Sinner Takes All: A Memoir of Love & Porn Read online

  Leaving Digital also meant leaving my cohosting gig on Playboy TV's Night Calls, which I loved. My last episode taped the last week of December. My contract had expired, and Playboy didn't renew it because I wasn't with Digital anymore. But it was OK. I was ready to move on and make a clean break.

  Evan said to me, "Look, I don't want to get into your business, but you need help. Where I come from, your manager and your production company shouldn't be the same thing. You have a conflict of interest here. And I don't think they are going to let you go that easily." He was right, and things got nasty pretty quickly.

  I just cried. "My life is over, isn't it?"

  "It's not over, but it's going to cost you a lot of money to defend this and we don't have the money," he said.

  I can't go into the legalities of it, but I was able to keep some money that I had in the bank. I got rid of my condo in Sherman Oaks, got rid of the Infiniti that Digital leased for me, and moved in with Evan in Brooklyn for the next year or so.

  Digital filed a breach of contract lawsuit against me that same month, and we countersued for damages. I was ready to just give up. I didn't think I had a chance and was just too tired to fight.

  But then Evan sat me down and said, "Listen, I love you very much and I just want you to realize that no matter where you go in the world, no matter what you do, you're always going to be Tera Patrick. Don't give up on that. We will fight this together. You should really think about capitalizing on who you are. Everybody else has made money from you, and I know you want to give up and never want to work again and I know you're really enjoying your life right now, but you should really go out and fight for what is rightfully yours."

  Even though I had been on a self-imposed hiatus leading up to this mess, I still knew that I would want to reenter the business at some point. The big deal for me, and what made me fight so hard, was that they wanted to take my name. I created the name and worked very hard to get to this point in my career. I couldn't stand the thought of them owning my name and being allowed to make money off of me for the rest of my life. The thought of that drove me crazy.

  I'll admit it, once the fog lifted and I looked at my situation, I got pissed as hell for being so naive as to have signed such a bad deal. I was so angry with myself. And I was so resentful at my situation. That's why I tried to hurt myself. I felt so stupid. Why wasn't I smarter? I went from not having the fight in me to fighting mad to suicidal in a matter of months. I knew I was on a slippery slope, so I decided to stop drinking and smoking pot. I quit cold turkey. I had to fight this with a clear head and sound mind. But I couldn't do it alone.

  Alcoholics Anonymous helped me with that. It didn't get off to a great start when I went to my first AA meeting in Brooklyn in January 2003 completely high as a kite. I was very nervous about attending this meeting so I smoked a joint before I went. It sounded like a good idea at the time, and I'm sure I wasn't the first person to get high before a meeting. Evan didn't notice at first. I kept it cool for the drive over. But as we settled into the metal folding chairs at the meeting and my high kicked in further, Evan caught me staring at the plate of doughnuts on the table for an inappropriate amount of time.

  "Oh my God. Are you high?" he whispered in my ear.

  "I'm totally wasted!" I laughed. I thought it was funny. It wasn't.

  He just had this look on his face like, "OK. I'm sorry, but the answer we're looking for is not wasted."

  I couldn't understand a single thing the speaker said. As the gentleman told his story about being addicted to meth, my thoughts shifted from "I wonder if there's any coffee left?" to "Those doughnuts are probably stale but stale doughnuts are better than no doughnuts" to "My butt hurts from sitting on this chair" to "My mouth is so dry, where is the water?" to "Meth? Shit, that's fucked up. At least I'm not on meth!"

  At the end of the meeting, a guy came up to me and said, "Tera, I'm your biggest fan. Will you sign my AA book?" So much for the "anonymous" part of AA. I was creeped out and vowed to never go to a coed AA meeting ever again. My paranoid mind thought my fans were everywhere, and maybe they were. But Evan encouraged me to try a different meeting and give AA a second chance. "Maybe you'll find fellowship at a different meeting," he said. "Fellowship" is "friendship" in AA terms.

  So the next meeting I tried was a women-only meeting on Park Avenue. I figured those "ladies who lunch" in their Chanel suits, conservative pumps, and fur coats don't watch porn, and my identity would be safe there. I was right.

  I'd never been to Park Avenue before, but when I walked into the meeting and saw such a diverse mix of women all chatting amicably in low, soothing voices, it felt nice. It felt serene. It felt safe. There were no creepy guys there to recognize me. I doubted these ladies had watched a minute of porn in their lives. I sat down next to a distinguished-looking woman with white hair, salmon-colored slacks, and a very proper blouse. It felt so Park Avenue to me, and that was a good thing. The woman immediately embraced me and said, "Hello, dear. Welcome to the Park Avenue meeting. You're a new face. Tell us about yourself."

  Oh, great. It was nice to be welcomed, but the worst part about being new to a meeting is that you're encouraged to "share," and I wasn't exactly comfortable sharing my story. I had to say something, so I started with the expected: "Hi. I'm Linda. I'm an alcoholic and addicted to marijuana."

  "Hi, Linda," the group said in unison.

  I was just going to give the basics: "I live in Brooklyn with my fiance and my stepson. I just moved here from L.A. and I don't really know anyone. I'm just trying to get through the days." There, I "shared." But then something came over me. I somehow found myself pouring my heart out and sharing my whole story. These women seemed so warm and understanding to me. And I especially felt a lot of support and comfort from the white-haired woman next to me. It's hard to describe, but I could feel her giving me strength. She was very attentive, and I could tell she was sincere. We connected. I continued on to tell the group about everything--my lawsuit, my craziness, my relationship, everything. I started out telling them a little white lie that I was a model, but by the time I was done sharing they knew all about my porn career. I feared their judgment, but they couldn't care less. No one judged me. This was a group of women where one was a sex addict, another had a twenty-year battle with booze and drugs, another woman was sleeping with her husband's friends, and so on and so on. Everyone had their own issues and demons, and mine didn't seem so big after all.

  After I told my story, everyone clapped. I felt oddly at home. The woman in salmon next to me officially introduced herself to me. "Hi, Linda. I'm 'Sandy.' So, you do porn? Well, that woman over there is married to a famous musician. And the girl over there used to be a singer. . . ." And "Sandy" (as I'll call her) proceeded to tell me who's who and then she said, "You didn't think you were the only one into sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll, now did you?" I felt relieved, and we exchanged numbers.

  Sandy became a real anchor for me while I was in Brooklyn. I went to the Park Avenue meeting regularly and talked to her all the time. I liked AA, and I found peace there. And I found a new friend, one who was older and wiser. She was more experienced, had a broader outlook on the world, and put things in perspective. She was like a mother to me.

  That year for my birthday I chose to celebrate it with an intimate dinner with just Evan and Sandy and her husband, who both showed up in matching salmon outfits. I still talk to Sandy occasionally to this day.

  Evan was right. I found fellowship in AA. It guided me through a difficult time and helped me stop abusing alcohol and pot. I didn't drink or get high for two years. But that didn't mean I didn't have other demons to deal with.

  One cold February day at Evan's loft in Brooklyn in 2003, we got a call from my attorney, and the details of the case just overwhelmed me. I lost it. I remember thinking that they had won and my life was over. I decided to end my life and end the misery I had been in. It felt easier to quit than to fight. I was so angry that I just wanted to hurt myse
lf. All of these intense emotions came over me and I went into a rage. I don't remember what happened next. But Evan will never forget, so I'll let him tell the rest of this story. . . .

  EVAN SEINFELD

  Before I can explain what happened next, let me back up a bit. Leading up to her mental breakdown and suicide attempt, she was all over the map emotionally. On her good days, she was really excited to be in love and she was happy nesting in my Brooklyn loft. She kept herself busy by decorating, cleaning, shopping, and cooking for Sammy and me. When she was feeling "up," we'd go out to parties and dinners or stay in and have sex all night.

  On her bad days, the legal drama with Digital Playground would get her down and she'd spend the entire day in bed or she'd cry uncontrollably and break down, asking, "Why is this happening to me? How could I have been so stupid?" And on her really bad days, her feelings would turn into crazy, irrational thoughts and violent outbursts. It was like a switch would turn on in her head and she'd have a detached, vacant look on her face like she was looking right through me. When she got that look, when that switch turned on, there was no reaching her. She would begin to say irrational things and start accusing me of being part of the problem. I was always defending myself. Tera's way when things got her down or when bad things happened was to lash out at those closest to her.

  "You know what? You're just like everybody else!" she'd scream at me.

  "I'm your fiance. I love you. I'm trying to help you," I would try to explain.

  "Yeah, well you probably just want to see what you can get out if it." She was relentless.

  These episodes started getting more and more severe, and each one would last longer than the previous one. She'd turn that anger toward me and start screaming about how she hated me. She'd threaten to leave me, but then she'd snap out of it and have these moments of clarity and apologize. She was under extreme emotional stress, and I felt helpless.

  When she got really worked up, she'd start throwing things at me. One day, she picked up a twelve-pound glass candle holder and clocked me in the head with it. It knocked me loopy.

  "What the fuck is the matter with you?" I yelled. I don't think she knew why she did what she did at this time.

  She continued her assault, throwing more candle holders, my bass guitar, mirrors, whatever she could get her hands on, including a blackjack--a piece of lead wrapped in leather that I kept in the apartment for protection. She grabbed the blackjack and threw it at me. But she missed and hit a piece of Plexiglas that shattered all over the apartment. When she saw that she missed, she came at me swinging and clawing.

  "Fine! I'll just kill myself," she said as she lunged at me and pulled me with her as she hurled herself down the stairs in the loft. We fell head over heels and hit the ground really hard. She was out to hurt herself, and she was taking me down with her. After we recovered from the fall, her rage continued.

  With tears rolling down her face, she threatened, "I'm going to call the cops!"

  "But you're attacking me!" I tried to reason with her.

  "They'll never believe that, because I'm the girl," she replied.

  "And then they'll arrest me and you'll be all alone in this insanity. At least I'm here trying to help you!" I said as I tried to hold on to her so she would calm down.

  "GET OFF ME!!!"

  That was when I realized her problems were more than I was able to handle. I called our family therapist, Nelson Lugo, for some advice. Nelson is this wonderful Puerto Rican psychiatrist who I used when Sammy was having a hard time with my divorce from his mother. Nelson told me that I had to be careful Tera didn't hurt herself or others because there was no way to reason with a person suffering like this. I would call Nelson regularly during this time and talk to him about Tera's recurring episodes, and he said it sounded like she was having a nervous breakdown. I agreed.

  When she did come out of these episodes and have a moment of clarity, she'd feel horrible and be hyper-apologetic. She'd apologize and say, "I'm sorry! I don't know why I did that." She'd write me little "I'm sorry" cards and dote on me for a while. She didn't know what she was doing. Some nights she would go to bed mad as hell at me and then wake up all lovey-dovey, make me breakfast, and give me another huge apology note or flowers. I have tons of her apology notes. They'd often say "I'm sorry. I don't know why you stay with me. I'm a crazy bitch. I'm going through a lot of shit right now. I don't know what's happening with me."

  When Biohazard was on tour in the UK in the fall of 2002, Tera came out on the road with me. One night in a London hotel, we were having sex and everything was great, and then that switch went off and she started getting angry with me and physically attacking me. She was really jealous at the time so I think the fight was out of some sort of jealous rage. She scratched me so hard that she drew blood on my face and my chest. She flung herself on me and was scratching and clawing at me. I never laid a hand on her. I just tried to calm her down, but her screams alerted hotel security and they called the police. The cops came and found Tera and me naked and scratched up. It looked bad. Then something clicked in her and she snapped out of it. She told the police, "Everything is OK. We were just having rough sex." The cops looked at me and saw the blood and scratches and asked, "Sir, do you want us to take her away?" Of course I told them no, and after that Tera apologized.

  The last three weeks before her big incident, from the time we were in London until the meltdown that landed her in the hospital, I was like Edward Norton in Fight Club. I always had a new scar, bruise, or black eye.

  All of this was just the precursor to the meltdown of all meltdowns--the day she finally snapped and had to be institutionalized. This is where Tera's a little fuzzy on the details. But here is how I remember it going down that night in the loft. Something set Tera off again. Maybe it was the phone call with the attorney like she remembers. But what she doesn't remember is that she took that anger and frustration out on me again and started swinging at me and scratching me. We were at the top of the stairs and she's attacking me and I'm trying to hold her back and we ended up falling down the stairs together . . . again. But this trip down the stairs was more serious. She was trying to kill herself. I just thought it was another freak-out, but it was way worse than that.

  After our fall, she started throwing anything she could get her hands on. I was eventually able to get both of her hands behind her back and there was some duct tape lying around nearby (we used duct tape to tie each other up sometimes when we had sex, and duct tape is like the Swiss Army knife for musicians; we use it for everything). So I wrapped duct tape around her hands and threw her in the backseat of the Suburban and took her to St. Vincent's Hospital in Manhattan.

  We got to the emergency room at the hospital, and Tera was still kicking and screaming. "I'm not the crazy one! It's him. He's the crazy one. Look, he tied me up," she told the nurses and cops. There are always cops in emergency rooms, and this night was no exception. When they saw Tera's hysterical state, the cops naturally looked at me as the bad guy and sat me down in a chair to question me.

  "Guys, just go talk to her for five minutes and you'll understand completely who the crazy one is here," I told them.

  They didn't know who to believe. To them, it must have looked like a scene from Natural Born Killers, like Mickey and Mallory, you know? Here's this big, bald, tattooed guy with scratches on his face, bleeding, with the prettiest Asian girl they've ever seen, duct taped to herself, screaming bloody murder.

  So one of the cops pulled me aside and said, "What are you doing? You can't duct tape someone against their will. It's against the law. You should have called 911."

  "It was a judgment call. I thought taking her to the hospital myself would be faster," I said. "Take the fucking tape off her and see what she does. Go ahead."

  When things finally settled down, I had a chance to explain to them the emotional stress she had been under over her legal battles with Digital and how there had been many episodes leading up to this. I told them that
I loved her very much and I would be there for her, but that she needed some serious help and she was a danger to herself. Tera would later admit that she was suicidal that night.

  She ended up signing herself into the hospital, and they put her in the psychiatric ward for observation. She finally calmed down and fell asleep in her hospital bed and told me to go home. There was nothing else I could do. She spent two weeks in the psych ward at St. Vincent's, and things got better after that.

  CHAPTER 18

  What Have I Done?

  Once the mayhem of being admitted to the psych ward at St. Vincent's subsided and I realized I did need help, my doctors sat me down and told me that I was suffering a series of symptoms similar to bipolar disorder, though I've never officially been diagnosed as bipolar, then or now. When they explained the symptoms to me, I knew instantly it's what I've been suffering from all along. It explained my crazy highs and lows, my wild spending, the way I would act out sexually, and my depression. I remember the doctor asking me a series of questions and one by one I answered yes to them all with a growing pit in the bottom of my stomach. He asked: Do you have sex a lot? Do you shop a lot? Do you overreact? Are you easily agitated? Do you throw things? Can you not control yourself at times? Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes. It clicked, and I cried about it a lot. I couldn't believe that I was so psychologically damaged.

  I thought a lot about my mom during my two weeks in the hospital because my mom has all of these symptoms too. I guess it was just in my genes. They say there are five stages of grief, and that is exactly what I went through when I processed this diagnosis. The first stage is denial. I certainly thought the problem was everyone else, not me. I didn't think I was wrong in my outbursts against Evan. I didn't think I was acting crazy.

  The second stage is anger. Evan can, and has, attested to that one. I was angry at Digital Playground, angry at myself, angry at the world, and then angry at the one person who loved me enough to stand by me, help me, and believe in me.