So Oprah has scored interviews with Michael Jackson’s mom and all three kids (Paris, Prince Michael I, and Prince Michael II, affectionately called “Blanket” by his father).
In the interview with Katherine Jackson, Oprah discovers that Michael Jackson actually DENIED that he was an addict.
omg!! I totally cannot believe an addict would do such a thing as lie. Personally?—I NEVER lied about my addiction. j/k
Oprah, for godsake, tell me some news.
Denial is just fear. … I was in a meeting last night, the topic of which was “fear.” Pretty good meeting. Went around the circle, lots of recovering people talking about how fear means either
Fu*k Everything And Run
Face Everything And Recover
Also how fear motivates some people to move into the danger zone, to become more active and work harder—or, in the words of one guy I enjoy hearing, fear motivates us to sit on the couch watching “Doogie Howser” and avoiding making a simple professional phone call. “There is no reason this phone call would be threatening,” this guy said, “there is absolutely no danger in picking up the phone and making the call, but when I’m in my fear, I am hanging with my internal addict, and he has me watching ‘Doogie Howser.’ It’s pathetic.”
He calls his internal addict “That Motherfu*ker LeRoy.” Because he heard someone else at another meeting call her internal addict “That Motherfu*ker LeRoy,” because someone else called his internal addict that once… and so it goes.
That Motherfu*ker LeRoy: the one who tells me I can’t make a simple phone call.
The one who tells me I’m worse than everyone else out there trying to accomplish anything. Even if I’ve done some fairly cool things. Like, for example, scoring 13 Grammy Awards, 26 American Music Awards, and the best-selling album of all-time. No matter what, if I’m in my addiction, I am The Piece of Shit Around Which The World Revolves (with thanks to my friend Jacques for this saying).
The one who tells me I have to hide in my house, endanger my kids, lie to my own loved ones.
The one who tells me not to accept affection, even as my son comes to hug me and say, “You’re wonderful” (as he did just now). Accepting affection: too dangerous.
My 13-year-old son heard me being interviewed by someone the other day. This person was interviewing me about my addiction and recovery. He heard me answering questions honestly about being “a drug addict” who had “gotten sober” and was now “changing my life” and “trying to help other people”—stuff like that. I thought he couldn’t hear me—I was in the kitchen making dinner (multi-tasking—trying to walk and chew gum), and he was in the living room playing his electric guitar.
Later on, after his soccer practice, he sat down next to me on the couch to watch a show about Jimi Hendrix on TV.
“Mom,” he said, “I heard you talking in the kitchen before.”
That Motherfu*ker LeRoy stuck a needle into my heart and told me to be afraid, Be Afraid Right Now, told me to lie and say it didn’t really happen. It was fleeting, but he definitely spoke to me. Instead I just sat there, breathing. (Meditation really does help)
“Yeah?” I said, watching the ruffles on Jimi’s shirt dance as he played “Hey Joe” and fiddling with one of my son’s fingers.
“Yeah,” he said, “and I just wanted to say that I know how hard it is for some people to do what you’re trying to do, and I’m really proud of you.”