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 Oh, alright, that’s not quite true, but you have to admit “I hate most women,” doesn’t have quite the same zing. Of course, I’m excluding the women I’m friends with and the women I’ve yet to meet whom I would be friends with. But let’s be honest: most women are assholes.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, it goes without saying that men are assholes, too. But we’ve known that since forever. Ask a man if he’s an asshole and he’ll instantaneously say “yep” then scratch his balls, fart and pass out again. But ask a woman?  Her mouth will fall open and her eyes will well up with tears. Eventually, she’ll stammer “I...I...Of course not! How dare you!” The tears begin to fall “I am a wonderful mother, a terrific wife, a fantastic boss, and a loyal friend. I’m devastated you even asked!” 

She’ll storm out of the room, will never speak  to you again and spread horrible and vicious lies about you until the day she dies. But it’s not her fault. You see, she’s has been raised to believe that the truth means nothing. It’s people’s perceptions that are essential. It’s one of society’s best kept secrets: men are blamed for ruining everything, while the fairer sex, who’s devious and reprehensible behavior has escalated even more catastrophically in the last 20 years, continue to walk away without so much as a slap on their delicate Chanel-laden wrists.

Now, I’ll admit: I’m an actress, and actresses are renowned for being self-involved & icky. Which we suredly are. However, I’ve managed to convince myself that  by cleverly combining  self-deprecation, self-awareness and a decent sense of humor,  I’ve somehow  managed to turn these hideous qualities into charming "character quirks." I think. Anyway, we’re not even talking about me, okay? Jesus.

Let’s get one thing out of the way first: No blog post titled “I Hate Women” would be complete without touching upon how women are represented on television today. Not scripted television, which nobody watches anymore anyway. I’m talking about the scintillating ladies of reality television.  There has been an explosion of reality shows focusing on the lives of “real” women, although to be honest, not one woman I know lives the way these gals do. For instance, if one friend of mine despised another friend of mine & every time they saw each other they tried to blind each other with their acrylic nails, call me crazy, I’m not gonna throw an intimate dinner party & invite them both, hoping that copious amounts of Jesus Juice will magically heal their rift. I also manage to refrain from calling tabloids to feed them awful stories about my friends. So I can’t really relate to these “Housewives.”

But apparently I’m in the minority here. Due to the  insane popularity of these shows, it’s clear that the "dumbing down of women" in this country isn’t just a passing fad, like Chihuahuas as fashion accessories.  Nope, this shit is being fed to all of us in giant, gloppy gumdrops, and instead of waking up with a headache & no teeth, we want more. It’s here to stay. The new "reality" seems to be this: The dumber, sluttier, more talentless & personality-free you are, the more fascinated we are by you.  

In order to be cast on one of these shows, it appears these ladies must meet some fairly stringent criteria, beginning with an unhealthy relationship with booze and hopefully drugs. Normally, I have a real soft spot for a good addict, being one myself.  What’s not to love? What a shame then that almost every single one of these gals also happens to be a stupid, vapid asshole. I don’t care who you are, the combination of addiction and a low IQ will get you nowhere with me. It will, however, get you a five-year, multi-million contract with a network.

 Along with an addiction to alcohol or dolls, another criteria is an addiction to plastic surgery.  And not that subtle, “well-rested” crap, either. Ideally, upon gazing at her visage, the viewer should be equally torn between giggling and vomiting.  She must have a voracious appetite for money, yet none whatsoever for food. A lack of taste and self-awareness is a must. She can’t hesitate at the idea of mortifying her husband, friends and children. And  finally, she must crave fame, drama and attention, at the expense of all else in her life.

And here you thought getting cast on a reality show would be a breeze.

 Once this magnificent monstrosity has met all these criteria, she is cast in the show and another shallow, fish-lipped uneducated asshole is let loose upon the adoring masses. The prom queen wins again, and we love it. I’m not just talking about Bravo’s juggernaut ‘The Real Housewives’, although if there was a film called “I hate women” they would be a shoo-in for the Oscar. 

*It must be said that this isn't the case with all these lovely lasses. Some are hard-working, good people who are genuinly funny. But only a tiny percentage of them. Like, 1 to 2%.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I’ve only managed to stomach a few episodes of those shows before bursting into tears of rage. I can’t help but picture Gloria Steinham or any other feminist  from the 60’s and 70’s watching these shows. I imagine them thinking “Well, if THIS is the equality we fought so hard for, I would have sat at home and read a goddamn book instead.”

These ladies are far from the only ambassadors of odious comportment on television. I wish. Just off the top of my head, there are: the rose-obsessed psychos on The Bachelor,  the expressionless fame-whores on the Hills, the hateful shits on “America’s Next Catalogue Model,” and we can’t forget that utterly noxious family who managed to spin their daughter’s sex tape into world domination. To name but a few. 

Things aren’t all that different in real life. (Well, I’m not sure you can count living in New York City as “real life,” but it’s real to me.) It all began the day I graduated from NYU. The girls I had befriended there were all really smart, funny and ambitious. But the moment we graduated, it was like someone flicked a switch. It me a few weeks to comprehend why so many of my girlfriends had become strangers to me, and one day it dawned on me that the cool girl I sat next to in film class, the girl I spent hundreds of hours discussing the similarities between Buñuel and Hitchcock while baked out of our minds no longer had any interest in becoming the next Amy Heckerling. While I was still trying to discuss ridiculous things like the audition I just sucked at, or berating Demi Moore’s latest film (in 1990, usually a sure-fire conversation starter), all I got in return was a blank stare. It seems my friends now had far loftier goals in their lives: to torment some love-struck bozo until he proposed, to have a huge wedding, and to spend as much of his money as humanly possible.

I’ve never understood the fascination with marriage, which I’d like to tell everyone in my home-town doesn’t mean I’m gay. It just means I don’t see what the big deal is. Maybe I’ll change my mind once I have kids, but I doubt it. When I was younger and would day-dream about my future (which was pretty much every waking second of every single day), I never once envisioned myself married. My fantasies instead would revolve around flying to some exotic movie location with my adorable adopted son in tow. This is when I was nine or ten years old. 

As I grew older, and my friends got hitched, I became even less interested, especially because once certain women are married, they seem to instantly morph into a semi-permanent state of smugness & superiority (which lasts until the divorce or rehab, whichever comes first.) She has won. You have lost. You are forced to act fascinated as she endlessly discusses her wedding in minute detail, even though you already suffered through it in real life. It’s almost as if she knows you got so hammered you puked in the bushes and had sex with a non-english speaking waiter.
   
Once that's been beaten into the ground, she begins to regale you with long monologues that sum up how happy she is.  How sweet her hubby is. How thrilled she is not to be alone anymore (unlikeyou.)  This is when we subtly move into a phase known as ‘The Psychotic Yenta’.  She begins insisting you’re miserable and lonely (you're actually not, unless in her company), and she starts setting you up on blind dates with her hubby’s inevitably homely & dandruff-ridden friends. It isn’t long before you understand that "He used to be a model!" is just code for "He used to have teeth and hair!"
      
This is the phase in which you slowly begin to realize that this woman you once loved has now morphed into a stranger. Not only that, but a stranger you dislike. But you desperately hang on, convincing yourself that the girl you’d skip classes with, the girl who let you weep on her bed for weeks after your 1st heartbreak, the girl who once knew every single word of every Violent Femmes song by heart--she must be in there somewhere. 
   
Sadly, she's gone forever. Because now she has "CHILDREN". And if you don't have "CHILDREN" you can't endlessly discuss the most boring topic on earth, "THEIR SCHOOLING." This is when the relationship finally reaches it’s sad conclusion and putters out.  I mean, if you can't discuss "THE CHILDREN" or "THEIR SCHOOLING," what the fuck else could one possibly talk about?

 I have a special level of disgust reserved for the women who feel that simply because they've had a child, they're no longer held to the same niceties as the rest of us. For example, if you helpfully hold the door at Starbuck's open for them, not only are they absolved from saying "thank you," they don't hesitate to ruthlessly roll their 150 pound stroller over your flip-flopped foot.
        
I guess the screams of HER CHILDREN have dulled HER HEARING, because if you dare to yelp in stroller-agony, you'll be lucky if she allows you a disinterested glance before she skips to the front of the line. 
         
Last year, I had just had lunch with a friend and wandered home, stopping to get an ice cream cone. There I am with my pistachio, happy, enjoying the pretty spring day, when I realize I'd inadvertently wandered to a block where a school was just about to let out a stream of youngsters. This was the calm before the storm. Range rovers & lexus's lined up and many, many mommies all having a good chat.
        
Until I walked by.
         
Because the conversation fell silent, I looked up from my cone just in time to see all of their faces scrunched up into expressions I immediately recognized as pity. I could almost hear their thoughts "Aww, that's so sad! All alone. I remember how lonely I was before Susie. Poor thing…"
         
It’s all I could do to refrain from cramming my melting cone into one of their pious faces. My face burned, and a block later I realized my white knuckled hand had crushed my waffle cone. A bit defensive? Sure. But any unmarried woman above the age of 35 will tell you that it’s not easy. 
       
Has anyone stopped to consider that marriage isn’t the Holy Grail for everyone? That some women are actually happier unmarried? I’m not saying I don’t love men. I adore them, and have wonderful & fulfilling relationships with them (unless they're cheating fuckers.) And I love children. I just happen to believe there are too many kids out there who need great homes, and have no inclination to pass on my faulty genes to another generation. I plan on adopting.

Maybe, just maybe, for some women, a full life means: a healthy relationship, non-toxic friendships, travel, and perhaps a terrific career they excel at. 

The real truth is, I don’t hate women. At all. In fact, I love them deeply. I just hate what some women have become. I’ve watched as women have become their own greatest enemies. I see women on social media terrorize other women simply for supporting a celebrity they hate or following someone they have an issue with. I've seen young women torment each other so deeply I've lost sleep over it. It’s stupid, vicious, and so deeply wrong.

We have to stop the insanity. Because we are the only ones who can truly help & support each other. Without each other, we’re lost. 

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My Brilliant Idea (Update: All sketches sold out in 20 mins!)

August 30, 2014, 6:04 pm
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But please, enjoy this blog ...


The idea hit me a few days ago, out of the blue. 
"Good God, I'm a genius!"

I immediately called my friend, the designer Christian Siriano, who instantly agreed.
(With the idea, that is. Let's just assume he already knows I'm a genius.)
I hope you guys will agree, once you hear my evil plan.

However, before I unveil it, I wanted to build the excitement by telling you a little backstory first....

I know actresses name-drop designers all the time. Constant references to "My dear friend Narciso" or "I'm here to support my friend Marc" or "The funniest thing happened at Donna Karan's Hamptons estate one weekend" or "I mentioned this to my friend Calvin Klein" and the like are plastered all over magazines. 

Unfortunately, I'm probably one of the few actresses I know of who doesn't adore fashion, despite Tim Gunn once telling me at a dinner party that he's always admired my "effortlessly chic style."

*It's also worth noting that Mr. Gunn never returned my calls after saying he was dying to get dinner with me, so I don't know if he meant it or not.  Since I despise shopping with the hatred of a thousand suns, and a great pair of vintage 501's gets me far more excited than any Haute Couture, I'm guessing he was simply charming me. (With great success, since I repeated what he said about me to pretty much every single person I came into contact with for months.)


"But you love my effortlessly chic style, right? Right?"
         At Christian Siriano's runway show with my beloved almost-friend Tim Gunn
(My actual date is the wide-eyed gentleman behind us, John Early)

I've always loved Project Runway, and through the show I began to develop a real understanding of the creativity, artistry and pressure that goes into designing clothes. Since my friend Andy Cohen used to produce the show for Bravo,  he would invite me to attend the runway show finale at the end of each season (an impossible ticket to get, believe me.)  I'll never forget Christian's winning runway show, in person it was even more dazzling. It was clear he was extremely talented...edgy, classical, irreverent, while making women look fantastic. He was also very young,  said "That's fierce!" a lot, and to be honest, I just assumed he was a snotty prick like most designers.

Turns out, I couldn't have been more off-base.  I just love him and his smart, lovely boyfriend Brad Walsh. They are the funniest, least pretentious, generous & extraordinary friends.


Our unlikely friendship began seven years ago, when I was asked to host the Lucille Lortel Awards, a prestigious theater award show in NYC. Flattered they even asked me, I was feeling quite important and prestigious myself, until my manager Becca had to go and ruin it by reminding me I needed to start thinking about what I was going to wear. "Aw, fuck me. Now I gotta find a goddamned DRESS! Goddamnit Becca!"

I'll let you in on a little secret...dressing up for events isn't nearly as much fun as you'd think it would be. In fact, on my "good times" scale, I'd have to put it somewhere between having an impacted wisdom tooth removed and being cheated on. It's just misery, mostly due to the fact that I have never been, nor will I ever be,  a 'Sample size.' A Sample is what they call the one dress the designer creates to be worn on the runway, and it usually ranges from a size zero all the way up to the almost Lane Bryant-esque size 4.
So, yeah, I'm not even in that ballpark.

Of course, most designers will kindly offer to create a gown for you with your measurements...as long as it's for some huge awards show with tons of press.

If it's for anything else, the Sample is the one dress most designers will offer to lend you. Not a copy of that dress, mind you. That exact fucking dress, which was fitted to mold the body of a 6 foot tall 19 year old who's diet consists of radishes and champagne. We all know models are really tall & really thin, but until you see a runway show in person, you simply can't fathom how skinny most of these girls truly are. Sometimes they look like they're about to topple over from the sheer weight of a linen blazer. Most look angry, and who could blame them? You wouldn't be too chipper either, if you hadn't eaten in two years.

Despite the fact that I'd much rather stay home and read a book, due to my profession, sometimes I just gotta bite the bullet and dress that shit up. Over the years, I'd need dresses for benefits or broadway openings or theater award shows, and since there'd be photographers there, I wanted to look halfway cute. This is how I'd end up at some designers showroom, trying desperately to cram my girth into something originally created for a flagpole.

I was good and screwed, because despite being tall, I have a real body, with an ass, a tummy & big ol' knockers, which I'm relieved to say I'm usually quite fine with.  However, there's a special kind of humiliation felt when it dawns on you that not one piece of clothing in a designer's entire showroom fits. Or when 6 people finally manage to zip you into a dress and it rips completely open the instant you take a breath.  Or when you happen to glance up into the mirror just in time to see the designer roll his eyes to his smirking assistant behind your back...oh god. It's just really, really, really not fun.

I wish I could say the horror I experienced was all due to 'Sample' sizes. God, how I wish. Once, I was nominated for a huge acting award and a famous designer was fitting me for a gown. I was standing there zoning out as he and the tailor were crouching down, talking to each other as they pinned the back of the dress. Suddenly, I heard the designer hiss loudly "I KNOW THAT! But what am I supposed to do??!  Her ass is just way too big for this dress!"

It only takes a few words to cut someone in half. 
I pretended I didn't hear what he said, and managed to smile until they left (who says I can't act?)

After I wept thousands of humiliated tears, all that was left was anger.
And that, my dear friends, is when I said FUCK THIS SHIT. From that day forward, if I had to go somewhere fancy, I'd haul my fat ass to Neiman's or Barneys and spend thousands on ridiculously expensive designer dress I couldn't afford and would probably never wear again.
I did this for many years, donating the dresses to charity afterwards. As far as I was concerned, it was money well spent, because I'd rather be broke than ever feel like that again. 

Eventually, I just didn't attend events like that. I couldn't afford to.

Then came hosting the Lucille Lortel Awards. It was important I go, so people knew I was actually alive. Then Becca left me a message saying "Christian Siriano wants to dress you for the Lucille Lortel Awards," and I was filled with mixed feelings.  There was the tiniest spurt of hope, because my dress budget was just big enough to buy something from Forever 21, and only if it was on the half-off rack. But mostly, I was filled with dread.  I was only a few months sober, and I really didn't need some dick tormenting me because his dresses couldn't be pulled up past my thighs.

I immediately called Becca back "Make sure he knows that I'm not a fucking sample size. I'm serious, Becca.  I'm a size 10, sometimes bigger, sometimes smaller. Tell him that."

She called me back a few minutes later.  "He said he doesn't care what size you are. He's a big fan & really wants to make something for you."

I was so touched. No one had ever offered to do that for me before.
Then, I met him. He was warm, sweet, shy, funny and most of all...he didn't seem to be secretly  longing for a flagpole. He just wanted me to look great. We hit it off instantly, and for the first time in my life, I understood the joy of fashion. 

The day we met.

From that moment on, he's dressed me for countless events and talk shows, always generously overnighting dresses for me no matter where I am in the world. I always feel beautiful in his clothes, whether I'm thin or carrying a little extra junk around.

Thin

Junk

Regular

He and Brad spent many weekends with me up at a place I used to have in Ct. (Brad is an incredible musician, and photographer, which is why I have no pics of him!)

I know it's a long story, but I wanted you guys to understand why Christian means so much to me, and what kind of a person he is.

You've waited patiently long enough! Finally, it's time for.....

MY BRILLIANT IDEA

As most of you know, I've been trying for 61/2 years to build NYC's 1st (and desperately needed) sober high school.  Please click here for more info, or go to slamnyc.org.

We're still trying desperately to get a "yes" from the NYC board of Ed. Finally, someone from a very successful consulting group who creates dynamic new schools heard my plea & reached out to me. His company would work with all the confusing political & educational elements so the school can finally happen.

In order to hire this company, we need to raise funds.

Prints of Christian's stunning sketches sold like crazy on his website (in fact he just stopped selling them) so I asked him if he'd be willing to donate a few to help SLAM raise this money. 
He didn't hesitate. He also included 3 Originals, which he NEVER sells!

For the purposes of being able to RT and share the actual sketches, as well as purchase, I'm also including them in a separate blog entry.

If you'd like to buy, please let me know which number you want in comments below to reserve it  & I can explain further steps.

Once we've connected & your money is in, I'll send sketch!

100% OF THE MONEY WILL GO TO SLAM, and toward helping us hire this Consulting company. No one at SLAM receives a salary.

There are 3 originals & 3 prints. Each signed by Christian. (I'm happy to sign on back  as well, thanking you.)

You'll receive a tax-deductable receipt. Of course, if you'd like to donate more, we wouldn't say no!!!

THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO BOUGHT A SKETCH! 
I HAD NO IDEA THEY'D SELL SO FAST! 
I THANK YOU, SLAM THANKS YOU!

ORIGINALS

SOLD OUT
He NEVER sells these, this is very rare event!!!

$500.00 each
11 x 14
Acrylic & Pencil
High Quality Paper
Signed by Christian Siriano

1. SOLD

2.SOLD

3. SOLD

PRINTS

SOLD OUT!
$200.00 each
11 x 14
These are the very last prints of only 5 made.
High quality paper!
Signed by Christian Siriano (and me on back, thanking you if you'd like).

4. SOLD

5. SOLD

6. SOLD

Thank you, Christian!

Thanks everyone! I'll try to find more cool stuff to sell!

Love,
KJo

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The Lost Souls of Social Media

September 14, 2014, 6:26 pm
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For most of my life, I looked down on Celebrities who felt the need to splurt the intimate details of their personal lives everywhere. I've always thought it was tacky. As an actor, I believe it's essential to keep a modicum of mystery so you're believable as different characters. Not to mention, it can make you appear desperate for attention.

If you read Guts, or any other part of this blog, you're probably thinking I'm an open book. But let me assure you, this is far from the case. Certainly, I'm now quite happily honest about certain aspects of my life. But I still believe other parts of my life are sacred and therefore, I keep them as private as possible.  For instance: I rarely share specifics of my love life, friendships, family nor have I ever let a magazine photograph my home.

I was raised to keep everything personal private. I was taught to hide, lie, or say "no comment." From a young age I undersood that whatever you present to people is what matters, not how you really feel. (Is it any wonder I became a pill-popping lush?) Therefore, when Social Media first came along, I completely ignored it. I knew next to nothing about it, except I was savvy enough to know that there is no crueler being on earth than a nameless, faceless entinty hidden behind a computer screen. It all sounded so hideous to me...why on earth would anyone open themselves up to the slings and arrows of the bitter and ball-less?



Everything changed when my book, GUTS,  came out in March of 2012.

As the release date neared, I was completely flabbergasted to discover that instead of the multi-million dollar press machine I was used to when promoting a television show,  I was now pretty much left to my own devices to sell my book. Instead of the nation-wide book tour and packed book signings I'd imagined, all I had were 4 book signings scheduled in tiny local book stores, each attended by less than 20 people. I was baffled.
This can't be right.

The final straw came at one event in New Jersey, when I looked in the store window to see 10 folding chairs, all empty save for  one bored woman eating a sandwich. I began to hyperventilate, and went to the parking lot to call my Literary Agent, torn between fury, humiliation and heartbreak.
"I don't understand, Lydia. Nobody's here. Has no one publicized this??!"
"Nowadays they don't really do book tours." She said "Most advertising is done through Social Media."
"Well, their social media person sucks."
"No, Kristen." She said, with eternal patience. "Most authors nowadays have a presence on Twitter and Facebook. Publishers rely heavily on an author's self-promotion. In fact, unless you're Stephen King, most books nowadays have literally no budget for promotion."
"Are you telling me that they paid me a huge chunk of money, and I spent a year & a half writing this thing with virtually no help--and yet---and yet" I felt myself going faint "No one will know it exists??!!"
"That's right. Unfortunately, it's all up to you."

I joined twitter and Facebook the next day.
And she was right. Talk show appearances, reviews and articles helped, but Social Media has been the most powerful tool in spreading the word about my book. In fact, without it, GUTS would've died a cruel, quick, painful death. It's why I retweet so many positive comments about it. I'm sure it gets rather annoying, and I do try to keep it to a minimum. But I'm all I got, I'm damn proud of it, and I've been determined to do whatever I can to make sure as many people as possible know about it. Every speaking event or book signing have been scheduled by me and my manager.

But the book was just the beginning.
I never could have imagined the great & glorious gifts being a "presence" on social media afforded me. I've met, and continue to meet and interact with truly extraordinary people from all over the globe. I've laughed my ass off, and even made a few dear friendships. It has changed me, forever, and I'm deeply grateful to it.

But by the same token, I never could have imagined the betrayals, frustrations, confusions and hurt that awaited me.

At first, I was dazzled, overwhelmed and so happy that so many people reached out to me to express things they'd never told anyone before. About their own addiction, their son or daughters', their husbands', their fathers', their mothers', their friends' addictions. I was, and still am, deeply honored that people trusted me with their hidden shames and terrible secrets. I've done my very best to listen, and help each and every one to the best of my limited capabilities.

Of course, I've always made very clear that I'm not a specialist, I've had no training in addiction or psychology. I'm simply an actress who who wrote a book. But I'd read and respond to as many as possible, always encouraging people to get real help.

After spending most of my life hating myself, feeling like a fraud, a waste of space....suddenly I was really and truly helping people. It was the best feeling in the world.

Unfortunately, it started to go bad as soon as I tried to establish boundaries with some of these people. Granted, most people instantly did their best to respect my requests. But there are those who refused to, leaving me in a terrible position. As someone who never even understood what boundaries were, let alone which ones were important to me until my late 30's--this was a completely new world.

Here are just a few of the boundaries that matter to me:

"For my own sobriety, I have to ask you to stop contacting me drunk or high."
"You seem to be angry I didn't respond to you right away.  Please respect that I work, have a life and can't be at your beck & call."
"I'm not equipped to handle this kind of crisis, please call 911."
"I've already given you the names & numbers of people in your area who can assist you, and you refuse to call them. Yet you continue to turn to me in constant crisis."
"Please don't write me that you're suicidal. How can I possibly help you? What is it you want me to say? Please call 911 and/or call a close friend/family member."
"I can't meet with anyone from Social Media for coffee. Otherwise I'd never leave Starbucks."
"I can't call your family member/friend and talk them out of their addiction."
"I can't get you an acting job."
I could go on and on and on and on....

You may think these are ridiculous, but each statement above I've had to write many, many times to many different people.

And even then, I can't begin to count how many times they were ignored.

When people refused to respect my boundaries, even people I considered friends, I knew I had no choice but to block them/end the friendship.  A few of them now hate me with a passion, conveniently forgetting the months and months of patience and generosity I showed them. Some have even gone so far as to spread lies about me, my mental health, my sobriety.

I've learned to ignore it, but I can't tell you how challenging it's been to finally feel deserving of boundaries for the 1st time in my life, only to be hated for trying to establish them.

So many people are so damaged and in so much pain. I really understand that.
And, God help me, I know the hell of addiction, and clinical depression.

What has blown me away is how deeply selfish and self-serving so many are. Another person's needs mean nothing compared to their own. They try to force their will upon you, manipulate, lie, pretend, gossip, do whatever they can to have their needs met.
And no matter what you're comfortable with giving, it is never, ever enough.

Once, someone on twitter helped me out with a bullying situation. That person, let's call her Karen, subsequently got involved with some pretty crazy women on twitter. Two other crazies didn't like this, and began demanding that I renounce Karen. But I refused to, because Karen had helped me. I blocked them. For a year since I've been attacked by these two women, one of whom apparently loves to rage about me in her blogs. I've never read them, nor will I.
I've never publicly spoken ill of them, nor will I.
But all this simply because I spoke honestly about my positive experience with Karen?

If you spend all day, every day, attacking people simply because they like someone you don't, something is very wrong with you.

If you attack someone, send them emails, or post their addresses or pictures of their children, or write letters to their place of employment, sadly, twitter will do nothing.

But anyone sane knows the truth: you are sick, and any punishment I could think of probably couldn't touch the miserable existence you wake up to every day.

A week ago, Fagsy Malone (my dear friend and the man who helped me design this blog) suggested I come up with a list of Twitter dont's. And I had every intention of writing a sassy, funny blog about it.

But I'm tired of the awful behavior I see on social media. I don't want to reprimand thousands of grown-ups for behavior they'd punish their own children for exhibiting.

Think about it. Really think about it. Does it make you happy? Do you feel fulfilled? Is spreading hate really that fun for you?

And for those addicted to being a victim, look within. The pride you feel when getting yourself help is something I could never give you.

KJo
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Something Wicked This Way Comes

October 7, 2014, 10:39 pm
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-Julian Baggini

I want to make VERY CLEAR that even though this blog refers to the country singer Leann Rimes numerous times, what you’re about to read has absolutely nothing to do with my personal opinion of her. This is NOT about whether she's guilty or innocent of inciting certain behaviors, nor does it have anything to do with her personal life, conduct, talent, or twitter habits. I’m well aware that people will try to make it about that, but that subject has already been addressed,  relentlessly, by others. I'm not interested.

Instead, I wanted to talk about the behavior I’ve witnessed on twitter that seems to surround Ms. Rimes.  There is an all out, kill-or-be-killed war that’s been brewing for years between Ms. Rimes’ fans and those who...well, aren’t. 

Writing this, I tried to be as objective as humanly possible. Some of my twitter followers adore her. Many of my followers hate her. I honestly don’t give a shit either way. I’m cool with anyone interacting with me as long as they’re respectful of my beliefs. If they are, I’m respectful of theirs.

Frankly, I don’t comprehend the depth of these feelings either way about any celebrity, but recently it's erupted into something much bigger than her.  When it comes to Ms. Rimes...people seem to have forgotten that NOT EVERYONE MUST LIKE THE SAME THING. And, conversely...NOT EVERYONE MUST HATE THE SAME THING.
Last I heard, people have different taste, whether it's music or morality.

I'm the first to admit I'm no twitter angel. I’ve said stupid crap I've deeply regretted, and been drawn into toxic interactions myself, more times than I'm comfortable with. I'm an opinionated gal, and I've often desperately wished I'd been blessed with more grace and tact. All of this combined with the absolutely mortifying choices I’ve made in my past leave me in no position to judge anyone else. Which is why when I've witnessed certain things on twitter that have deeply troubled me, I’ve kept my yap shut."It's none of my business. I don't want the drama."

Until an incident happened last week that made it my business.

Before I get to that, if you’d like to get a small taste of what I’m referring to, and you’re on twitter, search Leann Rimes and see what comes up. I did this recently as I was writing this post, and I was honestly sickened and appalled. 

First, I must warn you: there are thousands of shocking tweets full of absolute, insane cruelty, mixed with many fan/positive tweets. Here’s a tiny sampling of the troubling things people have tweeted Ms. Rimes directly, just in the past few days:
“Fucking clowncunt” “Everyone hates you” “You fucking suck, why don’t you die?” “You’re lazy & fat hubby is unemployable” “Leann is sick cus she looked in the mirror & realized her life sucks” “Ugly whore” “Horse Face” “your stepsons hate you” “You’re a horrible vile cunt” “Cowardly cunt” “barren, childless Leann” "PigWhore""Liar""Laxanne""You make me sick""You disgusting cunt" and on and on and on.

*Since this blog came out many have decided to stop this behavior. Partially due to the blog itself, but also due to other reasons. So to see what I'm referring to, scroll back a few days.

Regardless, as disturbing as those comments are, being attacked is a sadly a cruel reality of being famous today. (Especially being famous and on social media.) Even though I think the comments above are just awful, I'm sad to say some of my followers  engage in this behavior all day long, every day. Despite privately wishing they’d stop already, or at least switch topics occasionally, many are people I truly like, many I feel personally connected to regarding their addictions, after they read GUTS. 

But they are far from the only ones at fault here. Just as disturbing are tweets from Ms. Rimes fans towards her haters. From what I can see, both sides are equally guilty. Jobs are constantly threatened, employers called, peoples children are threatened (in one awful case, a man actually wished death upon someone's  GRANDCHILDREN, simply because she wasn't a  fan. She was utterly devastated.) Accounts are being hacked daily, private information is tweeted,  Social Security #’s  and home addresses are shared, private photographs are tweeted, accounts are spammed until twitter shuts them down, and on and on and on and on and on.

The bullying is relentless.
If someone tweets a compliment to Ms. Rimes, they are immediately attacked for having this opinion.  If someone is critical/mean toward her, they are attacked. If Ms. Rimes tweets a celebrity and they tweet back, the celebrity is attacked. There are lists of “the enemy,” a group of “haters” who must be taken down at all costs. There are false accounts made to torment someone JUST BECAUSE THEY LIKE/HATE A COUNTRY SINGER.

This behavior has forced hundreds to close their twitter accounts, and almost all involved are now “private” due to the harassment. Yet it continues.

I got a small taste of it last week. Ms. Rimes had prevented a blogger & a paparazzi (both of whom have expressed very negative opinions of her) from attending her concert. She had them both escorted out by law enforcement. Both women had tweeted about the concert for weeks, purchased tickets well in advance, and both are gals in their 40's or 50's. Hardly what I would consider a threat. Yes, it’s terrible when someone writes mean shit about you. And yes, paparazzi can be extremely invasive. But, in my opinion, what were they gonna do, photograph her to death?

I’ve been a theater actress all my life, so when my twitter suddenly blew up with the information that police escorted them out, I tweeted my instinctive opinion (and one I still stand behind 100%):  “I'm sorry, but kicking anyone out of a performance you're in simply because they write mean shit about you is the very height of idiocy.”
Immediately after I tweeted “As entertainers, we can’t always chose who our audience is.”

Holy shit. It was like I dropped a fucking bomb on a pre-school. People went apeshit. As you can see, I didn’t name names and it’s 100% my truthful opinion, which I have every right to have. I would have said the same thing regardless of the performer.  My opinion on this was formed by my long theater career and the adage "The show must go on." I’ve been absolutely eviscerated by a major NY critic, and a few months later had to perform my next play knowing he was there to judge me again. I've also had certain people attack me and write terrible blogs about me. It honestly wouldn't occur to me to ban them from a play or taping I was in. 

Once, this crazy guy tweeted he couldn't wait to "teach me a lesson" when I spoke at a recovery event near him in Texas. For days he threatened me with constant physical harm. He wanted to "karate chop my throat"& "take a shit in my mouth," among thousands of other threats.
I simply hired extra security and went about my day. 

Ask any performer what they think of this, and I'm certain they'd completely agree with me. As professionals, we perform. I don't believe Madonna or Kathy Griffin or Taylor Swift or Wynonna Judd would refuse entry to someone who's voiced very negative views on them.

My statement was taken as a personal attack on Ms. Rimes (which it truly wasn't) and a wall of rage and fury slammed into me. I won’t repeat what people said, mostly because it was all kind of a blur,  but there were hundreds of cruel attacks on my career (or, in their opinion, lack thereof), my talent (or lack thereof), my age (can't help that one), my sobriety, my face, my intelligence, my ego, my weight, and in a few cases,  accusations that I was just trying to ride Ms. Rimes coattails (Where to, I have no idea.)

I had to block over 50 people in a 40 minute time frame.  I don't really care,  I'm a big girl, I can handle some shit thrown my way.

But this is just stupid, you guys. It really is. 
It’s become insane, and I've seen it start to really harm people. 
It’s just not okay anymore. 

I want to say this to each of you: 
You can change. Right now. You can stop engaging in toxicity and hurtful behavior right this second. 

If someone wants to chat with their followers about liking/disliking someone, THAT’S THEIR RIGHT. If you don't agree, just block the fuckers and move the fuck on.
If someone wants to state an opinion about someone’s behavior, THAT’S THEIR RIGHT.  If you don't like it, just block the fucker and move the fuck on.

Starting today, I’ll begin unfollowing or blocking any of those who engage in this behavior, which makes me sad. I really like a bunch of you crazy twatters.

I've also disabled the comments section of this post, not because I don't want your feedback. I do.  Sadly, I believe it will become just another forum to trash each other, or Leann Rimes. 
And frankly, I've read enough of that to last me a lifetime.

I hope you understand the spirit with which this was intended. I just want to go back to having fun on twitter, and this nonsense is soul-crushing. For those who read it, and those who write it.

And THAT, my smartass beyatches, is my kumbaya moment of the week.

Love ya

KJo

Update: 

I was truly touched at the amount of incredibly positive reactions this blog received. So many were sick of it themselves, and wanted to move on.
Many said they would really try to change their part in this madness, which I found incredibly brave of them.
A 16 year-old girl I interact with on twitter DM'ed me this reaction: "Oh my God, people are so fucking cruel...It's so high school."
(Yay! Something fun for her to look forward to when she's all growed up!)

Sadly, there were still a small faction of people who missed the point entirely, and instead of  receiving the positive message I tried to impart, decided to once again point out to me how wrong I was to have made the statement about Ms. Rimes's decision to have those two ladies escorted out "before I had all the facts."

My belief is, we perform for anyone, unless we're in fear for our physical safety, or the physical safety of others. Not one person has been able to share any information with me that anyone's physical safety was compromised. 

I think it's rather interesting that of all the people who've insisted how wrong I was, how   "off-base"& "completely uninformed" I was,  that "she had every right to do that"...not one of these people actually makes their living as an entertainer.  So while I may be considered  "z-list" to some of them, the truth is, I've performed in almost 75 plays in NYC for the last 3 decades. I've shot hundreds of episodes of sitcoms in front of live audiences. I've spoken at countless benefits and in front of thousands of people regarding addiction and other issues. 
It's what I do. It's my job.

Which means that I'm actually completely qualified to voice an opinion regarding this matter. 

And to prove my point, I'd like to extend an invitation to those who've ever written cruel comments or blogs to/about me: ANY of you would be welcome to come to a taping of 'The Exes' when we start back up in January. I'm serious.
Finally, I wanted to thank you guys who opened your hearts & minds. I don't expect it to change overnight. A good rule of thumb (for me too!) is to remember that what we tweet says more about us than anyone else.

Thanks for reading.
I'll see you soon!

Love
KJo


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Mrs. Chan

November 1, 2014, 6:19 pm
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Age has never really mattered to me, except the last 2 years of high school.
This is when something happened that propelled me overnight from a gawky theater geek with a terrible personality to the most in-demand invitee to every party.
I wish I could say this was due to my charm, intelligence, humor, or even my staggeringly high tolerance for booze.
But it wasn't.
I had a fake I.D.

You see, back then, before Al Gore invented the internet, fake I.D.s were exceedingly difficult to get and highly coveted.

It all started when somehow, the summer before I turned 15, I got hired for a part-time job at THE coolest store in the mall, The Limited. I wasn't exactly a fashion plate at the time, so they must have been really desperate. One of the managers was a stunning, intimidating and extraordinarily unpleasant girl named Hope. She ignored me completely until one night after work I was mistakenly invited to join the girls for drinks. Everyone else stumbled out after a few hours, until only Hope and I were left. We closed the place, and once she realized I could guzzle 30 beers without vomiting, she began inviting me to get wasted with her after work every night.

Hope was an ancient 21 or 22 years old, a little over 5 inches tall, with enormous boobs and long glossy black hair. She knew every bartender and bouncer at every bar and dance club. Even though her personality was actually just shy of unbearable, after an eighth vodka tonic her habit of loudly making fun of everyone's slightest physical defects was roll-on-the-floor funny.

One night, we spent hours at her place dressing up to hit a newly opened dance club that Hope had talked non-stop about for a week (in between making fun of fat people at the mall on our cigarette break.) By this time, she'd given me an unsuccessful Madonna makeover. (Picture the "Lucky Star" look as worn by Bea Arthur.) We got drunk in her car, put on more wet-n-wild liner, teased the shit out of our bangs, straightened our 7 thousand black rubber bracelets and triumphantly walked to the club. We knew were THE SHIT.
Except, I didn't get in.
I guess this was one bouncer Hope hadn't fucked yet.
She wanted to go in anyway, but we were in the middle of the desolate warehouse district and I had no other way of getting home. So she told me to sit in her Beemer and wait for her.
"But Hope" I tried not to whine "I gotta pee so bad!"
"Ugh. FINE."
She stormed back her car & silently dove me home, her lips white with fury.

The next day at work, Hope seemed over it, and was her usual hideous self. At the end of the day she gave us all our paychecks.
Later, I opened the envelope and saw that right there, cozily snuggling with my paycheck, was very realistic-looking ID. The name and descriptions were clearly not me, but it had my picture and was laminated. Despite the fact that I was now 33, it looked real!
The next day she was folding sweaters and I thanked her.
"For what?"
"For the, you know..." I looked around "the thing with my paycheck."
"Oh that?" She laughed "My brother has a drawer full, and it look him about 4 seconds. It's his job. You owe him $150."

That September, when Junior year started, word got out that I had an awesome fake ID, and suddenly people were showering me with attention and invites.
Heady stuff. Until then, I'd been a life-long stone-cold loser, and I certainly wasn't about to reject my sudden popularity over something as ridiculous as principles. I was wanted. I was needed. I was a goddamn superstar.

Every Friday afternoon in the late-eighties I'd be driven by my friend Dana's brother's best friend to Witowiak's Wine & Spirits or Trixies, or Big Jim's. I'd nervously enter, surrounded by a cloud of aquanet, pink Wet-n-Wild gloss hurriedly slathered on in the car.
Each time I knew this would be the time I'd be caught,
The clerk rang me up and asked for my ID. He looked at it, then up at me.
"Mrs. Chan?" 
"Yes?" I replied, trying to sound Chinese.
At this moment, in any other place in the world, police and parents would be called, I'd be grounded for a month and Mrs. Chan would be cut in half.

Thankfully, I was raised in the midwest.
"That'll be $14.99. You sure enjoy your ten cases of Old Milwaukee, five bottles of Jagermeister and three bottles of Wild Turkey!"
I bowed and turned.
"Oh, and Mrs. Chan?"
 Shit.
"Yes?"
"Hurry back!"


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FINALLY!!!! SLAM update!!!

November 24, 2014, 6:23 pm
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I know you guys have been dying to know about SLAMnyc.org, and any updates...and I FINALLY have one for you!

First of all, whether you've given us $25 or $250, each and every donation has meant the world to us, and is finally being put to good use.

To fill you in, 8 years ago I heard that there were over 30 sober high schools throughout the US.  4 in Boston area alone.
Yet NYC & state has zero.

We at SLAM have worked our asses off trying to get the NYC board of Ed to give us a yes to go ahead with the school, and despite many people passionately supporting the idea, and multiple meetings with the board, we've been unsuccessful.

Our one true champion through all of this has been Erik Bottcher as well as Michelle Lipinski, the brilliant & talented principal of our sister school in Mass, North Shore Recovery High school.
She's come down to meetings at city hall, attended fundraisers, always bringing dazzling graduates of her program.

I have to be totally honest, I was on the verge of shutting SLAM down & donating the raised funds to Michelles school. I mean, after multiple failed attempts to get the board to understand the dire necessity of a program like this, I began to feel hopeless.

Thank God for our passionate board, run by Thomas Krauss, and the exceptional support of Joe Schrank, Dr. Scott Beinenfeld, Julie Michaels, and ALL OF YOU.


We went back to the drawing board & decided, ego aside, THE KIDS are what matter.

Therefore, we've decided to partner with certain already established schools as a jumping off point. We've hired (with all the monies you've already donated to us, and hopefully some more) someone brilliant who can spearhead establishing this program in schools.

We may begin with 5, 10 students in schools, but our goal is to eventually grow to such an extent that the board has no choice but to provide us our own school.

I realize this is a bit general at the moment, and it's all I'm at liberty to provide you with as of yet...but I know many of you have been understandably curious to know where your donations have gone. I'm thrilled to report that we now have a solid plan. It's not what we originally set out to do, but since 8 out of 10 of ALL ADDICTIONS begin in the high school years, and ONE in THREE US teens now meets the criteria for addiction, I say whatever we can do to provide kids with counseling & a safe place to go to begin their recovery, that's a win.

I'll be starting another T-shirt campaign shortly. (NOT with cigarette this time!)

I'd like to ask anyone with a cool artistic bent, feel free to send your designs for t-shirt to either me at @kjothesmrtass, or to info@slamnyc.org

Who knows? maybe your design will be used! the only thing I'd like to be included is our website slamnyc.org, and the logo above (designed by the brilliant @FagsyMalone)

Otherwise, the skies the limit.

As for any of you asking how you can help, at this point, RTing this blog would help the most.

And if any of you are so inspired, NOW is the time to go on our site, click paypal and give what you can. No amnt too small.

Sorry so cryptic, I promise to give you exact specifics as soon as I'm able.

We love you all

Kristen Johnston
Thomas Krauss
Joseph Schrank
Clint Ramos
Michelle Lipinksi
Terrence Noonan


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