Fall to Pieces: A Memoir of Drugs, Rock 'N' Roll, and Mental Illness by Mary Forsberg Weiland; Larkin Warren

Author:Mary Forsberg Weiland; Larkin Warren
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780061719158
Publisher: William Morrow
Published: 2010-04-22T14:00:57+00:00

After we got back from the catastrophic trip to New York, I was tired and ashamed. I went to the gym, I went to AA meetings, Scott and I went to meetings together, we finally moved in together. It didn’t matter—the roll had started.

I came back to the house one afternoon and there was Scott with Ashley Hamilton. They did a kind of slow-motion “uh-oh” move when I came through the door. I glanced at Scott’s face, then moved close enough to actually look into his eyes—pinned pupils and a look of dim, enviable bliss. I was tired of being shut out of what he was feeling. Within hours, we were sharing the same belt, tightening up the veins in our arms, and slamming back against our chairs like kids in the first car on a roller coaster. The Chaos Tour was on.

It happened almost the same way every time. We would leave the gym and go for coffee. On the drive home, without fail, one of us would comment on the weather. “Why does the sun feel so good today?” The sunroof was open and Guns N’ Roses’ Appetite for Destruction played over and over in the background, just loud enough to work its way into our subconscious and hit the switch that got us going. Especially “It’s So Easy”: “So come with me / Don’t ask me where ’cause I don’t know.” But I did know, and so did he. One of us would break the silence and casually suggest El Coyote for lunch. It’s not like we can get into that much trouble over lunch, right? An outdoor patio. Sunshine. Maybe a margarita. Or two. The music got louder, the car went faster, and somewhere along the way, we had magically changed direction—downtown, to score. After that came the race to get home. Every light on the way turned red, every street was a detour. It took forfuckingever. Once we got there, we ran as though the hammers of hell were behind us, when in fact they were straight ahead.

Flying through the door and diving onto the big green couch was step one of the ritual; the couch was velvet, the color of grass, and it was so big that two people could lie on it and there would still be plenty of room. Step two was dumping everything out of the brown paper bag onto the wooden coffee table. Step three: Scott would bring me a framed Neil Zlozower photograph of Keith Richards; I’d lay out the goods right on top of Keith. I have one vein on my left arm that was made to make love to a syringe. It almost never failed (and the few times it did, I was generally on my way to rehab anyway). Wrapping my skinny little black belt around my skinny little arm was the final step before countdown.

I’ve labeled myself a Type A addict: everything had to be perfect. I’ve used with other addicts, users I’d classify under Type D for disaster.

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