Numb

I have always been my own worst enemy.

Oh, my God, you're so late.

- Hudson Milbank. - God, you are so late.

- Hudson Milbank. - You are so late.

Even on the most important day of my career.

I felt overwhelmed by the uncertainty of what I had.

I wasn't the same person anymore.

I was now living in some kind of horrific perpetual dream state,

yet somehow still able to interact without anyone knowing.

Just going through the motions, on automatic.

I'm afraid I'll never get out of this.

My life view was simple.

One, I just wanted to be a happy person with happy thoughts.

Two, we were all a simple action away from complete disaster.

You should slow down, man.

But I didn't want to slow down.

I just wanted to stop my racing thoughts, constant worry and never-ending anxiety.

Little did I know, inhaling a harmless joint 12 times in 12 minutes

could unhinge an already vulnerable brain and send it into the bottom of an abyss.

Jesus Christ!

Jesus!

- You just smoked too much. - Jesus Christ!

You'll be okay. He'll be okay.

I'm fucked!

From that point onward, I would suffer from a symptom so frightening,

it would consume every minute of every hour of every day.

The official term was "depersonalization".

No matter what I did, it wouldn't go away.

So, what was it exactly?

Depersonalization disorder, in brief,

involved the persistent or recurrent experience of feeling detached,

as if one was an outside observer of one's mental processes or body.

Are you okay?

The sense that the external world was unreal or strange,

like living in some hellish dream-like state.

In layman's terms, I was fucked.

- You hear that? - Yes, I did. Is that bad?

Just hold your arms to your side.

Now touch your nose with your forefingers.

All right, you can open your eyes now. You're fine.

That's impossible.

I never joke about the head, son.

My finger hit my nostril. Did you catch that?

- It was close enough. - But what about the "nothing's real" part?

Perhaps you should see a psychiatrist or something.

I also lived substantially below my means.

Not that I was cheap,

I was just terrified of things getting so bad, I wouldn't be able to function.

So I opened up my checkbook,

and found myself in the office of a West Side psychiatrist

who specialized in dealing with creative types

on the verge of losing their minds.

Have you ever heard the word "dysphoric"?

I knew it. I've somehow gone crazy.

No, that's psychotic.

Dysphoric is when you just don't feel right in your own skin.

Wait a minute, wait a minute. Say that again.

Over the next week, I couldn't stop talking about that word.

It means I don't feel comfortable in my own skin.

Tom was my writing partner of seven years.

We complemented each other perfectly.

He considered himself the writer of the team.

I was the hustler.

Even in my state, I could sell better than he could.

So, how's the detachment thing?

You could jam this fork into my eye socket right now and I wouldn't feel it.

But you're gonna be okay for the pitch next week?

I'm suffering here.

Now, but this is important.

Why did I have to smoke the pot?

We have to sell something.

I mean, I didn't even touch a drug in high school.

See, when we're in the room, you're always the guy.

So between now and then,

I'm really gonna need you to put down that fork.

I couldn't have just taken one or two hits like a normal person.

I had to smoke the whole thing like some fucking maniac.

It's not the pot. It's not the pot.

I smoke pot every day of my life. I've never stared at cutlery.

Do you have a turkey burger?

Fuck!

All right.

All right.

What about the shrink? Is he any good?

- He went to Harvard. - Can't get any better than that.

That's great. What's he say?

He thinks it might be a good idea for my self-esteem

if we switched the order of our names on every other screenplay.

He's an asshole, a Harvard asshole.

Oh, missed it on the high side, with the wind, with the slope.

Also, I watched The Golf Channel for 23 hours yesterday.

Why golf?

I don't know. I find it comforting. It's green. People are whispering.

So you're not getting out at all?

Look, I think this is something a little bit more

than just being not comfortable in my own skin.

What do I do? Tell me what to do.

Hudson,

it's important that you socialize, even if you have to force yourself.

You are the sweetest dog. So handsome.

I read in a pamphlet from the National Mental Association

that after 12 weeks of psychotherapy, if you're not better, seek another therapist.

I was on week 14 with Dr. Townshend,

but we'd become more like friends, so I didn't mind.

- So, the "S," that's for Scott, right? - Yes.

- Can I call you that? - No.

One way to survive the endless time between therapy sessions

was to distract myself with the longest-running movies ever made.

- These are due back Thursday. - What if I watch them all tonight?

Okay.

Dr. Townshend.

Wow, I can't believe I'm bumping into you. How are you?

Fine.

I was just at the video store.

Hey.

Well, I guess I'll go home and wait for our next appointment.

- It's tomorrow, right? - Fine.

Patient.

The one thing Townshend did give me was clonazepam.

The directions read, "Take as needed".

Which for me was Monday to Friday and weekends.

One blue pill was the equivalent of three domestic beers.

Two pills cut my feelings of hopelessness by a third.

More was needed if you were, say,

rejected by a shrink you entrusted your life to.

I adored the sedation, but there was one drawback,

sexual dysfunction.

It got so bad, the average sexual act did nothing for me.

I had to find the most extreme 20 seconds of footage

and play it over and over until it did the trick.

Oh, fuck me with your tongue.

Oh, fuck me with your tongue.

Despite the restaurant snub,

I decided to give Dr. Townshend another shot.

After all, he was out with friends,

and that had nothing to do with his dedication to me within our sessions.

Go on.

I guess this is boring you.

- Excuse me? - You kind of fell asleep there.

- No. - You were snoring.

I was listening.

Because last night I was in the bath,

and I figured out that I've already spent $2,650 on sessions,

and I still feel crazier than I ever did.

So if you were snoring...

I think you're making this bigger than it needs to be, Hudson.

You would also think, at those kind of prices,

if we ran into each other at a restaurant,

you could acknowledge me as something more than "patient".

- Perhaps we should talk about this. - Perhaps.

Obviously, you're upset.

I think I am a little upset because I rely on you.

You're my touchstone to mental health, and I think we have kind of a bond...

Fuck me.

Intense exercise was my next course of action.

I read if you could raise your endorphins high enough,

it could somehow alter your brain chemistry.

I found a class packed with lesbians,

not by choice, but still, it was strangely comforting.

Okay, people!

This is your time, so let's push it!

That's it!

Everybody up!

And everybody down.

After 30 minutes, I thought something might actually be happening,

but it was wishful, psychosomatic false alarm.

My legs might as well have been attached to one of the lesbians.

I didn't know where else to turn.

I hadn't been home in five years.

Maybe a little family reconnection

was what I needed to snap me back to normal.

- Now, what is this spaciness, sport? - It's anxiety. That is all it is.

Oh, my goodness.

Sport?

I desperately wanted my dad's help,

but he was the king of pragmatic thinking.

I'd get the same kind of advice to all my worries.

Do you think it was the pot? I mean, why did I have to smoke so much?

Just pull up your socks, huh? You'll be okay.

I thought about reaching out to my older brother, Stan,

who I'd worshipped since I was a kid.

I'm busy.

Can I at least get a glass of water before I ride back?

I'm in the middle of a writing session. There's a gas station on the corner.

- Sport? - I can't... I can't breathe.

- What is it? - He says he can't breathe.

Oh, for goodness' sake. Stop acting like a child!

Breathe.

Hyperventilating.

I think that's enough, sport.

Reconnecting wasn't the answer.

I had to get back to LA and somehow heal thyself.

I know you're in there! Hudson, it's Tom!

Come on, get up! Get up!

Put those feet on the ground and move them!

That's it. Don't trip on your clothes, 'cause they're everywhere, aren't they?

That's me knocking! Answer the door! Open it!

Okay, got to get you dressed. Got a meeting in 30.

So when's the maid come? Never?

What do you think? Jeans and a T-shirt today?