Hear Me Out

by Sarah Harding

  Since then, we’ve tried being friends. It’s always ended up turning into something more but stopping short of getting back together. It hurt then, and it still hurts now. When Tommy and I broke up, I didn’t just lose him, I lost a family. There was a divide with our group of friends, with most of them going out to Ibiza to watch him play. This was something we’d always done as a group, but I wasn’t part of it any more. Whenever I go to the island now, I go with my new group of friends, and I avoid the clubs where Tom is playing. On the odd occasion that I have, he seems to be conscious of the fact I’m there and has let it be known to some of my friends that he can’t concentrate. So I stay away.

  After Tommy and I broke up, I went into a tailspin. I was out of control, and however much I tried to pull myself together and put forward a confident exterior, inside I was a mess. It was the start of a dark, difficult period for me. One I almost didn’t come back from.

  The split from Tommy left me broken, and I suppose that was the time I abused myself the most. I found myself in Ibiza, having just finished filming Run for Your Wife.

  I’d gone to the island with two of my girlfriends, and we were staying at Pikes Hotel, which is where the video for Wham’s ‘Club Tropicana’ was filmed – in the countryside near San Antonio. Pikes has got quite a name for itself, being one of the most infamous hotels on the island, with a reputation for hedonism and some pretty wild behaviour during the 1980s. It’s generally thought of as a bit of a hot spot for the rich and famous. I had a bungalow there, and the three of us were having fun, listening to music, playing games and generally relaxing. We were all drinking a lot, but I was getting stupidly drunk – spiralling out of control, you might say. Meanwhile, my friends, knowing what I was going through, were doing their utmost to keep an eye on me and make sure I didn’t go over the edge, but, to be honest, they were fighting a losing battle.

  At the time, Jaime and Lois Winstone were over on the island. One night they invited my girlfriends and me to join them for a bit of a party, but my friends didn’t want me to leave the hotel. I ended up at the hotel’s Freddie Mercury tribute night with some other mates, wearing a moustache. Later I found myself dancing my ass off behind the decks with 2manyDJs, who are a left-of-centre dance duo of brothers from Belgium. I was dripping with sweat with make-up running down my face, having a great time. It should have ended there, really. Instead, a few of us went upstairs to someone’s flat for a while, then it was back down to the party. That’s when it started to get a bit messy. It was really late by this time, and time to go to bed, but I didn’t!

  By then, my girlfriends were worried about me. I’d texted to say I was on my way back but then got chatting to a couple who’d been partying hard. By that time, I was getting a bit emotional. I guess that’s what sometimes happens when you’re upset or distraught about something. You drink to forget, and it’s great when you’re on the way up, but when you’re coming back down the other side at the end of the party, everything just seems a hundred times worse. I remember a few songs being played that night that made me nostalgic and sent me on a downer. ‘It Must Be Love’ by Madness was one; Tom and I had talked about that song being the first dance at our wedding. The couple I was hanging out with had a little bit of everything on them and were happy to share.

  ‘I’m usually quite picky, but at the moment I’ll try whatever you’ve got,’ I told them.

  You can just imagine what kind of mess I was in when I did finally get back to my friends. The next day wasn’t at all pretty.

  This continued when I was back in the UK, with me going completely over the top. There was usually someone on hand offering something to help ease the pain. It got so bad that I had to have a couple of girlfriends stay at the house with me, just to make sure I was OK. I wasn’t sleeping properly or eating. I was on a treadmill of booze, sleeping pills and drugs if they were around. Anything to numb the pain. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t go down the dark route of heroin or anything like that, and drugs like ketamine and crystal meth scared the life out of me. I’d seen people taking ketamine in Ibiza, and watched them turn into these strange beings, once the high had subsided; sitting there, rocking like maniacs.

  Still, it was bad enough, and a measure of how low I felt. If something really bad had happened to me, it most definitely would have been then. I realised then that it was literally a case of do or die, and I knew I had to take action.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  My heart goes out to people, many of them in the entertainment industry, who have struggled with ongoing issues around alcohol and drugs. Some of them, like me, simply fall down during difficult times, and then do their best to deal with those times as they arise. Looking back, I probably should have given myself a bit more credit for having the balls to go and fight my demons when I did. I believe everyone who puts themselves through rehab deserves credit; it’s never easy. It’s even harder to talk about it honestly, but that’s what I’m trying to do.

  I’d never describe myself as an addict. However bad things got, I always knew when enough was enough. Still, I’m not going to lie, I’ve had a few stints in rehab – more than many people know about. It’s something I chose to do when I felt I needed to, and even though some were more successful than others, doing it always gave me a chance to stop and take stock.

  One of the rehab places I went to was based in South Africa. I chose it because it was highly commended by my psychiatrist at the time, and sold to me as a very private facility. Management even told me they had equine therapy, which unfortunately turned out not to be the case. Not a horse in sight!

  When it was time to go to the airport, I was a mess. In fact, it took my driver Ray almost two hours to get me out of the house; he was virtually dragging me in the end. I was in such a state: crying, scared. I simply did not want to go. En route to the airport, I sat in the back of the car on the phone to Nicola, crying my eyes out.

  ‘How am I going to do this, Nicola? I’m on my own … I’m doing this on my own.’

  Nicola listened patiently to me; she was so supportive. I think she, like everyone, knew I needed to do something. I knew it too. It was a help just being able to talk to her on that journey to the airport because it took my mind off where I was going and what might be waiting for me. By the time I got to the airport, it was almost too late to board. I was whisked through the airport by a kind member of the Virgin airline staff, and, somehow, just about made it.

  Most rehab facilities offer primary and secondary treatment. Primary treatment starts with a thorough assessment and detox. Once your body is clear of the substance, you might have one-on-one or group counselling, which shows you how addiction affects your mind and body. It can also throw up various psychological issues and triggers that go alongside addiction. It usually lasts at least thirty days, but can sometimes be much longer. With secondary treatment, you look more closely at the emotional issues and behaviour that can lead to addiction. It’s less structured than primary but helps people learn how to get through their daily life without substances. This is often the time when people relapse or give up, but the idea is to learn to gradually regain more control of your life.

  Much of the work in rehab facilities is done in groups, and I found it extremely difficult, sharing stories about myself in front of strangers. Still, at least in South Africa, thousands of miles away from home, I felt like nobody knew me or had preconceived ideas about who I was and what I was about. That was something which made it a little bit easier. In South Africa, I’d opted for secondary care because I wasn’t a high-risk case. However, I still had to go through the primary unit to receive a medical detox. While I was there, I stayed shut in my room all day. The unit was full of serious addicts, mostly guys, and I found it very frightening. Whenever I did have to venture out, I’d have guys shouting after me, ‘Hey, Blondie! Come talk to me.’ That didn’t help my anxiety, and in the end, I had to have a member of staff with me the whole time, like a chaperone. After three days, the team let me
out, moving me into secondary care, where I joined about seven other people.

  From the off, things didn’t go well for me. Far from being therapeutic, I felt like we were just opening can after can of worms, raking up issues that, I felt, had nothing to do with why I was there.

  One night, while we were watching a movie on the sofa, I was sharing a blanket with one of the other guys in the group. There were other people present, and it was completely innocent. When I heard one of the kitchen staff had been laughing and gossiping about a supposed romance going on, I went mad, confronting him head-on. ‘How dare you say stuff like that about me? How fucking dare you? Nothing is happening, and you could get into trouble.’ The damage was done, though. Any sort of involvement between residents was strictly out of bounds, and I was told I had to keep separate from the guy in question. It’s called being put on boundaries, which means you can’t even be in the same room at the same time, aside from in group therapy.

  After that, I lost heart with the place. For better or worse, I was uninterested in what was on offer. Flower therapy, for instance, where someone would hold up a flower and ask questions like, ‘How do you feel when you look at this flower? What do you see?’ ‘Well, it’s purple, mate, purple and yellow. Beautiful colours, but it doesn’t make me feel like a butterfly or anything.’

  I found myself feeling desperate; kicking off about everything. The tighter the fence around me became, the harder I rebelled. In the end, word came back that my psychiatrist had given the OK to send me back to primary care.

  ‘We don’t believe you’re ready for secondary care,’ I was told. ‘We want to send you back to the primary unit.’

  I was upset with my psychiatrist for not having my back, or not at least discussing a plan with me. My options were going back to the scary primary unit for a month and then returning to the facility or leaving altogether.

  ‘We can’t help you any more,’ I was told.

  Now I was angry. I felt as though everyone had conspired behind my back, all happy to send me back to that terrible place without even having discussed it with me. I couldn’t bear the thought of going back there. Some of the people were bloody scary, and I didn’t feel I had anywhere near the same depth of problems. With no choice, I checked out of the facility and into a hotel. Not just any hotel, either, but the Four Seasons, because it was the only one I knew. The first thing I did when I got there was head to the bar and get a glass of Prosecco. I suppose it was an act of defiance on my part. I was just happy to be out of there. I wasn’t going to give up on myself that easily, however. I’d done some digging around and found out that there was another rehab place in South Africa that sounded like it might suit me better. I knew it was probably going to be tough, but I was willing to give it a go.

  I phoned Angela at my management and told her I’d left the original place and was going to try to get into another. Unfortunately, the new place didn’t have any room for me – at least not for a couple of weeks. I considered throwing in the towel and going home, but then something clicked. If I went home now, I’d have failed. Not only that, but due to a so-called friend who’d alerted the UK press to the fact that I was in rehab, everybody would know I’d failed. I couldn’t let that happen. In the end, I decided to stay put where I was until a place opened up – in a luxurious suite at the Four Seasons. No point in being uncomfortable, right?

  While I was waiting, I became a proper little tourist, seeing all the sights: I saw Table Mountain; I wandered along the seafront and watched the seals; I did some shopping; and tried out the local food. I was on my own, and I loved it.

  The second facility was better, but there were a lot more people there, so it sometimes felt a bit manic. Still, I got on with the other residents, and, although it was hard, I knew I had to try my best to get through it. The facility had a strict regimen, and it was all based around a 12-step programme. According to the programme, the way to manage an addiction is to follow the 12 steps, as well as receiving guidance from other alcoholics or addicts who have achieved what you want to achieve. Among other things, these steps include accepting that we are powerless over whatever we’re addicted to. Also accepting that our lives have become unmanageable and that we should make amends to others we may have hurt. We’d get up at 6am for Reinhold Niebuhr’s serenity prayer: ‘God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.’

  Later there would be various tasks to complete throughout the day, as well as classes to attend. The classes would cover things like self-healing or therapeutic stuff. We were even asked to write our life story, which felt like an impossible task for me back then. Where the hell did I begin with that?

  The African drumming classes were a riot, as were the dance classes, which sometimes took place on the pebbled beach, and always got me sweating. First thing in the morning, I’d go for a run with some of the other residents. We had 45 minutes of our own time before the day began, so a run along the beach as the sun came up was a fantastic way to start the day. I’d run past surfers and people playing in the sea with their dogs, and, seeing the beauty in things, I began to feel alive again. It was the first sense of peace and escape I’d felt in a very long time, and I had time to think about the reasons I’d taken myself there. I realised how badly I’d handled my break-up with Tommy. On Saturday night, we took it in turns to choose the evening activity. When it finally came to my turn, I knew exactly what I was going to suggest. ‘Right, we’re doing “Rehab’s Got Talent”,’ I announced. ‘I’m going to be the judge – let’s do it!’

  Some people sang, some did a bit of African dancing or drumming, and others formed a group. At the end of it, I came on as a guest performer along with a girl called Amelia, with whom I’d become friendly. Amelia played the guitar, and, unlike me, had brought hers with her. I’m not sure why, but she was only allowed to play it for an hour a week, but on that evening, she’d agreed to accompany me as a guest singer. There was no clear winner in the end; in fact, most of the acts were pretty terrible. It didn’t matter though: it was just supposed to be a laugh, and that’s precisely what it turned out to be.

  Things started to go wrong for me when I covered for a Lithuanian stripper called Lina, who’d been hiding a phone in her bra the whole time she was there. As you can probably imagine, the use of any kind of technology or gadgets are forbidden while you’re in primary rehab, so she was on shaky ground to start with. The fact that she wasn’t the brightest person and kept asking people who worked at the facility for the Wi-Fi code just made things worse.

  When some of us went out on a day trip, Lina decided to take a selfie of herself and me against the dramatic backdrop of some cliffs. Big mistake! Our chaperone that day was one of the mentors who I’d dubbed Captain Superman because he was always so righteous and strict. Unfortunately, he spotted something out of the corner of his eagle-eye – or at least thought he did.

  ‘Did I see a phone just then?’ he asked.

  ‘No, what phone?’ I said, not wanting the girl to get into trouble. I guess he couldn’t be sure, so it didn’t go any further at that time.

  However, back at the facility, Lina needed to hide the phone somewhere less obvious than the inside of her bra. I offered to hide it in the area where my tuck box was kept. I’m not sure why I was willing to do it; probably because I have a naturally rebellious nature. All was quiet until the next ‘housekeeping’ meeting, where any in-house business, conflicts and pertinent issues are dealt with.

  At that meeting, I was sitting next to Captain Superman, who had plenty to say about the suspected black-market item.

  ‘Right, the phone,’ he said. ‘Raise your hands if you know about this phone.’

  Almost everyone put their hands up.

  ‘OK, does anybody know where it is?’

  Nothing. It felt a bit like being at school, with Captain Superman encouraging us to own up.

  ‘Come on, do the right thing,
’ he said. ‘You know it’s the right thing.’

  In the end, I had to give it up. Captain Superman made me get up in front of everyone to go and get it. I was commended and thanked for doing the right thing, but I still got punished. I guess you could say it was all downhill from there.

  After phone-gate there was sugar-gate. This was something that happened when an ice cream van pulled up outside the facility. None of us had any money, but Lina used her charm to get free ice cream from the man in the truck. In the end, a whole bunch of us were queuing up for complimentary Mr Whippy, unaware of what the consequences were going to be. The thing was, within the facility, there were people with severe eating disorders. When it got back to the mentors that some of us were scoffing shit-loads of sugar, it was deemed unfair on certain people, and we got into grief. Once again, the incident was brought up at housekeeping, with me, Lina and Amelia named as the instigators.

  The three of us were put in boundaries, which meant we couldn’t mix with one another, talk, go into the smoking room at the same time, or even sit near one another.

  Then there was coffee-gate! During our time at the facility, we all had deadlines to do our written exercises, and deliver them on time. We were up at 6am every morning, with various chores and activities during the day, and evening meetings, which were a mini-bus ride away. It was all fine and expected in rehab, although at the time I did liken it to being in Annie, singing, ‘It’s the Hard Knock Life’ to myself. All this meant that some of us were often up late into the night, getting our written stuff finished. I needed my coffee, but still always felt tired. One afternoon, I found Amelia handling what appeared to be a secret stash.

  ‘Why are you hiding coffee?’ I asked her.

  ‘Don’t tell anyone, but there’s no caffeine in the evening coffee,’ she said. ‘It’s bloody decaf.’

  ‘WHY WOULD THEY DO THAT?’ I yelled. ‘I can’t stay awake on my own, and I’ve got so much to do.’