OB-LA-DI, OB-LA-DA: I'm back; I'm happy; I'm not quitting my job or anything else.

They tried to make me go to rehab. So I went. The end.
Publish date:
May 15, 2012
shoppables, addiction, drugs, skincare, rehab, scientology, steamcream, M

We love each other (taken in March, but still)

What up, thugs! I’m back. I’m actually at work (I got here before noon, at 11:08 AM; you like that?) in Jane’s office – she’s not here yet -- and I’ve spent the last hour and a half wasting my time agonizing over my first post back, which I wanted to be this really poignant essay on my disability leave, on my treatment, on addiction.

I wrote like four different false starts, all of which made me want to Peter Pan out the goddamn window onto Fifth Avenue, they were so depressing.

One actually began like THIS:

I have always felt I am not enough: not hot enough, not pretty enough in the face, not skinny enough, not creative enough, not talented enough. Not together enough, not charming enough, not outgoing enough, not sociable enough, not loveable enough.

These are addict clichés, and they run through my head all of time, like a big electric Jenny Holzer installation (except, you know, without the empowerment.)

lasdlndaf;usfbwefbsda fbubuk;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;

Oh, sorry! That was me falling asleep on the keyboard because I was so fucking bored of talking about that shit and licking my wounds and self-obsessing.

NO. If I were reading an addiction memoir that opened with those paragraphs, I would rip out the front page and use it to roll a Jeffrey just on principle. How dare I? And those things maybe aren’t even true! Because -- between you and me -- half the time I feel very little remorse. AND I have a massive ego, if I really think about it.

I do! LIKE: most of the pre-rehab nights when I wasn't filing stories for this website it was because I was up on speed in my apartment alone, strutting around in a skimpy kimono like Buffalo Bill in "Silence of the Lambs", listening to obscure David Bowie, wearing thigh high patent leather Burberry, chainsmoking Marlboro Ultra-Lights and lovingly, endlessly painting and my face with all the new makeup I get sent at work every day and I am always dragging home by the bagful intending (vaguely) to review.

Then I'd vamp in the mirror. “Would you fuck me?” I'd garble, admiring myself. You know the answer. “I’d fuck me.

(If you want to really freak out your neighbors, the hot song from that famous scene is "Goodbye, Horses" by Q Lazzurus; I suggest you dowload it and play it on repeat, as I often do. In fact, why don't you play it as the soundtrack to the rest of this post!? Multimedia! That's right: watch your geeked out goddamn back, Cory Arcangel.)

More non-working, pre-rehab nights of my little life: it's 6:45 AM. I'm wearing a "Basic Instinct" T-shirt, lilac fishnets, and a bright green face mask that's been on for hours; I reek of self-tanner and whatever the newest perfume is. Crunch crunch crunch. That's me chewing up another Adderall like a Tic-Tac while I leaf through The Keanu Reeves Handbook: Everything You Need To Know About Keanu Reeves:


Again, I haven't felt a single smidgen of guilt about not writing anything even though my morning deadline is approaching. But boy, do I feel -- well, not good exactly, but...well, I'm not feeling much except for not-hungry, the main reason I take speed in the first place. Brilliant!

Then on this morning it's around 7:30 and I'm force myself to do the responsible thing (HA), which is take a few Ambien, a Kolonopin wafer or three (they taste like strawberries and melt under my tongue); I wash the whole thing down with warm vodka-Gatorade left in an enormous laboratory beaker from an afterhours I hosted two nights ago, and then I shove over the huge pile of fur coats and French Vogues piling my bed and pop off for about nine hours. I wake up at dusk.

This easily could have been, say, a typical Tuesday, say, in March 2012.

(I am leaving out all of the hugely wildly glamorous nightclub nights, as not to glamorize my drug use.)

Poor little insecure addict indeed, right? Wahhh. Put the lotion in the basket and then send it to me instead of a chemo patient or whomever, because I am just that tragic, my dears. And by tragic I mean completely selfish, irresponsible and under the impression that the rules don't apply to me -- ever. And you guys are always so sweet to me and supportive, when I'm just...hedonistic and lazy.

Which is why I got yanked into human resources on the afternoon of April 2nd. When I’m feeling groovy, man -- I just don’t give a FUCK about holding down a job. I was put on disability, and had a huge “D” rubber-stamped on both my personnel chart in red ink and on the inside of my wrist like I was a junkie Hester Prynne. (Fine, I just wished this had happened.)

So, anyway, the first thing I did was enroll in an outpatient rehab instead of going away to one (even though God knows I LOVE going away to inpatient rehabs, I did not; the reasons for this are no one’s business but my own!), and go in for an intensive, very helpful intake exam and a wonderful group therapy session with people I truly connected with immediately.

The second thing -- right when I got home -- was start plotting to ditch the already-excellent first one for a different kind of addiction center. One with spa treatments (sort of)! Step One: THIS email, which I have left completely unchanged except for ED NOTES and had no intention of publishing when I wrote it; swear on my grandma Mimi’s life:


My name is Cat Marnell, I live in NYC, and I am an influential and popular, high profile health and beauty editor for media icon Jane Pratt. I write and edit online on xojane.com with a huge loyal following; New York Magazine just interviewed me for a profile, for example -- look for it! I am very influential. [ED NOTE: Remember, I was trying to get free rehab, okay? I am not really this awful!]

I am also addicted to Adderall, sleeping pills and benzos since I was 15 since my dad, a psychiatrist who trained to brainwash me, put me on it for my alleged “ADHD.” I have written extensively about why everyone should go off Adderall, dexedrine, Vyvanse, Ritalin, Concerta, the Daytrana patch and other ADD medicines (I have been prescribed to all of the former) and agree so much with the COS about that. I was livid when the world attacked Mr. Cruise years ago for his brave and absolutely correct arguments on The Today Show. He was correct. My dad (and my mom, a psychotherapist) medicated me into submission from early adolescence and my addictions have plagued me since. I also now am a heavy abuser of PCP, cocaine (snorting and smoking), MDMA and ecstasy, benzos, sleepings pills, painkillers, sometimes crack, on and off again heroin (snorted, at this point in my life at least), various "legal highs", and though I don't have problems with them, alcohol and marijuana. So I believe that I truly need Narconon's guidance.

Now I have this huge platform of readers -- my articles get approximately 100K views per month [ED. NOTE: I have no idea how many views I get; this was completely made up] -- but now, as of Friday -- I have been put, against my will (and at a massive pay cut) on disability. I have insurance and have joined an intensive outpatient program but I believe that Narconon is the only Answer for me. I have read and re-read Dianetics and have attended COS services with my sister several times [ED NOTE: Lies!]. I would like to become quietly involved in the Church of Scientology and spread its messages through my writing. I cannot pay at this time, but I can publicize it in a way that I promise will be POSITIVE and not drawing explicit attention to the ties to the church unless, of course, that's what the church wants.

I really have always wanted to try the COS. I have no family, and believe the Church is the family I am looking for. I am asking you for help. I promise the coverage will be extensive and extremely positive. Help either outpatient or inpatient in Narconon or just as a member at the center here in NYC would be amazing. Again, at this time I cannot pay but my connections to celebrities like Jane Pratt and her extensive network of celebrity friends like XXXREDACTEDXXX XXXREDACTEDXXX XXXREDACTEDXXX XXXREDACTEDXXX AND XXXREDACTEDXXX are very close. My own close celebrity or otherwise VIP connections, including XXXREDACTEDXXX, XXXREDACTEDXXX, XXXREDACTEDXXX, XXXREDACTEDXXX, XXXREDACTED, XXXREDACTEDXXX and his wife and children (our next door neighbors growing up in D.C. and lifetime family friends). I was also a Conde Nast editor for a long time and maintain relationships with many powerful editors there [Ed note: LOL; I mean.].

Thanks so much, and I can’t wait to hear from you,

Cat Marnell

Needless to say, no one from Narconon wrote me back. Thanks a lot, Church of Scientology! I thought you wanted to help all the drug addicts of the world! I shouldn’t have said I didn’t have any money. Dumb mistake.

Anyway, the real reason I wanted to go to Narconon is that the key component of their addiction treatment is SAUNA TIME!

From Narconon's Facebook page

They make you sit in these luxe saunas for hours and hours, sweating out all your toxins. I imagined I’d emerge from a month of treatment there looking like Nicole Richie during her mysterious wasting disease phase, which is what I will call her lap band surgery because I'm feeling generous today.

But yeah, no one answered me. So I am still not a Scientologist. It sucks! I really want to be a part of something. That stuff about not having a family to belong to and being all pissed at my dad is trés true.

The good news is that Jane Pratt has a Scientology sauna at her house, so I can go there -- it's a mini one, and you can go in. One of her rock star friends sweat out all his/her toxins there when he/she was coming off pills, and when said person wiped the sweat off the towel was like purple and black -- crazy!

I can also just join a good gym like Equinox or something, and there are the cutest products to bring along. They are called STEAMCREAM. Aren't they the cutest things ever? There are a bunch of different tins; I lazily am only picturing one:

$18 but who cares

It's a lovely cream with oatmeal infusion and orange flower water that you slather on while you steam (I mean, could I be a lazier writer; use some SYNONYMS for "steam" and "cream", Marnell!), and everything in your pores gets all degunked and dislodged. STEAMCREAM would probably slurp out enough angel dust particles out of my mouth area alone that it would be well worth the money. No, this is not how skincare products work at all.

So there's my really deep first "essay" back for you: what went down before I left, what I did during my disability leave, and what's going to change from here on out. The fact of the matter is, I can break the whole thing down for you in like two seconds. It's a cautionary tale!


The lady, but def technically both us of. Hi Hour!




Is this getting confusing?

Case CLOSED; end of story. Thanks for all your well wishes over the past few weeks. xo Cat

Cat's on Twitter @cat_marnell