How to Feel

On Hulk Hogan.

Hulk Hogan’s death is obviously a disorienting piece of news for me to process, let alone write about, but it would be disrespectful not to write about it here. (But only here.) Longtime TSB readers understand Hogan’s relevance to me and, oddly, to themselves, since he has been such an inescapable and important part of my recovery and TSB lore. I will also admit I am severely ill-equipped to come at this with any ounce of objectivity whatsoever. If you’re searching for more context, please explore our archives, which are for paid subscribers. If you can’t afford to pay but think TSB can be a worthwhile addition to your recovery, email me and let me know. I’ll hook you up. Thanks. — AJD

Many people I am close to now, or who used to be friends and coworkers from my prior life, reached out to me yesterday—some more gleeful and ghoulish than others—asking me how I felt. More often than not, my response was muted, a combination of "Weird day!" or "Still processing," both of which were true. But everyone understood that I was bound to feel something because how could I not? I'd done some quick math and realized that for nearly a decade, I'd thought about Hulk Hogan multiple times a day.

Not all of those thoughts were anguished, mind you, but they were certainly activating. You see, I haven't had to Google search for what was happening with Hulk Hogan for quite some time—other people have kept me up to date even though I never asked them to. Last summer was super-intense—many people texted me when Hulk Hogan ripped his shirt open at the Republican National Convention. ("I hope you're okay…") A couple of weeks after that, even more people texted me when there were Deadline rumblings about a Gawker trial movie starring Ben Affleck as Hulk Hogan. ("Hey, just checking in on you…") A couple of weeks after that, someone texted me that Hulk Hogan was possibly drunk in public, trashing Kamala Harris as he tried to promote his Real American Beer. ("I'm sure you saw this but…") Someone also texted me when he got booed at a recent WWE event on Netflix. ("Thought you'd enjoy this…")

So, before 9 a.m. yesterday, I'd already received two text messages from people, even though I had yet to read any news stories. One said: "You heard of course…Hulk dead." And then another one just said "love you pal" without any context whatsoever. It was about to be one of those days where I would spend 15 hours preoccupied with my emails and text messages, and wouldn't think about much else.

But I've got this book to write, so it's not like I haven't been thinking of him more than usual anyway. And—this is kinda freaky—yesterday morning, before the first texts came in, this was the paragraph I was retooling:

"I sat in the pew, braced for the tape to be played of my deposition, wondering how it would be received—that the stupidity and recklessness of the comment would be interpreted as ballsy, or maybe heroic. My sarcasm would underscore the madness of how something so puerile as a blog post about Hulk Hogan's penis could end up inside an actual courtroom in front of an actual judge and jury. The tape was played, and it was worse than I had remembered it:

Well, can you imagine a situation where a celebrity sex tape would not be newsworthy?

A. If they were a child.

Q. Under what age?

A. Four.

There were gasps and groans bouncing off the ceilings of the courtroom. Nick shifted in his seat and moved a few inches to the left. I looked to my right, and Terry Bollea, the humbled and hobbled human being, had transformed into Hulk Hogan, former WWE champion. He was nodding at me, purposely taunting me like a big goon. It was silly, but effective and intimidating. For those two seconds, I was starstruck."

We know what happened after that. Hogan won the suit. Gawker died. I carried the blame with me for far too long, but now I have happily moved on.

But have I moved on? I did a quick search of the archives over the past seven years to see how many times "Hulk Hogan" appeared in a Small Bow essay, and it's more than 30. If I were truly over it, that number wouldn't be that high. Yet, 30 out of 500-something newsletters doesn't seem obsessed or anything, does it? But most importantly—does that number make me sound sober?

A couple of people asked me yesterday if I'd ever had a chance to make amends to him. Yes, but I haven't told many people about it.

*****

In late February 2018, Conspiracy, a book about the Gawker trial written by Ryan Holiday, was released into the world. I was almost two years sober by then, had a new baby and family, and a new purpose, but the news and interview requests I was getting about that book were severely disrupting my new peaceful life. I didn't want any more of this shit haunting me.

Soon after the book was out, I asked Ryan if he could put me in touch with Hulk Hogan, but I really wanted to speak to the man who played him, Terry Bollea. I was ready to move on, and I thought I needed to do so with the blessing of the human being—not the fictional character the man played for TV wrestling—to do so.

I also knew chances of that happening were slim—Hogan's legal team was always super-motivated to harass me. Even 11 months after everyone else had left that courtroom in Pinellas County, Fla., my cellphone and laptop were getting subpoenaed and confiscated whenever one of them was convinced I had regained access to the sex tape.

And plus, I didn't want to upset all the Gawker lawyers who'd stuck their necks out for me. I could hear all of them inside my head: "If he didn't ask for an apology, why would you give it to him on a piece of paper signed by you, which is totally admissible into a court of law, you fucking idiot? Do you want to be destitute forever?"

Ryan texted me back within a couple of days: Bollea was open to it. It would just be between us. I would send whatever I needed to send him to a Dunedin, Fla. PO Box and address it to—come on, now—Hulk Hogan. Really? "Hulk Hogan" still?

I think that was where he received some of his fan mail, but I was ready to let this go. This was the gist of the letter I wrote.

"Dear Terry, I know this is a risk, and I do hope this remains between us. I want you to know that while I was in that courtroom and things were hard and uncomfortable in my life, having some of my worst moments splashed all over the news felt impossibly unfair. I realized later on that it is probably somewhat close to the humiliation and pain that you felt the day I published the post on Gawker. I understand that I caused you that pain, and I'm truly sorry. I hope we can discuss this further someday."

I printed it out, stuck it in an envelope, sprinted down Franklin Avenue to a blue mailbox near Gelson's supermarket, shoved it in, and then walked back home nervously, reasonably sure I'd screwed myself again. But there was also a sense of relief that I'd maybe done the right thing.

Since he'd initially responded to my request so quickly, I was sure I'd get a letter mailed back to me in about a week. That wasn't the case, though. And weeks went by, and I was officially worried. I was no longer expecting a letter back. Instead, I found myself awaiting another angry-looking process server to slap a big envelope on my chest.

Finally, I asked Ryan if he could check in for me. He did, but he also didn't hear back right away. Then, finally, on May 4, 2018, he got a reply:

"He said he is grateful that you sent it, that you're both on the same page (and spiritual direction), and he hopes you can both reconnect after the legal drama is finally over. He signed the text "only love, HH."

*****

In the seven years since then, I've often wondered if he ever had any real intention of reconnecting with me. Like, maybe I wasn't a human to him after all. My mind would spin violently: I mean, "only love, HH"? That's his dumb sign-off to his silly "Hulkamaniacs," and I am absolutely not a goddamn "Hulkamaniac," not a chance.

That sort of thing.

On some of my worst days when I'd get angry about the trial or feel ashamed about who I was or what happened to Gawker, I wanted to run that story about the amends letter just to tell people how he was a fraud who never reconnected to me to prove that, once and for all, I was the ONLY one who was really growing here and that he was the one who was full of shit this whole time. But what would that have proven? I would have probably ended up writing him another amends letter after that. That’s not a good way to live life, always causing problems, destroying, then amending. I'm glad I let it go.

*****

So let's start again: How do I feel about Hulk Hogan's death?

I feel comfortable admitting that he's partially responsible for so many good things in my current life: Some of the good stuff you read here by me, but also by the other people we publish here, too. And I know that the meetings that happen here and the community that's being built are, in many ways, the result of my connection to Hulk Hogan. His death has reminded me that our connection can continue put some good back into the world. Maybe it can inspire you to do the same.

All Illustrations by Edith Zimmerman.

So welcome new people. We have a Zoom meeting at 10 a.m. PST/1 p.m. EST. We need ya, so swing through.

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