Almost five years ago, reality star Carl Radke made the decision to stop using drugs and alcohol. Radke, who’s been on Bravo’s “Summer House” for 10 seasons, has spoken over the years about his brother Curtis’ overdose death in 2020 and how his own substance use in its wake played a major role in choosing sobriety.
Now, the 40-year-old is opening up about the loss, his mental health and other aspects of his life beyond the TV screen in a new memoir called “Cake Eater,” a reference to his childhood in the Pittsburgh area. The book will hit stands Dec. 30.
“It was not easy to go back and dig in and talk about stuff that’s painful and tragic and difficult,” he tells TODAY.com. “It was a difficult process, but it was something that I felt was important to put my life story out there … to help other people.”
“I think it’s important to be honest and to be authentic about things that I’ve been through,” he adds.
Writing the book has helped Radke, who openly refers to himself as an alcoholic and drug addict, heal in some ways, but he still takes his recovery day by day. He starts every morning with meditation and prayer, and regularly attends AA meetings.
“I could have written this book and relapsed the next day,” he says. “Every day I have to wake up and … do what I do to continue to stay sober, regardless of a book or not.”
One thing Radke wants readers to take away from his story is that “I’m just as messy and flawed as anybody else.”
“I’m not a doctor, I’m not a therapist, I’m not an expert, I don’t have anything figured out,” he adds. “That was why I wanted to put this out there because it’s just more honest and real. … I’m still working at it and trying to become a better version of myself.”
Radke shared an exclusive excerpt from “Cake Eater” with TODAY.com about an especially formative event in his decision to get sober, part of the “darkest period” of his addiction, he writes.
Read an Excerpt from Carl Radke’s Memoir “Cake Eater”:
In those first few weeks back in the city, I started isolating myself. Friends would call and invite me out, and I’d decline.
“I’m not interested. I’m just gonna chill tonight,” I’d say. But “chill” had taken on a new meaning.
It meant staying home, drinking by myself and doing cocaine by myself. It meant putting on music or watching TV in a desperate attempt to drown out the thoughts in my head.
And then, inevitably, after hours alone with those substances, I’d start making calls. I’d reach out to friends, family, my mom, anyone who might pick up at three in the morning. I’d ramble, sometimes crying hysterically, occasionally angry, rarely coherent. I was scaring people, calling at all hours of the night, and being emotionally volatile. But I could justify it all because I was grieving. I was the brother who had just lost his brother. Who could blame me for being a mess?
The cycle was persistent. Wake up feeling like shit, both physically and emotionally. Try to function through the day. Start drinking again as soon as it seemed acceptable, which, in my distorted reality, was getting earlier and earlier. Add cocaine to keep me going when the alcohol would have put me to sleep. Pass out, wake up, repeat.
My drinking and drug use wasn’t just about numbing the pain of losing Curtis. It was also about avoiding the complicated feelings I had about our relationship. The regret of not meeting with him when I had the chance that summer. The guilt over how I’d spoken about his addiction on TV had created a rift between us. The shame of recognizing myself in his struggles, of seeing how similar our paths had been despite my best efforts to be different.
These emotions were too raw, too overwhelming to face sober. So, I didn’t.
There’s a particular moment that stands out in my memory from this period. It was Thanksgiving 2020. My cast member and I had decided to spend it together, just the two of us and a few close friends. We cooked, we set the table, we tried to create some semblance of normalcy in a year that had been anything but normal.
As the evening progressed, I started drinking whiskey — Jack Daniel’s, specifically. Anyone who knows me can tell you that Jack turns me into a very aggressive, intense person. I become combative, looking to talk shit and pick fights. This night was no exception.
My cast member and I started bickering about the pot roast. Maybe it was in too long, and maybe it wasn’t done right. All of the details are fuzzy now, but the emotion isn’t. What began as a minor disagreement quickly escalated into something much bigger. I felt the familiar anger rising, the kind that alcohol always amplified. Before I knew it, I was shouting, “F–k you, I’m done, I’m leaving!”
I walked out of the apartment — this was Thanksgiving dinner, mind you — went down 10 floors to my place, closed the door, called my dealer, ordered another bottle, and sat there alone.
Eventually, some friends from upstairs came down to check on me, and instead of helping me, they joined the party. We did more drugs together, and the night spiraled even further.
The next day, two cast members essentially told me that they couldn’t be friends with me if I continued acting like this. But even their ultimatums weren’t enough to shake me out of the path I was on. I was too far gone, too lost in grief and substances to hear them.
Christmas was much the same story. It was attempts at normalcy derailed by my drinking and drug use. New Year’s Eve, a holiday I’d never spent at home in my entire adult life, found me alone in my apartment, too mentally and emotionally exhausted to face the world. I ignored calls and texts from concerned friends, unable to pick up the phone and pretend I was OK.
Jan. 1, 2021, came and went, and I remained in my isolation, dodging attempts at connection, sinking deeper into a hole that seemed to have no bottom. I had hit a point where I was almost apathetic about living. Not actively suicidal, but indifferent to whether I woke up the next day. It was a dangerous place to be, especially with the amounts of alcohol and cocaine I was consuming.
