Heathrow. Waiting for the flight to Bangalore. We shot off a couple of faxes from the specialty lounge. I don’t have enough miles to qualify as special but she does. Nice lounge. Swanky. We were not dressed for it but Brits are too polite to say anything. We only did faxes, no voice calls. I wanted to talk to Daron except what the fuck did I have to say? It’s all water under the bridge. If he’s still going to be mad about the canceled show, I can’t risk some bullshit like that sending me spiraling down again. Not right now. Leaving Betty Ford was like getting a cast off a broken leg. Now I have to try walking again for a while before going back to backflips.
I want to backflip, of course. But at the center they really sell you on the idea that you’re saving your life there. That it was even worse than you think it was. They scare you. I slip at times into thinking it wasn’t that bad. Then I look back at the pages where I did “homework” like “List 12 Things Your Abuse of Prescription Drugs Negatively Impacted.”
Daron’s name is on there a lot of times.
“The center.” The center of everything. If I write a song about rehab that’s what I’ll riff on. But I don’t want to think of the center as my center. Which is probably why I’m traveling so far away. One reason. Of many. I’ll have plenty of time to examine why when I get there. Instead of “the center” why don’t I call it “BF” from now on? Betty Ford. Half the reason the place succeeds, I swear, is because with a name like Betty Ford it sounds friendly, like the mom next door is going to take care of you. If it were called the Hedwig Wilmington center it wouldn’t be half so successful, I bet.
England. I know there’s a reputation about drinking here. But in the airport they are handing out free samples of booze to passersby! FREE SAMPLES. I took one before Jenn knocked it out of my hand and then apologized profusely to the clerk and pressed some tissues into the guy’s hand and then dragged me to the lounge. I tried to tell her alcohol was never my problem but she’s freaking out so I just said okay, sorry, and now she’s fine again.
We’re waiting to board, and I am bored. haha
I was expecting a room full of humongous egos at BF. But truth is that most of them were so beaten up and battered down and desperate by the time they were at the point where they checked themselves into detox that they actually NEEDED some ego to care about themselves enough to rebuild their shit. Oh sure, a lot of them bounced back fast. Some.
Me? I don’t think I ever was that low. Even back when I was thinking about ending it all in some dramatic, headline grabbing fashion I wasn’t that low. That’s the ultimate ego trip isn’t it? Seems obvious now.
A lot of things seem obvious now. The problem with all the drugs is they make you miss the obvious stuff and focus on the bullshit.
Truth is by the time I got to BF I had figured out what I wanted to do. The idea of disappearing, NOT in a dramatic or permanent fashion at all, NOT as a placebo for suicide
PLACEBO SUICIDE song idea?
I needed to disconnect. Unfortunately what 28 days of intensive rehab therapy requires is connection, not disconnection. If they could stick wires in your heart and soul and connect you directly to their belief fixit machine, they would. You have to talk. To people. To your counselors. To your therapists. Talk talk talk. I think if they left me alone for a month and just slid healthy food under the door that would’ve had a better effect on me in the end. But you get points off for withdrawing. You get brownie points for connecting. Collect enough brownie points you win your freedom in the end!
I’m a good brown-noser. So good there’s shit stuck in my eyebrows. I had everyone at BF eating out of my hand by the end of the first week. Then it was counting the days until they’d let me go.
Jenn had the connection in India, the guru she met at a meditation center in L.A. Sounded good to me. Her people booked our tickets. It all went pretty smoothly. They were savvy to sneaking her out of the country with no one the wiser which suited me perfect. Last thing we need is a tabloid scandal about it.
Okay now we’re on the plane again. This whole plane smells like the lobby of a Las Vegas casino. Like the carpet’s impregnated with years of cigarette smoke and a tinge of anxious sweat. I’m supposed to be on this flight as part of a journey to become as spiritually clean as I am now physically clean. So of course I feel surrounded by filth. Irony. I’ll never escape it. Might as well live it.
(Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone! Remember, Ziggy’s Diary will be posting every weekday, Monday-Friday, until it’s done! -ctan)