Radical Love: Learning to Accept Yourself and Others, page 1
Radical Love
Copyright © 2022 Middle Man Productions
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published by Harper Horizon, an imprint of HarperCollins Focus LLC.
Book design by Aubrey Khan, Neuwirth & Associates, Inc.
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The information in this book has been carefully researched by the author, and is intended to be a source of information only. Readers are urged to consult with their physicians or other professional advisors to address specific medical or other issues. The author and the publisher assume no responsibility for any injuries suffered or damages incurred during or as a result of the use or application of the information contained herein.
ISBN 978-0-7852-3676-4 (Ebook)
ISBN 978-0-7852-3675-7 (HC)
Epub Edition April 2022 9780785236764
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022930124
Printed in the United States of America
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I dedicate this book to my mom, Susy,
and all those like her, who left us before knowing
how truly loved they really were.
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Preface: The Book in Your Hand
Prologue: The Way Things Work
1. Stop Running
2. Get Help
3. Be Open
4. Look Behind You
5. Tell Your Story
6. Know Your Type
7. Just Be
8. Find the Patterns
9. Hit Bottom
10. Check Your Ego
11. Learn to Forgive
12. Love Yourself
13. Keep Going
14. Find Grace
About the Author
In telling my story, my deepest desire is
to encourage you to tell your own.
Then, perhaps, we can finally learn to radically
love, radically accept, and radically forgive
ourselves and each other, at last.
PREFACE
The Book in Your Hand
The book you have in your hand was supposed to have been in your hand a year ago. It was written. All but finished. Just a few final tweaks and I was ready to hit send. It was, I hoped, a powerful and compelling tale of my mental health journey from the depths of despair and depression to recovery, culminating in my greatest—or, at the very least, best-known—professional achievement: being cast in the title role of the movie Shazam!
At that point, the subtitle of the book was going to be “From Suicide to Superhero.” Because that was my story. I had reached the point where I didn’t want to go on living, and then a month later I was back to work with a new lease on life. I’d been to hell and back and come through, more or less, in one piece. I wasn’t magically “cured”; I still had issues to work on and I was working on them. But I had an uplifting tale to tell about hope, perseverance, acceptance, and, above all, radical love. Wanting to share my experience to help others, I started doing interviews with various podcasts and publications, and a very kind editor at HarperCollins reached out to inquire if I’d be interested in putting my thoughts and experiences down in a book.
I’d never once imagined my life story being important enough to take up a whole book that other human beings would pay actual money for. Still, given how vital and important it is for our society to address the subject of mental health, I felt that if I could use my story and whatever platform I’ve been given to help anyone out there who’s struggling, it would be a worthwhile thing to do. I think vulnerability is important. I think it’s a superpower. It feels awkward and scary to be open and real with people, but it has only ever brought positive things into my life. Plus, I genuinely feel it’s a part of my responsibility to talk about the struggles I’ve had. Maybe I can write something informative and illuminating, I thought, and hopefully even a little entertaining as well. So I sat down and poured my heart out and wrote the book. It was pretty much ready to go and the sequel to Shazam! was just about ready to film, and then: Boom.
The whole world shut down.
Then it exploded.
In the spring and summer of 2020, the Covid-19 pandemic hit and sociopolitical unrest exploded nationwide in the wake of the killing of George Floyd. My work and my life ground to a halt, and my mental health cratered along with them. The relative stability and peace of mind I’d fought so hard to build proved to be far more fragile than I’d allowed myself to believe.
The manuscript for this book sat and sat on my desk, waiting for my final edits. I was so crippled by anxiety and depression I couldn’t even bring myself to look at it. And besides, did anyone out there want to read “From Suicide to Superhero and Back to Suicide Again”? I didn’t imagine they would. I picked up the phone, called my editor, and explained where I was and how I didn’t think I could make my deadline.
“But that’s not even the biggest problem,” I said.
“What is it?” he asked.
“The ending,” I replied. “It doesn’t work anymore. Because I didn’t come through it, and I’m definitely not okay.”
So the book went on hold along with the rest of my life, a rough year went by, and now here I am back at the keyboard, typing again. Not merely because I’m in a better place, though I feel that I am, but because that rough year brought me to a place where I finally understood the ending. I came to the very, very, very hard realization that my mental health journey doesn’t have an ending. I’m not “fixed.” I may never be “fixed.” But it’s okay that I’m not. I may never be able to repair all of my brokenness, but I can love myself in spite of my brokenness. I understand that now. So even though my journey hasn’t come to an end, I have come to the end of the story I want to share with you.
Which leaves us only one question: Where to begin?
Honestly, we could pick any number of points. We could start with me throwing myself onto a community theater stage to get the love and approval of strangers that I never got at home. We could start with my Grandma Pat chasing my naked mom out of the house with a butcher knife. Given what we know about how generational trauma works, we could start in Civil War–era Missouri with my maternal great-great-great grandfather’s drinking problem. Or maybe try my dad’s side in Colonial New England and start with my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandmother being put on trial for witchcraft. That could be fun. But I don’t know that we need to go back that far. This story, the one I want to tell here, starts out the same way a lot of stories do nowadays.
It starts with a ping.
PROLOGUE
The Way Things Work
AUSTIN, TEXAS
AUGUST 2017
My phone let out a ping! I reached into my pocket, pulled my phone out, and clicked on the notification to see an email from my agents back in Los Angeles. It was about an audition for the lead role in the new DC superhero movie, Shazam!
It looked interesting, but I immediately saw a problem. I knew the Shazam character a bit. As a kid, I’d always been more of a Marvel comic book fan than a DC comic book fan, but even among DC fans, Shazam—or Captain Marvel, as he was originally known—is a bit of a niche character. He’s Billy Batson, the fifteen-year-old kid who only has to say a magic word, “Shazam!,” and he’s instantly transformed into a superhero, which is pretty much every kid’s dream. I also knew that Shazam has an archnemesis, Black Adam, who’s basically Shazam’s Bizarro-World twin. The role of Black Adam had already been cast, and he was going to be played by Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, former WWE world champion and current Biggest Action Movie Star in the World. Obviously, it was not lost on me that The Rock and I do not look like twins. It seemed to me like they were probably looking for a John Cena type of guy.
I read over the email a couple of times, thought about it for a bit, then emailed back. “Aren’t they looking for dudes that are, at the very least, super jacked, if not super famous, for this?” I asked. And God bless the assistant, whose reply might as well have been: ¯_(ツ)_/¯
It felt like my agency was throwing me a bone, trying to make me feel like I was in the mix for big projects while knowing full well that I had no shot at getting the job, so I declined, saying I didn’t want to waste everyone’s time. And that was that for me and Shazam: Wasn’t meant to be. Was never going to happen. On to the next thing.
Or maybe there wouldn’t be a next thing. I can say now that this was my real fear. It had been five years since my TV show Chuck had been canceled by NBC. I’d worked steadily since, but my phone wasn’t ringing off the hook with major offers. I was secretly afraid that my run as an actor was all but finished. On top of that, while most of my friends were off getting hitched and settling down, my marriage had imploded, just
What I can say, in hindsight, is that I was suffering from a tremendous amount of anxiety at the time. I had, in fact, been wrestling with anxiety and depression and fear and self-loathing my entire life. I just hadn’t known it. I knew that I got sad and that I had my ups and downs, but I 100 percent did not think of myself as someone with serious mental health issues. I didn’t know what anxiety and depression really were, at least not from a clinical point of view. When I finally did learn the depths of their meaning, it was a revelation: “Wait a minute . . . if this is what anxiety is, then this is what I’ve been feeling almost every waking moment for most of my life.”
Up until that summer I’d always managed to white-knuckle my way through my problems, self-medicating and finding ways to keep myself propped up without ever realizing how emotionally fragile I was. And when it came to the subject of my own mental health, I was functionally illiterate.
Coming to terms with the full scope of my ignorance about mental health was upsetting for me. I’m a person who’s always prided myself on my ability to tackle complex problems and figure them out. One of my favorite books as kid was this oversized picture book called The Way Things Work. It had page after page of these fun cross-section illustrations showing you “This is how a pulley works” and “This is how an elevator works.” I used to sit and look through it for hours. I’ve always been fascinated with that kind of stuff. Even though I’m an actor, and therefore an artist by trade, I think I’ve always had more of an engineer’s brain. That brain has helped me many times in my career, having the ability to analyze how the business of Hollywood operates, taking the system apart to figure out the best way to navigate it. But that same mind was completely flummoxed when it came to understanding how its own inner mechanisms functioned. I didn’t understand the cause and effect between the traumas I’d experienced as a child and the behaviors I was wrestling with as an adult. I didn’t understand that so much of my insecurity came from outsourcing my sense of self-worth to forces beyond my control, such as whether or not Hollywood casting directors liked me. I didn’t understand that the reason my marriage had ended wasn’t because I’d failed, but because I was broken.
When you don’t understand how a machine works you can’t ever hope to repair it, and because our understanding of mental illness is so poor, the ways we try to cope with it often end up making it worse. We don’t respond to our negative feelings—we react to them. To respond to something is to carefully weigh the causes and consequences of a decision while understanding our own motivations for making that decision. To react is to let our reptile brains operate by knee-jerk reflex, leading us into cycles and patterns of self-destructive behavior. We explode with road rage when we’re stuck in traffic. We lock ourselves in our rooms and block out everything except that inner voice telling us that we’re worthless and stupid. We turn to drugs and alcohol to try to numb ourselves. We even do things that don’t seem to make a whole lot of sense, like turning down once-in-a-lifetime opportunities to star in major Hollywood superhero movies.
When I passed on the audition for Shazam!, I told everyone, including myself, that it would be a waste of everyone’s time because of the Dwayne Johnson thing. The truth is it was mostly a knee-jerk reflex of self-sabotage. I had been through so many career disappointments, and my initial enthusiasm for moving to Austin was being battered by waves of panic and self-doubt. With my confidence at such a low ebb, I couldn’t bear the thought of being rejected again. If I’d gone back to LA and tried out for that job and failed to get it, it would have been part of my destruction. So my subconscious lapsed into that old, familiar defense mechanism: let me reject them before they have a chance to reject me. And that’s how I let such a golden opportunity slip away.
But, like I said, I didn’t know any of that at the time. In my mind, I had arrived in Texas for a bold, new adventure that was going to lift me up and fill my life with the meaning and purpose it had been lacking. In reality, I was standing on the edge of a cliff, and the ground beneath my feet was about to give way.
ONE
Stop Running
Taking care of your mind should be no more embarrassing than taking care of your teeth. We all need to be proactive—to brush and floss, our minds to root out the lies we tell ourselves and the bad programming that drives so much of our behavior. We don’t. We do the opposite. We pretend and project out to the world that “I’m great!” and “We’re great!” and “Everything’s fine!” But it’s not always fine, and because we refuse to admit that, we do nothing, and all of a sudden what started out as a little cavity is now in need of a root canal.
• • •
Society places a terrible stigma on mental illness. We judge people for it in ways that we never would for other kinds of health issues. If you tell someone you’re physically ill, they say, “Oh gosh. I’m so sorry. What’s the matter? Talk to me.” There’s no stigma attached to it. From cancer to the common cold, people want to make sure you’re okay. But when you swap out “physical illness” with “mental illness,” then people seem to start pondering, Well, how unstable is this person? Is it time for a straitjacket and a rubber room? Which makes us ashamed to talk about it. We shouldn’t be, but we are—and I was, like so many other people.
It took a long time for me to recognize how much help and healing I needed. When I moved to Texas, even though I didn’t fully realize it yet, I felt hopeless and alone. I’d been white-knuckling through my problems for so long, barely holding it together, and I was petrified of what people would think of me if they knew the truth about what a broken, horrible person I was—or thought I was. My marriage had begun and ended disastrously. My mother had passed away, which I thought I’d dealt with but in fact had not. And my work, which had always been the load-bearing wall keeping my self-esteem propped up, had started to crumble.
Even when I was doing well, Hollywood had never been a healthy place for me. I don’t know if it’s a healthy place for anyone, really, and from the time I started booking jobs in television, even at the age of nineteen, it was unbelievable to me the way the system worked. Or, rather, didn’t work. It was broken to the point of being not only inhumane, but also inefficient. Like too many industries, Hollywood is a place where the people in power will do whatever they can, within the law and sometimes not within the law, to make as much money as they can for themselves, and because of that, it’s a place where human life isn’t valued. Not more than money, anyway. For actors, it can be emotionally debilitating. For crew members—everyday people trying to earn a decent wage—it can be downright exploitive.
* * *
Trauma bends our minds into incorrect thinking patterns, so much so that we can barely see or think our way around them.
* * *
Within a few months of being inside the Hollywood machine, looking at it with my engineer’s brain, I thought, There has got to be a better way. Moving to Austin was an attempt to find that better way. I wanted to build a new kind of studio, a better machine, a place where people who love film and who love to tell stories can live and work and play, and find the feelings of community and connection that don’t exist in Hollywood anymore. After seventeen years of dreaming about it, praying about it, and waiting for it, that summer I finally decided to do it. Searching the country for the right location, I found Austin, which felt like the Promised Land. It was groovy. It had an incredible artistic vibe—and no personal state income tax. I came out with a couple of buddies, and we drove all around and started scouting parcels of land around the city. “This is it,” I decided. “I can feel it in my gut. I have to do this.” So I sold my house in Los Angeles, put most of my belongings in storage, packed everything I would need to start my new life into a U-Haul, hitched it to the back of my Ford Raptor, and headed east. I rented a small house in the neighborhood of Travis Heights to serve as a temporary home base while I closed on a gorgeous parcel of land I’d found—seventy-five acres on the Colorado River—with the hope of finding investors to come on board and help make my dream a reality.
