I call myself a junkie.
I refer to myself as a junkie simply so I demystify it.
I call myself a dope fiend
because I'm a dope fiend.
This is the "addiction issue".
But, I mean, there are lots of forms of addiction
in the universe.
[pensive music playing]
I was in a good, stable marriage,
writing books for children that were bestsellers.
I was getting more and more work
and more and more fame, and attention, and adulation.
I got more
as my addiction got worse, not less.
My high bottom made that denial
much more pervasive
because it was all working.
It's not working because if you are asking yourself,
"Can I stop this?"
then you're in a prison of your own mind,
and I was in that prison
even though I was fabulous
and all the bullshit part of show-off business.
I had been nursing a secret Vicodin addiction
for a very long time, over 10 years.
Not one person knew except a Brazilian healer woman.
She had been staying with us,
and this was December of '98.
I make dinner,
and buy all the food,
and make the dinner, and wrap the presents,
and doing all my thing at Christmas time.
And she was staying with us.
And I was in my kitchen and I had a pocket full of Vicodin.
I had a glass of wine on the counter.
It was five, you know, it was "Vic o'clock".
I mean, it was just sort of like cocktail hour.
And I pocketed five of them,
you know, put them in my mouth,
took a swig of wine, and from behind me, I heard this"
"You know, Jamie, I see you.
"I see you with your little pills,
"and you think you're so fabulous
"and so great,
"but the truth is you're dead.
You're a dead woman."
That was a first
big, shocking realization
that someone saw it,
that it wasn't secret,
that no one-- that "no one knew".
Now it's January 1999,
and there was an article in Esquire magazine called
"Vicodin, My Vicodin,"
written by a man named Tom Chiarella.
And in the article,
he describes outing himself
by writing the article;
that by writing the article, he knew his doctors
wouldn't give them to him.
He knew that his wife and family
were going to be on to him.
He was outing himself for a secret
that he had been carrying,
and that spoke to me probably louder than anything else.
All of a sudden, I went, "Oh...
someone else is just like me."
So by February,
I went to a friend of mine, early February,
and I went to a friend of mine.
And I kind of-- we both had kids the same age,
and I kind of, like, sidled up to her and kind of like,
[makes choking noises]
and finally, you know, was able to say that I had a problem with--
with Vicodin.
And she looked at me and said,
"Yeah, I know me too. Isn't it amazing?"
And she gave me, at that moment,
the number of a doctor who would write you script.
Because prior to that, I didn't really get it from doctors:
five-finger discount, here and there; I had my ways.
That night, when I woke up,
sometime between sleep and waking,
I had a moment of clarity which saved my life,
which is simply this:
I imagined that she would die,
and I would attend her funeral,
and I would hug her children,
and I would have blood on my hands.
Or I would die, and she would attend my funeral,
and she would hug my children
with blood on her hands.
And in that moment, I understood that it was going to kill me.
And I called a friend of mine who was in recovery,
an old colleague of mine.
And I was terrified about being a public figure
and walking into recovery centers
and being around recovery.
And I was terrified of it.
And I said to my friend, who was long time in recovery,
I said, "Is there any way somebody famous
can meet me
and go with me into a recovery room?"
And a woman called me, and I met her,
somebody I had never met,
and she walked in with me,
and I've been sober since that day.
[contemplative piano music swells]
The beautiful part of
being able to acknowledge your own
illness-- being an alcoholic,
being a drug addict--
to call yourself
an alcoholic or a drug addict is a badge of honor
because the secret, the shameful secret,
is the reason
why it is such a pervasive illness in our industry,
in every industry,
in every socioeconomic strata,
in every country in the world.
It is the secret shame that keeps people locked up
in their disease.
I'm sober today.
Am I going to be sober for the rest of my life? I hope so.
I'm going to do everything I can to be,
but I'm saying I am an addict
and I am in recovery,
and I work a hard, good program,
and I pay a lot of attention to it,
but it's a pernicious,
pernicious disease.
I've broken ribs twice last year,
and I had to take the very drug that I loved.
I was required to take in order to be able to-- to exist,
but I did it in a very carefully,
very prescribed,
very monitored way with a lot of contact.
There was no secrecy.
I wasn't hiding it.
Like, it was out.
The bottle was on the counter,
my husband was, like-- everybody knew.
You know, that's a big change for me,
but, I mean, I'm an addict, so I'm-- I'm--
I'm in recovery. I'm not recovered.
Never will be, but I am working on it.
[pensive music continues]
[music fades]