Desperately, I called him all the names under the sun and screamed, ‘Let me fucking drink! You can’t stop me. I’m going to fucking drink and if you can’t fucking handle it, why don’t you just fuck off?’ Inside, of course, I didn’t want him to go – I wanted him to save me – and that’s what he did. He got me to admit that I was about to throw everything away.
In my head I never thought of drinking as being so damaging; I had always thought of it as something I did rather than something I was. An actual alcoholic, I believed, was someone else. They were smelly, shaky, forgetful and they would throw up after their sessions, but now I realised that I was an alcoholic. That was me. And Mattia had the right to call me that. This was my last chance.
When he went out to the shops I thought to myself, This is it – it’s now or never. I turned on the computer and nervously opened up a browser window. I got to a search engine and as I began to cry, I typed in ‘rehab’ and ‘Los Angeles’, then I gazed at the results and decided on one because of its name. I’m not going to say what the name of the place was because it’s important to preserve confidentiality in respect of other patients and their treatment, but it was the name that attracted me. That sounds so banal, but through my tears and my feelings of helplessness there seemed no better way of doing things.
Feeling alone and scared, I dialled the number as I panicked about what sort of thing you should say in this kind of situation: ‘Hello, my name is Gitte and I’m an alcoholic’. No – stupid. Perhaps I should make up a name. I couldn’t deal with it so I hung up and went straight out of the house to the nearest shop and bought the first bottle of vodka I could find – I didn’t care what kind or how much it was. I finished half the bottle before going back to the phone and dialling the number again as the vodka hit my system and I began to feel a little lighter and safer.
‘Hello. Who am I speaking with and how can I help you?’ The voice was female, friendly but steady. Oh God, so I did have to say who I was. I’ll hang up – it’ll get into the press. I can’t do it. The receiver stayed pressed against my ear.
‘It’s Brigitte,’ I whispered. ‘I drink too much.’ I sounded incoherent through my tears.
‘Sorry, Brigitte?’ she asked. ‘Is that your full name?’
‘No. It’s Brigitte Nielsen.’
‘Okay. I can hear you’re very, very sad. How do you feel?’ Now I really started crying – it was as if someone had just that moment hit me hard. It was a release and my defences collapsed. ‘Calm down, Brigitte, it’s okay. Take your time… do you live with anyone?’
‘My boyfriend.’
‘Great! That’s really good. You’re happy together?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but he hates the fact that I drink.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘That’s why you called the right people. I’m glad you did. Pack a bag right now and tomorrow morning you are going to drive here with your boyfriend and check-in.’ The decision had been made and although I felt a spasm of terror at what might happen next, it did seem as if it might be all right. As I continued crying she went on, ‘So you think you drink too much. Do you think you are an alcoholic?’ Her voice never sounded any less friendly.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I think I have become an alcoholic.’
‘You think that’s what you’ve become?’ She continued in a measured tone which gave me time to recover my composure, ‘Don’t be afraid and most of all, don’t be embarrassed – there are so many people like you with us and even more out there who haven’t yet called us. We won’t do anything difficult tomorrow: we’ll have a chat with you and your boyfriend and just find out how we might be able to help you.’ I wasn’t made to feel guilty or sneaky and worthless: I was just another person who needed help.
Mattia and I were both in tears as we set off for the clinic – I was anxious about going, while he was happy that I was finally doing something about my condition. This was the last bit of the baggage I had been carrying from my marriage to Raoul.
The woman who spoke to me on the phone greeted us, we signed off on some paperwork and that was it – I was in that Friday. I wasn’t allowed any outside contact for the first two weeks of my stay. It felt as if I had been sent to prison – and that wasn’t so far from the truth. My random choice of rehab wasn’t one of the fancy clinics with relaxed, spa-like regimes, good views and discreet staff to wait on you. It was more commonly used as the place of last resort for women who would otherwise be in a real prison. Often they were there for anything from six to 18 months – it was meant for those with heavy duty problems.
The reception area had been a welcoming area like a private hospital with flowers and comfortable seating. Then I was led away on my own through what was probably part of the residential area to a serious-looking set of doors which locked shut behind us. Through those doors the building looked somewhere between a medical facility and a secure institution. Was this really the right place for me? Perhaps they’d misunderstood me – I was a drinker, not a murderer! But while glamorous rehabs might have been more luxurious, they also had a far higher rate of clients going back to their addiction. I later found out that I had picked the strictest centre in all of California and it had the greatest success in getting people off drugs.
The first five days were incredibly hard. To begin with I was happy: I wanted to get myself free of alcohol with every fibre of my body. They gave me Valium to relax and the toxins began to be released; they told me not to try and keep to a routine for the next couple of days but just to let myself go with the process. Meanwhile, they looked after me and kept a constant medical check on how my organs were functioning. I was encouraged to eat as much as I could to build up my strength for the treatments which lay ahead, all of which sounded rather ominous.
I wasn’t in too bad shape. My body hadn’t been as poisoned as it might have been and I didn’t suffer any physical withdrawal effects: the effect on me was all psychological. Around me was the constant screaming of the narcos, the girls who were coming off heroin and other hardcore drugs. It was a section of society which I’d never encountered before and frequently very frightening. However bad things were for me I knew that I was still lucky not to be like them.
I should say that in writing this I don’t want to scare anyone off from going into rehab: I didn’t know how tough the regime was going to be and later I got some respectful nods from top doctors when they found out that I had done so voluntarily. Reading about it may seem daunting, but if you’re suffering from addiction I can promise you their programme is nothing worse than where you are coming from. There’s nothing to be afraid of, but I do want to give an idea of what it was like in there.
The clinic had a postage stamp-sized outside area which was the only place you could go for fresh air or to have a cigarette. We were like animals held in a small enclosure at the zoo. Some of the other women looked so close to death that if they made it through treatment, it was obvious they wouldn’t see their next birthday. That was a wake-up call for me – I felt I was on the same road. Those who were doing heroin and other substances died so much more quickly than many alcoholics. The memories of the people I met there will always be imprinted in my mind.
I was issued with a military-style blanket to sleep under and at 7am on the dot we all had five minutes to jump out of bed, make it, get dressed and have our shoes out from under the bed and on. Our closet areas had to be clean enough to pass a thorough daily inspection and we then waited to be taken to breakfast. It was served in the cafeteria, where we lined up with a tray before eating in total silence. Though the Valium helped me sleep, my nights were disturbed by the screams of the three girls who shared the room with me. It was like being in an asylum. They would do strange things and I was constantly worried that they would attack me or the staff.
The days passed monotonously: I began to eat small amounts of food along with the drugs that I guess were used to flush out my system. I felt sorry for myself all over again – I had time to ask myself how I ha
d ended up there – and that was really the start of my treatment. One of the other patients I talked to was a young guy who had been on drugs for as long as he could remember. He freaked out when his mother died and ended up in treatment. His father was never around but he was a really nice boy and I got to know quite a lot about him. Three months after I left the rehab he died of an overdose: he was 22.
My Valium was withdrawn after those first five days, but I was still not permitted any contact with the outside world – not even with Mattia. I was tired of the whole thing, it was ridiculous. I’d been doing really well surrounded by all these crazy people and they still wouldn’t even allow me five minutes with Mattia; I was sure I didn’t need to stay there any longer.
‘You’re free to go any time you want,’ they said, ‘but if you leave before your treatment is finished then your insurance won’t cover it.’
‘I don’t care – I need to go, I’m over it. There are too many people here and I can’t adapt to this way of life. They’re criminals – murderers, drug users. They’re ten times worse than me!’
‘Of course, Brigitte,’ they said. ‘If that’s what you want to do. Go ahead and do your thing. Try not to misuse alcohol again and remember about the insurance. And, by the way, if you leave under these circumstances you can never come back again.’ It was said politely but very firmly and I knew that they meant it. I stayed.
The first task each day after breakfast was to clean the bathrooms and the kitchens, wash the floors, wipe the windows and tidy up the communal areas. People who had been there the longest got to allocate the tasks, the worst of which was the bathrooms. With a pair of heavy rubber gloves on I would get down on my knees in the showers and as I scrubbed at the shit and vomit, I would think back to my million-dollar home in the Hollywood Hills. All the high points of my life flashed in front of me as I tried to get rid of the stench – the marriage to Sylvester, the movies, the albums… whatever.
Mornings continued with a 12-step plan meeting, the system for recovering users made famous by Alcoholics Anonymous. We discussed our thoughts in a group and shared progress in our treatment. While some of it was helpful for me, I didn’t get along with the way it seemed to cover every last aspect of your life. It might be perfect for a lot of people but for me it had overtones of brainwashing. These days I don’t go to AA meetings as many times as it was suggested I should, but I realised then – and I still know it now – that I was a user and I will remain one for the rest of my life.
Specialist doctors would say that it’s part of the sickness that I would prefer to have dinner with Mattia than go to nightly AA meetings, but I couldn’t do it. Yet the sessions did provide the tools to make me sure my life won’t get stuck again. I guess what I’m saying here to people who have faced similar situations is that you have to find your own way – listen to what they say in rehab, but whatever you do – go for it.
Lunch would be followed by gruelling sessions with a psychiatrist and while we weren’t allowed to listen to music or watch TV there were occasionally movies. Anyone hoping for escapism would be disappointed as it would always be a documentary about alcoholism or drug use.
I was assigned a case worker, who kept detailed notes of every conversation we had. She was always very frank with me when she assessed how long she thought I would be staying in the clinic. I found it all very depressing: every day followed the same routine. Back in the dorm room one of the girls would be sitting on her bed staring vacantly into space; another would be crying out in her sleep. It was relentless and it was devastating to see girls 20 years younger than me look as if they were completely done. I said to myself, ‘Take a good look around you, Gitte. Thank God you got help in time.’ And to think I hadn’t wanted to do it.
The biggest crisis I faced during my stay was on my birthday: I was frightened, lonely and miserable. I begged them to let me have just a five-minute call with Mattia. Even 30 seconds hearing his voice would have made everything seem okay.
‘There’s a phone box on the other side of the street,’ they said. ‘You can use that – but when you walk out and close the door you aren’t coming back. If you feel you need to call him, then you have to forget about what you’re doing here.’ My 43rd birthday was spent with desperately ill alcoholics listening to the constant, strange wailing of the narcos; that was the worst. I don’t know what it was, whether it was something they’d taken with their heroin, but they never stopped yelling.
Perhaps because I was in better shape I became a focal point for the treatment group. I don’t want to say I was a leader, but I sort of carried them with me. That opened up something in me as I was able to compare my own, terrible stories with those that were often far worse. We were all really fucked up but they also supported me too. The biggest difference between us was that almost all of them had nowhere to go when they were done with their treatment at the centre. No friends, no family. When things got tough for me I would tell myself that if I couldn’t make it in here, I might as well lie down and die because I had Mattia, my kids, my mother and my girlfriends all waiting for me.
The other women could only look forward to getting out to be greeted by the men who wanted to get them into prostitution, get them back on drugs and use them to do crime. Most of them had children of their own by the time they were 16. I thought about my own unhappiness as a child and how privileged I’d been in reality. There I was saying how terrible it was to be laughed at as a kid and how that had thrown a shadow over my life, but there was really no comparison to what these girls endured. Not surprisingly, as the others there began to get clearer, they wanted to stay in the clinic for as long as possible. There they were safe, but there was nothing provided on the outside.
In meetings with the psychiatrist I explored what had gone wrong for me but I didn’t find it easy to open up – I think my fear was all about this being the first time that I had really been worked on to let out my demons. I was allowed the time to let go without the feeling that there were always people watching what I was doing. The exercises included writing a farewell letter to my father and another to my sickness. I decided to address that one personally to a bottle of Jack Daniel’s:
The staff at the clinic patiently worked to untangle the knot in my stomach. And even though I found many of the sessions to be hard work, I really wanted to succeed. It wouldn’t have happened any other way; I couldn’t have resisted the treatment and kept sober.
Now I don’t think I’ll have to see a psychiatrist for the rest of my life but I know that the AA meetings will be a constant if occasional presence. It’s so helpful to have other people to talk to about my problems and the future. Besides, I love to hear other stories and to learn about the situations that people have found themselves in. It helps to broaden my own perspective and it will always be important for me to think about what I am, even though I haven’t drunk anything since 2007. I still think about it every day and I have slipped a couple of times, but even when I do, it doesn’t mean the work I do on myself isn’t still meaningful or that I won’t reach a solution. My problem will always be a part of my life and I will always be aware of it.
CHAPTER 25
THE LAST HURDLE
The 14 days I spent in treatment felt more like 14 years. Even then I knew that the process of getting clean had only just begun and that I would have to watch myself carefully when I left. The treatment was supposed to take three months but even though they warned against thinking about life outside, I had work to do.
I was beginning to question all my assumptions about myself. Have you ever thought that the person you have to spend the longest time with is yourself? There will never be anyone closer to you than you are to yourself, but can you honestly say you’re your own best friend? Do you talk to yourself every day? Do you know yourself as well as you should? Probably not. There are few of us who can talk about who we really are. Those were the thoughts that occupied me when I left.
In my marriage I had been my own worst enemy:
I didn’t listen to myself and I didn’t support myself when I needed to. It was only me that could do it and it was only me who made sure it didn’t happen. I got frustrated with myself, I blamed myself for not doing more and I was never sympathetic in the way I would have been had I been talking to a friend about her own problems.
When I thought about it I had to admit that I had never really been good to myself: we let ourselves down before we let anyone else down. In the end it got so bad for me that I almost lost everything. It might sound as if I think I know it all now, but that’s the only way I can explain what happened to me.
If we want to live in harmony with ourselves, we need to find out who we are. You have to be painfully honest with yourself, you have to have the guts to look at who you really are rather than the person you would like to be. Can you list your own strengths and weaknesses and allow yourself to say them out loud to yourself? You have to stand by each aspect of your character, no matter what happens. That’s what I mean when I say you need to be your own best friend.
When I came out I had to admit that I had no idea who I was or how I felt. Given that, there was no way I could look after myself – that’s why I didn’t have the strength and wisdom to know when to have fun and when to stop. I felt as raw as if layers of me had been peeled away, but I knew what my responsibilities were and that the next stage was to act on them. I would need help because I was, deep down, unhappy and I knew my cravings for alcohol wouldn’t disappear just like that.
I faced my first major test the day I left. Foofie Foofie – aka Flavor Flav – had asked me to be a guest on The Comedy Roast. This was the Comedy Central programme that affectionately mocked its stars and because we’d got on so well, Foofie had asked me to sit on the panel alongside the likes of Snoop Doggy Dogg, Ice-T and assorted comedians. The shows always descended into the meanest digs you could imagine. It was great fun to be part of it, to see Foofie again and to meet his friends, but there was also an uncomfortable side of it for me, being surrounded by drink and everyone trying to get me to take part. ‘Hey Foofie, I’ve just literally yesterday got out of rehab,’ I told him. They all congratulated me but within minutes I was being offered alcohol. ‘No, thanks, I don’t want to get back into that again.’ I wasn’t angry so much as disappointed. Were they really my friends? I wasn’t suggesting that they didn’t drink, but I didn’t expect them to tempt me off the wagon.
You Only Get One Life Page 20