I stopped in a convenience store and bought a bottle of water. On my way out the door, I untwisted the cap and poured most of the cold liquid out, some of it splashing up onto my boot. I stumbled around behind the store. Quickly, I dumped the entire bag of heroin into the bottle, then shook it, dissolving the drug so I could just do a cold shot.
I had no idea where I was going, and I wandered aimlessly around the city I’d grown up in. The orange and blue colors of the pending sunrise had barely crept up the bottom portion of the horizon when I passed my mother’s house. I stopped and stared at the dark windows.
In that house there once lived a kid who dreamed he’d one day be something, that one day he’d make something of himself. All he wanted was to feel like no one would ever leave him again, like he had some worth; that he wasn’t disposable, and really he just wanted to make his dad proud. I’d really made something of myself. Sometimes you don’t know what’s best for your own self. How many times do the loveliest of dreams morph into an inescapable nightmare? Fuck those dreams. Stupid kid.
After walking two more miles, I came to the wrought iron fence surrounding the cemetery. The Spanish moss dangling from the large, twisted limbs of the oak trees hid the crooked headstones and aged crosses that dotted along the flat lot. I grabbed the wet gate and pushed it open, the hinges creaking as I forced it through the unkempt crab grass and against the rock wall. I’d not planned on coming here. It just kind of happened.
Wandering through the tombstones, I finally found my dad’s. The grass still hadn’t grown over the patch of dirt they’d covered the grave with. At that moment it was as though every damn emotion that I’d shoved down and ignored, that I’d dulled with drugs, alcohol, and meaningless sex for the past six years, came rupturing to the surface, and I collapsed on the mound of dirt, weeping. Snot ran out of my nose, causing strands of hair to stick to my wet cheeks. I read the epitaph aloud. “Loving father, John Gregory Steele, December 13th, 1962 – April 2nd, 2014.”
In the past three months I’d found out my brother was a traitor; I’d lost a father I thought didn’t need me, a child I didn’t know I wanted, and a woman who may have very well been my only hope at salvation.
I took the bottle and jabbed the needle into the side, piercing the plastic. My pulse sped up as I drew the syringe back and watched the liquid fill the tube. I finally felt in control of it all. I had made a plan. This was my decision, the only way I felt I could beat my addiction, the only way I knew I could finally have peace. My decision. My life. My choice.
Patting my arm, I found a good vein and injected the whole damn thing into my bloodstream. I fell back onto the ground, staring up at the glowing sky. The sunset was gorgeous: reds, oranges, pinks, and yellows had streaked across the sky. It truly was the most beautiful sunrise I’d ever witnessed – or maybe it was just that I’d hoped this would be my last that made it seem so enchanting, so ambient. It’s human nature to savor the last of something. I always had appreciated the last bit of coke as I snorted it back, performing the last song at a show, and this was the culmination of it all – the last moments of my pathetic, pain-filled life.
The drug quickly seared its way up my arm, up my jugular, and then down into my heart. As it spread throughout my body, warming it, it made me feel the way I suppose most normal people feel: happy, blissful, absolutely wonderful.
The euphoria glazed its way over my body, leaving me weightless, and all that pain that had been twisting and turning, splintering through me for most of my life, vanished. I had nothing, no one, and I was tired. I didn’t even know who the hell I was anymore, and I just wanted rest. I wanted out.
A roaring sound, almost identical to the noise of the ocean rushing up on shore, rumbled through my ears, and my eyes fluttered. For a second, nausea washed over me, but then my racing heart slowed and everything started to spin, the colors washing together, smearing the world into shapelessness. Peace washed over me like a blanket, wrapping me up in a lovely, heroin-induced haze. The weakness spreading its way over me didn’t bother me in the least. The last lyrics to “Nutshell” ran through my mind. My vision blurred and all the colors of the brightening sky faded to black, and then that calm I’d been chasing my entire damn life fell over me, blanketing me with its grace. I’d finally escaped all those demons. Death was the only thing that could save me.
Chapter 41
Three months later
“Some people use drugs for recreation, but that’s a fine line to walk.”
I sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair, staring up at some guy who had no damn idea what addiction was really like, but nevertheless was trying to explain it to a bunch of addicts. He was dressed in a golf shirt and khaki shorts with loafers. His hair was neatly cut along his neckline. He had a degree, a bunch of initials after his name claiming he knew everything about addiction, but no fucking idea what it was like to be so damn desperate to be free of something that you just wanted to die.
He tromped across the front of the room, waltzing his sobriety proudly in our faces. “Sure. What’s the harm in some pot? Innocent enough, but then you just need something that numbs you up a little more and a little more. What is recreational at first can quickly turn into an addiction, and you’ll find yourself self-medicating. I’m sure a lot of you suffer from depression or anxiety. Maybe your life hasn’t gone the way you wanted. Maybe you’ve got a medical condition that causes you a lot of physical pain, and the only way to make yourself feel better is by using drugs. What we want to show you is that there are healthier ways to handle stress and other less appealing aspects of your life…” The drone of his voice faded away as I almost went into a trance thinking of what I’d done. Rubbing my hand over the raised scars on my arm, I felt shame and regret. What the fuck was so wrong with me that I couldn’t handle life?
Evidently, some kid. A kid happened to look over in the cemetery and see me laying on the ground convulsing in a seizure. He ran to the Jet Pep across the street and told the clerk to call 911.
“Lucky for you that kid walked by.” How many times had I heard that? The thing was that everyone thought I’d overdosed; but, you see, an overdose is an accident. I’d intended to kill myself. I wanted to kill myself and just thought it would be easier for everyone to handle if it was an accident. It was okay with me if all the internet searches and Wikipedia entries claimed I got sucked into the black hole of addiction and lost a battle. Hell, I was a rock star, after all. The thing with an overdose is that it has mixed feelings. Some people feel sorry for you, and some people just say “what a waste,” and then there’s those who say “well, they were asking for it.” But they don’t think you did it on purpose, they don’t know how fucking sad you were, how miserable. And the thought of people calling me desperate and just plain lost, so sad that I killed myself – I couldn’t handle that. Call me an addict, pathetic; but I didn’t want anyone to know how much pain I held. And really, I just didn’t want Roxy to blame herself. I’d hoped that she would find closure in seeing I really was just one of those guys she hated, and let her believe that her washing her hands of me was the best thing she could have possibly done.
I’d gone through detox and therapy, and now I’d been shoved in this rundown rehab unit. The place smelled like urine, the paint was peeling from most of the walls, and the beds were nothing more than lumpy cots. My room didn’t even have sheets, because they were afraid I’d try to make a noose and hang myself. There were no blinds: hanging hazard; no pens: stabbing hazard; they kept my toothbrush: choking hazard; and there was no door to the restroom. I guess they thought the toilet was a drowning hazard.
The place was more like a hostel or prison than the rehab retreats I was used to. James had my ass hauled to this place, and I wasn’t even sure what fucking state I was in. They said that since the nice, clean rehab spas for the stars hadn’t done the trick, maybe a dose of the reality that normal addicts went through would get to me.
“Normal” addicts? Like we could all be s
hoved into some nice little fucking classification box. No – no two addicts are the same except for the fact that we just don’t want to feel our own misery. There was a lot more to being an addict than anyone who’s never had a needle lodged in their arm hoping to make the pain go away could understand. Complexity. There was a lot more to me than just a drug addiction; each crack inside me had been placed there by something, by someone. This disease came from a plague of disappointments, from the filth of my life. It started as a fever that quickly consumed my entire being and ate holes into my soul. It was my sickness.
“So,” the speaker said, “why don’t each of you introduce yourselves and tell me what you think lead you to addiction.”
The guy to my left stood up. “My name’s Daniel. I started using when I was in college. At a party, just to fit in. Within a year I’d dropped out and was selling just to support my habit.”
Habit? This isn’t a habit. It’s deeper than that, more masochistic. It’s a damn terminal illness.
The man nodded. “And so, what do you think is the reason you started using?”
Daniel glanced down at the floor, thinking about the question. “I guess the desire to fit in, to be accepted.”
“Thanks, Daniel.” The picture perfect image of sobriety locked his sparkling eyes on me. “Go ahead. Tell us your name.”
I remained seated, slouching down as I answered him. “My name’s Jag Steele. I’m the lead singer of –” I stopped myself there. My status didn’t mean anything. “Doesn’t matter. And I started using because life’s a pain in the ass. Life’s cruel and really just a complete bitch! I couldn’t handle the pressure of all those fucking dreams I was chasing.”
The guy stared at me for a minute. “Okay. Go on.”
“I needed to be numb. I started using because I could never sleep, I had unrealistic demands shoved down my twenty-year-old body, and I just needed an out. I needed a way to breathe, and the only way I could find that was in a line of coke.”
“An escape?” The man nodded. “Okay, next.”
Not even an acknowledgment!
I sat through an hour of analyzing why we used drugs and how we could better cope with situations. I listened to ways to cure ourselves, heard the names of all the support groups I should join. If losing Roxy couldn’t cure me, nothing would.
None of these people were like me. None of them understood my circumstances, and I couldn’t understand theirs. Yeah, we were all addicts, but I felt like every single person in that drab room looked at me like a spoiled rich kid throwing a tantrum because he couldn’t get another pony. My life was so far removed from theirs, even they couldn’t understand why in the hell I had a problem. You’ve got everything. You’re living the dream. Get a fucking grip, dude. Try living on the street, not being able to pay your bills, try working four jobs to make ends meet…stop your whining and go back to your Beverly Hills mansion and soak in one of your four Jacuzzis. Go fuck one of the hundreds of girls who adore you. Glance over your bank account and try to figure out a way to frivolously spend it all. You’re not fucking real. Get lost! I just knew that was what they were all screaming inside their heads.
Meandering down the hallway, I came to my room and slung myself across the hard bed, the springs screaming under my weight. I closed my eyes and daydreamed about how things could have been had I controlled myself. Who could I have been? I wondered what she looked like with a little pregnant stomach and wondered if she’d thought of names, tried to remember how perfect her lips felt pressed against mine. Just when it was starting to hurt and sweat was forcing its way from my pores, there was a tap on my door.
I glanced up to find Russell-fucking-Brand bracing himself in the doorframe. “Mind some company, mate?”
“Sure,” I shrugged and sat up, leaning my back against the warped wall, wondering whose idea it was to have him come talk to me.
He walked in, wiping his hand over his beard. “So it seems you’ve got yourself in a bit of a situation here. Missed your tour and all.” Pointing to the cot, he said, “I’m going to sit down there, all right?”
I nodded and scooted to the side.
“You in a bit of a dystopian. I know where you’re coming from. I’ve been there and it’s not a pretty place to be. Quite dark and depressing.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the knees of his grey jeans. “You feel like no one gets you. They all think your rash decisions, your inability to control this, they think it’s all non-sensible. They say, ‘look at that fool, him and his imbecilic, boorish, self-deprecating ways! Well, he’s done it to himself’.” He paused, and a nostalgic smile crossed his lips. “Thought all the fame and money, all those materialistic bits would make whatever’s causing your pain fade? Right?” He shook his head and leaned back against the wall. “It’s eviscerating when you find them things don’t fill the vacuous chasm on the inside, when you find out it’s all fucking meaningless.” He leaned up and arched a brow at me. “It is all meaningless after all, you know? The drugs, the girls, the fame; when your ascertaining your dreams can’t even stop that pain twisting through you, everything’s meaningless. You’re just existing, meandering your way through life, and there’s not much fun in that.”
That introduction floored me. He got it. He got me. He wasn’t sitting there with a confused, glazed look like he couldn’t understand what I, Jag Steele, had to be depressed about, wondering why I buried it all under drugs. I just needed something to eat the meaninglessness of my life away, and I’d found that the only thing that could do that was a high, a line, a bottle of bourbon – and he understood that.
“Yeah. Completely blew.” I fidgeted with my sleeve, not wanting to look him in the face. I wasn’t exactly ready for the truth; I wasn’t ready for someone to describe it all to me, and I was pretty certain that’s what he was about to do.
Russell nodded, then swiped a piece of hair from his eyes, and a serious look fell over his face. He leaned in closer, placing his hand on my shoulder, shaking me gently. “None of it can fill that void, mate. You gotta sort that stuff out. You gotta look for something more powerful, something that transcends it all, a nexus that brings it all together – unity, togetherness. Dig down – go through all the grisly, filthy parts of your mind that keep saying ‘fuck you, Jag.’” He pointed at me, his exaggerated movements shaking the beaded necklace draped around his neck. Pinching his fingers together like he was holding a grain of sand, he continued, “Find that miniscule grain in there that believes in you. Find those people who believe in you. To hell with all those other incredulous fuckers!”
“None of it works,” I mumbled, slamming my head against the wall. “I can’t stop thinking about it. Honestly, I don’t think I can function without the drugs. They make me.”
Russell leaned back over his knees, twisting his beard while he thought. “Mmm, I see. You got to get yourself out of this miasma. You can’t –”
“Miasma?” I had no idea what the hell half the words he was using meant, but I figured if I was in something, I needed to know what the fuck it was.
“Well. Yeah – a miasma, you know, a really bad place, an unwholesome atmosphere. This diffident state of lament you’re in.” He clasped his hands together. “You got to get out of that. There’s no whimsical elixir for this. The ungodly desire, it never really stops. You aren’t going to be cured from it, you know? If you’re cured of something, you no longer exhibit the symptoms, right? The want for that high. That’s a fucking symptom. And it never goes away, there’s no evanescent quality to it. What you’ve got to do is treat the symptom. Abstinence. People like us, we can’t have just a drink, a wank, a bloody line here and there. We’re ill people, mate. Addiction is a malady.” Russell stared off for a moment, as if a memory had fogged over his mind.
His eyes met mine again and a slight smile flipped one corner of his mouth up. “They’ll say, ‘Well, here you go, try some methadone.’” He handed an imaginary cup to me. “It’ll take that ridiculous craving right away.”
Using his hands as though he were shooing an imaginary person away, he said, “Go on now. Take your medicine and be cured!” He sang out “ahhh” like someone in a choir would, then shook his head, and placed his hands back on his legs. Supporting his upper body, he inched closer to me until he was right in front of my face, and his tone once again fell somber. “Medicine don’t work for us. Addiction, she’s not a disease you can treat like that. Who the hell thinks treating a disease with that which exacerbates it is a good idea? Well, here,” he pretended to hand me something, “to cure that bit of syphilis you got going on, we want you to rinse your mouth out with this concoction of syphilis and chlamydia twice daily. That should do the trick. Preposterous! No. What you and I have to do is practice abstinence. Then you got to accept that the cacophonous, screeching want will stay with you for the rest of your life. You just have to learn to say no and mean it. Then once you do that, you got to find another way to cope with the pain. Find something to help you accept reality. Because after all, that’s where the pain’s come from – from reality. Find something good, something magnificent, find you something meaningful to fill that hole that’s ate you up on the inside.”
That hurt. I didn’t want to face reality. Letting out a breath and trying to divert the conversation, I said, “Who paid you to come out here and talk to me?”
He shrugged. “No one. When you truly care about something, about a cause, when you’re a zealous supporter of something, you don’t need money to want to do it.” Dusting the toe of his leather boot off, he said, “I just hate to see you struggle. I want to help. Besides, I’m quite fond of your music and you look a good bit like me – same hair and all. Always fond of a guy that resembles Jesus,” Russell grinned widely.
He nestled back against the wall, staring at me silently. I think he may have been waiting on me to say something, to acknowledge that I understood what he was trying to say to me. His voice grew quiet, and his brow wrinkled with concern as he spoke to me. “Look. They tell you all kinds of things in here, all of it good stuff, but if you don’t find some higher power –” He paused and locked his eyes on me. “You know, we’re all just a bunch of buzzing, wobbly atoms, just a big mound of fleshy energy. You got to find a way to access that energy, a way to get away from the frustration, the slovenly urges, a way to let that energy transfer through you. There’s no magic ritual that’ll take the seductive urge of desire for that high away. No. There’s no way to pry that sensual feeling away, to rip that paintbrush away from the artist that is drugs which paints those lovely fantastical images. It’s gonna be fucking ugly. But it’s okay to be broken.” He laughed. “Who wants to live life without having faults, without fucking up every once in a while? How else are you supposed to learn? That’s what life is, a series of fuck-ups and what you make of ’em. That’s what makes you who you are, Jag. Don’t let your past be a harbinger of your future. You’ve got to learn who you are, mate. You’ll always have a stitch of want for that high.”
Jag (Pandemic Sorrow #1) Page 28