CHAPTER 17

‘Hi, I’m Bridget. I’m an addict.’

Hi, Bridget.

‘Thanks for asking me to share. I don’t feel

great, I’m kind of nervous – shamed, I

guess, is how I feel – so thank you for letting

me speak before I run out of courage.

Not that anyone’s going to judge me,

I realise that. We’ve all been through it.

I’ve been in your place often enough, watching

one of us crawl back in here, dragging their

arse along the floor. The embarrassment

thing – I get this – it’s in my own head.

So thank you for all the hugs and so on. I’m

a grateful addict. I’m in the right place.

And I do know it’s possible to leave this

room and not ever have to use drugs again.

‘Anyway, first thing, I just have to say it, three

little words – little big words. I PICKED UP.

Seven years clean, and I went out and

blew it. But that’s this disease, right? – it’s

always just an arm’s length away. It could

have been worse, it was just a few days;

I’ve not lost my job, which is lucky, and

my partner’s been great. In spite of the fact

that I seem to have messed up her life even

more than mine – as we do, because once we

start using then of course everything’s

all about us. Well, now it really is

about me: it’s all my shit, it’s no one

else’s, and somehow I have to clean it up.

‘You know that thing we like to say

about how you pick up before you pick up?

It always makes me think of the person

who got me clean the second time round

and became my sponsor, saved my life –

she’d say that all the time, except I

never quite got it. Well, guess what? It’s true.

It couldn’t be simpler. Just before Christmas

I was seven years clean. So what did

I do? I marked it by not showing up.

What the fuck, I mean how dumb is that,

to celebrate your birthday by acting out?

I guess it was partly about my dad.

Actually, I know it was – and that’s the thing,

I loved him, right, but I’m always making

excuses for him. He had this disease

as well – an alcoholic, a whisky drinker,

he’d nibble away from dawn till dusk.

He worked as a sales rep, travelled a lot,

and he’d drink on the road – I mean, literally –

driving the company station wagon

with a bottle of spirits between his knees.

Now and then if Mum was busy I’d go

out with him for a day or two and on

one of those trips he rolled the car. You can

guess what my mother thought about that!

I wasn’t hurt, but that was it: I never

went with him again. But also, by that

time the marriage was over. I never

really knew when it ended, the trips just

got longer. A year or two later he

drove himself into a bridge stanchion.

My mother was a whole different

story, she didn’t use anything. Dad

was musical, sentimental, he made

a big deal of his folks being Irish.

Mum was scraped back, rational, disciplined,

called herself a scientist. I’m sorry,

I should say she was a scientist, she

worked as a radiographer. But also,

she prided herself on that, on her

logical mind, her efficiency, that

kind of thing. You wouldn’t say she was

warm exactly. She got things done, though,

she took care of us. And then she got cancer –

a radiographer! – what’s that about, where’s

the science in that? Excuse me, I’m rambling,

my head’s a bit wrecked . . . but I’ll get there,

just give me moment. Bear with me . . .

‘Back when Mum was still alive, I didn’t

really think of myself as “using”. Sure,

there was booze, the odd bit of weed, but

I was a student, you know, it was just

what you did. Then the summer she died

I came up to the island. A girlfriend

from film school – a “friend”, to be clear,

though it’s true she was the first chick I

ever tried to sleep with . . . anyway, her

family had a holiday place, one of those

baches off the end of the causeway, and

she brought me up here, the very first time.

Now, some of you guys will remember this,

it was back when there was all that coke.

I fetched up here at the dead right moment –

dead wrong moment – and, honestly,

that was that. The first time I did it

all I could think was: “Man, I’m in love!”

With coke, I mean. I was so starving

hungry, so empty, so lost. There was

quite a good scene happening, nice young guys,

we’d party with the Gaucho Airways crowd,

and I had a bit of money that my mother had

left me, not a great deal, but it was enough

to get me well and truly wrecked. Needless

to say, it was the end of Film School. Jane

went back – she’s in Sydney now, she’s

worked on some films – but I wasn’t going

anywhere. The money ran out, but there was

plenty of work, I was doing two jobs (it was

no sweat – that fabulous coke!). For a year

or two it was really great; in some ways

I don’t entirely regret it. And I guess I got

lucky, because what happened then – again,

you might remember this – is the powder

dried up. And I still had enough sense, just,

to get back home and do my first rehab.

‘But you know what it’s like when you’re too

young for it. At this stage I was twenty-five.

I got out of Nazareth, I came in the rooms,

and I knew that my life was unmanageable.

But somehow I didn’t quite believe it.

Deep down I didn’t really want it. Mostly

I wanted to be clean so I could use again.

‘I’m sorry if I’m telling you the story of

my life, which I realise is not what you

came here for, but I have to describe this

next bit. I met this guy. He was a few

years older, he seemed pretty smart,

in fact he was smart, and funny, and so on.

Also – excuse the oversharing but

I have to say this – he was crash-hot

in bed. Which was new, in a way. I mean,

I’d had lots of sex, I guess I’d maybe

had too much; I liked it, just never

really “got” it. But this was all different;

to tell the truth he pretty much taught me.

Like I was saying, I’d come out of rehab,

and I was kind of in the rooms, except

I wasn’t, if you know what I mean.

I was drinking a little; it seemed a waste

not to, the whole thing was all so

romantic, of course I was going to drink.

And – guess what? – this guy just so happened

to be a user. So . . . there we were,

I hate to say it, but there we were having

all this sex, and he asked if I’d

ever done it on meth. (Like, you

think this is good? You’ve got no idea!)

I’m oversharing again, I’m sorry, but

I need to remind myself what happened

next. Not that you can’t guess already, it’s

not rocket science. First up, it blew me

away. I mean totally. Just like the first

time round with coke, falling in love all over

again, with the drug, and with the guy as well.

It’s an honest programme, I have to add that bit.

In some ways at least, he was good for me.

Reckless, I guess, and a bit self-obsessed,

but so was I, so what the hell? The sight

of a skinny-looking boy with a meth pipe

I have to say still turns the knees to jelly.

Oh dear! Anyway, it all went bad – who

would have guessed? – it turned to shit, the fun

tapered off and the rest was just using . . .

more and more, and the stuff that goes with it,

stuff that I wouldn’t have dreamed of doing:

stealing, slinging, selling sex. From best sex

to worst – it took eighteen months – awful,

dreary, degrading stuff. Turning tricks

in the backs of cars. Utter trash. I’ll

tell you what – I wouldn’t have fucked me.

‘Jesus Christ, I’m rabbiting on. I don’t

think I’ve ever shared for such a long time.

And you’re getting the crap, not the clean-up,

but right now that’s me. It just feels so dumb

to be back here again, picking up this

stupid white key tag. I’m sorry, do you mind . . . ?’

You’re good, Bridget.

Go for it.

Kei te pai.

‘Okay. So that was a really low moment,

“gift of desperation” stuff. And here, looking

back, is where I first got the message. I’ve

been thinking a lot about Marama:

she was the person I mentioned before who

scraped me up off the footpath and got me

cleaned up again. I went back to Nazareth,

did another rehab, then Marama

frog-marched me into the rooms.

I lived with her, she became my sponsor,

she held my hand at Social Welfare.

And slowly I started to get the programme.

We went through the steps, and I saw what it

might mean to stop living so absolutely for me.

I discovered there was something more powerful

than drugs. And I learned what we all have to learn

in these rooms: that there’s a better way to live

and that we can’t do it alone. Oh damn,

now I’m tearing up, it always happens

when I talk about this; she saved my life,

no question about it, and now she’s not

here: she went out and never got back.

She’d been clean for ever – like, fifteen years –

and that’s what can happen, to anyone; she

picked up, and now she’s gone. What would she

say to me, I wonder? Not something clever.

Just, get your skinny arse back in the chair!

‘So Marama taught me that I couldn’t

be “cured” but I could have an altogether

different life. And that’s when I came back

up here, to the island, which sounds kind of

dumb after all that had happened – and even

more when the person I came up to stay with

had been a big part of my using. Strange

as it sounds, though, I knew I could trust her.

She loved me, she mothered me, really.

Still does. And that’s when I finally

began to grow up. I learned how to eat

and to sleep and keep healthy. And then

I met my partner, which was a total

revelation; honest to God, I had no

idea, but then I met the right person

and I thought: “Wow, this is better than

drugs!” I was right, it still is, if I could

only remember. It was all just so

different, and I don’t mean the sex – well,

I do, but not just that – I mean the whole

thing. Because mostly it wasn’t about

that at all: it was more about respect, or

I guess self-respect, self-acceptance. I

think back to when I was fourteen or so –

the women here know what I’m talking about –

overnight, men were completely different,

they’re looking at you like a piece of meat.

You think, Jesus, what’s happening? It takes

a while to sink in, or at least that’s how

it was for me. And sometimes, sure, if

I’m honest about it, I don’t mind

being a piece of meat. But not all the time,

right? It’s not who I am, I don’t need it

printed on a business card. Occupation:

piece of meat. Fuck you, Jack! You know?

And that’s the thing: even when I don’t deserve

it, she still treats me like I’ve got a brain.

‘Anyway, that’s how I really got well.

I came to the island, I found my sweetheart,

I found my houseboat, I got a good job.

And ever since then I’ve been here in the rooms:

I’m an addict, I know, but I’ve got a good

programme; I’ve learned how to do the suggested

things. And yet look at me: here I am,

two days clean – this fucking disease, man!

All it takes, you turn your back for a minute . . .

‘Except that’s not quite true. It was more than

a minute – you pick up before you pick up,

like I said. I mentioned that birthday I didn’t

show up for. So what’s happening there?

Well, here’s what I think: I was looking

for attention – would anyone miss me,

was anyone going to come and find me?

That’s what it felt like, a plea to be noticed,

addressed to myself – I could hear it – but

I didn’t want to hear it. Because what

I really wanted was to get fucked up.

It goes that way when things are good: it’s like,

life’s too good, too stable. Where’s the chaos?

My girlfriend’s kind of a serious person –

she’s an intellectual, incredibly

smart – but I’m not, really. Not like that.

Juanita’s a healer, that’s her job, but

me, it’s like sometimes I just want to

wreck something. I think to myself, I’m

too young to be clean, I deserve to . . .

for Christ’s sake, I’m going to be forty! It’s

just like we say at the start of each meeting:

we had to have something different

and we thought we’d found it in drugs.

‘And sex, I guess. It’s like I was saying,

show me a skinny-looking boy with a

a crack pipe . . . and what’s really stupid, I

saw it coming, I’d had half an eye on

this guy for a while – I kidded myself

that I didn’t, but I did – it could hardly

have been more inevitable. I cheated

with drugs. I cheated with sex. And now,

if I’m not really careful, I could lose

my relationship. It isn’t so much that

I slept with someone – it’s not just the fact

that I picked up, either – the thing is, I’ve

brought that crap into her life, and her work,

and now she has to sort it all out. I’m

worried that she might have stuffed up now.

I can’t share about it, of course, but it’s

bad: in her line of work this is

serious shit, and if she’s got it wrong

then it’s all on me. Me and this fucking

disease. I mean, addicts, who needs us?

‘I’m sorry, this has truly been the crappiest

sharing. Sharing the mess, not the message!

But there is a message here. At least for me.

It’s plain as daylight: like we always say,

it’s a simple programme. I’m just going

to have to get over my shame, get my arse

in the seat, do the next right thing: a shit-

load of meetings, a shitload of stepwork,

a whole lot of showing up for my own

recovery. And a heap of amends, and trying

to be a good partner. Today I don’t

have to use drugs. Thanks for letting me share.’