37 Back to Work
THIRTY-SEVEN
Back to Work
Brrringg… !
I was glad Wlad wasn’t there so he couldn’t see how many bottles I threw out with the recycling.
Thank God he’d hadn’t seen our pantry, where I stashed the three-ounce bottles of Fireball you can buy at gas stations.
One swig of Fireball burned my throat, then sent heat down my chest, into my arms, and through my torso.
My shoulders relaxed and my heart swelled as I welcomed the bliss, then the nothingness.
Addicts aren’t patient people. We want and need instant relief.
Well, whoever invented Fireball sure knew the meaning of “instant” because the second I felt that burn, the anxiety was gone.
Brrringg… !
I rolled over and wiped my eyes, and a dull pain seized my head. My stomach turned over, and I sat up, feeling the room start to spin.
Oh my God, I need a drink, I thought. If I get a drink now, I can get out of bed and make it to work.
My hands were shaking as I reached into the drawer in my bedside table to grab a bottle of Fireball. There was nothing there, so I got up and ran to the bathroom to check the medicine cabinet. Nothing. I walked into the hall and headed toward the kitchen. It was right about then that I stopped.
It’s 6:00 a.m., I thought, and I’m trying to get drunk.
The first thing I’d thought of when I woke up was alcohol. Not my child, not my job, and not the rest of my life. I needed a drink to function—at 6:00 a.m.—and that was fucked. If I didn’t get some help as soon as possible, I was fucked.
When Kaya was four months old, between season three and four of Nashville, I went into treatment for the first time, leaving her with Wlad.
It was a hugely expensive facility devoted to one-on-one care, and I had a doctor and an army of experts ready, willing, and able to cater to my every need.
Trust me, it’s easier to detox and recover when you’re being treated like a queen, but it was too far from the real world to give me perspective.
I didn’t have companions to share stories with or people who understood what I was going through.
I didn’t have group therapy or twelve steps.
I left clean, sober, and with an official diagnosis of postpartum depression, but I also went home in denial.
The idea that a little liquid could take me down or rule my life seemed impossible for a tough girl like me.
When season four of Nashville began filming in August 2015, I was hopeful.
So was the cast and crew. But it wasn’t long before the anxiety crept back in, then overtook me.
As a child, my nerves had pushed me forward to prove myself and reach higher, and powered by adrenaline, I’d mostly done it.
But what I was feeling wasn’t nerves. It was anxiety, the hulking monster that sits in your chest and erases your confidence and motivation.
Anxiety buzzed inside me like a fluorescent light, keeping me reactive, on edge, and full of dread.
To help me cope, I had meds, the really powerful kind they’d prescribed me in treatment.
They kept me from cracking, but they had a catch: if I didn’t take them, I couldn’t sleep.
If I did, I slept too much. I’d walked into rehab addicted to one substance, and I’d walked out, completely dependent on something else.
One day early in season four I arrived on set bleary-eyed, still shaking off the effects of my meds the night before.
I’ve never been a morning person, but on Klonopin, I was a zombie.
I couldn’t go on set like that, so I decided that before my hair and makeup artists showed up, I’d put my head down for a nap.
Two hours later, I woke up in the hospital.
“What happened?” I asked, my eyes darting from one end of my room to another. “I have no memory of coming here. Did something happen to me?”
A kind nurse who was about to take my vital signs spoke up. “Someone at your work found you asleep on the sofa and couldn’t wake you up. So, she called an ambulance.”
“Am I okay?”
“You’re fine,” she answered, smiling. “Right now, we’re just monitoring you. You can probably go home soon.”
I went home that night and came to work the next day, but the cast and crew felt the effect. Because of me, we missed an entire day of filming.
Every day after that was a juggling act.
I gave up the Klonopin, and I went to work bloated, exhausted, and jittery.
Every day I ran home, desperate for a drink.
I’d switched to vodka, thinking no one could smell it on my breath, but I was fooling myself.
Vodka smells like vodka. I’m sure everyone knew what was going on, but no one said anything.
When you’re an actor managed by a team who depends on you, people prop you up out of allegiance, blind trust, or a fear of getting fired.
Some call that support, but at times, I’ve called it enabling.
If you’re a writer on Nashville, you can even call it an award-winning drama.
That’s because during the better part of season four, my personal problems were writing the script.
Juliette Barnes had postpartum depression, an alcohol and pill problem, and a divorce on the horizon.
She was erratic, an absentee mother, and fought with everyone—including her fans.
Every time I read the day’s script, it was like I was looking in a funhouse mirror, seeing a distorted reflection of myself.
I can’t tell you how lost this made me feel.
On every show, commercial, and movie I’d done, I could draw a line between my character and myself.
Now, at work, I didn’t fall into another world that was distinct from my own.
I dove headfirst into my own hell. I was suffering from debilitating anxiety and an addiction I couldn’t shake, and I had to live through it twice.
First at home, as Hayden, and then in front of millions, as Juliette.
Something had to give, and I was afraid it was going to be me.