Two years ago, about this time, I had already done the casting to do “Sex Rehab” and interestingly enough, was very excited about the potential of going into a rehab facility for three weeks. Most people I know are not as excited as I was to go to rehab. In fact, most are dreading it as it generally means they cannot drink, drug or do whatever it is they happen to be rehabbing. I spoke with all of my “colleagues,” from directors to agents to other porn stars, and there seemed to be a general discomfort about my casting, and attendance. For some reason, the motivation behind the discomfort of others never entered my brain. I felt only excitement. Like, this will be the perfect rehab for a super whore. I remember my first day perfectly. Nerves. I felt like throwing up. I had to sit in a waiting room, a yellow holding cell of sorts, until the camera’s were ready. Until my roommate had settled. Until everything was perfect for entry.
I felt like the world held it’s breath as I entered Pasadena Recovery Center. All of humanity waited to exhale.
A week passed and feelings came up that couldn’t be denied. Feelings of sadness. Emptiness. A generalized sense of hopelessness. They were feelings other sex addicts on the show were also expressing. To withhold these emotions would be counterproductive. It would be obvious. When Dr. Drew asked what sat behind my wall, the impenetrable wall I lived behind, or inside, a few cool tears fell as I replied, “Hopefully, a really nice girl.” The truth was I had no clue if anything was behind my walls. I knew what the “insides” looked like, my insides between my legs, but not inside my chest. Not in my heart. I don’t know if it ever occurred that bloody thing kept beating, even with all the abuse. That emotional pain felt exactly the same as physical pain, that it registered in the same area of the brain. So when I started sharing those feelings, whether or not they were pornographically approvable, I knew one thing for certain.
I would never be accepted back into the cult that was my former industry.
I’ve spoken with many people about the cult-esque aspect of the adult industry. Just like Jim Jones’ followers didn’t wake up one day and decide to sell their houses, move to Guyana, and participate in a mass suicide, you don’t just wake up one day and decide to live a life of what Charlie Sheen might refer to as “winning.” It takes baby steps. But leaving that cult, leaving an industry as all consuming as adult, it takes a hard, clean cut, and if one is to ensure no opportunity of return, one must do so by being honest about feelings.
Feelings make people in porn feel very uncomfortable, because porn stars should not be riddled with ugly little things like feelings.
Today I went over to the Pasadena Recovery Center to visit with a few cast members from the new season of Celebrity Rehab, at which point one of them informed me I’d been blacklisted from the adult business, to which I said, “Of course I have, Porn Stars can’t have the feelings I can have,” and I’m admittedly a bit perturbed about the idea of being blacklisted. Being blacklisted from the porn-cult. After the million and a half baby steps it took to sink into the lukewarm water of mediocrity that is selling pussy for cash, all it took was three weeks in treatment and then twelve short televised weeks of being emotionally available, and interesting things begin to happen.
The world accepts and encourages those willing to do the work, to be open, honest. The people of the world support those wishing to change destructive ways, those wishing to better themselves, those who’ve made some mistakes and have some amends to make. The world has accepted me, you have held me, loved me with such strong and compassionate arms, and yet, here I am, confused as to why being “blacklisted” from such a small, incestuous and insidious industry would bother me.
Where is Jim Jones when you need him?
The truth of the matter is I should not care because the few people that actually matter from that part of my life, are still on my favorites when you push my super old-school iphone “phone” button. The truth of the matter is there is no leader in the business that can have bragging rights like Jim could have, there was no charismatic head honcho walking young beauties into well lit rooms for gang-bangs to satisfy hunger or leading them to troughs filled with thirst quenching regret. The truth is… “there’s no honor among thieves,” and porn has no face, spine or heart. I had refrained from making any statements about the industry as a whole because some part of me wanted to be accepted. I wanted to be liked by an industry that has a turnover rate of three months and a high school education. I wanted to be liked.
Maybe that’s how the whole thing started.
Whatever it was, or wasn’t, and whatever happened today or didn’t, I left the PRC and drove down the 110 south. Back to the beach, back to my life and back to my home with my man, animals, job, school, and friends. And as I was driving down the 110 South, it occurred to me that nobody gave a flying fuck. Nobody cared the day I went into PRC. Nobody cares about these people that are in PRC. Nobody cares about Charlie Sheen, his “goddesses,” or any of the bullshit nonsense that may or may not come from their lives. What we care about is how it all affects us. And most of the time it doesn’t. Which is kind of, sort of, a huge relief. As lonely and terrifying as it may feel for someone who loves being in front of a camera…
It’s nice to exist with or without that attention. Hopefully, the patients of the new season, and the angry porn stars of yesteryear will find that comfort as well.