TO HELL & BACK
The Douglas family
As a little boy, says Michael Douglas, his tow-headed firstborn was quiet and goodnatured. “Cameron was a wonderful kid,” says the 75-year-old Hollywood icon, sitting beside his son, now 40, on a recent morning in New York City. He smiles warmly towards Cameron and adds with just a hint of wistfulness, “He was a sweetie”.
But the sweetness of those early years would sour in cinematic fashion. What began as teenage bouts of drinking, pot-smoking and high jinks escalated into a tsunami of drug addiction and darkness for Cameron – and unending worry for his father and mother, Diandra, now 64, a former model and producer who split from Michael in 1995. By the time Cameron hit his early 20s, the scion of Hollywood royalty – his grandfather is legendary actor Kirk Douglas – was a fullblown cocaine and heroin addict. Dealing methamphetamines for a time and carrying a Glock for protection, Cameron clung to the fast lane and mostly disregarded efforts by his parents to get him help over the years. “It’s the sneaky power, the stranglehold that addiction has when you’re in the throes of it,” says Cameron, who shot up cocaine nearly daily and withstood drug-induced seizures. “When you get that far down the rabbit hole, there are a couple of options: There’s prison and then there’s death.”
Cameron narrowly escaped the latter, but in 2009 a Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) sting operation landed him behind bars. He faced a five-year term for conspiracy to distribute meth and cocaine. After the sentence was extended by another five years for possession while he was incarcerated, “something inside me broke”, he says. That low point also marked the start of a gradual turnaround. He got sober in prison and focused on his future for the first time in decades. “For a long time I quite honestly thought I just wasn’t put
together properly, that I didn’t have the characteristics necessary for real success in life,” says Cameron, who spent nearly eight years in prison, including two in solitary confinement for possession and fighting, before being released in 2016. “I know now that was the addiction talking.”
Today Cameron is raising his beloved 23-month-old daughter Lua with his girlfriend Viviane Thibes, 41, a yoga instructor, as well as working on restarting his acting career and feeling deep gratitude that his family never gave up on him. In a new memoir, Long Way Home, excerpted here, Cameron opens up about his harrowing, and ultimately inspiring, journey.
On a breezy summer day in 2004, I’m eating lunch with my friend Erin and Dad on a verandah in Spain when the server tells him he has a phone call. He takes it in the bar. Suddenly, I hear a high-pitched keening sound: “Oh no, oh no.” Dad puts down the phone and turns to me, crying. He says, “We’ve lost Eric.” Eric is Dad’s half brother, who has overdosed at the age of 46. For as long as I can remember, Uncle Eric has struggled: with drugs, with
Pappy – his father, my grandfather, known to the world as Kirk Douglas, Hollywood legend. I feel enormous pride in Pappy and our whole family, and I’m sure Eric did too, but I know how strange it is to see your family members projected on screens and billboards; how unnerving it is to walk into rooms full of people who know things about you, or think they do.
How do you compete with Kirk Douglas? How do you live in Michael Douglas’ shadow?
Eric’s death hits close to home. Dad was in rehab for drinking and drugging in the early
’90s. His brother, Joel, has struggled with alcohol. And then there’s me. I’ve been using and abusing drugs since I was 13. I’ve been in and out of trouble, in and out of treatment. At this point, at 25, I inject coke as often as three times an hour. My once-promising career as a DJ has fizzled. I’ve squandered opportunities to make a life in acting. I don’t want to die the way Eric did but I’m so in the grip of a young man’s sense of immortality, I’m not afraid that I will.
I don’t remember when I first became aware that my dad wasn’t like other fathers. I saw him on screen but at home he was a regular guy: he read the newspaper, watched sports, was someone I wanted to impress. Sometimes he let me smoke cigarettes around the house; other times, he’d remind me, “I’m your father, not your friend”. He was away working for months at a time. Mostly it was just me and Mom, who was 19 when she married Dad and 20 when she had me. She liked to say we grew up together; I saw myself as her rescuing knight.
From a young age, I was more mischievous than the average kid. Once, my friend Sean and I called a sex hotline and racked up a $400 phone bill. When my parents had parties, I’d creep around and take it all in: beautiful grown-ups doing the things that beautiful grown-ups living lives of excess do. By the time I was 13, I was buying weed in Central Park and experimenting with mushrooms and acid. As my parents’ marriage fell apart, I bounced between schools, then to a hardcore wilderness program, and eventually in and out of juvenile detention facilities. For a while, I became a ward of the state of California.
It’s sad to think back on, but when my parents told me they were getting divorced, I actually welcomed it. I loved them both, but mainly they weren’t happy. I wondered if it was normal that I was so relieved. Now I think that I was sitting on a lot of unacknowledged rage.
At 17, I had my first experience with heroin. I threw up, but still felt warm all over, relaxed and content. The ups and downs of drug addiction are entirely predictable. There’s a comfort in that. And I like the instant gratification. I want to do what I want to do right now. The only thing I know of in life that can do that is drugs. They were, for me, a path out of loneliness.
One day, over my girlfriend’s objections, I ask my dealer if he can get me an ounce of good crystal. I explain why. I’m going to deal to support my habit. So I’m doing it. I’m crossing the line I wasn’t going to cross. I consider what that means. I know this isn’t going to end well.
I decide that I should have better guns for protection. I go to a shop in Burbank and buy
“At 17, I had my first experience with heroin”
— Cameron Douglas
a Glock 17, a Special Forces-style Desert Eagle handgun, and a Mossberg shotgun with a pistol grip. I keep the Mossberg, loaded with six 12-gauge shells, under my bed, within easy reach if I’m ever attacked while sleeping. If someone comes for me, I’ll get behind the bed and start firing.
As I spiral into addiction and dealing, my relationships with my parents alternate between closeness and estrangement. Mom calls and leaves voicemails I don’t respond to for months. Dad gives me an ultimatum: go to in-patient rehab or that’s it – he’s not going to give me any more help or support. I don’t go.
Dad starts talking about Uncle Eric again. “You saw what his problems did to Pappy and Oma. I’m not going to let myself be drawn into this behaviour any more. I have young children and a wife I need to protect [his second wife Catherine Zeta-Jones and their kids Dylan and Carys]. This isn’t fair to them.”
“Don’t you love me any more, Dad?”
“Of course I love you, Cameron. But I’m not going to nurture a relationship with you, because I think you’re going to die. I’ve been seeing a therapist about it.”
“What?”
“I think you’re going to overdose, or someone’s going to kill you, or you’re going to kill someone. I’m trying to prepare myself emotionally.”
Dad calls to say he’s heard I’m being investigated by the DEA. “Get
out of your house immediately, they’re coming for you.”
He’s in town staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel. When I get there, I see he’s with a man I don’t recognise. Mom is here too. Uh-oh. “Jesus, Cameron, you’re dealing now?” The guy Dad is with extends a hand. “Earl Hightower,” he says. He explains that he’s a drug interventionist, but he’s here because the feds are watching me.
Dad pleads with me to get out of the country. “This is a federal case, Dad. If they want to get me, they’ll get me anywhere.”
On July 28, 2009, when I’ve been a heroin addict for four-and-a-half years, I open my door and see a guy in a New York Yankees hat. He says, “I’m a special agent with the DEA.” They take me down the back stairwell.
At Metropolitan Correctional Center, I’m given an orange jumpsuit to put on. Twelve brutalist storeys of hulking brown ugliness, MCC holds nearly 800 inmates, all waiting to be tried or sentenced or to testify in other people’s cases. Since it’s a place for pretrial detention, it’s a maximum-security facility, with some of the most depraved and violent prisoners from the most dangerous penitentiaries housed alongside people like me. I stare at the ceiling. It’s cement in a honeycomb pattern. I close my eyes and a weight descends upon my chest. I’m really here. This is happening.
Hey Pop . . . I’m sorry about all of this
I really am . . . I really was shooting for bigger and better. Also, please apologize to Pappy, Granny, and the rest of the family for all this, I feel really ashamed for being the source of any embarrassment and/or shame . . .
Thank you for your support and standing behind me on this one. It means the world to me.
Your son, Cameron
Hi Cam,
So what have you been up to lately ( bad joke). Thank you for your letter and apology. Your whole family’s heart goes out to you. We’re not embarrassed, we love you, just feel it’s a hard road you’ve chosen. You’ve got a lot of support out there, Cameron. I can’t tell you the number of calls from friends I’ve received, all wishing you the best, and all speaking to what a great guy you are: smart, funny, considerate, brave . . . I haven’t told the kids, and I think it’s better that way . . . Just know, Cameron, I say a prayer for you every day, and I do love you.
Dad
On January 27, 2010, I plead guilty to heroin possession and conspiracy to distribute drugs. I spend almost seven years behind bars. During this time, I communicate with my family most by letter. Dad’s letters range from loving to forceful to hopeless. (“I must admit, I haven’t written because I didn’t know what to say.”)
I find out from a fellow inmate that Dad has cancer, and that’s when I promise myself I’m going to live my life differently when I get out of prison. I’m worried Dad will die thinking of me as the failure who didn’t live up to expectations.
Dad calls a few times to talk, breaking down every so often. I’m glad he feels comfortable opening up to me.
When his treatment is done, he visits with Dylan and Carys. I’ve never seen a body change so drastically in such a short time; it looks like a gust of wind might blow him over.
The greatest Christmas present I could receive comes in January 2011, when Dad learns that his tumour is gone.
Not long after I get out of prison in August 2016, Dad invites me to have lunch with him and Dylan. He hasn’t made much of an effort to see me. Maybe he doesn’t trust my sobriety, or my resolve to stay on the right side of the law. I don’t want to say no to his invitation, but my halfway-house restrictions make the logistics tough for me. I start thinking out loud about how
I can make it work. “Forget it,” he says. “What do you mean, I want to come.”
“Nah, don’t worry about it, it doesn’t make sense.”
He hangs up. My feelings are hurt. A week later, I go over to his apartment and mention our last conversation. My anger is getting the better of me. For an instant on Dad’s face, I glimpse the effect of my outburst. I know I’m not going to escalate the situation; I know I’m of sound mind. But given where I’ve been, I can’t expect other people to know that. Dad is starting to get to know me again and I’m re-learning how to express my feelings appropriately.
After that, we talk a few days a week and get together two or three times a month. One day Dad says, “I don’t know how you did it. How you went through the things you did.” I say, “Well, I’m home now.”
For my 39th birthday, Dad takes me out for a sushi lunch. We talk and laugh and he gives me fatherly advice about money and relationships, which I appreciate, as well as his old car, which is still pretty sharp.
When I get his and Catherine’s Christmas card, I see that it says it’s from them and Dylan and Carys and me, with a photo of us all. It feels good to be included.
“I’m worried Dad will die” — Cameron Douglas