Chapter 1 - Britney is Finally Getting Her Shit Together

I’m standing at a public phone. I have to call rehab. I have a headache and I feel sick and I fucking hate seeing my own reflection right now.

I have to call rehab.

I want to go to rehab to get fixed. I want go anywhere to get fixed.

It’s hot and it’s humid and I’m wearing a skull bandanna.

Maybe I don’t need to go to rehab. Maybe I could just go and live a normal life instead. Maybe, I could have a normal job and have a steady, long-term relationship and go to the theatre and read high-brow books. Or maybe I could just cut myself. But where I can cut myself in such sunny, shorts-prone weather? Lovely, sunny Queensland and the sickly black feeling u get under these god-awful blue skies. Happiness burns under the sun here.
I wonder what depression would look like if you could cut it out of you. If you could remove all the dark thoughts like there were warts and dissect them and see what the pus inside is all about.

But if I did cut myself really badly maybe some nice stranger would take me to hospital. It would be good to go to hospital to get fixed.

Then again, I can’t be bothered finding a knife and I can’t really be bothered going to rehab either.

My Mum tells me I’m dramatic. Maybe I am, maybe all I need is a can of-toughen-the-fuck-up.

But I say I’ve got a nauseating headache that stretches from my temples to my stomach because I’ve been drunk and drugged all weekend. On Saturday, I had an orgy with seven guys. I was so smashed I didn’t even notice that one of them was semi-retarded. I found out later that, yes, I been given a head-job by someone with an intellectual disability. I say meth addicts have lovely cheekbones. I say instant gratification is bullshit and I’ve been conned and I’m a victim just like everyone else. I say I am sick of being dumped by 18 year olds via text message. I say sometimes I am so fucking depressed I can’t even be fucked taking my medication. And sometimes I don’t want to let go of being depressed because I am so used to it being around, I don’t want to let go of the fatal truth of misery.

Sex with retards doesn’t really bother me though – I’ve been told they can have big dicks and this one was kind of cute – so who gives a shit? What does bother me is that there is nowhere to party at 11 o’clock on a Monday Morning. I hate Brisbane, police states are so boring. Even the cops look bored; things are way too under control here.

Just like me, just like how I’m about be put under control. Be put back into my miserable middle-class place after my pissy little bender. I’m sure I’ll come out of rehab just as bland as the next arsehole.

I start picking at the sores on my arms. They are pimple like sores around my veins. I think they are from shooting up. I squeeze one, nothing comes out – it just makes it worse. The pus wants to stay inside of me, the pus likes me. I don't know how to get the bad shit out.

And I don’t want to see my own reflection right now. I only look okay under nightclub lights.

Rehab doesn’t have nightclub lights, I won’t be allowed near nightclub lights or teenage boys for 12 weeks…providing I get passed the phone assessment.

Rehab – 12 weeks - No more three day meth binges, no more drug-fuelled orgies, no more sleeping in parks.

This feels like a job interview. I need to go to rehab to get my job back. I need to get my job back to get off the dole. I need to get off the dole to buy good clothes. The meaning of life in three simple steps, perhaps I could write self-help books. “How To Find Happiness By Working And Buying Shit U Don’t Need” by Luke Williams. I suppose I don’t to tell people what they already know.

Besides, I do feel kind of glamorous checking myself into rehab, like it means that I know how to party like a celebrity or something.

I dial rehab. It’s not quite 1800-I’m-a-drug addict, but its close enough. A woman named Eileen answers. She was expecting my call.

I bet this woman has heard all kind of shit before.

“Luke to start off the assessment, I just wanted to know what ur main drugs are”
“Party drugs”
“Such as?”
“Pills, speed, ICE and coke”
“What’s your drug of choice?“Pills and ICE”
“How often do you take them?”
“About 3 or 4 nights a week”
“Do you take any other drugs?”“I take heroin once every couple of weeks”
“Okay”
“And I smoke pot and drink alcohol on the weekends, but I’ve never actually had much of a problem with those drugs”“Just to give me some idea of how much u take, how much money do u spend on drugs?”
“About $300 a week, I’ve actually just gone bankrupt cause I was in $20,000 debt”
“So it has been quite a problem then?”
“Yeah, I also have at least one item of new clothing when I go out so that adds up”
“Ok, yep…Luke, do u have any idea why u take drugs?”
“I’m not really sure, I like them, I find them social, and I find it a good way to escape from having a stressful job”
“So in what way has ur drug use been a problem?”
“Um, how do u mean?”
“In what way has ur drug use had a negative impact on ur life?”
“Well I’ve suspended from my job”
“What is your occupation?”
“I’m a journalist”
“Ok, anything else?”
“I got dumped by a couple of teenagers cause they said I was too messed-up on drugs and I guess I was so miserable I wanted to die a lot of the time”
“That’s not good, Luke. I’m sorry to hear that. Now, I’m just going to ask u some other stuff now that might be related to ur drug use, is that alright?”
“Yep”
“Right. Do u have any mental illnesses?”
“Well my employer sent me to a psychiatrist who said I had major depressive disorder and a borderline personality disorder”
“Do u take any medication?”
“I take of Zoloft”
“Have u ever had a psychotic episode?”
“Eileen, I’ve had many. Highlights include thinking I was born inside and thinking my friends had enlisted the army to help kill me”
I loved telling stories about my psychotic episodes.
“Have u ever been on anti-psychotics”
“No”
“Have u ever been assessed by the Catt team?”
“Yes”
“What happened?”
“My psychologists called them because I wanted to kill people. I started thinking about stabbing people in a shopping centre. The Catt team came, I bought a sausage roll and chocolate milk and styled my hair, and they sat there and took notes from all the shit I was saying”
“What was the outcome of that?”
“Nothing. Like most of the men in my life they never called me back”
Eileen laughed.
“It’s good to have a sense of humour about some of this stuff”
Clearly this woman had heard it all before, I wasn’t going to shock her.
“So have u been to a psych ward?”
“No, getting into a psych ward is harder than getting into journalism school”
“Do u have a criminal record?”
“No”
“Have u ever self-harmed?”
“I self-harm all the time with scissors”
“Oh really, Luke and I know this is hard to talk about, but any attempts or thoughts of suicide”
“Suicide crosses my mind all the time; I’ve attempted maybe four or five times”
“How?”
“I’ve tried to hang myself, I’ve tried to gas myself, and I’ve tried to OD”
“Luke that really is awful, I think the program at Logan House would really help u. Ur obviously intelligent, u just need a bit of help. Have u tried to get help before?”
I took a deep breath. I wasn’t sure what to say. Ever since a GP told me to go and watch ‘The Secret’ to help me get over my life-destroying depression I kind of told the world of psych services to fuck-right-off. But I was also worried that if I hadn’t of explored all avenues, they wouldn’t let me in. I wanted to be let in; I wanted to feel like a celebrity.
“Eileen I’ve been trying to get well and I just…can’t….um, I want my life back, I had a good job and stuff and then I was just hit with misery. I just started hating everything and my life and stuff”
It was embarrassing not being able to get the words out.

“Luke, like I said, I think u will get a lot out of this program. I’ll speak to our head psychologist. Call back in 10 minutes and I’ll let u know whether u can come in today”

I hang-up. It feels weird to stop still for a second and try to sound like I actually gave a fuck about my life falling too bits. Which I guess I must and it sounded kind of goofy saying it like I did on the phone. I feel like I am being, I don’t know, dramatic?

Maybe I should have just told her that over the last year I’d had shit loads of sex and shit loads of fun. How I’d learnt that I didn’t need a great media career to be happy and how I’d learnt that people didn’t need much to be happy, all it takes is a pill or five.

Besides, if ur not fucking urself up on drugs – ur fucking urself up on something else – working too much, trying to pay ur rent, trying to save money, relationships. It’s all a big fucking hassle; the normal, middle class life that we are all supposed to aspire too. I once lived in a luxury apartment and had a great job. I was on radio, I was on TV, I wrote for magazines, and I wore designer clothes and went to Logies after-parties…AND IT WAS ALL A FUCKING HASSLE. The good thing about taking drugs is that yes its destructive, but u only have to worry about u when ur taking it.

I’m bored again; bored and anxious, my favourite combination. I wondered if I had scammed that poor woman. Did I really just want to go to rehab to be cool? I didn’t even really think I was a drug addict…just a, lazy garden-variety neurotic.

I did want to meet all the rehab freaks like me, so I had to sound as fucked-up as possible.

The worst thing is that I’m scared of being rejected. It was always my weakness. I hated being told I wasn’t good enough for something or someone. It was a humiliating prospect to think that I might be rejected from rehab.

My problem is just that I hate a lot of stuff in the world and want to escape. Rehab is kind of an escape. It was 12 weeks away from the expectations of the world – like being expected to file stories, being expected to have a partner, being expected to have nice things, being expected to shower everyday and too speak politely. I was fucking over it.

Drug use is secondary for me. I smoked pot around my friends because their lives depressed me, I took pills at clubs so I could find my niche on the club scene, I took speed to loose weight, I smoke meth to say fuck off to the world and I took heroin because sometimes things upset me so much I just wanted to die. Heroin saved my life, without it I probably would have killed myself by now.

I don’t want to be told not to take drugs. I don’t want to live without them and die from boredom.

I walk around the city. I watch the punk kids. I walk around quietly terrified about being rejected. What would I do? There is no gay bar opened at this hour on a Monday Morning. I suppose I could go to a sauna. But then what? And then what after that? I know I am lost and I know I want to go rehab. I didn’t want Eileen the phone assessor to be another case in my life of unrequited love. U can’t make someone feel something for u…I’d learnt that lesson that hard way.

I ring rehab. Eileen answers.

“I’ve had a talk to the head psychologist, we are happy to have you join our 12 week program”
“That’s great, thank-you”
“When can u check-in?”
“In about an hour”
“Ok, that’s good. A woman named Merran will pick you up from Kingston station at one o'clock" Eileen said "How will she recognise you?"
"I'll be wearing a skull bandanna" I said.
"A skull bandanna. Got it” she said with an amused tone in her voice “Merran’s got blonde hair and she'll be in a white van"

Yep, it was time to go to rehab. I was in, baby. And yes, I would be going in style, Celebrity style. There is an ancient proverb that tells us that if we dress like celebrities than in effect, yes we become celebrities.

Skull bandanna, just like Nicole and Britney; Rehab, just like Nicole and Britney - Bitch.

I’m on the train to rehab. It starts to rain. I’m watching an insect get stuck on the window. Its stuck right next to my face. It flutters and flutters and can’t get away.

And for some reason I’m fucking angry. I don’t want to go into a 12 week program. Why couldn’t I have just taken drugs a few times and left it at that? Why did I have to go completely fucking myself up? I imagine myself back in Melbourne. In my sisters lounge room with friends over, dancing around and snorting lines that some guy has given me. Getting dressed up, picking up twinks, going out, and falling to pieces the next day. Smoking a meth pipe and sucking it right down through my lungs until it eats my soul.

I just wanted bit of relief. I can’t kill the cancer, but I can get fucked up on painkillers and just imagine for a moment that things are dandy. When I take painkillers I float around on that little cloud in style.

The insect sets itself free of the rain on the window. I’m jealous.

I imagine flying away and looking down on our restricted little lives and saying. "Fuck u cunts".