Everybody likes it when Fatty falls down--Chris Farley
Just this weekend, I finished reading the book "The Chris Farley Show." Written by the late comedian's brother Tom Farley, the book is a touching, funny and deeply tragic look at a man who was beloved by many and died way too young. This isn't intended to be a review, but I'll just say this: it's one of the most affecting reads I've had all year.
Pretty much everyone who knew and worked with Farley his entire life--including many of his SNL cast mates--comments in it. It's not a rose-tinted book at all but a brutally honest remembrance of a man who loved to make people laugh, had a deep religious and charitable nature and yet could not control the demons within him. It's one of the most heartbreaking looks at addiction I've come across, especially because it leaves you with no answers. For one, there's no happy ending. And secondly, there's no one who can ask "why didn't anyone do anything" because people tried everything to get Farley off drugs. Whether he had a death wish, wanting to be like his idol John Belushi, is up for debate--and both sides are presented in the book. But what's not up for debate is that Farley was stubborn and had one of the most addictive personalities in the world.
I always loved watching Chris Farley work. He may have lacked the wit of David Spade or the impressionistic chops of Will Ferrell and Phil Hartman, but he was such a charismatic force of nature that it was impossible not to smile at his work. He could get laughs just by hitching up his pants as Matt Foley, rubbing Adam Sandler's leg in the wonderful Zagat's sketch ("ravioli? Holy canoli!") or asking Paul McCartney "remember when you were with the Beatles?" Physically, he was a bull in the comedic china shop and yet he moved with a surprising grace--you can debate whether the famous Chippendales sketch with Patrick Swayze was mean-spirited or not but watch him throw himself into that and try not to laughs. His movie's were hit and miss: I think "Black Sheep" has its moments and that "Beverly Hills Ninja" is one of the worst things ever. But I truly think "Tommy Boy" is something special. Yes, it's a stupid movie. But there's a real heart beating in there that I think a lot of people over look and, had he lived, I think there's a chance Chris could have broken out of his "fat guy" humor and become someone like John Candy, who was funny not because he was fat but because of the characters he created. Farley was hoping to do a Fatty Arbuckle biopic at the time of his death that was widely-believed to be a film that could have shown another side of him.
But alas, we'll never know because Farley loved to live too hard. It's heartbreaking to read the book and recall how his first drink in high school was immediately followed by a binge. It's hard to read about how hard he worked to stay sober through his time on SNL and when on a film set...and then how one relapse and the fear of failure caused him to throw away all that hard work. And it's so sad to hear people remember how there were two Chris's: one the guy who genuinely loved people and always sought out the person who was ignored and disenfranchised...and the drug addict who could be filled with rage, self-loathing and fear.
Coincidentally, earlier this year I also read David Scheff's powerful memoir "Beautiful Boy," about how Scheff coped with his son's addiction to meth. What is so heartbreaking about both books is that they are not written from a distance or told with a clinical dispassion. These tales are told by friends and family members of those who have suffered with addiction. In nearly every page you can hear the heartbreak of watching drugs take over their loved one's personality and the hatred of what addiction does to a person.
I consider myself very blessed to have a life that has been free of much exposure to substance abuse. I've never smoked a cigarette and, in terms of drinking, I rarely have anything alcoholic--and if I do, it's usually one drink. Thankfully I've also been fortunate enough not to have many friends who have succumbed to drug addiction (I'm including alcohol in here because it is a drug whose effects are just as serious as anything else). But I've seen friends who have dealt with addicts and I've watched just how that tears them apart.
I have traditionally had a very low empathy for addicts. Addiction is such a selfish thing and I have a hard time feeling bad for someone who willingly starts trying something they know has the potential to kill them. Watching someone in the throes of addiction is a window into life at its most pathetic and wasted, even when they think the substance is making them happy. But more than anything, I think it's just a rotten and selfish situation that rips apart families. It's definitely not a victimless crime--talk to anyone who has had a family member or friend struggle with addiction and you will hear stories of heartbreak, anger and resentment that leaves no one unscathed.
But I'm beginning to realize that much of my discomfort and anger at addicts comes from a hypocrisy and shame in myself. Because while I have not dealt with substance abuse, I am an addict in my own right.
Addiction is genetic and we're all affected by it. I'm addicted to sin and I struggle with that each and every day. As I read about how someone relapses just because they think they can handle "just one drink" or "it just happened," a part of me cringes because it sounds so familiar. I am addicted to self. My drugs are fear, pride, lying, selfishness, anger and cynicism. And I give into them so easily. Even when I think I've made progress and I'm celebrating my own sobriety, I'm just two seconds away from a relapse as I lash out again or run to self.
What always intrigues me about stories of addiction is that addicts are never able to help themselves. They think they can go cold turkey or survive under their own willpower, but sooner or later they hit a breaking point. They need rehab, medication, sponsorship. The best way to say it--they need intervention. Outside help that will support them, show them just how big of a screw up they are and then encourage them that help is possible.
Sin addicts--which we all are--are hopeless causes on their own. Our addiction, which manifests itself in myriad ways, leads not only to physical death but to eternal suffering. On our own we're not going to overcome this addiction--at best we're just going to put on a mask of false sobriety. Without the intervention of the cross, we have no hope. But with the cross, with that justification, we are given a hope that doesn't fail.
Every recovering alcoholic or addict will never tell you that they've recovered. They still are addicts. Because even though they may not be using, they're still compelled and weak. The condition of a Believer is similiar, except that once we are justified we no longer fear an eternal death. But we still are prone to sin, prone to wander and prone to relapse. Sanctification is a hard, often painful and lifelong process. There's no "zap" moment. No sudden infusion where you're a better Christian and suddenly unshakable. No "levels" of Christianity. You don't die to self in your sleep. It's a battle, becoming more like Christ, and it requires the constant strength of God, the support of fellow believers and the recognition that we can't do anything on our own. Maybe instead of thinking of church services like concerts, lectures or business meetings we'd be good to think of the Church more like an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, where we're brutally honest about our sin, our inability to overcome on our own and the constant struggle and support we need each and every day.
--C
