For millions, Drew Carey is the jovial face of daytime television, a man whose career is built on bringing joy, laughter, and the chance of a brand-new car into our living rooms. His signature glasses and warm, inviting smile have become synonymous with comfort and lighthearted fun. But behind the curtain of “The Price is Right,” beyond the bright lights and cheering crowds, lies the story of a man forged in darkness, shaped by profound struggle, and ultimately saved by the very principles he now champions: humor, discipline, and the courage to say, “I love you.”

In a remarkably candid reflection on his life, Carey peels back the layers of his public persona to reveal the unseen battles that defined him. His journey is not just one of professional success, but of personal survival. It’s a testament to the idea that our deepest wounds can often become our greatest sources of strength, and that the simplest daily habits can be the anchors that keep us from drifting away in the storm.

A Privilege, Not a Job

Before he was the steward of a television institution, Drew Carey was a stand-up comic, grinding it out in clubs across the country. It was a world of shared stages and limited time, where you had to walk out, seize your ten minutes, and make the most of it, regardless of who came before or after you. That mindset, he reveals, became the bedrock of his approach when he inherited the legendary mantle of “The Price is Right.”

“I didn’t want to be responsible for ruining the show,” Carey admits, recalling the immense pressure he felt in his early years. He saw himself not as the star, but as a caretaker of a cherished legacy. The feeling was less about performance and more about preservation. He was driven by a fear of being the one to “screw this up.”

Over time, that sense of stewardship blossomed into a feeling of belonging. The stage became his, and the role transformed from a job into a calling. “I don’t have to go to work, I get to go to work,” he says, a simple turn of phrase that captures a profound shift in perspective. “It’s a privilege for me to be here… a blessing to me.” It’s a gratitude born not from fame or fortune, but from a deep understanding of how easily it could have all been different. For Carey, showing up is an act of purpose, a daily choice he intends to make for as long as he is physically and mentally able.

The Joke That Saved a Life

That mental fortitude was tested long before he ever stepped onto a Hollywood soundstage. In a moment of raw vulnerability, Carey recounts one of the darkest nights of his life: a time when, as a young man, he attempted suicide. After drinking a couple of beers, he swallowed an entire bottle of Sominex sleeping pills, mistakenly believing they would be lethal.

His fraternity brothers intervened, rushing him to a medical center where he was given Ipecac to induce vomiting. What happened next would alter the course of his life. As he was violently ill over a toilet, feeling the absolute worst he had ever felt, his best friend, Paul, stood by his side, holding his shoulders. Then, in a moment of what could be seen as audacious, dark humor, Paul began to sing the jingle for the very pills that had brought them there: “Take Sominex tonight and sleep, sleep, sleep…”

For Carey, something broke open in that instant. “That made me feel so much better,” he remembers, the emotion still palpable in his voice. “He made me laugh by making a joke… and knowing it was… a time he could be playful with me and not hurt me. It was kind of perfect, honestly. I’ll never forget it as long as I live.”

It was a life-altering lesson in the healing power of humor. It wasn’t just a joke; it was a lifeline thrown from a friend who knew him well enough to understand that laughter, even in the deepest despair, could be a form of rescue. This experience became a core part of his philosophy, shaping his understanding that dark humor is often a coping mechanism—a way people process the unthinkable and find a flicker of light to guide them through.

The Unspoken Epidemic of Male Loneliness

Carey’s brush with despair also informs his passionate advocacy for mental health, particularly for men, who are often culturally conditioned to suffer in silence. He draws a sharp, clear analogy: “If you broke an arm, you wouldn’t go to your buddy who knows first aid. You would go to a freaking doctor.” Yet, when it comes to mental health, we often turn to “amateurs on Reddit or bartenders or your friends” instead of seeking professional help.

He argues for proactive mental wellness, viewing therapy not as a last resort for the broken, but as regular maintenance for the mind. “You don’t have to have anything going wrong with you to see a therapist,” he insists. “You just go because you don’t want anything to go wrong with you.”

This resistance to seeking help, he believes, is deeply connected to a broader, more insidious problem in modern society: the suppression of male emotion. He speaks openly about telling his friends, both men and women, that he loves them. For him, it’s a practice as natural and necessary as saying hello or goodbye.

He recalls watching Paul McCartney in concert, moved to tears as the music legend spoke of his one great regret with John Lennon. “He mentions on stage that when we were growing up, we were never allowed to say that, so we never told each other that we loved each other,” Carey explains. “It always breaks my heart to hear that.”

He sees this as a ridiculous and damaging cultural standard. “Only men get told they’re not allowed to express love and they’re not allowed to hug… or they’re weak or they’re somehow not masculine enough,” he states. “It’s ridiculous.” For Carey, spreading love isn’t a sign of weakness; it’s a revolutionary act of strength and humanity.

The Discipline of a Marine

If humor and love are his emotional pillars, then discipline is his structural foundation. Carey credits his time in the Marine Corps for instilling in him an unshakeable work ethic and a profound sense of self-reliance. It’s a part of his past that continues to inform his present in tangible ways.

His day begins not with a phone or a cup of coffee, but with a simple, deliberate act: making his bed. And not just casually pulling up the covers. He fluffs the pillows and squares away the corners until it looks like a show home, ready for a viewing. This small ritual, he explains, was a source of positivity and control that helped him navigate the uncertainty of the pandemic.

That Marine Corps training provided him with more than just discipline; it gave him an internal benchmark for adversity. “Nothing seems impossible for me because I was in the Marine Corps,” he says. Whenever he faces a daunting challenge, he reminds himself of what he has already endured. “Man, you did a thing that not a lot of people get to do.” It’s a constant, internal source of confidence that reminds him of his own resilience.

From the stage of “The Price is Right” to the quiet moments of his private life, Drew Carey’s story is a powerful tapestry woven from threads of darkness and light. It’s a reminder that the people who make us laugh the loudest are often the ones who have known the deepest silence. His journey teaches us that purpose can be found in showing up, that healing can arrive in the form of a badly timed joke, that strength is found in vulnerability, and that a well-made bed can be the first step in building a well-made life. He isn’t just a game show host; he’s a survivor, a philosopher, and a testament to the enduring power of the human spirit.