by Irvine Welsh
Aw this might or might no be true. Ah’ve pondered ower a loat ay it, and ah’m willin tae explore it; ah don’t feel defensive aboot any ay it. However, ah feel that it’s at best peripheral tae the issue ay ma addiction. Certainly, talking about it extensively has done fuck all good. Ah think Forbes is as scoobied as ah am.
Molly Greaves, the clinical psychologist, tended to look at ma behaviour and ways of modifying it, rather than determining its causes. It seemed like Forbes had done his bit, now it was time tae get us sorted oot. That wis when ah started oan the reduction programme, which simply didnae work, then the methadone treatment, which made us worse.
Tom Curzon, the counsellor fae the drugs agency, a guy wi a social work rather than medical background, was intae Rogerian client-centred counselling. Ah went tae the Central Library and read Carl Rogers’s On Becoming A Person. Ah thought that the book wis shite, but ah huv tae admit that Tom seemed tae get us closer tae what ah believe the truth might be. Ah despised masel and the world because ah failed tae face up tae ma ain, and life’s, limitations.
The acceptance ay self-defeating limitations seemed then tae constitute mental health, or non-deviant behaviour.
Success and failure simply mean the satisfaction and frustration ay desire. Desire can either be predominantly intrinsic, based oan oor individual drives, or extrinsic, primarily stimulated by advertising, or societal role models as presented through the media and popular culture. Tom feels that ma concept ay success and failure only operates on an individual rather than an individual and societal level. Due tae this failure tae recognise societal reward, success (and failure) can only ever be fleeting experiences for me, as that experience cannae be sustained by the socially-supported condoning of wealth, power, status, etc., nor, in the case ay failure, by stigma or reproach. So, according tae Tom, it’s nae good tellin us that ah’ve done well in ma exams, or got a good job, or got off wi a nice burd; that kind ay acclaim means nowt tae us. Of course, ah enjoy these things at the time, or for themselves, but their value cannae be sustained because there’s nae recognition ay the society which values them. What Tom’s trying tae say, ah suppose, is that ah dinnae gie a fuck. Why?
So it goes back tae ma alienation from society. The problem is that Tom refuses tae accept ma view that society cannae be changed tae make it significantly better, or that ah cannae change tae accommodate it. Such a state ay affairs induces depression on ma part, aw the anger gets turned in. That’s what depression is, they say. However, depression also results in demotivation. A void grows within ye. Junk fills the void, and also helps us tae satisfy ma need tae destroy masel, the anger turned in bit again.
So basically ah agree wi Tom here. Whair we depart is that he refuses tae see this picture in its total bleakness. He believes that ah’m suffering fae low self-esteem, and that ah’m refusing tae acknowledge that by projecting the blame oantae society. He feels that ma means ay emasculating the rewards and praise (and conversely condemnation) available tae me by society is not a rejection ay these values per se, but an indication that ah dinnae feel good enough (or bad enough) aboot masel tae accept them. Rather than come oot and say: Ah don’t think ah have these qualities (or ah think ah’m better than that), Ah say: It’s a loaday fuckin shite anywey.
Hazel said tae us, jist before she telt us that she didnae wantae see us again, whin ah started using for the umpteenth time: — You just want tae fuck up on drugs so that everyone’ll think how deep and fucking complex you are. It’s pathetic, and fucking boring.
In a sense ah prefer Hazel’s view. Thir is an element ay ego in it. Hazel understands ego needs. She’s a windae dresser in a department store, but describes hersel as a ‘consumer display artist’ or something like that. Why should ah reject the world, see masel as better than it? Because ah do, that’s why. Because ah fuckin am, and that’s that.
The upshot ay this attitude is that ah was sent tae this therapy/counselling shite. Ah didnae want aw this. It wis this or the jail. Ah’m startin tae think that Spud goat the soft option. This shite muddies the waters for us; confuses rather than clarifies issues. Basically, aw ah ask is that cunts mind their ain business and ah’ll dae the same. Why is it that because ye use hard drugs every cunt feels that they have a right tae dissect and analyse ye?
Once ye accept that they huv that right, ye’ll join them in the search fir this holy grail, this thing that makes ye tick. Ye’ll then defer tae them, allowin yersel tae be conned intae believin any biscuit-ersed theory ay behaviour they choose tae attach tae ye. Then yir theirs, no yir ain; the dependency shifts from the drug to them.
Society invents a spurious convoluted logic tae absorb and change people whae’s behaviour is outside its mainstream. Suppose that ah ken aw the pros and cons, know that ah’m gaunnae huv a short life, am ay sound mind etcetera, etcetera, but still want tae use smack? They won’t let ye dae it. They won’t let ye dae it, because it’s seen as a sign ay thir ain failure. The fact that ye jist simply choose tae reject whit they huv tae offer. Choose us. Choose life. Choose mortgage payments; choose washing machines; choose cars; choose sitting oan a couch watching mind-numbing and spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fuckin junk food intae yir mooth. Choose rotting away, pishing and shiteing yersel in a home, a total fuckin embarrassment tae the selfish, fucked-up brats ye’ve produced. Choose life.
Well, ah choose no tae choose life. If the cunts cannae handle that, it’s thair fuckin problem. As Harry Lauder sais, ah jist intend tae keep right on to the end of the road . . .
House Arrest
This bed is familiar, or rather, the wall opposite it is. Paddy Stanton looks doon at us wi his seventies sideboards. Iggy Pop sits smashing a pile ay records wi a claw hammer. Ma auld bedroom, in the parental home. Ma heid struggles tae piece thegither how ah’ve goat here. Ah can remember Johnny Swan’s place, then feeling like ah wis gaunnae die. Then it comes back; Swanney n Alison takin us doon the stairs, gittin us intae a taxi n bombin up tae the Infirmary.
Funny thing wis, jist before this, ah remembered boastin thit ah’d niver OD’d in ma puff. Thir’s a first time fir everything. It wis Swanney’s fault. His gear’s normally cut tae fuck, so ye always bung that wee bit mair intae the cooking spoon tae compensate. Then whit does the cunt dae? He hits ye wi some pure shit. Literally takes yir breath away. Daft cunt that he is, Swanney must’ve gave thum ma Ma’s address. So eftir a few days in the hoespital gittin ma breathin stabilised, here ah am.
Here ah am in the junky’s limbo; too sick tae sleep, too tired tae stay awake. A twilight zone ay the senses where nothing’s real except the crushing, omnipresent misery n pain in your mind n body. Ah notice with a start that ma Ma’s actually sitting on my bed, looking silently at me.
As soon as ah’m aware ay this, she could be sitting oan ma chest for the level ay crushing discomfort ah feel.
She puts her hand oantae ma sweaty brow. Her touch feels horrible, creepy, violating.
— Yir oan fire laddie, she sais softly, shaking her heid, concern etched oantay her face.
Ah raise a hand above the covers tae brush hers aside. Misinterpreting ma gesture, she grabs ma hand in both ay hers and squeezes tightly, cripplingly. Ah want tae scream.
— Ah’ll help ye son. Ah’ll help ye fight this disease. Ye’ll stay here wi me n yir faither until yir better. Wir gaunnae beat this son, wir gaunnae beat it!
Her eyes have an intense, glazed look about them and her voice has a crusading zeal.
Shoo’nuff momma, shoo’nuff.
— Ye’ll git through it though son. Doctor Mathews sais that it’s jist really like a bad flu, this withdrawal, she tell us.
When wis the last time auld Mathews hud cauld turkey? Ah’d like tae lock that dangerous auld radge in a padded cell fir a fortnight, and gie um a couple ay injections ay diamorphine a day, then leave the cunt for a few days. He’d be beggin us fir it eftir that. Ah’d jist shake ma heid and say: Take it easy mate. What’s the fuckin problem? It’s jist like a bad flu.
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— Did he gie us temazepan? ah ask.
— Naw! Ah telt um, nane ay that rubbish. Ye wir worse comin oaf that thin ye wir wi heroin. Cramps, sickness, diarrhoea . . . ye wir in a hell ay a state. Nae mair drugs.
— Mibbe ah could go back tae the clinic, Ma, ah hopefully suggest.
— Naw! Nae clinics. Nae methadone. That made ye worse, son, ye said so yirsel. Ye lied tae us, son. Tae yir ain mother n faither! Ye took that methadone n still went oot scorin. Fae now oan son it’s a clean brek. Yir stayin here whair ah kin keep an eye oan ye. Ah’ve loast one laddie already, ah’m no losin another yin! Tears welled up in her eyes.
Poor Ma, still blaming hersel fir that fucked-up gene that caused ma brother Davie tae be born a cabbage. Her guilt, eftir struggling wi him fir years, at pittin him in the hoespital. Her devastation at his death last year. Ma kens whit everybody thinks ay her, the neighbours n that. They see her as flighty and brazen, because ay her blonde hair-dye, clathes too young fir her, and her liberal consumption ay Carlsberg Specials. They think thit her n ma faither used Davie’s profound handicap tae git oot ay the Fort n git this nice Housing Association flat by the river, then cynically dumped the poor cunt in the residential care.
Fuck the facts, these trivial things, they petty jealousies become part ay the mythology in a place like Leith, a place fill ay nosey cunts who willnae mind their ain business. A place ay dispossessed white trash in a trash country fill ay dispossessed white trash. Some say that the Irish are the trash ay Europe. That’s shite. It’s the Scots. The Irish hud the bottle tae win thir country back, or at least maist ay it. Ah remember gettin wound up when Nicksy’s brar, down in London, described the Scots as ‘porridge wogs’. Now ah realise that the only thing offensive about that statement was its racism against black people. Otherwise it’s spot-on. Anybody will tell you; the Scots make good soldiers. Like ma brar, Billy.
They suspect the auld man here as well. His Glasgow accent, the fact thit since being made redundant fi Parson’s he’s punted gear in the markets at Ingliston n East Fortune instead ay sittin in Strathie’s Bar moanin his fuckin box oaf aboot everything.
They mean well, and they mean well tae me, but there’s nae way under the sun that they can appreciate what ah feel, what ah need.
Protect me from those who wish tae help us.
— Ma… ah appreciate whit yir tryin tae dae, but ah need jist one score, tae ease masel oaf it. Jist the one, likes, ah plead.
— Forget it son. Ma auld man hus come intae the room withoot us hearin um. The auld girl nivir even gits a chance tae speak. — Your tea’s oot. You’d better shape up pal, ah’m tellin ye.
He looks stony-faced, his chin jutting forward, his airms by his sides, as if in readiness tae huv a square go wi us.
— Aye . . .. right, ah mumble miserably, fae under the duvet. Ma pits a protective hand oan ma shoodir. We’ve both regressed.
— Mucked up everythin, he accuses, then reads oot the charges: — Apprenticeship. University. That nice wee lassie ye wir seein. Aw the chances ye hud Mark, n ye blew them.
He disnae need tae say aboot how he nivir hud they chances growin up in Govan n leavin school at fifteen n takin an apprenticeship. That’s implicit. When ye think aboot it though, it isnae that much different fae growin up in Leith n leaving school at sixteen n takin an apprenticeship. Especially as he nivir grew up in an era ay mass unemployment. Still, ah’m in nae shape tae argue, n even if ah wis, it’s pointless wi Weedjies. Ah’ve never met one Weedjie whae didnae think that they are the only genuinely suffering proletarians in Scotland, Western Europe, the World. Weedjie experience ay hardship is the only relevant experience ay it. Ah try another suggestion.
— Eh, mibbe ah’ll go back doon tae London. Git a joab likes. Ah’m almost delirious. Ah imagine that Matty’s in the room. — Matty . . . Ah think ah said it. The fuckin pain’s starting tae.
— Yir in cloud cuckoo land son. Yir gaun naewhair. If ye shite, ah wahnt tae know aboot it.
There wisnae much chance ay that. The rock ah hud compacting in ma bowels would huv tae be surgically removed. Ah’d huv tae start forcin doon the Milk ay Magnesia solution and keep at it fir days tae git a result thair.
Whin the auld man shot the craw, ah managed tae cajole ma Ma intae giein us a couple ay her valium. She wis oan them fir six months after Davie died. The thing is, because she kicked them, she now regards hersel as an expert oan drug rehabilitation. This is smack, fir fuck’s sake, mother dear.
I am tae be under house arrest.
The morning wisnae pleasant, but it wis a picnic compared tae the eftirnin. The auld man came back fae his fact-finding mission. Libraries, health-board establishments and social-work offices had been visited. Research hud been undertaken, advice hud been sought, leaflets procured.
He wanted tae take us tae git tested fir HIV. Ah don’t want tae go through aw that shite again.
Ah git up fir ma tea, frail, bent and brittle as ah struggle doon the stairs. Every move makes ma blood soar tae ma throbbing heid. At one stage ah thought that it wid just burst open, like a balloon, sending blood, skull fragments and grey matter splattering oantae Ma’s cream woodchip.
The auld girl sticks us in the comfy chair by the fire in front ay the telly, and puts a tray oan ma lap. Ah’m convulsing inside anyway, but the mince looks revolting.
— Ah’ve telt ye ah dinnae eat meat Ma, ah sais.
— Ye eywis liked yir mince n tatties. That’s whair ye’ve gone wrong son, no eating the right things. Ye need meat.
Now there is apparently a causal link between heroin addiction and vegetarianism.
— It’s good steak mince. Ye’ll eat it, ma faither says. This is fuckin ridiculous.
Ah thought there and then about making for the door, even though ah’m wearing a tracksuit and slippers. As if reading ma mind, the auld man produces a set ay keys.
— The door stays locked. Ah’m fittin a lock oan yir room as well.
— This is fuckin fascism, ah sais, wi feelin.
— Dinnae gies yir crap. Ye kin cry it whit ye like; if that’s whit it takes, that’s whit you’ll get. An mind yir language in the hoose.
Ma bursts intae a passionate rant: — Me n yir faither son, s no as if we wanted this. S no likesay that at aw. It’s because we love ye son, yir aw wuv goat, you n Billy. Faither’s hand faws oan toap ay hers.
Ah cannae eat ma food. The auld man isnae prepared tae go tae the extent ay force-feeding us, so he’s forced tae accept the fact that good steak mince is going tae waste. No really tae waste, as he hus mine. Instead ah sip oan some cauld Heinz tomatay soup, which is aw ah kin take whin ah’m sick. Ah seemed tae leave ma body fir a while, watching a game show oan the box. Ah could hear ma auld man talking tae ma auld girl, bit ah couldnae take ma eyes fae the ugly-looking game-show host and turn ma heid tae face ma parents. Faither’s voice seems almost tae be comin fae the set.
— . . . said here that Scotland’s goat eight per cent o the UK population but sixteen per cent o the UK HIV cases . . . What’s the scores, Miss Ford? . . . Embra’s goat eight per cent o the Scottish population but ower sixty per cent o the Scottish HIV infection, by far the highest rate in Britain . . . Daphne and John have scored eleven points, but Lucy and Chris, have fifteen! . . . they say thit they discovered this blood-testin punters in Muirhoose fir summit else, hepatitis or that, n discovered the scale o the problem . . . oooh . . . oooh . . . well, tough luck to the very sporting losers, give ’em a hand then, give ’em a hand . . . the scumbags thit did this tae the boey, if ah git thir names, ah’ll git a squad thegither n sort them oot masel, obviously the polis arenae interested, lettin thum deal that shite oan the streets . . . won’t be going away empty handed . . . even if he is HIV it’s no an automatic death sentence. That’s aw ah’m saying Cathy, it’s no an automatic death sentence . . . Tom and Sylvia Heath of Leek in Staffordshire . . . he sais he’s no been sharin needles, but he’s been proved a liar in the past . . . it says here Sylvia d
arling, that you met Tom when he was looking under your bonnet, oooh . . . wir jist sayin ’if now Cathy . . . he was fixing your car which had gone infor a for a service, oh, I see . . . hopefully he hud mair sense . . . first game’s called ‘Shoot To Kill’ . . . but it isnae an automatic death sentence . . . and who better to show us the ropes than my old mate, from the Royal Archery Society of Great Britain, the one and only Len Holmes! . . . that’s aw ah’m sayin Cathy . . .
Ah started tae feel a crippling nausea and the room began tae spin. Ah fell oot ay the chair n puked tomatay soup aw ower the fireside rug. Ah don’t remember getting pit tae bed. There goes my first love woo-hoo . . .
Ma body was being twisted and crushed. It wis like ah hud collapsed in the street and a skip hud been lowered oan top ay us, n a squad ay vicious workies wir loading it up wi heavy building materials, while at the same time sticking sharp rods underneath to skewer ma body. With the guy I used to . . .
What’s the fuckin time? Ah wonder what the fuck 7:28. I can’t forget her . . .
Hazel
My heart is breaking woo-hoo when 1 see her . . .
Ah throw back the weighty duvet and look at Paddy Stanton. Paddy. Whit am ah gaunny dae? Gordon Durie. Juke Box. What’s the fuckin score here? Why did ye leave us Juke Box, ya cunt? Iggy . . . you’ve been thair. Help us man. HELP ME.
What did you say aboot it aw?
YOU’RE NO FUCKIN HELP YA CUNT . . . NO FUCKIN HELP AT AW . . .
Blood flows oantae the pillow. Ah’ve bitten ma tongue. Severely severed by the looks ay it. Every cell in ma body wants tae leave it, every cell is sick hurting marinated in pure fuckin poison
cancer
