Like a Stag Needs a Hat Rack: The Rehab Diaries
*All excerpts remain one-hundred percent uncensored and unedited other than for an extraordinary amount of spelling and grammatical errors.
18th March, 2010
Am I supposed to salute this solution?
Oblong havens of past nods call my name and as I stare out of this window, I frown in confusion. This location is absurd.
Bland shadows of the commission flats -yes... the one's peering through my window- cast temptation and drug lust over my darkened pastures. It's a test. Abstract. A test that I will overcome. That's easy to say now, I know this. This is all merely a repeat. When my final hit before coming into this hellhole wears off...
Three-hundred metres as the crow flies, a beeline, the Priest Narcotic baritones his Death Song. Today, I am deaf to it. Tomorrow?
Six months ago, cinnamon, sage, cloves and the The Thomas Recipe was to be my cure. How the hell did it come to this?
19th March, 2010
The cause is the cure.
That came to me last night. My first night. A dream? Someone whispered it to me from afar. I could barely hear it. Some woman. Old. Wise. But grouchy, distant. A silhouette. A nurse? Dunno. But it happened. The cause is the cure.
The cause may be the cure but the path to the cure is broken by cattle grids and has more potholes than a Google Maps mystery road.
But, as the final smack wave paratroops through my aching veins, I still stand firm. I will not be a martyr for this junkie cause. Instead, I will take all meds thrown my way. Valium? Yes! Pain killers? Yes! Muscle relaxants and Klonopin? Hell, yes! Bring them to my mouth in your silver platter of a nurses wrinkly and cynical hand! Why make this journey, as everyone keeps calling it, an uncomfortable one? Martyrs only end up dead anyway. Who wants that? I'm not here to die. Smooth sailing ahead, my friend.
My yellow brick road is paved with prescription pills.
20th March, 2010
My history suffers with a picaresque existence; pot holes, cattle grids, no pot holes, smooth bitumen. Picaresque. This Dadaist existence yields no significant climax, yet the involuntary drippings from my limp dick on this second day of withdrawal symbolise a plot discovery. An answer to an unspoken prayer. The plot is wisdom.
In five weeks, when I get outta here, unlike these insidious drippings, the plot will thicken.
21st March, 2010
My name is Mud. My name is Mud. My name is Mud. My name is Mud. My name is Mud. My name is Mud.
22nd March, 2010
My eyes speak rainbows through this window and all I get back is visions of Beirut. A Beirut window filled with opioid shadows, a crime scene playground and dead leaves on the dirty ground. Thanks, Jack.
I'm a devil with a false modesty my name is Mud.
I pray only to a non-existence God who offers me His version of solace, a Beirut window. As I pray, my mind litters with Single Use Only warnings, flashes of orange lids and the thick glug of my clotted veins. Surely, only the crudest of government agents would commission my window to directly face a fucking Beirut skyline.
My name is Mud.
23rd March, 2010
These are the killing fields of Richmond.
Reality has arrived.
Gone are the episodic parades of that final titanic spike rush. That was days ago. What lies within now feels plastic. No. Not plastic. Plastique. Like a chic bucket only to be emptied in the most ironic of situations.
The oblong havens skylining my Beirut window are filled with ghosts in an opioid vortex.
But I'm not there.
From here, I can see their holocaust features all spectral and numb. I know them. But in this state, they don't know me.
The oblong havens, they beg me to again suckle at the teat of the White Mistress of Desire. But I bleed no more.
The ghosts of Lennox Street. Strutting. Judging me like faithless preachers. Gazing with menacing vibrations. Appearing lost in everything they lack. They can affect me no more.
I do salute this solution. Thanks, Jack. These oblong havens may look down on me, but it is I who treat them with contempt. Strike me down, motherfuckers. If you dare. But remember this, Richmond, after the blood, after the spike rush, after the shadows burn to the ground, I will be the one to rule my godless world. The Priest Narcotic will have to face me!
A withering devil with false and redundant modesties.
24th March, 2010
Three futile exercises:
*An order of ideals in pursuit of a positive and giving relationship.
*A list of positive affirmations in the dream of a futile pursuit of happiness.
This one's the clincher...
*Being woken up from a blissful Benzedrine slumber in order to be forced to pursue a false and absurdly temporary state of euphoria through the recollection of soap opera images and insincere routine murmurings.
My cynicism will be the catalyst for me failing rehab.
25th March, 2010
Life has been full of debauchery and little ease. To have one of those pulled from under my feet -guess which one- seems a tad cruel.
Oh hey, Little Ease. You're still here?
26th March, 2010
This morning I woke up and the first thought that entered my head was how much I really want to lick a leather boot. Or pants. Anything leather other than a sofa. Now though?
Not so much.
27th March, 2010
If I had have debunked the curved space theory to a group of half-erect astronomers in some Scandinavian city, let's say... Oslo, would I still have ended up here routinely swallowing poison disguised as jellybeans?
If I were to have proven that humans are just as stuck up in death as they are in life, would I still be here surrounded by these chronic thought bandits who have the audacity to call themselves counsellors and nurses?
Scientists, philosophers... they all end up in rehab in one form or another.
28th March, 2010
The equation is simple:
No matter the level of debauchery, the end result will always be Little Ease.
29th March, 2010
Nobody likes a wiseass.
He poisoned my day. He jokes about suicide.
I need a counsellor like a stag needs a hat rack.
30th March, 2010
It's the wait that is the real weight. Five windows. Five rooms. Shadowing me. Oblong havens. Five windows. Five rooms. Know more about me than five over-qualified social workers.
These oblong havens are taunting me. My ex-drug dealer lives right over there. Inside that window. Inside another window, that's where I would shoot up sometimes. With Julie. Julie, with her neck abscesses and underfed smack baby. Julie. A last resort dealer.
The other three windows?
I know those people too. All junkies. All "friends". Outside my window. They put me in a fucking rehab in a fucking room with a fucking window that looks out over my former fucking drug haven! Who can I talk to about this?
None of these over-qualified ugly academiacs have a fucking clue.
No creativity today. Withdrawal is -to quote Bart Simpson quoting George Burns- a hideous bitch goddess.
31st March, 2010
Manny, Baby, me... we all injected in the fourth window from the top. From here, I can see the incandescent sixty-watt light globe that would so handily pinpoint a beacon on the exact spot of the exact vein. The fourth from the top.
Manny. Baby. They're dead now.
1st April, 2010
I am no better off than Manny and Baby. Sitting here at the end of the calendar detox -science says I should be feeling better by now. Guess I'm the one who's wrong- about to officially enter "rehab" and feeling more depressed than a sheet of bubble wrap that has just been crushed with a steam roller driven by a large Eastern European lady with Communist eyes carrying a sack of ration potatoes and food stamps.
And Manny and Baby. Dead. Still high as kites, still not a care in the world. Dead.
Who's better off?
2nd April, 2010
What a cunt.
If God has a sense of humour then the joke's on us.
Me, I'm a true and powerful advocate for love. To me, love is a no-brainer.
Standing in my way of love though, is an uptight, red-headed stroke victim who tells me that love is a commodity. Unimportant.
My whole story is love. Everyone's. That's how we're here. Innit?
From love grows self-esteem. From love grows self-respect. Discipline. Selflessness. A commitment of faith. Love is the true God.
But Rosalie. The cunt. She must have been present during the commencement of the Ben & Demelza show. She says that Demelza has nothing to do with who I am or why I'm here. Umm... bitch. I ain't here in rehab because I like the gruel.
May Cunt's next stroke reinstate the cognitive brain balance of compassion and shutting the fuck up.
3rd April, 2010
Ah, the gilded palace of sin that is my soul. My friend.
4th April, 2010
Personal poisons litter the halls of this anti-haven. These wards, knee deep in unvalidated addiction and toxic sweat. What's it gonna be, Jack? Silver or lead? Plata o plomo? To cave in and live in the nine-to-five world of regular, stable income without risk or adventure. A mere scavenger yanking at the final chip of a valid existence. Or to stay true and die. Silver. Lead. This whole planet is a gilded palace of sin. Everyone here is a sinner.
5th April, 2010
I am a talentless hack.
6th April, 2010
The blood of Christ is nothing but medication and cheap champagne. God is a myth. Christ's martyrdom, his way of life, his lie of a reason for death are all myths. Well-written fairy stories. How can a mythical creature die without ever having lived and live without ever having died? Christ is a fool. If we all embody Christ, then are we not also fools? So if every one of us is a fool, and every fool is a clown, then should we not all be kings?
8th April, 2010
I've spent the past three hours watching flies fucking on the ceiling. Entwined thorax and stamen gyrating until fly-cum drips on my face and they mock me with all their eyes... "Hey, Louie! Look at this guy! This gaunt drug addict with no one to fuck! He doesn't even have antennae to masturbate with! Dirty, sexless drug addict."
My only consolation is that if I could be bothered, I could murder them during their mating ritual and never once suffer from consequence. No one cares! They're flies! Man, wouldn't that be the ultimate coitus interuptus!
9th April, 2010
If we did it in the road I do believe that people would most certainly be watching us. McCartney must think we're fucking stupid.
10th April, 2010
I'm at that stage of withdrawal. I'm getting the fear. The itch. Those menacing vibrations.
I wanna stalk the killing fields of Richmond and seek out the Devil's Threesome; a superstitious order of dealer, of needles, of a healthy vein. Single use only.
The ghosts of Lennox Street haunt me with pinprick eyes and dumpster baby expressions. Spectral. The invisible dead.
If I do what I'm told, what my opiate receptors are telling me, I can be just like them within five minutes. I'd be wise to do it now. While my dick's asleep. While my heart is dead. While my brain is handcuffed to a wall heater. Then I'll be truly happy. Lennox Street. Wolves.
Street dealers can spot a hanging junkie the same way a pedophile spots a pliable groom. Junkie and dealer make eye contact, give a knowing junkie nod that only a junkie can decipher and then walk towards each other. Like lovers in a cheesy Meg Ryan film.
The gauntlet of police pose little problem. They can keep their riot buses, their horseback dream sequences, their flat feet. Junkies ain't stupid. We're a crafty bunch o' scoundrels. Rapscallions. Rascals. Almost poetic. Romantic.
Police are kind of thick though. They are only trained to detect the blatant and to be predictable. As junk sick as I may be, I still know the art of subtlety. Of discretion and invisibility. Especially during a junk transaction. Subtlety is crucial. A hundred crumpled bucks in my right hand, sidle by Constable Dumbass, secretly taunt the undercover and presto! Junk is in my hand once more. My White Knight. Tucked into my shoe. Seamless. The Jacks are oblivious. Another successful transaction. Oh, shit! The needles! My weapons of mass destruction. Oh shit! The community centre is closed! No free needles. What? Now I've got to pay for these things? Ah, I'll just find one laying in the gutter. Single use only, my ass. It's straight out of the junkie playbook: Never score your needles before you score your drugs. It's a jinx.
I'm itching now worse than I ever have. Smack but nothing to smack with. Needles from the chemist costs five bucks. But... but... I just spent my last hundred on scoring gear. Oh! The irony!
*Attach top of right hand to forehead in an exasperated manner.
Gonna have to scam. Ask dealer for a fit. He pulls out a bloody, blunt 10ml syringe. The big motherfuckers. The one the Cambodians all seem to use. What's with that? I should ask one day.
But I don't really feel like catching Hep C today. Maybe next time.
I'm shaking like a fly-speck jiggle. All I need is five bucks. Ask strangers for a dollar here, twenty cents there. Bastards. Help out a junkie for fuck's sake. What? You'd rather I go and roll some old lady for her bingo winnings?
Contemplate unspeakable acts. Any dirty old men around? Willing to part with five dollars? My knees are already sore anyway. Makes no difference to me. Bah! Maybe next time.
Maybe I could just jump the pharmacist and split with one of those boxes of five-hundred that all the prostitute's collectives keep. Nah. Haven't got it in me. Not today. Maybe next time.
This'll be the last time. I'll kick tomorrow, for sure.
*Subliminally winks to himself.
Hmmm. Fitzroy has a twenty-four hour needle exchange program. Only a fifteen minute run from here. What choice do I have? I'm sick. Watery eyes. Runny nose. No voice. Literally and figuratively. Legs ache. Knees ache. Hot. Cold. Hot. Sinking into a death canal. My fingers. That smell. The siren call of six feet under. That smell. But, to achieve ecstasy, one must go through agony. So, I must plow on. Forge ahead. Like a good little junkie. A positive role model for the younger junkies. Yes. I'm just that important.
As I run I hallucinate and as I hallucinate I run. Heroin in my shoe. Feels like a pebble. A perpetual thorn in the flesh. Fitzroy. Brunswick Street. Catalogue hags stalk boutique night clubs all plastique strut and holocaust features. Heroin chic. A fashion statement. Think I'll give Dior or Lagerfeld a call. They would love me!
Yeah, they're the ones I like. 2ml. Smooth. Seamless dropper. Caressing spike. It's all so psychosomatic. I feel euphoric simply for having found a clean needle. No drug required. Might as well do it anyway. My fixation, y'see.
Nowhere to shoot up! Public toilets locked. The junky curse. People judging me. They know. Faithless preachers, cheating husbands, wife beaters and child molesters. They judge me. Who are the real criminals?
Need somewhere at least slightly obscured from judgement. Somewhere with light. Can't guess anymore. No pin the tail on the donkey here, mate. My veins are brick walls. But I know there's a tiny flesh wound somewhere around here. Oh, there it is. Bang! Straight in the mainline. That's the biggest relief since the last time I did this.
That gaping vagina of a flesh wound in my mainline is my lover. I could finger her for hours. The vein still collapses.
The fear. The itch. The menacing vibrations. Disappear. Gone. For ten minutes I will be happy. Every pain, anxiety, ache, memory, flushed. (Thanks Jim)
Judgement is a whip.
I fear that if I don't keep writing I'm actually gonna go through with all of this.
11th April, 2010
I walk the halls. Face these crazies. Again. Junkies. Drunks. Queers. Whack-jobs. All following their own undiluted rules. Bragging of halcyon days. I wonder aloud, "Why must halcyon die? Isn't every day a halcyon day? Here. Now."
The answer is simple:
Everyone here is a fucking lunatic and I'm just three steps away from my own personal hanging tree.
12th April, 2010
One thing I know now: That though I was blind, now I see (John 9:25)
13th April, 2010
Rehab Girl. It's a template. Attention seeking eyes. Only applies lipstick when the boys can see. Those boys tell you lies Rehab Girl, but you don't care. I see her looking. At me. At him. And him. And that guy. Ever wonder why I ignore you, Rehab Girl? It's because you give it all away for free, Rehab Girl. Why are you even here, Rehab Girl? You're a waste of a bed that a real junky could take. A real junky.
Go home, Rehab Girl.
14th April, 2010
I never promised that any of this writing would be quality.
15th April, 2010
Again, I never promised that any writing of quality would ever appear in this book.
16th April, 2010
Resentment is like drinking a bottle of poison and expecting the other person to suffer. It's a wide open road this drug rehab thing, so how can I be expected to suffer alone? Why am I here? Oh, that's right. I was working the wrong side of the street, wasn't I?
Resentment is a part of it, I guess. My insides are black with it. The problem is, my brain is too over-qualified for my heart. My carcass is confused as all hell. Nothing functions.
Richard Hell said that Love Comes in Spurts. Clever. Filthy bugger.
For me, love just hurts in spurts. Love for myself that is. There's a riot inside my skull and here I am just walking on by, still working the wrong side of the street. Spectral. Ghostly. Dead.
That's why I'm here.
17th April, 2010
But no one makes a sound
But no one's getting high
18th April, 2010
Misery Makers bay for fresh blood and prey my fabric like a preceptorial high-colonic.
Thought bandits. Administrators. Extracting the life out of my internal democracy.
All up in my ass! My ass. A high-colonic.
Those thought bandits, those administrators, they each have that lamster look about them.
Damn oblique habit.
19th April, 2010
This psychotic hag keeps hassling me. For knowledge. Is that a mock history or pure genuineness seeping from her drug-addled skin? She's all up in my ass. For knowledge. Do I budge? No. Do I impart wisdom? No. I'm relentless. Cold. Too old for this teenage attention seeking bullshit. Go away Rehab Girl.
And sweet Demelza. She's here. Her presence is forever felt. And I'm thankful. She calms my spirit and quells my nerves. My love and light and...
...is that psychotic hag still talking?
Where's my noose?
20th April, 2010
Remember that film with the apes gathered around the monolith? Those days are gone. Now, it's just South American peasant farmers defecating in open fields. The circle of life. Evolution, Darwin calls it. They spit tobacco juice at their feet and defecate in the open field. Defecate in the open field. Defecate in the open field. Defecate in the open field. Defecate in the open field. Defecate in the open field. Defecate in the open field. Defecate in the open field. Defecate in the open field. Defecate in the open field. Defecate in the open field. Defecate in the open field. Defecate in the open field. Defecate in the open field. Defecate in the open field. Defecate in the open field. Defecate in the open field. Defecate in the open field. Defecate in the open field. Defecate in the open field. Defecate in the open field. Defecate in the open field. Defecate in the open field. Defecate in the open field. Defecate in the open field...
*Sorry. Record's stuck.
21st April, 2010
Red lollies. I want red lollies.
22nd April, 2010
The results are in! My liver's fucked. Stupid essential organ. It's supposed to be around a fifty blood count. Whatever that is? Mine's at over nine-hundred. The doc said that's why I look like "death warmed up."
I like looking like death.
People actually listen when you represent mortality.
23rd April, 2010
Did the washing.
The sock monster lives in rehab too! He's everywhere!
24th April, 2010
In the dark, I see black goats. When I press hard on my eyes. An old lady thumps my chest. Or tries to. I'm scared of double decker buses. And men with moustaches. I can't talk to girls. Or make eye contact with tall men. My toothbrush gags me. When I clean my right ear with a cotton bud, it makes me cough.
Only in the dark.
25th April, 2010
Well, the days are gone. The days of the synthetic opioid high. No heroin. No methadone. No Suboxone. Just Naltrexone. Blocking all receptors. Who designed this bullshit? A bouncer? Why the hell did I agree to this? To this prescription of pure restriction. A self administered opioid blocker? I don't want it. How'm I s'pose ta shoot up?
26th April, 2010
In forty days, I have learnt nothing.
27th April, 2010
Headlights stream down Lennox Street, Flinders Street, M-Train flashes by, Porsche sign shining garish reds, plastic gherkin on my desk, 106 Lennox taunts me, staring with opiatic temptation, luring, ever alluring, a door slams, the new guy creeps me out, I sneeze, again, rain, gentle rain, iridescent street lamp, a voice rings through my door but it's fine because she's one of the good guys, don't judge me for being in rehab, you're no better, at least I admit I have a problem, still haven't packed, no time, kicked out 10am tomorrow, denial, flat, born too late, loathing, self loathing, hate, doubt, worry, kill me, use, don't use, use, don't use, use, don't use, pros, cons, I'm a con, artist and vict, use, don't use, I con myself, use, just once, a convict, the final solution, use just once, tolerance is now long gone, perfect, using can be my noose, the final solution is that there is no solution.
Maybe I'm just a cancer. Maybe this is all just an illusion. Maybe Big Foot really is just a blur.
Just gimme my ice cream tin of prescription pills. I'm goin' home.