I sat on a bench on Broadway in the Upper West Side, sharing a cold-pressed juice with
a homeless guy wondering what normal people do all the day when they're not expecting
to be killed at any moment. My phone dinged and I figured it was the Director of one of
the Betty Ford's checking in on me. It was Ivanka Trump thanking me for helping her
with a birthday video for her dad.
I guess people think about normal things in life like money, religion and politics. What they
would spend a million dollars on. What they would hate to spend a million dollars on.
You've probably thought a lot about what you would do if you came into a large sum of
money, a winning lottery ticket, an inheritance from some distant relative, or an
authentic Declaration of Independence hidden in your attic. Answers vary, but can center
around procuring houses and cars, traveling the world, and heroic philanthropic
endeavors. The possibilities are only limited by your imagination.
Now imagine taking that money and spending it on your mental health.
What? That's not what you'd use it for? I did. Over my lifetime, I've spent over a million dollars on
shrinks, prescriptions, name brand rehabs, and off-brand nuthouses. I also bought
houses and cars, went on trips, and raised money for worthy causes. I even had a BMW con-
vertible because I approximated that's what a normal dude like myself would like,
but turns out, I don't like to drive.
So what would you absolutely hate to spend a million dollars on? Paying people to
dredge up the darkest memories in your brain to figure out why you're an alcoholic drug
addict has to rank up there, right? At least top three. Despite my spitefulness over the
cost of my mental care, it's the reason I'm alive to write this.
I can't just die now and let this million-dollar brain go to waste.
Assuming you read my first book,
God, If You're Not Up There, I'm F*cked
, you know a
bit about my history. In case you didn't, I'm a New York Times Bestselling author, and
the longest tenured cast member in
Saturday Night Live
history. I took over as
announcer after Don Pardo passed, and appear on camera occasionally as Bill Clinton. I played Clinton in an underground
bunker for Vice President Dick Cheney and Speaker of the House, Trent Lott, and have held private audiences with four U.S. Presidents (five including Trump).
Those are some of my proudest accomplishments, but not who I am. Who I am is a WWII vet's son who learned to imitate other
people's voices as a way to keep his mother
from abusing him. Someone who has seen supernatural evil in the eyes of the person
who brought him into this world.
I've been treated for everything in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental
Disorders and have been prescribed enough pills to fill a beanbag chair weekly. I'm on a
first name basis with the gardeners at all the best rehabs, and have read enough
psychology and self-help books to teach a college course. Each time a new doctor gave
another name to what was wrong with me, I felt that immediate wave of relief that I might
finally get to be normal, followed shortly by the nagging pissy voice in the back of my
head assuring me that I couldn't be fixed. That voice was always there, and almost always right...