I Should Be Philip Seymour Hoffman

by Blaine Hogan

I've seen every movie, read reviews of every play, studied the way he would prepare for a role. I wanted to be Philip Seymour Hoffman.

My friend Zach, an old college roommate from theatre school who moved to New York after we graduated, would often talk about serving him in the bar he was working at. I'd always ask what he was like. "Just a guy, really,” he’d say. “A normal guy, maybe a little eccentric. Wore a baseball hat, ordered a beer, but nothing strange."

Of course not. What would be strange about the most amazing actor in the world just ordering a beer? He was a local in his neighborhood and he worked a ton. Multiple movies and plays all going on at once.

In 2008, he told The New York Times, "I try to live my life in such a way that I don't have profound regrets. That's probably why I work so much. I don't want to feel I missed something important."

As the news of his death flashed on my phone this evening while I lay in bed with the flu, I felt a bit of my heart breaking. But not before it started to race with anxiety and fear. While I wanted to live Philip Seymour Hoffman's life, I realized that I came very close to dying his death.

You see, I should be Philip Seymour Hoffman.

We share the same addiction: not wanting to miss out on anything important. We want to live in the moment. Not in the past. Not in the future. But in the "now."

The problem with living in the "now" is that it is always fleeting. And with that comes a tremendous amount of pain, and with the pain comes an even more enormous desire to numb it all away. More jobs, more work, more heroin, more porn, more sex, more food—you choose the drug.

There seems to be something about chasing the wind that always ends in disaster.

Willy Loman finally crashes the car in a moment of grandeur.

Michael Jackson must be kept alive to keep the tour going until he can't be kept alive any longer.

Sure, Justin Bieber will end up all right. Look at that great team he has around him.

Nina Sayers gives everything she has, dying onstage, but finally gets the standing ovation she (and her mother) have always dreamed of.

In 2003 I went to NYC to find an apartment, perform in an "up-and-comers" musical review, and finally stake claim to the dream that began when I was nine years old. I had seen Scent of a Woman and Magnolia a billion times, I had been to theatre school, I had done the regional theatre thing, and I was ready to be a working actor in TV and film. I was ready to be Philip Seymour Hoffman.

The following is an excerpt from a 60 Minutes interview with Hoffman in 2006:

Hoffman says he doesn't drink and went into rehab at a fairly early age. "I got sober when I was 22 years old," he says.

Asked if it was drugs, alcohol or both, Hoffman says, "It was all that stuff. Yeah. It was anything I could get my hands on. Yeah. Yeah. I liked it all."

Why did he decide to stop?

"You get panicked. You get panicked," Hoffman said. "I was 22, and I got panicked for my life. It really was just that."

He said if he hadn't stopped it would have killed him and there were things he wanted to do.

I can still feel that panic. Ironically, though it can lead to sobriety, it can also be what started the addiction in the first place.

My panic began as a sexually abused kid from Minnesota. That led me to life of running and a myriad of addictions that made the gypsy life of an actor the perfect place to hide.

Konstantin Stanislavski said that "every person who is really an artist desires to create inside of himself another, deeper, more interesting life than the one that actually surrounds him."

The whole point of acting is to enter into another character so deeply that you become that character. The horror is that after the scene is over or the show closes, you have to go back to just being yourself.

There are a million actors, many of whom I'm friends with, that can handle this delicate balance with grace and ease. But because I was always running and hiding, I simply couldn't.

In 2003, after the up-and-comers review, a couple auditions, and a few talks with agents, I got back on the plane and headed to Syracuse, where I was finishing up a contract of Camelot. As I looked out the window over the city, something told me not to go back. Call it a voice. Call it God. Call it Karma. I call it the Holy Spirit. I look back at that moment with fear and trembling; I'm pretty sure that had I returned, a death sentence awaited.

Instead, I moved to Chicago and paid my rent by acting in the theater and TV world, until my body and soul gave out and I realized it was time for a rehab experience of my own. The panic had grown. It was rehab or death, I figured.

Ten years later, I'm still wrestling with my sobriety. I work as a director and producer. I've got a family and a community of people who tell me the truth, even when I don't want to hear it.

And yet, the feeling I can't shake is that I should be Philip Seymour Hoffman. I should be dead of some overdose. For some reason—because of people who kept telling me the truth, therapists who kept calling me back, and a whole ton of grace, I'm alive.

But it leaves me with lingering unease. I’d like to call us to start asking ourselves questions: when will we start caring more for the souls of the artists than for the way our souls are enriched by their work? What cost are we willing to pay to allow our prophets and poets to suffer on our behalf?

How can the church and those who lead it care for the souls of the artists on their stages and behind the scenes more than they care for the ways their work enriches their congregations?

To care for artists—as with everyone—we most move toward a more holistic and integrated view of the soul. One of my favorite books, Understanding the Enneagram, says it like this: “Psychology without spirituality is arid and ultimately meaningless, while spirituality without grounding in psychological work leads to vanity and illusions.”

No longer can we stand by watching artists perform brilliantly while their hearts are breaking—and certainly the church should be leading the charge in this type of soul care.

Here’s a few places to start:
• Why Every Artist Needs a Therapist—A basic understanding of why every artist (and human) should have a great therapist.
• The Healing Path, Leading With A Limp, and The Wounded Heart by Dan Allender—At the core of every addiction (and every hurt) is trauma. Each book deals with trauma differently, but I imagine leaders would find connections rather easily.

Where, and how, has your church helped artists and those drawn to addiction and escapism to find healing?

Blaine Hogan is a former actor who has appeared on FOX’s Prison Break and on stages across the country. He is now a creative director at Willow Creek Community Church and a freelance director and producer. He’s the author of UNTITLED: Thoughts on the Creative Process and blogs at blainehogan.com.

This article is adapted from a post at Blaine Hogan's blog.

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