Of course, I’d like to say that as soon as I got back from that speaking gig in BC, I took the rest of the medical marijuana I had and flushed it down the toilet or something, but that’s just not the case. Instead, I basically smoked through the rest of it as fast as I could, telling myself it was kind of like saying good-bye or some bullshit—like I needed closure. So for about a day and a half, I was in a total stoned-out haze. I cried a lot and got pretty goddamn scared thinking about giving that shit up. But once it was gone, it was gone. I haven’t gone to get more, and I’d like to think I’m not gonna.
I don’t know, the way I look at it right now is that, no matter what, if I want to actually live a good life, someday I’m going to have to do this hard-ass fucking work of getting clean and figuring out all my shit. But the longer I wait, the more fucked-up shit I will have done, and the more damage I will’ve caused, so it’ll just be that much more difficult to get clean and start all over again. I mean, the truth of it is, if I don’t do it now, it’s gonna keep getting worse and worse. So, uh, yeah, I might as well get it over with, right?
And I am.
I’m getting it over with as best as I can.
In fact, I’m even starting an outpatient program today, so, yeah, I really am trying this time. The group is run out of a place on Santa Monica Boulevard and, I gotta say, it sounds pretty all right. First of all, it meets only twice a week, so it’s not too intense, and by some miracle, it isn’t twelve-step-based at all. Not only that, but the other people in the group are right around my age, so hopefully we’ll be able to relate all right.
There’s a cool wind blowing off the ocean today as I ride up Santa Monica Boulevard on this old beach cruiser I got for fifty bucks. Actually, it’s kind of ironic or whatever, ’cause the outpatient building is literally half a block from this pharmacy I used to go to ’cause they’d sell you syringes without a prescription or anything. And, even more ironic still, that pharmacy is literally two stores down from the Los Angeles twelve-step store where they sell all the twelve-step literature and medallions and cheesy bumper stickers and whatever. So between both personas I adopted when living in LA—the twelve-step zealot and the hopeless drug addict—it’s pretty safe to say I’m more than familiar with this particular area. Plus, my mom’s office building is just a couple of blocks over, on Wilshire.
So, anyway, yeah, I’m riding this shitty-ass bike up from Mar Vista, where I’m actually living back with Sue Ellen again. I don’t know, the way I figure it, since obviously a lot of my behavior was a result of my untreated mental illness—and the fact that I was using—maybe our problems were just sort of a casualty of all that bullshit. I mean, it seems like it’s worth trying it again—even if, well, it does kind of seem like too much damage has been done to ever go back. Already I’ve caught her going through my text messages and reading my e-mails. I don’t have anything to hide at this point, but, uh, still—it carries over to the way she’s treating me in general—suspicious, angry, pretty fucking mean, actually. I know she’d be better off moving on. But unfortunately she just doesn’t see it that way. It’s like, you know, she’s really scared to try ’n’ make it without me. And I guess I owe it to her to give her what she wants. I know I need to be there for her like she’s been there for me. So, uh, here we are.
But I’m definitely looking forward to meeting some new people at outpatient. In a way I almost feel like I’m starting kindergarten for the first time—you know, excited and nervous—ready with my new set of crayons and Rainbow Brite lunch box. I lock my bike up to a NO PARKING sign and walk over to the front entrance.
The building is basically shaped like a square doughnut, with the hole in the middle being used as a kind of atrium with palm trees and wooden benches and ferns and other faux tropical plants and flowers. Dark wood paneling lines the walls and balconies, and everything is laid out long and horizontal, like the whole place was built as a set piece for The Brady Bunch. I’m practically expecting the different doctors and whoever is renting the little offices to come marching out in unison with their flared pants legs, singing “It’s a Sunshine Day.”
Which it is. I mean, sunshiney.
Anyway, I guess I’m maybe a little scared about going in right away or something, so I decide to smoke a cigarette really fast, even if that means coming in a minute or so late. But, uh, in LA—I mean, especially in West LA—anytime I smoke a goddamn cigarette, there’s always someone who comes by deliberately coughing and acting all obnoxious, so I make my way around the side of the building to steer clear of any self-righteous yuppies coming back from their yoga classes with their chakras all aligned or whatever, ready to defend their precious, perfect lungs. So, yeah, I walk around to the side of the building and light a cigarette and then practically run right into this kid standing there smoking his own cigarette
