Ask a Sober Oldster #30: Tommy Swerdlow
"I used to be a bit of a cocky jerk and judgmental asshole, but there’s nothing like a twenty-year heroin habit to knock some of the snot nose out of you. "
This monthly interview series is a collaboration between Oldster Magazine and The Small Bow, A.J. Daulerio’s excellent newsletter about recovery and mental health, and appears in both newsletters. Learn more about this collaboration in this Oldster podcast/videocast episode.
Tommy Swerdlow is a screenwriter, director, novelist and actor. He wrote the movie Cool Runnings and co-wrote other family films including Little Giants, Snow Dogs, and more recently Dr. Seuss’ The Grinch, and Puss In Boots: The Last Wish, which was nominated for an animation Oscar. His film A Thousand Junkies, which he directed, co-wrote and co-stars in, premiered at the 2017 TriBeCa Film Festival (It can be watched for free on Amazon Prime and elsewhere). His work in television includes the series Brutally Normal (WB 2000) which he co-wrote and co-created. His acting credits include Real Genius, Hamburger Hill, Howard the Duck, Child’s Play and Spaceballs.
His first novel Straight Dope was published by Stark House Press in July of 2021. He writes a Substack called Feel The Rhythm , which is a mash-up of autobiography, chronicle, food writing, poetry and...
Tommy is from New York City. He moved to LA in 1983 and has lived there ever since.
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How old are you, and how long have you been in recovery?
I’m 63 and I’ve been clean for fifteen years.
How did you get there?
Well, that depends on what is meant by “there.” I got to the program long before I got sober and served for years as the poster child for unwillingness. It wasn’t even that I would relapse, it was that I couldn’t/wouldn’t stop using. I’m not sure why I even went to meetings (which I did on and off for fifteen years before getting clean), but I think there were two reasons: 1. Some part of me wanted to live a life of hope and light. 2. Another part liked sitting there strung out and being a very bad boy.
One of the things that fucked me up was that I got successful writing movies in the early 90s (I was writing family films with a dope habit, which goes to show that your heart can stay wholesome even when your behavior isn’t). This was not helpful as it inflated both my bank account and my ego. I was stubborn, willful and convinced I was a little junkie genius. Oh man, was I wrong.
By the early 2000s the screenwriting career was gone. I had a young son I was no kind of father to and a wife to whom I was even less of a husband (she was also an addict but far less wayward than I). At that point I had been injecting drugs into a huge open wound on my right shin for years as I had no veins elsewhere. I would cover the wound in a green chlorophyll salve and keep it bandaged, then unwrap the bandages to shoot up in it, then wrap it back up again; wrapping and unwrapping multiple times a day for years. It was total madness, the self-mutilation project as strong as the drug pull. More than once I woke up in bed with ants swarming my leg like an Amazonian nightmare, but I accepted it as the price of doing business. This was my life. There was no way out.
In 2007, I got endocarditis, which is an infection of the heart valve. I may have not been willing to stop, but my body (or God, the universe, call it what you like) had other ideas. The jig was up! A week later I had open heart surgery. Nine days after that I developed a bleeding ulcer (the blood pouring out from my rectum). They couldn’t clamp it for thirty-six hours and punctured my duodenum in the process. It seemed I might die, but an emergency surgery was performed and I pulled through. Cut from sternum to navel, I was in the hospital for sixty-six days. Forty-four years old, I was convinced my life was over. I was wrong again.
I went home on 180 milligrams of methadone, which is more than advised. With nothing else to lose and nowhere else to go, I began attending Twelve Step meetings in earnest. I was on “the done,” which is not really program-kosher, but a group of addicts from eastside Los Angeles AA embraced me. I put myself in the middle of the program as they say, and began tapering down and going to two meetings a day. I got a sponsor and called him daily. I went through the steps, took commitments and did the deal.
It took me four years to get off methadone and AA was the center of my life for those years and several after. There is no doubt in my mind that it was the love and community of the program that kept me going and saw me through. And that’s how I got “there,” although I like to think of it as here.
I got to the program long before I got sober and served for years as the poster child for unwillingness. It wasn’t even that I would relapse, it was that I couldn’t/wouldn’t stop using. I’m not sure why I even went to meetings (which I did on and off for fifteen years before getting clean), but I think there were two reasons: 1. Some part of me wanted to live a life of hope and light. 2. Another part liked sitting there strung out and being a very bad boy.
What are the best things about being in recovery?
Being part of the solution and not the problem. When I was using, my addiction loomed over everything. I had a cloud following me around like Pig Pen from the Peanuts cartoon, but the dirt was inside. When I stopped, I literally got clean, or a whole lot cleaner. A good example was when my older brother (who I adored) passed away. I was able to show up for him as a force of love and light and not add on to the tragedy. I’ve also had a great healing in my relationship with my son, which took many years, and has more to do with his forgiveness and beautiful heart than it does any amends I’ve made, living or otherwise. But if I was still using there is no way it could have happened.
Another thing is the compassion it has given me for the struggles of others. I can still be pretty tough on myself, but there isn’t much you can do that I don’t have great empathy for, no matter how deviant, scandalous or tawdry. In fact, the worse it is the more I understand it. And there’s been huge joy in returning to my body and exercising. I had abused mi cuerpo with malicious intent. To work out and swim and do it with purpose and consistency feels like a daily investment in sanity. The physical equivalent of writing a thousand words a day (I don’t really write a thousand words a day, but I like the way that sounded).
And lastly, it’s just a huge relief to not be involved in a self-destruction project of that scale and scope. The time, money, and psychic force it took, all of it toward my darker angels. Don’t get me wrong I still struggle with myself mightily, but now I do it on the ‘natch, and there’s some dignity in that.
I should probably qualify all this by saying I don’t go to many (or basically any) meetings anymore, though almost everyone I know is in a Twelve Step program of some kind. I do live my life based on the principles I learned in AA and when people come to me with troubles, as they often do, I tell them to go to meetings be it AA, DA, SLAA, Alanon, the works. Just don’t ask me to go with you because I’ll probably say “no.”
What’s hard about being in recovery?
I don’t find being sober hard in any way. Maybe it’s because my consequences were so extreme, but I don’t get cravings and drugs have no appeal as a solution to discomfort. Sex, food, procrastination and especially self-loathing are substances I still indulge in, but not drugs. Also, I’m not in meetings so whatever might drive me a little crazy about the program and the people in it, doesn’t.
But I’ll tell you what is difficult and been coming down especially hard lately, and that is all the things that were lost, delayed or deformed due to my addiction. I know it couldn’t have gone down any other way and I am grateful for the ass-kicking I took, and the ways it humbled me, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I am a little haunted by what happened. 25-44, the center cut years of my life, dedicated to keeping high and staying “well.” A complete and total surrender, but in the wrong direction. I’m not full of regret as much as confusion and grief. Luckily, I’m still here and my story, with all its chapters, and chapters yet to come, continues. (I just thought about all the sober people reading this and thinking, “This cat needs a meeting bad!” You’re probably right.)
One of the things that fucked me up was that I got successful writing movies in the early 90s (I was writing family films with a dope habit, which goes to show that your heart can stay wholesome even when your behavior isn’t). This was not helpful as it inflated both my bank account and my ego. I was stubborn, willful and convinced I was a little junkie genius. Oh man, was I wrong. By the early 2000s the screenwriting career was gone. I had a young son I was no kind of father to and a wife to whom I was even less of a husband (she was also an addict but far less wayward than I).
How has your character changed? What’s better about you?
I’m much nicer. I used to be a bit of a cocky jerk and judgmental asshole, but there’s nothing like a twenty-year heroin habit to knock some of the snot nose out of you. Like I said earlier I have more acceptance for the vagaries of others and do not judge harshly except when it comes to matters of artistic taste. In others words, I accept you for exactly who you are but if you don’t have a subscription the Criterion Channel we have nothing to talk about.
It’s funny, I just went on a big spiel about time lost to addiction, but when I answer this question, I realize it was probably all for the best. I would be so different if I spent the last forty years sequestered in the warm, swagged-out bosom of the film industry; spending all my time around my fellow cinematic winners, getting the good treatment and living that rarified life. I like that I know what it is to stand on line at the methadone clinic. That I can relate as much to a skid row junky as I can to some so-called successful type, and probably more. Addiction and recovery have been good for my soul and world view. There is so much wisdom in struggle if we can let it open our hearts and not harden them. I know mine is far more open than it used to be and I plan to keep heading that way.
What do you still need to work on? What “character defects” do you still wrestle with?
I still wrestle with a lot of stuff, but this question is for everyone, not just folks in recovery. What recovery does is give you an opportunity to grow that most don’t get. They haven’t been blessed with bottoming out, so they just play it as it lays and keep on going. We screwed up so bad we were forced to look in the mirror and find out what’s really going on, or at least a little more of it.
As for personal struggles, I still grapple with the same things I always have, and I think number one is my perception of reality. I am hardwired to think I am in trouble or have done something wrong. That one is very old and sneaky, but I am aware of it. Sometimes being aware is the best I can do.
Also, I still have trouble with discipline and structure and must guard mine very carefully. I’m 63, so have to be realistic about what I can change and what I can’t. The great mystery of sobriety is the third part of the serenity prayer (The wisdom to know the difference). Knowing when to accept what you can’t change and when to change what you can and the fluid dance between the two. That’s some graduate program shit right there.
I like that I know what it is to stand on line at the methadone clinic. That I can relate as much to a skid row junky as I can to some so-called successful type, and probably more. Addiction and recovery have been good for my soul and world view. There is so much wisdom in struggle if we can let it open our hearts and not harden them. I know mine is far more open than it used to be and I plan to keep heading that way.
What’s the best recovery memoir you’ve ever read? Tell us what you liked about it.
I haven’t read many. I did read Permanent Midnight by Jerry Stahl (who I know, and know answered this questionnaire) and dug it. I know there are a lot of good ones, I just haven’t read ‘em. Some of the best writing about recovery I have read is a substack called “Notes from Treatment.” The writer is “Anonymous” which seems fitting.
What are some memorable sober moments?
I would say sobriety is much more of a full game than a highlight reel. We “trudge” the road of happy destiny, we don’t do a Gene Kelly Singin’ in the Rain dance routine. That being said I have a lot of moments where I think, “This is pretty fucking good.” Sometimes I’ll just sit on the porch of my old craftsman shack, shelling fresh beans and listening to Coleman Hawkins and I just have to laugh at how it all turned out. Of course, twenty minutes later I realize my life is a complete disaster.
One great moment was doing a Q&A at the Tribeca Film Festival in 2017 for a film I had directed called A Thousand Junkies. I was up there with my co-writer/co-star and my other co-star. We had all met in recovery and somehow been able to take the lead of our addiction and turn it into the gold of story-telling. The film took four years to complete and there were endless opportunities to quit (something addicts are very good at). Seeing that project through changed my life, inside and out.
I still have trouble with discipline and structure and must guard mine very carefully. I’m 63, so have to be realistic about what I can change and what I can’t. The great mystery of sobriety is the third part of the serenity prayer (The wisdom to know the difference). Knowing when to accept what you can’t change and when to change what you can and the fluid dance between the two. That’s some graduate program shit right there.
Are you in therapy? On meds? Tell us about that.
No meds except for my ticker. As for therapy, no, not on the regular anymore, but I do check in with my “parts” mechanic if I need a tune up. I had a great fantasy that Adderall would change my life and give me the work ethic of Tolstoy. I tried one tablet and realized writing Russian literature was not in my future.
What sort of activities or groups do you participate in to help your recovery? (i.e. swimming, 12-step, meditation, et cetera)
I do swim as I mentioned, and I also cook as a daily meditation. I shop at the farmer’s market in Hollywood with religious devotion and great attention to detail and then cook what I buy, usually very simply, and it gives me a real sense of peace, purpose and connection. I also talk to fellow addicts and have some very close friends who are elders and wisemen. Recovery (with all its nuances, mysteries and potholes) is the baseline of these friendships along with jazz and anything else that reminds us that we’re alive, kicking and all still curious as hell.
Are there any questions we haven’t asked you that you think we should add to this? And would you like to answer it?
No. Besides, you’re dealing with addicts. A real addict (in recovery or not) is going to find a way to say what they want, whether you ask them the right questions or not.
“Take it from the oldster himself, “(I just thought about all the sober people reading this and thinking, “This cat needs a meeting bad!” You’re probably right.) - most people come to a 12step program with their tail between their legs, stay a while, possibly work the first 3 of the 12 steps, decide they are in “good enough” shape, and disappear. So be it. A “junkie” no longer active on the streets or flooding emergency departments and court rooms is a very good thing. This nice piece by a decent man was interesting and fun to read. I found little of what 7 of the 12 steps address: spirituality. I am a person in long term recovery, a clergy person, and an author of many books. I was none of those when I entered recovery. I have also conducted countless funerals of people under 30 who had relapsed. I still go to meetings with many of their parents. It is far more than fear, horror, and being “good enough” that keeps me coming back. I go to meetings do that young junkies with collapsed veins, and people either collapsed souls have evidence that sobriety works (if you do the work). I also attend for a dose of “who deflation at depth” that I still need on a daily basis. A slogan in the rooms is, “The only thing you need to know about God is that you’re not it.” My behavior and my life has been transformed. But I remain aware that what works for you, works for you. And what works for me, I shall see. And I strongly feel that the program, especially, perhaps, the newbies, could really benefit from the presence of Tommy. Peace Whenever Possible, Dwight Lee Wolter.
An incredible story of physical and mental survival.