In my youth, there was a hit sitcom in the U.S. I watched called "One Day at a Time". Mackenzie Phillips was a star on the show along with doe-eyed babe extraordinaire Valerie Bertinelli. But as adorable as Bertinelli was, Mackenzie had a charisma that had star quality written all over it.
She was also one of the daughters of "Papa" John Phillips of the 60s group "The Mamas & Papas". And as a daughter of a hedonistic, megalomaniacal rock star (read: bad parent), and as the title of the book suggests, Mackenzie ended up a drug addict and a junkie.
She also reveals in the book that she was a victim of incest, which apparently became the media lightning bolt for the book. Everyone immediately focused on the incest and the monster that John Phillips may have been.
Mackenzie doesn't paint her father as a monster and defends him to the end (she took care to keep the secret until after his death), but an objective look at his behavior, there is no other word for him than 'monster'. Not evil, mind you. Hedonistic and mega-selfish and self-absorbed, which to some may add up to 'evil' when applied to parenthood, but otherwise it's hard to find a description of evil in there, I opine.
I understand why there was so much attention on the incest, it's media sensational. But I don't think her memoir is defined by the incest issue. Mackenzie, herself, is certainly more than the incest, and I think what was compelling about her story to me, was a similarity to other books I've been attracted to and reading recently, which is that hers was a life of . . . difficulty.
I admit I had difficulty sympathizing with her main difficulty, drug addiction, and the difficulty she caused for people around her because of her addiction. It is hard for non-professionals to see drug addiction as a sickness that needs to be treated. Especially when the addict is a star and the money just flows in because of celebrity status.
Drug addicts treat people with impunity just to feel good for themselves, and when their behavior starts hurting people around them, it's hard to understand why they can't take responsibility for themselves, recognize the harm they're causing, and stop taking drugs. It's the ultimate in selfishness, that I suppose many people, in a similar vein, can easily equate with suicides.
I'm not quite sure why I found her story so compelling. Her difficulties aren't something I can relate to. Although the same can be said for the other reads I've found compelling.
I'm not an addict. I arguably abuse alcohol, but it's not an addiction. It's intentional, it has an aim and I monitor the effects. And it affects no one. Is there anyone who can be asked whether I'm an alcoholic and they would answer, "yes"? Absolutely not. Although there are people, I shouldn't wonder, who if told I was, in fact, an alcoholic would respond that they kinda suspected.
But alcohol is still a substance, and perhaps that is what I may perceive to share with Mackenzie or drug addicts. That fucking with reality. The way alcohol fucks with my reality is part of my challenge to reality (which likely has nothing to do with drug addicts' motivations).
I dunno. I relate to Mackenzie's memoir, but I'm not an addict. Alice Sebold's autobiographical "Lucky" spoke of post-traumatic stress disorder, and I related to it, but I can't identify any trauma in my current lifetime to be stressed out about post facto to become a disorder.
And then there are all those high-altitude climbing nuts on Mt. Everest and K2, participating in an activity which I describe as inherently suicidal, but still relate to on some incomprehensible level. It all means something, yo.
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