Pinch yourself every time you think about her. Or snap an elastic band around your wrist.
No, seriously. How did this happen? How did my Jane Bainter obsession start?
In case you forgot, Jane Bainter was/is the namesake and so-called “lyrical muse” of (Perry Farrell and) Jane’s Addiction, which I wrote about in 2017 and reprinted here. As I wrote in 2017 (and released to no one via tinyletter.com), I loved the song, just like everyone else. And then I found a 2003 interview with Jane Bainter that was reprinted on the aintnoright fan forum for JA fans. She talked about living with Farrell, and reluctantly allowing him to use her likeness and story to fuel his creative vision. She was the Jane Says Jane, and she was (she says) addicted.
The 2003 interview found Jane Bainter sober. But she didn’t sound happy. She sounded sad to me. I remember her talking about selling the last of her autographed Jane’s Addiction album inserts on eBay. She was out of work and unmarried. But dating someone new, and hoping it would work out. And for some reason, those details got stuck in my brain. Haunting me at night, bothering me during the day. (Today, I understand that tendency to get stuck on something as hyperfocus, a powerful/frustrating function of a non-neurotypical brain.)
God, who am I to think she was sad? I was the sad one. I was struggling with my own problematic use of lethal opioids. And so I read her as I was reading me. I can say that today.
What happened to Jane Bainter? Did she get married finally? Did she find her dream job? I couldn’t, in 2017, find anything recent. Except maybe a LinkedIn profile with her name and a blurry profile pic.
Unable to satisfy my curiosity, and put the story to bed, I started writing a narrative. More like a freewrite:
“My name is Jane and I hide my secrets in the attic. I am a doe. A plain Jane. A wilting arsenic flower with long pale hair and red-rimmed eyes. Except I work a real job, a good job (a job that pays). Everything you’ve read about me is true in the way that everything is true. Once you cut it, slice it. Print.”
I wanted to be clear: I wasn’t writing Jane the Actual Person. But I couldn’t deny that the idea of her drove me to write pages and pages of what turned into the sketchings of a very rough (and unfinished) novel.
You must understand that I had long since given up on writing. Sure, when I was an undergrad, I had a few short stories published in student literary magazines. And I even studied professional writing, post-grad, and worked as a copywriter for a few years.
I learned that writing was painful. Beyond writer’s block. Mentally/physically taxing. I lacked the stamina for writing. And I’m pretty sure that’s when my drinking escalated, culminating in a crippling (and top secret) dependence on junk and other drugs.
See, it was easier to numb out than face the keyboard and that blinding white screen (the one that, I swear, gives me allergies to this day). My failure to write became symbolic of my failure in life. In fact, it wasn’t until last year, in recovery, that I got a formal diagnosis for ADHD which, undiagnosed, can lead to persistent feelings of shame and anxiety.
So this was a big deal! I started a writing group. We met every Saturday for three hours and used the Pomodoro technique (sans tomato-shaped timer, I’m afraid). And I wrote the hell out of Jane. I even read a few pages at an open mic for a magazine launch party. A retired newspaper reporter gave me his (unsolicited) edits after I finished reading. Still, he insisted. He loved what I wrote, and thought I was a very talented writer.
I even got as close to the real Jane Bainter as I probably ever will. After a DOXA screening of Desolation Center, I introduced myself to filmmaker Stuart Swezey who, I learned, had once roomed with Perry Ferrell at the Wilton house.
I said some very flattering things about the film (focussing my comments deliberately — as a woman who wants to be taken seriously does— on the very technical process of film editing which was, in this case, expertly done). Then I asked what it was like to share a house with Perry Ferrell.
“She’s a Jane Bainter fan,” said my companion, the Punk Singer, who I could have killed.
“I know Jane,” the director said, cheerily. “She moved into my room when I moved out.” Then he offered to connect us (me and Jane). I wondered aloud if she would be happy to hear from me. He gave me his business card, and told me to write him a message he promised he’d pass on to Jane.
We waltzed home arm-in-arm, the Punk Singer and I, giddy in that very sober way that only a natural high can be.
I cringe at what I wrote to her, via Stuart Swezey, back in June of 2018:
“Who is Jane? I read the oral history (“Whores”) and learned that Jane is an actual person. Then I read an interview I found online. It was after you had “come out” as THE Jane. What you said in that interview… haunted me. Stuff about leading a double life (“working white collar junkie”), and the fact that being THE Jane has never really benefited you. How you were currently “broke and unemployed.” That stung! Split my heart wide open.
I became obsessed with the idea of the muse, and how she is used. And what becomes of her…after. Once the party is over. Your interview essentially obliterated any notions I had ever had about “the happy ending”. It’s just life, isn’t it? It doesn’t end until it ends.”
Okay. It’s not terrible, right?
“If nothing else, I want you to know that you’ve affected me. You cut through the fog, and stirred something up. Thank you.”
I can imagine her reading it and saying, “How dare you? I am not Jane and I never was.” I mean, that’s an appropriate response for a reluctant muse. “I am so tired. Just leave me alone.”
Or maybe Swezey was punking me. I can only guess because…I never heard back.
“I want to know,” I wrote, “Is Jane happy? The narrative persists (it’s pesky!) Did she get to Spain (whatever that stands for)? What about the addiction? How did she conquer such a MONSTER?? And once she’d killed it, what was left? What does life become? And what version of the self is the real version?”
I went to an in-patient treatment centre in the winter of 2018, and left Jane (and Jane’s Addiction) promptly behind. Getting better is hard. There are the obvious mental and physical discomforts (anxiety spikes, insomnia, aches, blind rage). But one of the more heartbreaking side-effects of recovery (IMO) is a near total loss of the cultural touchstones that remind you of your drug use. Music, movies, books. Even my own book. Dead. Gone. Don’t even dare think about it. Or you will unleash the most horrific craving (or series of cravings) from which you might never recover.
Can you imagine the mental toll? Like clenching a group of muscles every day, or rolling a boulder up a hill (with no horizon, no end in sight). And I am exhausted.
