Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing: A Memoir

By Matthew Perry

INSTANT #1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER
#1 INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLER

The BELOVED STAR OF FRIENDS takes us behind the scenes of the hit sitcom and his struggles with addiction in this “CANDID, DARKLY FUNNY...POIGNANT” memoir (The New York Times)

A MOST ANTICIPATED BOOK by Time, Associated Press, Goodreads, USA Today, and more!

“Hi, my name is Matthew, although you may know me by another name. My friends call me Matty.”

So begins the riveting story of acclaimed actor Matthew Perry, taking us along on his journey from childhood ambition to fame to addiction and recovery in the aftermath of a life-threatening health scare. Before the frequent hospital visits and stints in rehab, there was five-year-old Matthew, who traveled from Montreal to Los Angeles, shuffling between his separated parents; fourteen-year-old Matthew, who was a nationally ranked tennis star in Canada; twenty-four-year-old Matthew, who nabbed a coveted role as a lead cast member on the talked-about pilot then called Friends Like Us. . . and so much more.

In an extraordinary story that only he could tell—and in the heartfelt, hilarious, and warmly familiar way only he could tell it—Matthew Perry lays bare the fractured family that raised him (and also left him to his own devices), the desire for recognition that drove him to fame, and the void inside him that could not be filled even by his greatest dreams coming true. But he also details the peace he’s found in sobriety and how he feels about the ubiquity of Friends, sharing stories about his castmates and other stars he met along the way. Frank, self-aware, and with his trademark humor, Perry vividly depicts his lifelong battle with addiction and what fueled it despite seemingly having it all.

Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing is an unforgettable memoir that is both intimate and eye-opening—as well as a hand extended to anyone struggling with sobriety. Unflinchingly honest, moving, and uproariously funny, this is the book fans have been waiting for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Nov 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781250866462

Matthew Perry

Matthew Perry was a Canadian American actor, executive producer, and playwright.

Book preview

Prologue

Hi, my name is Matthew, although you may know me by another name. My friends call me Matty.

And I should be dead.

If you like, you can consider what you’re about to read to be a message from the beyond, my beyond.

It’s Day Seven of the Pain. And by Pain, I don’t mean a stubbed toe or The Whole Ten Yards. I capitalize Pain because this was the worst Pain I’ve ever experienced—it was the Platonic Ideal of Pain, the exemplar. I’ve heard people claim that the worst pain is childbirth: well, this was the worst pain imaginable, but without the joy of a newborn in my arms at the end of it.

And it may have been Day Seven of Pain, but it was also Day Ten of No Movement. If you catch my drift. I hadn’t taken a shit in ten days—there, there’s the drift. Something was wrong, very wrong. This was not a dull, throbbing pain, like a headache; it wasn’t even a piercing, stabbing pain, like the pancreatitis I’d had when I was thirty. This was a different kind of Pain. Like my body was going to burst. Like my insides were trying to force their way out. This was the no-fucking-around kind of Pain.

And the sounds. My God, the sounds. Ordinarily, I’m a pretty quiet, keep-to-myself kinda fella. But on this night, I was screaming at the top of my lungs. Some nights, when the wind is right and the cars are all parked up for the night, you can hear the horrific sounds of coyotes ripping apart something that is howling in the Hollywood Hills. At first it sounds like children laughing way, way off in the distance, until you realize it’s not that—it’s the foothills of death. But the worst part, of course, is when the howling stops, because you know whatever has been attacked is now dead. This is hell.

And yes, there is a hell. Don’t let anyone tell you different. I’ve been there; it exists; end of discussion.

On this night the animal was me. I was still screaming, fighting tooth and nail for survival. Silence meant the end. Little did I know how close I was to the end.

At the time, I was living in a sober living house in Southern California. This was no surprise—I have lived half my life in one form or another of treatment center or sober living house. Which is fine when you are twenty-four years old, less fine when you are forty-two years old. Now I was forty-nine, still struggling to get this monkey off my back.

By this point, I knew more about drug addiction and alcoholism than any of the coaches and most of the doctors I encountered at these facilities. Unfortunately, such self-knowledge avails you nothing. If the golden ticket to sobriety involved hard work and learned information, this beast would be nothing but a faint unpleasant memory. To simply stay alive, I had turned myself into a professional patient. Let’s not sugarcoat it. At forty-nine, I was still afraid to be alone. Left alone, my crazy brain (crazy only in this area by the way) would find some excuse to do the unthinkable: drink and drugs. In the face of decades of my life having been ruined by doing this, I’m terrified of doing it again. I have no fear of talking in front of twenty thousand people, but put me alone on my couch in front of a TV for the night and I get scared. And that fear is of my own mind; fear of my own thoughts; fear that my mind will urge me to turn to drugs, as it has so many times before. My mind is out to kill me, and I know it. I am constantly filled with a lurking loneliness, a yearning, clinging to the notion that something outside of me will fix me. But I had had all that the outside had to offer!

Julia Roberts is my girlfriend. It doesn’t matter, you have to drink.

I just bought my dream house—it looks out across the whole city! Can’t enjoy that without a drug dealer.

I’m making a million dollars a week—I win right? Would you like to drink? Why yes, I would. Thank you very much.

I’d had it all. But it was all a trick. Nothing was going to fix this. It would be years before I even grasped the notion of a solution. Please don’t misunderstand me. All of those things—Julia and the dream house and $1 million a week—were wonderful, and I will be eternally grateful for all of them. I am one of the luckiest men on the planet. And boy did I have fun.

They just weren’t the answer. If I had to do it all over again, would I still audition for Friends? You bet your ass I would. Would I drink again? You bet your ass I would. If I didn’t have alcohol to soothe my nerves and help me have fun, I would have leaped off a tall building sometime in my twenties. My grandfather, the wonderful Alton L. Perry, grew up around an alcoholic father, and as a result, he never touched a drink in his life, all ninety-six long, wonderful years of it.

I am not my grandfather.

I don’t write all this so anyone will feel sorry for me—I write these words because they are true. I write them because someone else may be confused by the fact that they know they should stop drinking—like me, they have all the information, and they understand the consequences—but they still can’t stop drinking. You are not alone, my brothers and sisters. (In the dictionary under the word addict, there should be a picture of me looking around, very confused.)

In the sober living house in Southern California, I had a view of West LA and two queen-size beds. The other bed was occupied by my assistant/best friend, Erin, a lesbian whose friendship I treasure because it brings me the joy of female companionship without the romantic tension that has seemed to ruin my friendships with straight women (not to mention, we can talk about hot women together). I’d met her two years earlier, at another rehab where she had been working at the time. I didn’t get sober back then, but I saw how wonderful she was in every way and promptly stole her from that sober living rehab and made her my assistant, and she became my best friend. She, too, understood the nature of addiction and would come to know my struggles better than any doctor I’d ever seen.

Despite the comfort that Erin brought to the situation, I still spent many sleepless nights in Southern California. Sleep is a real issue for me, especially when I’m in one of these places. That said, I don’t think I have ever slept for more than four hours straight in my entire life. It didn’t help that we’d been watching nothing but prison documentaries—and I was coming off so much Xanax my brain had fried to the point where I was convinced that I was an actual prisoner and that this sober living place was an actual jail. I have a shrink whose mantra is reality is an acquired taste—well, I’d lost both my taste and smell of reality by that point; I had Covid of the understanding; I was completely delusional.

There was nothing delusional about the Pain, though; in fact, it hurt so much I’d stopped smoking, which if you knew how much I smoked, you’d think was a pretty sure sign that something very serious was wrong. One employee of the place, whose name badge might as well have read NURSE FUCKFACE, suggested taking an Epsom salts bath to alleviate the discomfort. You wouldn’t take a Band-Aid to a road traffic accident; you don’t put someone in this much Pain in water filled with his own sauce. But reality is an acquired taste, remember, so I actually took the actual Epsom salts bath.

There I sat, naked, in Pain, howling like a dog being ripped to shreds by coyotes. Erin heard me—hell, people in San Diego heard me. She appeared at the bathroom door, and looking down upon my sad, naked form as I writhed in Pain, she said very simply, Do you want to go to the hospital?

If Erin thought it was hospital-bad, it was hospital-bad. Plus, she’d already noticed I wasn’t smoking.

That sounds like a pretty damn good idea to me, I said in between howls.

Somehow, Erin helped me out of the bath and dried me off. I started to put my clothes back on just as a counselor—alerted by the slaughter of a dog on the premises, presumably—appeared at the door.

I’m taking him to the hospital, Erin said.

Catherine, the counselor, just so happened to be a beautiful blond woman to whom I had apparently proposed upon my arrival, so she probably wasn’t my biggest fan. (Not kidding, I had been so out of it when we’d arrived that I’d asked her to marry me, and then promptly fell down a flight of stairs.)

This is just drug-seeking behavior, Catherine said to Erin as I continued to dress. He’s going to ask for drugs at the hospital.

Well, this marriage is off, I thought.

By now, the howls had alerted others that there were probably canine entrails all over the bathroom floor, or someone was in real Pain. The head counselor, Charles—think: male model father, homeless mother—joined Catherine in the doorway, to help her block our expected exit.

Block our exit? What were we, twelve years old?

He’s our patient, Catherine said. You don’t have the right to take him.

I know Matty, Erin insisted. He isn’t trying to get drugs.

Then Erin turned to me.

Do you need to go to the hospital, Matty? I nodded and screamed some more.

I’m taking him, Erin said.

Somehow, we pushed past Catherine and Charles, out of the building, and into the parking lot. I say somehow not because Catherine and Charles made much of a fuss about stopping us, but because every time my feet touched the ground, the Pain became even more excruciating.

Up there in the sky, looking down on me with scorn, caring not for my agony, was a bright yellow ball.

What’s that? I thought through paroxysms of agony. Oh, the sun. Right … I didn’t get out much.

We have a high-profile coming in with severe abdominal pain, Erin said into her phone as she unlocked the car. Cars are stupid, ordinary things until you’re not allowed to drive them, at which point they become magical boxes of freedom and signs of a successful previous life. Erin lifted me into the passenger seat, and I lay back. My belly was twisting in agony.

Erin got into the driver’s seat, turned to me, and said, Do you want to get there fast, or do you want me to avoid the LA potholes?

Just get there, woman! I managed to say.

By now Charles and Catherine had decided to up their efforts to thwart us and now stood in front of the car, blocking us. Charles’s hands were lifted, his palms facing us, as if to say No!, as though three thousand pounds of motor vehicle could be stopped with the force of his mitts.

To make matters worse, Erin couldn’t start the car. The ignition works via telling the car to start out loud, because you know, I was on Friends. Catherine and the Palms didn’t budge. Once she worked out how to start the damn thing, there was only one thing more to do: Erin revved the engine, put the car in drive, and slewed it up and onto a curb—the jolt of that action alone, ricocheting through my entire body, almost caused me to die right there. With two wheels up on the curb, she revved past Catherine and Charles, and out into the street. They just watched us drive away, though by this point I would have urged her to drive over them—not being able to stop screaming is a very scary state to be in.

If I were just doing this to get drugs, then I deserved an Oscar.

Are you aiming for the speed bumps? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m kind of struggling right now. Slow down, I begged her. We both had tears streaming down our faces.

I have to go fast, Erin said, her brown, compassionate eyes looking over at me with concern and fear. We have to get you there now.

It was right about here that I drifted out of consciousness. (A 10 on the pain scale is losing consciousness by the way.)

[Please note: for the next few paragraphs, this book will be a biography rather than a memoir because I was no longer there.]

The closest hospital to the sober house was Saint John’s. Since Erin had had the foresight to call ahead and alert them that a VIP was en route, someone met us at the emergency valet. Not knowing at the time how crazy sick I was when she made the call, Erin had been concerned about my privacy. But the folks at the hospital could see something was seriously wrong and rushed me to a treatment room. There, I was heard to say, Erin, why are there Ping-Pong balls on the couch?

There was no couch, and there were no Ping-Pong balls—I was just completely delusional. (I wasn’t aware that pain could make you delusional, but there ya go.) Then the Dilaudid (my personal favorite drug in the whole wide world) hit my brain, and I briefly regained consciousness.

I was told I needed surgery immediately, and suddenly, every nurse in California descended upon my room. One of them turned to Erin and said, Get ready to run! Erin was ready, and we all ran—well, they ran, I was merely wheeled at high speed to a procedure room. Erin was asked to leave mere seconds after I’d said to her Please don’t leave, then I closed my eyes, and they wouldn’t open again for two weeks.

Yes, that’s right: a coma, ladies and gentlemen! (And those motherfuckers back at the sober living had tried to block the car?)

The first thing that happened when I lapsed into a coma was that I aspirated into my breathing tube, vomiting ten days’ worth of toxic shit directly into my lungs. My lungs didn’t like that very much—enter instant pneumonia—and that is when my colon exploded. Let me repeat for those in the back: my colon exploded! I’ve been accused of being full of shit before, but this time I really was.

I’m glad I wasn’t there for that.

It was almost certain at that point that I was going to die. Was I unlucky that my colon exploded? Or was I lucky that it happened in the one room in Southern California where they could do something about it? Either way, I now faced a seven-hour surgery, which at least gave all my loved ones ample time to race to the hospital. As they arrived they were each told, Matthew has a two percent chance of making it through the night.

Everyone was so wrought with emotion that some crumbled to the ground right there in the hospital lobby. I will have to live out the rest of my days knowing that my mother and others heard those words.

With me in surgery for at least seven hours and convinced that the hospital would do everything they could, my family and friends went home for the night for some rest while my subconscious fought for my life amid the knives and tubes and blood.

Spoiler alert: I did make it through the night. But I wasn’t out of the woods yet. My family and friends were told that the only thing that could keep me alive short-term was an ECMO machine (ECMO stands for Extracorporeal Membrane Oxygenation). The ECMO move is often called a Hail Mary—for a start, four patients that week at UCLA had been put on ECMO, and they all died.

Making things even tougher, Saint John’s didn’t have an ECMO machine. Cedars-Sinai was called—they took one look at my chart and apparently said, Matthew Perry is not dying in our hospital.

Thanks, guys.

UCLA wasn’t willing to take me, either—for the same reason? Who can say?—but at least they were willing to send an ECMO machine and a team. I was hooked up to it for several hours, and it seemed to work! I was then transferred to UCLA itself, in an ambulance filled with doctors and nurses. (There was no way I’d survive a fifteen-minute car ride, especially the way Erin drives.)

At UCLA I was taken to the heart and lung ICU unit; it would become my home for the next six weeks. I was still in a coma, but honestly, I probably loved it. I was lying down, all snuggled up, and they were pumping drugs into me—what’s better than that?

I’m told that during my coma I was never left alone, not once—there was always a member of my family or a friend in the room with me. They held candlelight vigils; did prayer circles. Love was all around me.

Eventually, my eyes magically opened.

[Back to the memoir.]

The first thing I saw was my mother.

What’s going on? I managed to croak. Where the hell am I?

The last thing I remembered was being in a car with Erin.

Your colon exploded, Mom said.

With that information, I did what any comic actor might do: I rolled my eyes and went back to sleep.

---

I have been told that when someone is really sick a kind of disconnect happens—a God only gives you what you can handle kind of thing kicks in. As for me, well, in the weeks after I came out of my coma, I refused to let anyone tell me exactly what had happened. I was too afraid that it was my fault; that I had done this to myself. So instead of talking about it, I did the one thing I felt I could do—during the days in the hospital I threw myself into family, spending hours with my beautiful sisters, Emily, Maria, and Madeline, who were funny and caring and there. At night it was Erin; I was never alone once again.

Eventually, one day Maria—the hub of the Perry family (my mom is the hub of the Morrison side)—decided it was time for me to be told what had happened. There I was, attached to fifty wires like a robot, bedridden, as Maria filled me in. My very fears had been true: I had done this; this was my fault.

I cried—oh boy did I cry. Maria did her best to be wonderfully consoling, but there was no consoling this. I had all but killed myself. I had never been a partier—taking all of those drugs (and it was a lot of drugs) was just a futile attempt to feel better. Trust me to take trying to feel better to death’s door. And yet here I was, still alive. Why? Why had I been spared?

Things got worse before they got better, though.

Every morning, it seemed, some doctor would come into my room and give me more bad news. If something could go wrong, it did. I already had a colostomy bag—at least I’d been told it was reversible, thank God—but now, apparently, there was a fistula, a hole in one of my intestines. Problem was, they couldn’t find it. To help, I was given another bag that oozed out gross green stuff, but that new bag meant that I was not allowed to eat or drink anything until they found it. They searched daily for that fistula while I got thirstier and thirstier. I was literally begging for a Diet Coke and having dreams of being chased by a gigantic can of Diet Sprite. After a full month—a month!—they finally found the fistula in some tube behind my colon. I thought, Hey fellas, if you are looking for a hole in my intestine, why not start looking behind the thing that FUCKING EXPLODED. Now that they’d found the hole, they could start to fix it, and I could learn to walk again.

I knew I was on my way back when I realized that I was attracted to the therapist they assigned to me. True, I had a giant scar on my stomach, but I was never a guy who took his shirt off much anyway. I’m no Matthew McConaughey, and when I take a shower, I just make sure to keep my eyes closed.

---

As I’ve said, for the entire stay in those hospitals, I was never left alone—not once. So, there is light in the darkness. It’s there—you just have to look hard enough for

Reviews for Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing

[Alexis Jaramillo · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

There are no words to explain the greatness of this book.

[hhl_canada · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Perry’s brutally frank discussion about the pain in his life, starting as a child, and his obsession with drugs and alcohol. The funny guy releases this sad and painful book a year before he died. It’s a revelation of how a hurt heart tries whatever it can to fill the holes in their heart, and the horror caused by some of those things used to fill the holes. You can feel the tortured soul in Matty.

[gingirl70 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

First off, I don't care for memoirs and biographies, but I do try one every now and then to see if my tastes have changed. This was also to complete a challenge. I won't comment on the subject matter other than to say it was really bleak. My main issue was how repetitive it was. It could have been edited better.

[bialys-976158 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Great and Sad all at the same time. His courage in sharing his story is profound.

[trayceebee · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I watched Friends from the first episode to the last, as they were airing. And then I got them on Boxed Set (DVD). And then all the episodes were available on HBO Max (I missed the time they were streaming on Netflix--didn't have that back then). My middle child has seen every episode probably 20 or 30 times. The reunion was an emotional event for me.

When I found out Matthew Perry would be publishing a memoir, I was on heightened alert, anxious to hear more about it. I pre-ordered it on Audible as soon as that was an option!

Listening to "Matty" now, after having heard his young, crisp voice on the show for so many years, was a little disheartening at first. I had heard he'd had a lot of dental work (which he mentions in the book), and I remembered how slurry Carrie Fisher's voice had gotten after so many years of drug use... so I understood, to a degree.

I was intrigued to hear about all the years of self-destruction Perry put himself through. It was interesting to hear how his friends and family came to his aid in times of need, etc. And there was a lot, a LOT of discussion about the use of drugs themselves, which I always find interesting.

The one thing that keeps me from giving this 5 stars is the fact that Perry repeats himself a lot and has a tendency to jump around a bit, chronologically. Nevertheless, I'd recommend this to any Friends fan!

[tjsjohanna_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The saddest thing about this book is that Matthew never seemed to be able to take the chance of being hurt in interpersonal relationships. Whether that came as a result of his early childhood or was just part of his makeup it ruined him. Instead of taking the risk, he drowned his sorrow and pain in getting high. There's a little bit of a hint at the end that maybe he is willing to give it a try but he died before he could do it. I was left with this sense of just a big waste.

[carmenere_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A most tragic story.
Matthew's goal when writing this book was to somehow sway people away from alcohol, pills, and drugs. He wanted his life to have meant something beyond "Friends". Perhaps his struggles will not have been for naught.

[indygo88 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Everyone knows of Matthew Perry, esp. those of my generation, since Friends came out in the mid-1990s when all of the Friends cast were roughly my own age. Even now that the debut of the series is almost 30 (!) years old, I can watch any given episode and it appears timeless to me. I can still relate to the clothing and the decor and the humor and it still seems like yesterday. Even so, when Matthew Perry published his memoir, I didn't feel the immediate need to read it. Only after his recent death, which hit me REALLY HARD, did I feel the urge to want to read his story. More than anything, having just finished it, I feel sad. I'm sad that he had such a hard battle with addiction, I'm sad that he felt such an unrelinquished need for attention (mostly from family), and I'm sad that such a talented and brilliant person is no longer with us. However, having said all that, I will admit that this was not the best memoir I've ever read. Not by a long shot. While I appreciated some insight into his battles, I felt the book was often repetitive, and the timeline, which hopped back & forth, was often confusing. Am I glad I read it? Yes. But still, I'm left with a huge sad hole in my heart.

[huntersun9 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

 With all that Perry went through, it's even more impressive that he was able to perform at all, much less in the excellent way he did. Except for the visible weight fluctuations, you would never know how terribly he was struggling. His death is terribly sad, but his body took a lot of punishment for almost 40 years (since his addictions started at age 14). It sounds like he finally found some measure of happiness and purpose. I don't usually read audio books, but it was nice to hear his voice.

[mrsthomsmith · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

What a great read for someone going through addiction. He was so lovable. So sad.

[blbooks-14314 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

First sentence from the prologue: Hi, my name is Matthew, although you may know me by another name. My friends call me Matty. And I should be dead. If you like, you can consider what you're about to read to be a message from the beyond, my beyond.

Premise/plot: Matthew Perry's memoir was published in the fall of 2022. After his recent death I put this one on hold at the library. It is a personal story--with ups and downs. He writes of highs (literally and figuratively) and lows--successes and failures. He writes of his near death experiences. He doesn't shy away from the lowest of lows, of telling stories that make him look horrible.

My thoughts: This one was thought provoking. It was heartbreaking and brutal, but also eye opening in my opinion. I think even if you don't struggle with alcohol, drugs, or smoking (addictions), you can find it relatable. He never quotes Augustine, but you can't help but read this one without thinking of the God-shaped hole that every single person has. He writes of seeking God--and I've shared plenty of quotes below. It reads like the book of Ecclesiastes. He tried EVERYTHING; he kept trying everything. More, more, more--never enough. There was no joy, no happiness, no contentment in anything he was throwing into the void, into the emptiness, into the uncomfortable dread of reality. It isn't always easy to talk about sadness, depression, emptiness and loneliness, but Matthew Perry did in this memoir. Perhaps his book can help others who are experiencing their own battles. He asks many, many questions but I'm not sure he found the answers.

Quotes:

My mind is out to kill me, and I know it. I am constantly filled with a lurking loneliness, a yearning, clinging to the notion that something outside of me will fix me. But I had had all that the outside had to offer!
Not being able to stop screaming is a very scary state to be in.
It is very odd to live in a world where if you died, it would shock people but surprise no one.
I'm not the biggest fan of confrontation. I ask a lot of questions. Just not out loud.
That said, I don't know how advanced civilization has to be to understand that giving phenobarbital to a baby who just entered his second month of breathing God's air is, at best, an interesting approach to pediatric medicine. But it wasn't that rare in the 1960s to slip the parents of a colicky child a major barbiturate.
Maybe it was because I was always trying to fill a spiritual hole with a material thing...I don't know.
"God, you can do whatever you want to me. Just please make me famous." Three weeks later, I got cast in Friends. And God has certainly kept his side of the bargain--but the Almighty, being the Almighty, had not forgotten the first part of that prayer as well.
You have to get famous to know that it's not the answer. And nobody who is not famous will ever truly believe that.
The most unnerving part was, I knew God was omniscient, which meant that he knew, already, what he had in store for me.
"God, please help me," I whispered. "Show me that you are here. God, please help me."
I had been in the presence of God. I was certain of it. And this time I had prayed for the right thing: help. Eventually the weeping subsided. But everything was different now.
He had saved me that day, and for all days, no matter what. He had turned me into a seeker, not only of sobriety, and truth, but also of him. He had opened a window, and closed it, as if to say, "Now go earn this."
And I seek the answer every day. I am a seeker. I seek God.
I'm this close to dying every day. I don't have another sobriety in me. If I went out, I would never be able to come back. And if I went out, I would go out hard. I would have to go out hard because my tolerance is so high.
I want that connection to something bigger than me because I'm convinced it's the only thing that will truly save my life. I don't want to die. I'm scared to die.
I've never let myself feel uncomfortable long enough to have a spiritual connection. So, I fix it with pills and alcohol before God can jump in and fix me.
I've seen God in my kitchen, of all places, so I know there's something bigger than me. I know it's an omnipresent love and acceptance that means that everything's going to be OK. I know something happens when you die. I know you move on to something wonderful.
I am me. And that should be enough, it always has been enough. I was the one who didn't get that. And now I do.
Someday you, too, might be called upon to do something important, so be ready for it. And when whatever happens, just think, What would Batman do? and do that.

[jreynolds1959 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

How Raw! Matthew Perry (dear Chandler Bing) has had a really tough life. He is so forward about addiction and all that it has cost him. Kudos to him for writing this book and all of his honesty about his affliction.

[villemezbrown · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I got this in hardcover for my wife last Christmas, but I never got around to reading it myself despite her recommendation. Fortunately, that meant it was still eligible to be a road-trip audiobook as I zip back and forth between Omaha and Madison while helping my daughter settle into her new digs. I find celebrity memoirs read by their familiar voices to be great driving companions.

Matthew Perry's memoir is pretty heavy as he uses his close brush with death in 2018 as the framing sequence for his life story. But even in his darkest hours, he cannot help but snark and bring on the cutting humor. So, he has some pretty typical celebrity problems -- drug addiction and a rotating slot of leading ladies in his personal life -- but he does offer up some engaging anecdotes about making Friends and hanging with other celebrities.

Perry is a witty guy, in his stories and in his writing, and I wish him the best of luck in his recovery and thank him for all the joy he has given me over the years.


Side note 1: I do admit that his slow and slightly slurred narration threw me off, so I upped playback speed to 125% so his voice sounded more like the jaunty one I remember so well.

Side note 2: The audiobook version I listened to had the controversial Keanu Reeves digs removed, but my wife's hardcover is an early enough edition that still has them.

[mrsgrits · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book is sad, but also somehow full of hope at the same time. I feel compassion for Matthew Perry, who still sounds like he isn't over his parents divorce and everything that unfolded in his life because of that. Great stories from the FRIENDS set, as well as some stories from movies he filmed. I wish he would have talked about filming with his dad in 'Fools Rush In'. Also, this starts slow and traumatic but definitely gets better as it moves on.

[gpangel_1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing by Matthew Perry is a 2022 Flatiron publication.

As anyone who regularly reads memoirs knows, they can be a slippery slope- especially celebrity memoirs. Sometimes I’ll even skip over one for fear I might end up with a different impression than the one I’d formed about the person, and don’t want to know the difference.

For me, Matthew Perry is not an actor I have any emotional connection to, though that is not the case with my kids. I do remember enjoying the show ‘Friends’ when my kids were still at home, but once the show ended, I was done with it. I never felt inclined to rewatch the show in syndication and haven’t seen an episode in many, many years. As such, I completely lost track of the cast members over time- save, of course, Jennifer Aniston, who remained in the spotlight long after the show ended.

That said, this is still one of those memoirs I wish I’d taken a pass on. If I simply focus on the book, the writing and presentation, without getting into the particulars of Perry’s life- and thus avoiding any blowback- here are some of the issues I encountered-

The book was written by Perry alone- meaning he did not hire a ghost writer to help him organize and keep the narrative flowing smoothly. Maybe that was something he should have taken into consideration. The book is not very well organized, and the timeline jumps around which was confusing.

I read parts of the book in E-book format and also listened to large portions of it on audio. The book got off to a rocky start immediately, when I read Lisa Kudrow’s introduction. Could it BE anymore canned? The audio version didn’t have this intro- or at least the version I added didn’t- but it was no great loss.

The audio presentation, narrated by Perry, was another avenue Perry might have done well to reconsider. I’m surprised the publisher let that go on. Perry's speech patterns were 'off'. This is something that has come up before, and explanations about dental surgeries were tossed out- but....

Maybe the publishers should have skipped the audio version or suggested someone else read it.


Now- that’s just the about the book- it’s presentation, etc. As to the contents of the memoir, I remain conflicted. Perry has struggled most of his adult life, even before he was famous, with substance abuse issues. He has behaved like many addicts, but his fortune has kept him afloat as he dropped millions of dollars into rehab facilities over the years. Matthew is not as funny as he seems to think he is in this book- and at times he can be quite caustic. I didn’t know how to take him sometimes- but frankly, I don't think he would be all that pleasant to be around for too long.

Overall, Perry did not make a big impression on me. I wish I didn’t know now, what I didn’t know before reading this book. Despite all that, I still feel compassion for the mighty struggles and the ones he still faces, the lost opportunities for living a fulfilled life, and his obvious and palpable loneliness.

While he claims to believe in God, some of his remarks on this subject were not truly faith-based- but I do hope he continues to seek that guidance and I wish him the best on his spiritual journey. I also hope his physical health gets better, though this seems to be questionable, and I hope he finds some contentment in the future.

Sadly, Matthew didn’t quite convince me to put complete faith in his current and future sobriety. But I wish him well, and hope he matures emotionally and spiritually in the days to come, which will surely mean less self-absorption, arrogance, and entitlement. Maybe that would help him in his quest for a life-partner. I'd also suggest trying to be a pet-parent, someday.

On a more upbeat note- the pictures Perry included in at the back of the book shows his stepfather, Keith Morrison- of Dateline- when he was much younger- before the white hair!! I got a kick out looking at those photos, and sadly, that was about the only good thing I could find to say about this book.

1.5 stars

[citizenjoyce · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Could Matthew Perry be any more narcissistically annoying? Children of alcoholic parents learn not to be taken in by addicts' BS, and Perry is full of it. He's seen god, yeah. He loves helping people, yeah. He'd gladly trade his fame and millions to be a non-addicted schmuck in a rent-controlled apartment, yeah. He is continually surrounded by people wanting to help him yet he whines and whines and whines. He's a good man who wants only to be a husband and father, yet he's slept with half the women in Beverly Hills and kicks to the curb any woman who falls in love with him. Maybe he has finally reached sobriety. Give it a few years, then maybe he'll be able to write a book with a little more understanding of his humanity.

[almin-70827 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Confusing timeline and just unpleasant. Angry, complaining and talks incessantly about money (how much he has and how much he spends, $7 million on therapy), every bad thing he has done is blamed on his addiction. Insincere when talking about the many women in his life....uses the same adjectives to describe each one. Bizarre digs at Keanu Reeves with no explanation.

[brianinbuffalo · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

As a member of a family ravaged by drug addiction (my older brother struggled with addiction for seven years before suffering a fatal overdose when I was a teenager), I applaud Perry for his enormous courage in sharing his anguish and offering many raw insights into this horrible disease. I have an embarrassing confession: I've only watched a half-dozen episodes of "Friends" over the decades and had to ask myself "which one was Matthew Perry?" The fact that I'm not a fan/follower speaks to the power of his memoir. I understand where some reviewers are coming from when they suggest that the author seems to embrace the blame game with a bit too much gusto. Still, he ultimately and candidly acknowledges his personal weaknesses. I do agree with some critics that the book needed more editing and cohesion (it has quite a bit of redundancy). Also, some of Perry's attempts at humor simply didn't resonate with me. Blame me, not him. All these relatively minor critiques aside, "Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing" casts a revealing spotlight on a tragic disease. Kudos to Perry.

[hcnewton · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

My mind is out to kill me, and I know it. I am constantly filled with a lurking loneliness, a yearning, clinging to the notion that something outside of me will fix me. But I had had all that the outside had to offer!



WHAT'S FRIENDS, LOVERS, AND THE BIG TERRIBLE THING ABOUT?
This isn't full of—but does contain—some good, behind-the-scenes stuff about Friends, Fools Rush In, The Whole Nine Yards, Mr. Sunshine, The Odd Couple, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, and other projects. But those don't make up the bulk of the material. And those are interesting, amusing, and support the overall thesis of the book—he's an addict who has been blessed with more good things than he knows how to handle.

There's some juicy (largely nameless, but you can read between the lines) bits about his love life—as the title suggests. But again, there's not much of that overall—and those, too, serve to support the overall thesis—even more than the professional matters do.

Then there's the Big Terrible Thing—his addictions themselves, how he got started, how he maintained them, and his several attempts to get sober (of varying successes and lengths of success). He also goes into graphic (perhaps too graphic) detail about the physical toll they've taken on him—and the financial, emotional, and mental toll they've taken on those close to him.

HOW PERRY COMES ACROSS
When this book first came out (or just before it) there were more than a few headlines about some (I'm going to be charitable and call them) questionable jokes he made about Keanu Reeves and some people casting doubt about some of the particulars of some of his stories. Given how impaired he was during most of those disputed events (and just about every other event he recounts), I'm not surprised he doesn't remember them correctly, and I don't think it should be held against him. The Reeves jokes, on the other hand, might have seemed like a good idea at the time—but his editors really should've stopped them. I jotted down a note after the second one that "someone at Macmillan must have it out for him to let this make it to print."

But both of those things pale in comparison to everything that Perry admits to in this book. He doesn't come across as a good guy at all—and I don't think he's trying to. Sure, the fact that he's (seemingly) coming clean about everything and (seemingly) taking responsibility for the lies, destructive behaviors, and despicable actions might make some people want to think better of him—but I don't think he really wants that.

He comes across—and I realize this could be entirely calculated—as someone who is being honest about his shortcomings, seeking to explain the devastation his addictions have wrought on himself and many, many of those around him—how he's somehow managed to have some success in the midst of that. He gives credit to some of those who've helped him get to this point in recovery—or kept him alive long enough to get there. In the end, however, Perry's not a good guy and doesn't pretend to be one. He's a mess who will very likely kill himself if he relapses a time or two more.

SO, WHAT DID I THINK ABOUT FRIENDS, LOERS, AND THE BIG TERRIBLE THING?
I've been a big fan of Perry's since Friends (I can point to the joke that made me one)—I've seen almost everything he's done (sometimes not because of him, but I appreciated his involvement). But I put this book under the category of "will get around to eventually, maybe." Until I saw people reacting to how much of the focus of the book is on the Big Terrible Thing. And that piqued my interest.

That sounds ghoulish, I realize, but hearing a well-documented addict talking about their struggles is something that I appreciate. It helps me empathize with those I know fighting that fight, and I hope, helps me understand and appreciate their struggles.

Perry's clear that he's been given every opportunity, tool, and help to get sober and to maintain that sobriety. And he's squandered almost every one of them. And it has yet to work. The amounts he takes on a regular basis when he uses is...it's a shocking amount—and only someone as wealthy as he is could pull it off.

At the same time, there's a glimmer of hope. A faint glimmer, sure. But there is one—and if someone whose rock bottom is as low as Perry's was can maybe make it—there's hope for others, too. And that's the big thing I took away—there's hope. Hope for other addicts, hope for Perry.

I thought this was a riveting and disturbing read—made tolerable by Perry's off-kilter and somewhat humorous telling of the stories. It's not like most celebrity memoirs I've read (but I don't think it's that ground-breaking)—but definitely worth the time.

[cherybear · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

It's terrible. This man has had everything--fame, fortune, money, talent, attractiveness. . . . . and a genetic predisposition to abuse alcohol and drugs. It's hard to believe someone who has so much has an emptiness inside he keeps trying to fill. His harrowing stories of abuse, multiple rehabs, and resulting illnesses and surgeries are frightening. Sadly, I don't believe his struggles are over. I want to believe they are.

[berly_4 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Brutally honest with just enough humor to keep me going in this tragic story of addiction by famous actor Matthew Perry aka Chandler in the TV sitcom Friends.

[mcelhra · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The One Where I Was Disappointed

I love Friends. It might be my all-time favorite TV show. I was counting down the days until Matthew Perry’s book came out – he’s the first one of the six friends to write a book. Well, boo on me. I don’t know if I’ve ever been as disappointed in a book!

I knew he had a drug problem but I had no idea how bad it was. He’s basically been using drugs his entire adult life with only brief stints of sobriety. That’s not what turned me off though. It’s that he takes almost no personal responsibility for his addictions and blames everyone else. He repeatedly refers to having abandonment issues because he flew on an airplane once as an unaccompanied minor. Come on!

At one point he was taking up to 55 painkillers a day. If you’ve ever taken even a normal amount of them then you know they can make you a little constipated. So imagine what 55 a day will do to you! He ended up needing major bowel surgery and had to have a temporary colostomy. As an ostomate myself, I was really angry that he said his bag broke all the time and that doctors should be able to make a f**king bag that works. I have never had one break – they do work if you’re not a whiney baby who doesn’t learn how to take care of yourself properly. He said that the reason he finally quit drugs was that his therapist told him if he didn’t, he might have to have a permanent colostomy. It’s good that he quit but there are worse fates in life than having a colostomy. And that’s the end of my rant about that!

The timeline was confusing, jumping all around. There was some dirt and behind-the-scenes info, which I always appreciate. He kept saying that he wrote the book to help people but I got the impression that he’s very newly sober and his track record is not good. If I were an addict, I think his book would make me feel worse, not hopeful! I think die-hard fans of him or Friends will get something out of reading it but keep your expectations low.

[micareads · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Matthew Perry is best known for playing the goofy lovable Chandler on Friends but what we didn't see was how close he was to death. Throughout his time on the hit show, Perry was becoming addicted to a variety of drugs. At one point, he was taking 55 oxycontin a day just to get by. He had drug dealers on speed dial and did what he had to do to get his next fix. Even when forced into the life or death situation of having his colon ruptured, Perry continued to use extreme amounts of illicit drugs. When he finally decides it's time to finally get control of his habit he is placed on a drug to help him detox only to discover that due to the severity of his addiction, he may be on the medication for the rest of his life.

This book has its good moments and bad moments. Perry is extremely open and honest about his addiction and just how much he fights every day. He is aware that one more high may equal the end of his life. Matthew also laments the fact that despite wanting to be loved he had severe issues of inadequacy that made him decide to leave them before they could leave him. As he continues to fight his battle, he looks back on his time on Friends, his losses, and his hope for the future.