Makeup to Breakup by Sloman Larry & Criss Peter

Author:Sloman, Larry & Criss, Peter [Sloman, Larry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Published: 2012-10-23T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Chris rushed over and spotted the gun, the mound of cocaine, and the empty magnums of champagne.

“I think I need help,” I told him. “I don’t want to do this shit anymore but I can’t stop.”

Chris immediately started making phone calls. This was early in the game, and there weren’t that many rehab places that knew how to deal with coke addiction. Finally, after about ten calls, he found a place in Long Island called South Oaks Hospital.

“They’ll take you, but we gotta go now.”

“Right now?” I said.

“I thought you wanted to go,” he said.

I tried to stall. “Let me just do a few more lines and a little more champagne,” I said.

“Now,” he insisted.

I did as much blow as I could anyway, and I backed it with some champagne and a few quaaludes for good measure.

“Okay, let’s fucking go,” I said.

Chris called for a limo and I started loading it up. I packed two suits, some silk shirts, a couple of pairs of nice boots, a killer pair of rock ’n’ roll leather pants. I brought a snare drum with sticks and a stand so I could practice in there. I had four Playboy magazines and a couple of paperback books to read. An acoustic guitar. I was packing like I was going to a resort where I’d have my own room where I could play my guitar, read, chill out.

The ride there was pretty quiet. I was whacked out from partying with Tex. It was at least four or five days since I had slept, so I looked really bad. As we got closer to the place, I started having second thoughts.

“This is going to be good,” Chris said. “You ain’t getting Deb back unless you straighten out.”

“I don’t want to lose her and Jenilee,” I admitted. I loved them to death.

We pulled in to the grounds and I was impressed. Lots of land, nice foliage, the buildings looked nice. If you’re going to have to be put away somewhere, this didn’t seem so bad. We drove around to the back of a building where it said ADMISSIONS and it looked like you were checking in to a resort. Later I found out they don’t take you through the front because the sign there says SOUTH OAKS PSYCHIATRIC INSTITUTE. I would have flipped out if I thought I was going to a nuthouse. But that was where I belonged.

We went in and were directed to a room where I did my intake interview. My doctor was a five-foot-two Indian named Dr. Rai.

“So tell me your problems,” he said in his thick Indian accent.

I went into my history and this brown man started turning white. I told him about stuff my grandfather George when ick on the road, I told him about the SWAT team episode; I was totally honest.

Dr. Rai excused himself for a moment to confer with some of the other people there. Then he came back into the room with an admission slip.

“The first step to recovery is admitting that you have this problem.

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