Excerpt
PRELUDEandlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;Bandgt;Eandlt;/Bandgt;VERY TIME I TRY TO CATCH UP TO MY LIFE, something stops me. Different people making claims on my life. Old friends telling me new friends arenand#8217;t true friends. All friends trying to convince me that I canand#8217;t survive without them.andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;Then there are the pay-for-hire get-off-drugs professionals with their own methods and madness. They help, they hurt, they welcome me into their institutions and#8230; and, well, their madness.andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;Welcome to my life.andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;Two years ago, my life was self-restricted to a sober living house, meaning that I walked through the doors of my own free will. Within hours, I watched the game of communal free will get stepped on, laughed at, and batted around like a Ping-Pong ball.andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;One of my fellow patients was a rocker chick just turned twenty-one. She had a problem with depression. We met in the lounge and talked the night away, smoking cigarettes, exchanging words of comfort.andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;and#8220;Am I pretty?and#8221; she asked me.andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;and#8220;You are beautiful,and#8221; I told her.andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;and#8220;Everyone says I smell because I havenand#8217;t showered.and#8221;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;and#8220;Everyone can get fucked,and#8221; I told her. and#8220;When youand#8217;re depressed, youand#8217;re not exactly in the mood for a shower.and#8221;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;She told me a story of grief and confusion. I listened. When she was through, we hugged good night. She kissed me sweetly. She wanted more.andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;and#8220;We canand#8217;t do this,and#8221; I said. and#8220;Itand#8217;s not right. Not now, not here.and#8221;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;A day later, I was approached by one of the counselors whom I considered a first-class shit talker.andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;and#8220;Rumor has it that the two of you were intimate.and#8221;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;and#8220;Whatand#8217;s intimate?and#8221; I asked.andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;and#8220;Sex.and#8221;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;and#8220;No!and#8221;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;and#8220;She obviously has a crush on you.and#8221;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;and#8220;Okay. What of it?and#8221;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;and#8220;I heard you two had sex in the Jacuzzi.and#8221;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;and#8220;No Jacuzzi,and#8221; I said. and#8220;No sex. Besides, who has sex in a Jacuzzi?and#8221;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;and#8220;I want to know what happened,and#8221; she insisted.andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;and#8220;We were flirtatious. That was inappropriate. So we stopped.and#8221;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;This young woman was confronted at our next group session. Sixteen hours later, she sliced her leg down past the fatty tissue. She was a cutter. They took her out of the villa and put her in a psych ward.andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;What can I do about it?andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;I write a poem, and#8220;The Little Villa and Painted Egg.and#8221;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;Iandgt;Minds squall, alcohol, heroinandlt;/Iandgt; andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;Iandgt;The man, the boy, the girlandlt;/Iandgt; andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;Iandgt;The little villa where you liveandlt;/Iandgt; andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;Iandgt;You need to fill that pain insideandlt;/Iandgt; andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;Iandgt;Xanex, Valium, barbituratesand#8212;they ease the easy sideandlt;/Iandgt; andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;Iandgt;Of all you fucked-up managerial typesandlt;/Iandgt; andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;Iandgt;You love to rule by what you sayandlt;/Iandgt; andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;Iandgt;Not by what you findandlt;/Iandgt; andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;Iandgt;Beautiful garden, Easter eggs, those that you never really hadandlt;/Iandgt; andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;Iandgt;You stole our experiences and stole our basketsandlt;/Iandgt; andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;Iandgt;Thatand#8217;s how you found twenty-one out of fifty-sevenandlt;/Iandgt; andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;THAT WAS LAST MONTH. This week Iand#8217;m home dealing with those who and#8220;manageand#8221; my business life, those who, for their own purposes, direct my moves. They are my partners, assistants, and drug coaches (whom we call and#8220;mindersand#8221;). There is no peace, not for an hour, not for thirty seconds. Someone is always showing up with calculated suggestions and implied instructions. I donand#8217;t know, but I think Iand#8217;ve done pretty well for myself, even during my long-lasting, narcotic misadventuresand#8212;all without the protective bubble of paranoid employees, partners, and helpersand#8212;er, minders.andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;Meanwhile, the facts are these:andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;It has been eight and a half years since I shot dope and nearly three years since I did coke.andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;I still drink. A regular garden-variety boozer, I am like any other barfly or drink-alone kind of guy. My relationship to liquor is not romantic the way I once envisioned my love affair with dope. I struggle to stop drinking, but I donand#8217;t see it as suicidal. In any event, Iand#8217;m not drinking today. Today Iand#8217;m inviting you into the middle of my life and the middle of my head. My heart feels a bit closed off because Iand#8217;m realizing that there are few people, if any, that I fully trust. Thatand#8217;s an amazing statement to make and brings me to what may be the purpose of this book.andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;How did I get to this point? One word could probably sufficeand#8212;andlt;Iandgt;lossandlt;/Iandgt;.andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;Iand#8217;m searching for explanations.andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;Someone recently gave me a T-shirt that said, Iand#8217;M IN LIKE SEVEN BANDS.andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;There is a Stone Temple Pilots story to tell. There is a Velvet Revolver story to tell. There is a love story to tell. And a drug story to tell.andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;AMONG MY GREAT LOVES is that category of substances called heroin. Narcotic alkaloids. Derivatives of opium. I describe this stuff lovingly. I do so at the risk of high irresponsibility. It is not my intention to mislead anyone looking to live a righteous life. God knows that the shit will kill you, inside and out, soul to the bone. At the same time, I am committed to an honest assessment of the wreckage of my past. I loved opiates; I hated opiates; I am attracted to opiates perhaps the way John Keats was attracted to death. One hundred ninety years ago, the romantic poet wrote and#8220;Ode to a Nightingaleand#8221;:andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;Iandgt;I have been half in love with easeful Death,andlt;/Iandgt; andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;Iandgt;Calland#8217;d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,andlt;/Iandgt; andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;Iandgt;To take into the air my quiet breath;andlt;/Iandgt; andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;Iandgt;Now more than ever seems it rich to die,andlt;/Iandgt; andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;Iandgt;To cease upon the midnight with no pain,andlt;/Iandgt; andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;Iandgt;With thou art pouring forth thy soul abroadandlt;/Iandgt; andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;Iandgt;In such an ecstasy!andlt;/Iandgt; andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;IS DEATH THE MUSE? Is rock and roll the nightingale? Are opiates the key to unlocking the magical kingdom where colorful flowers fade to black? Why should anyoneand#8212;especially a kid or a man who suspects that he or she may have talentand#8212;be drawn to such a kingdom?andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;I donand#8217;t know. Except that the pull is visceral. It may also be an act of self-loating or anger against home or society or even the human condition in which the promise of death shadows us from those first fresh moments of birth.andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;I think of the young woman overwhelmed by a compulsion to cut herself. The compulsion is heartbreaking and bizarre, but maybe not bizarre at alland#8212;maybe itand#8217;s simply the most honest compulsion of all because it gets to the heart of the matter. My long opiate-dazed days and sleepless nights were all about cutting myself emotionally. When I got high, the last thing in the world I wanted to do was party or interact with other human beings. I retreated to the dark corners of my room and my life. I stayed alone and disappeared down black holes where no one could find me. I couldnand#8217;t find myself. I didnand#8217;t want to find myself. I became invisible. Or, as I put it in the song and#8220;Dead and Bloated,and#8221; and#8220;I am smellinand#8217; like the rose that someone gave me on my birthday deathbed.and#8221;andlt;BRandgt;andlt;BRandgt;and#169; 2011 Scott Weiland