I felt like I lived in a cavern deep in the earth without any light. It was the late 1980s, and I was playing out a fast-track career in the movie business. This was my normal routine: partying until 4 a.m., coming home, taking two cold pills with a glass of orange juice, followed by five antacid wafers before passing out.
My wife experienced two miscarriages, and after a traumatic divorce, I was chased into the darkness by serious addictions to alcohol and drugs. I used whatever controlled substance I could find except cocaine (too expensive) and acid (too scary). My dependency truly embodied the dictionary's definition of a tyrant: "Absolute ruler unrestrained by law—a harsh user of power"—and it ruled every facet of my life.
Despite all this, I thought I was fooling everyone into thinking I was keeping it all together. I was successful at work, popular with friends and colleagues, and seemed happy on the outside. But I was only fooling myself. Everyone knew I was in trouble. Nothing made sense anymore, and I attempted suicide.
