In public, I’m a regular comedian. I can make a joke out of just about anything and can make anyone laugh at any time. I make new friends everywhere I go, and women always have a girlfriend that I “just have to meet.” I’m told I can hold a great conversation and really know how to work a room. People say I just know how to talk.
I wear a smile at all times, in all situations.
The people who watch my videos or see me at the club say, “Damn, man, you’re killing it. I wish I could do that kinda shit!”
Through a grin, I say, “Yeah, I’m really blessed, man. It’s a lot of fun.”
When I get back to the house from an event or a dinner with studio executives, my jaw is tired from smiling. I kick off my shoes, put my feet up, and stare at the ceiling.
None of these people know shit…
The familiar dark thoughts start to cycle through my mind. Nobody knows a single fucking thing about what I’ve seen.
I have close friends now. Very close friends. Friends I’ve made over the last few years. We connect by way of the culture or the content we create. But they don’t know what it’s like to withdraw from heroin to the point where the thought of death is a welcome relief.
I have the opportunity for real romantic relationships now. When it comes time to let them in, though, I rarely do. Because of this, things hardly ever work out. Even after the girls get to “know” me, they know nothing about the shame of waiting outside a dealer’s house on bleak days when money was tight and the only way I could stop the withdrawals was by my girlfriend sucking the drug connect’s dick in exchange for a couple bags of dope.
I have colleagues and costars now. I work next to them every single day. They don’t know what it’s like to hug your twenty-two-year-old best friend’s mom at his funeral after he overdoses on heroin after trying desperately for years to get clean. There is no grief like wearing a shirt soaked with your own tears mixed with those of a mother who will never see her son again. And then doing it another two times, or four times, before the year ends.
One of the hardest things in the world is going through life with a secret. Out of sheer laziness or dedication to new business pursuits, I stopped going to Narcotics Anonymous meetings after about six months of sobriety. Even though NA was the only place I could freely talk about the horrors I’d witnessed, it became a chore that got in the way of my workouts, or my writing, or my social time.
So I wrote it off. I stopped going.
The people I grew up with, my best friends from childhood, are gone. People I called brothers my entire life have been annihilated, either dead or still lost in the cycle of despair and addiction—a world we once co-existed in together.
Not only are those people gone, but from time to time, my memories of them fade too. Occasionally, albeit rarely, I slip into a relaxed state of mind, and the pain of it all starts to leave my mind. But that’s the thing about addiction and other traumas. No matter how old that wound is, it never heals completely. The pain manifests itself one way or another, whether we like to admit it or not.
“Mike, seriously, man!” the producer yells through the bathroom door. “What’re you doing? Jerking off in there? Let’s fucking go!”
I open the door. “My bad, man,” I mutter under my breath. I wipe away the last few beads of sweat and walk back toward the set.
The producer marches beside me, his manner frustrated.
“First episode,” I try to explain with feigned confidence. “I just got some heebie-jeebies there.” We reach the set, and I settle back into my seat.
My anxiety, negative thoughts, and chaotic mind are my new addiction. Every single day, I deal with these evils. They have become part of my everyday life, at least for now.
Throughout life, everyone will be hit with obstacles. Many times, giving up seems like the most attractive option. We’ve all considered doing it.
Today, on the first day of the Impaulsive shoot, I could have adopted the popular “Hey, at least I tried” mentality. I could have given up today, right here and now. Thrown in the towel. Told Logan, “I’m sorry, the writing is on the wall. I can’t do this.”
But I didn’t.
I could have said, “The anxiety and stress are too much to bear. They will break me.”
But I didn’t.
I’ve learned that the most important concept anyone will ever need to grasp in life is the notion to not give up, not ever.
I tell myself every day, “You will not give up in the face of adversity. You will look every obstacle, every hurdle, every demon in its face. You will lower your shoulders and drive through that motherfucker without hesitation or regret.”
I believe that’s what separates those who make it from those who don’t. This is the mentality that got me through the most horrific, life-draining days of my addiction, and it is the same mentality that pushes me through every single moment I face today in my new career in this new L.A. world. I tell myself that if I’m able to let this mentality seep into every cell of my body, I can never lose. And this goes for anyone and everyone…that I know for sure.
You will not give up. You will get through this. Just keep moving forward.
I take a deep breath, separate myself from my anxiety the best I can, and begin my first day on the first show of Impaulsive.
And I fucking kill it.
three
1993
U.S. opioid deaths: N/A
“Hold still, Gab, or I’m gonna mess it up,” I said as I carefully chopped off another large chunk of my sister’s hair.
“Mikey, are you sure this is a good idea?” Gabby said. “I don’t think Mom is gonna be very happy.” She stared wide-eyed at the locks of her curly hair falling like feathers to her feet. I gathered a big pile of the hair and threw it into the closet.
“Go look in the mirror, it’s all done,” I said. “You look great!”
She ran off to show our mom her newly short-cropped head.
My sister and I were six and eight years old respectively, just enjoying a normal day in our childhood. I’d always loved pretending to have different professions. On this day, I was a barber. I’d practiced on Gabby right before we were supposed to leave for a day at an amusement park with our family friends.
“My God, Gabby, what happened to your hair?” I heard my mother shriek from the kitchen.
“Mikey gave me a haircut,” Gabby said with a blissful smile.
The punishment was immediate. For the rest of the day, I was forbidden to ride even a single ride at the amusement park. As a consequence of my bad behavior, I was forced to watch as my sisters rode the roller coasters, the waterslides, and the Ferris wheel without me.
From a young age, I knew about consequences because my parents had instilled a sense of right and wrong in me. I knew if I acted improperly, I would lose certain privileges. My parents wanted my sisters and me to become good citizens, so they parented with clear boundaries and moral concepts.
My sisters and I were born into an ordinary middle-class family where our existence was never a fight to survive. We didn’t have to worry about where our next meal would come from, nor did we deal with neighborhood violence or dangerous schools. Instead, we had a family who loved us, childhood activities, sports, a nice home, healthy food, family vacations, Santa Claus, and the Easter Bunny—all the trappings of a comfortable, all-American homelife.