From Spotlight to Shadow and Back Again: A tale of love, addiction and self-love
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The shit-show that was life was not always so. Early in life I came to realize I was blessed with God-given talents. How did I know they were from God? Well, the talents I possessed, no one in my family possessed. No one could draw, paint, or sculpt. No one could dance, sing, or act. No one could create stories and put them to paper. So, where did these gifts that came naturally come from? My only explanation was: if it was not genetics then it must have been given by something bigger than myself; a higher power.
Of all the gifts, dance was my passion. The closest I felt to God was in the studio sweating from the execution of intricate combinations of rhythm and physical prowess. I felt the embrace of God as I turned the empty space of a stage into a canvas on which I could create visions charged with emotion, depth, and vibrancy.
With dance I could be unapologetically myself. It was my therapist, my best friend, my companion, and my lover. My first true addiction. Countless hours of literal blood, sweat, and tears made for a journey that sent me to the stars; I believed I was invincible, that nothing could get past my armor and ground me. I was sorely mistaken. I was injured during a rehearsal for the spring concert at the school I attended.

photo by Ryan Grant
Knee crushed by the misguided desires of a ballerina donning her newest dance skirt without considering her partner or the dancer’s code. You never change the dancer or rehearsal code unless discussed with all who are accountable. Vanity once again preyed and fed on the defenseless, taking no prisoners. Within mere seconds I went from center stage of a prominent gilded theatre to a sterile and cold operating theatre.
My career was derailed, not to mention, what I believed, my life. Makes for one hell of a resentment, coupled with a full on “back-turn” to my higher power. This is when my faith in God started to wane. This is when I turned my back on God and eventually dropped my basket. I slowly became addicted to my painkillers, of which I slowly washed down with copious amounts of booze. Yeah, I’m that type. I couldn’t have just one, in any capacity. Consistently living with the knowledge that I was a failure gnawed at my core; like the Nosferatu.
Depression imprisoned me in a dark and cold cell. I was lost, and grieved over the death of the most important spiritual entity of my life. Delusion set in, and I convinced myself after a year that I had processed and healed from the event. The only thing that healed was my body. My heart, soul, and spirit were far from it. I used drugs and alcohol to mask and dull the pain of failure, the ridicule of defeat, and the utter confusion and loss of identity. When one skill set is injured another one steps in to compensate. Another talent took center stage: the actor. I could change my mask at the drop of a hat. Though I could not soar to the rafters anymore, at least physically, I could still cut a rug. I embarked on a new journey fueled by drugs, alcohol, and denial wrapped up in makeup, rhinestones, and stilettoes. I had arrived! I was a glamorous drag queen. That’s what was projected on the outside: confidence, invincibility, and grand fearlessness. On the inside I was a frightened, empty, and lonely shell of a human being.
It wasn’t long before my facade started to fray and unravel, leaving me cowering at the bottom of the darkest emotional pit, devouring myself to the marrow. I single-handedly accomplished every single hedonistic, criminal, and pathetic manipulative act I swore I would never do. I betrayed my very moral fiber. I tore everything I stood for down into a pile of shit. Looking up to the light above; I wondered, “Isn’t that where I came from?” The spotlight. It came to mind that I belonged there, in the light. This would be the first step toward recovery. It happened decades ago. Yet, it took its sweet precious time to set in, so to speak. The journey has been just that: a journey. One that I wouldn’t trade for the world.

Photo by Ryan Grant
I managed to claw and climb my way out, breaking my Lee press-ons and Jimmy Choo’s on the way. I took the boy out of the dress and put on a new layer of costume, hiding the addiction I clung to. I became quite the functioning alcoholic. I buried my emotions and feigned well-being all the while donning a car salesman smile. My skills of manipulation blossomed so as to put a Venus flytrap to shame. This went on for decades through careers and relationships, each well crafted, groomed, and toxic in their own right. It was a deplorable spectacle of desperation and self-loathing.
Near the end of the show, what I thought to be the final act, I had become so isolated and despondent, so saturated with booze and self-pity that I couldn’t recognize the creature in the mirror. The show had gone from a gloriously optimistic musical filled with lights and laughter to a grotesquerie filled with misery and hopelessness; the darkest of Greek tragedies. I longed for the release of it. So much so that I didn’t realize I was subconsciously, systematically, and slowly committing suicide.
With the help of family, a dear friend, therapy, and what I would later come to understand was God, I finally started to wake. It was very important for me to understand that it wasn’t the script that life wrote for me that was the problem. It was me. It was always me. I’m an alcoholic; I’m wired differently. Much like being a homosexual, I did not choose to be. I simply am. It has now been almost three years since that day. I have relapsed once in that time which lasted seven months. I wasn’t finished yet. I still hadn’t been convinced that I could be, much less deserved to be healthy, to love myself again. God had other plans for me. You see, even though I turned my back on God, it didn’t turn it’s back on me; it never left. I was always being watched over, for there are many occasions I should have not been able to get up and walk away from.
It hasn’t always been easy, life still gets lifey, but it is simple if I stop trying to run the show, put in some action, gratefully play my part and follow the suggestions of a better equipped director. I keep my lipstick around; sometimes you must send in the clowns.
Thank goodness for dress rehearsals. With a new director, an ever-changing cast, and a few rewrites, the shit-show has transformed. Due to the fertilizing power of itself, it is an ever-evolving and thriving garden of love, hope, and serenity. I am eternally grateful to have a leading role in it. No matter what, life will happen, and the show must go on.