Pryor convictions: comedian tells true story of his suicide attempt and his battle with MS

Ebony, Sept, 1995 by Richard Pryor

Comedian tells true story of his suicide attempt and his battle with MS

After freebasing without interruption for several days in a row [in 1980], I wasn't able to discern one from the next.(*) Night and day became different shades of gray. Nor did I care about such details as time. Jennifer [his fourth wife] called my house and pleaded with my Aunt Dee to get me help. She'd never seen me so wasted and sickly. When Aunt Dee reassured her that I was fine, Jenny made a beeline out to Northridge in order to confront me herself. But the sight of me in the dark, clutching my pipe, told her it was useless.

"I know what I have to do," I mumbled. "I've brought shame to my family. I've hurt you. I've destroyed my career. I know what I have to do."

The house was full. From Rashon to my cousin and Aunt Dee, not to mention the housekeepers and cook, people were doing their thing. They were trained to leave me alone. Oh, Mr. Pryor, he's in his bedroom. They didn't mention that the door was locked. By late afternoon, the only reason to suspect I was present was the continuous smell of acrid smoke and the foreboding vibes that sent into the rest of the house.

Nothing changed as darkness took the heat out of the beautiful spring day. Hovered over my rocks, pipe, cognac, and Bic lighter, I smoked and soared and crashed and smoked again, repeating the deadly cycle over and over again as if I was chainsmoking Marlboros. But I didn't allow time even for cigarettes. I'd never felt more paranoid, depressed, or hopeless.

Hopeless.

As if I was drowning.

As that craziness went on, I continued to smoke until I ran out of cocaine. By then, I was experiencing serious dementia. Stuck in a surreal landscape of constantly shifting emotions. No weight. Floating at the distant end of a tunnel. Miserably alone. Frightened. Voices growing louder, closing in. Wave after wave of depression. Needing to get high. Real high.

No more dope.

Unsure what to do, I panicked.

"God, what do you want me to do?" I cried. "What do you want me to do?"

I didn't wait for a response.

"I'll show you," I said with the giddiness and relief of a certified madman. "I'll show you."

More laughter mixed with tears.

"I'm going to set myself on fire."

Hysteria.

"Then I'll be safe. Yeah, then I'll be okay."

Imagining relief was nearby, I reached for the cognac bottle on the table in front of me and poured it all over me. Real natural, methodical. As the liquid soiled my body and clothing, I wasn't scared. Neither did I feel inner peace.

I was in a place called There.

Suddenly, my isolation was interrupted by a knock on the door. A bang, really. My cousin opened it and looked inside at the moment I picked up my Bic lighter. I saw him trying to figure out what I was doing.

"Come on in," I said.

He zeroed in on the lighter in my hand.

"Oh, no!" he exclaimed.

"Don't be afraid."

Then I flicked it. The lighter didn't work. I tried it again and nothing. Then I did it a third time.

WHOOSH!

I was engulfed in flame.

Instinctively, I jumped on the bed, thinking that I'd grab the comforter, wrap myself up, and smother the flames. But God's wonderful. That comforter was just laying on the bed, not tucked in or anything. But the damn comforter wouldn't come loose. Wouldn't let me pick it up or wrap it around. It wouldn't move an inch. It was just stuck.

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" I screamed.

Still on fire - though unaware that I'd turned into a human barbecue - I rubbed the back of my head and looked at my hand. Flames rose from my skin. I screamed, "What the f - is that?"

"You're on fire," my auntie exclaimed, and then to my cousin she barked, "Put a sheet over him."

Again, in my delirium, I thought that they wanted to kill me. Taking advantage of their confusion and horror, I leaped up and jumped out the window. That really took them by surprise. Sprinting down the driveway, I went out the gates, and ran down the street.

"Come back here, honey!" my auntie called.

But I kept going. Running, running down Parthenia. I was out of my mind.

And you know something I noticed? When you run down the street on fire, people will move out of your way. They don't f - around. Except for one old drunk who's sitting there going, "Hey, buddy, can I get a light? Come on, pal. A little off the sleeve?"

By the time I hit Hayvenhurst, my pace had slowed to a walk. A police car pulled up. Two cops tried to help me. I tried reaching for one of their guns. They could've blown my head off. I wanted them to shoot me. Hoped they'd finish what I'd already started.

"Oh, Lord, you got me now," I muttered.

The siren wailed.

"Is there?" I asked.

"Is there what?" someone asked.

"Oh, Lord, there is no help for a poor widow's son, is there?"

At the Sherman Oaks Community Hospital Burn Center: "Do you know who I am?" the man in the white coat asked me. "I said, `Do you know who I am?'"

"Yeah," I said. "You're the doctor."

In the background, I heard people whispering that I'd f - up royally.

Physically, I was scarred from the tip of my ears down to my thighs. The most severe damage was concentrated on my upper body, where third-degree burns turned what was once smooth, unmarked, brown skin into a raw, fleshy paste that oozed brown pus and left the nerves exposed.