My Fair Junkie

by Amy Dresner

  In the ER, the doctors wanted to give me Ativan—typical seizure protocol. I called my sponsor to get his okay, and he said, “Just let the doctors do what they need to do.” So I did. If you have never had the experience of intravenous Ativan, well… my condolences. It is fucking awesome. They shot me full of Ativan, and I asked for more. They gave it to me, and I asked for more. They gave it to me again, and I again asked for more. At this point, they refused—wisely—as I was singing, putting on makeup, and calling people while still lying on the gurney.

  The whole next week is a blur. I’m guessing I convinced my gullible new psychiatrist to give me a scrip or two for Ativan, which I then gobbled up with the fervor only a drug addict can muster. I’ve heard that I was in AA meetings—loaded, kicking over chairs, yelling, “I’m a princess, motherfuckers!”—but I don’t remember a moment of it, thank God.

  I apparently called my father, multiple times a day, in an Ativan-induced blackout. “I wanna get loaded and die,” I’d chant over and over. I vaguely remember pouring pills into my mouth like Tic Tacs from an open prescription bottle and chain-smoking Parliament Lights. Finally, my papa said, “Ames, you need to go somewhere and cool out.”

  “You mean like a spa?” I slurred.

  “Kind of.”

  “Okay. I’ll pack… But first I need to wash my hair and get laid.”

  “Whatever you need to do, Ames.”

  I washed my hair, but I was so out of it, so fucked up on pills, that even the most lecherous creeps in AA refused to come over and service me.

  I called a cab and vomited in it on the way to the “spa.” The next morning I came to, only to realize that in my blackout, I had signed myself into a seventy-two-hour hold at the Thalians Mental Health Center. Idiot.

  My roommate was a thirty-two-year-old mother of six, and she didn’t know how the fuck she got to the “spa,” either.

  “I had one glass of wine and a Valium to relax. I did not try to kill myself. I have six children: two sons and quadruplets. Why would I want to kill myself?”

  “That sounds like six reasons right there,” I muttered.

  Let me explain something, when you’re in a green paper gown in the psych ward, anything you say can sound crazy. I told a nurse, “Well, I thought this was a spa… that’s why I brought my bathing suit.” I was dosed with extra meds immediately. Or “Umm, nurse, I’m worried my cat isn’t eating.”

  “Uh-huh.” She listened with mock concern. “Did he tell you that?”

  “If you want to get out of there, you better act like somebody who can get the fuck out of there,” my father said through the pay phone.

  “Papa, I—Will you shut the fuck up?” I blurted out to a patient walking by who was chattering loudly to himself. “I’m talking to somebody who actually exists!”

  I got off the pay phone and wolfed down a bagel, warily eyeing the other patients. Some looked totally insane. Others just looked pitiful. A few looked as if they had, like me, just fallen on hard times.

  Every day we had to go to “goal group” and talk about our goals for the day. Like there were so many fucking options. Hmm, maybe I’ll make an ashtray. Or maybe I’ll eat another bagel. You know what? I think I’m just gonna curl up in a ball and rock in the corner of my room for three hours.

  We were sitting in a circle of chairs, and in walked the social worker who’d be leading the group: dark, wavy bob, black pants, white top, plain face. She couldn’t be more vanilla.

  “Hi, I’m Megan and this is goal group. Please remember there is no touching, sexual or otherwise. We let words warm us from the inside.”

  “Well, that sounds boring,” I said aloud. She shot me a look.

  The mother of six had been discharged that morning, and my new roommate was a pudgy bipolar girl who kept getting reprimanded for wearing clothes that were too revealing. I remember a doughy white shoulder peeking out of a black top but nothing untoward. She had checked herself in voluntarily while her doctor switched her meds over. I doubt she’ll ever make that mistake again.

  First up in our circle was a Russian woman. She was toothless and gurning and growing a small goatee. She had a ponytail on the top front of her head like a unicorn. I’ve come to believe that ponytails are the crazy dial of humanity. If it’s up at the front, like this woman’s, you’re nuts. If it’s at the top of your head like Pebbles, you’re just perky with manic tendencies. If it’s just a regular ponytail, you’re some sorority bitch going for a run. And if it’s tied low at the nape of your neck, you’re depressive, a lesbian, or a sister wife.

  She pointed a bony finger slowly toward the whole group. “My goal for the day is to pray to the baby Jesus because you’re all talking about me and it’s all negative!”

  I collapsed in silent laughter.

  “Stop it,” my new roommate said, nudging me. I wiped away tears from laughing and tried to collect myself.

  Next to the Russian with the beard was an enormous woman with a huge belly, arms folded atop. The bearded Russian had her arm linked around the enormous one’s.

  “I’m going to pray with her,” the big-bellied lady said.

  I clapped. “Good goal, good goal.”

  The bearded one smiled a gummy smile and rested her head contentedly on the fat one’s bulging shoulder.

  Next up was a black guy in a wheelchair. His legs were really thin and burned, but they were beautifully folded over each other. I didn’t know his name, so I called him “origami man.” I had fantasies about sneaking into his room at night and folding up his legs into a swan or crane. I had spoken with him briefly at breakfast. He was reading the newspaper and seemed relatively normal till he began to launch into government conspiracies, UFOs, and brain control. That’s when I hailed for the check, so to speak. His goal was something about keeping informed on the latest secret something. He was not half as amusing as I had hoped.

  During this entire group, there was a guy who, obviously gravely stricken with OCD, was picking up tiny specks of different things off the carpet. I kept seeing him disappear as he bobbed down behind the social worker’s chair, put something in a napkin in his hand, and then bobbed back up, only to disappear again five seconds later. I was mesmerized by his focus.

  Third up to share was a blind, fat lesbian. She teetered back and forth, eyes closed, saying almost in a whisper, “My goal for the day is to make a friend, because it’s dark and lonely in here.”

  I turned to my roommate and whispered, “Isn’t that a Morrissey song?”

  My roommate ignored me but Megan, the social worker, was paying attention.

  “Okay, Miss Chatty Cathy…”

  “It’s Amy. Not Cathy.”

  “What’s your goal for the day, Amy?”

  “Well… umm…my goal for the day is to get the fuck out of here. And I can’t believe I’m the only one who said that.”

  After the group, I was eating a small container of pudding when an old German man came up to me.

  “You think you are so different from us. That we are crazy but you are not. But you are here for a reason, too.” His eyebrows went up slightly as he looked deeply into my eyes and then walked away. I was speechless. He was absolutely right. I was an asshole.

  The memory of the rest of my stay was clouded by the heavy psych meds. This is probably a good thing because I spent five days with people who were pretty tortured and out of their minds. One even thought he was Thomas Jefferson. I also lost seven pounds, thanks to the inedible food. It was like a cross between One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest and Jenny Craig.

  Finally, I had a meeting with the head psychiatrist, a quiet Jewish man with glasses and a yarmulke. I was hoping it would be my exit interview.

  “Your problem is that you think you are smarter than everybody else,” he said.

  “No I don’t think that. I know it,” I said, smiling.

  He wrote something down in my file.

  “I’m just kidding,” I added.

  He wrote some
thing else down.

  “You also like to get attention, which you do by getting negative attention.”

  I shrugged. “Okay. Food for thought,” I said. “Now that I’m not shooting coke in my neck, I’ll look into it.”

  Incredibly, he discharged me. I might have been a sarcastic ass, but I wasn’t certifiably “crazy.”

  I was thrilled to be released into the free world, but they had fucked with my meds and taken me off my normal seizure protocol. I felt disoriented and depressed. I went to an AA meeting that was held at this weird coffeehouse on Vine. They served overpriced lattes, Mexican tortas, and fruit shakes. The walls were covered in shitty amateur art that was for sale. I was super skinny, no makeup, greasy hair. Leon, a queenie costume designer who sounds like Harvey Fierstein and can’t stay sober to save his life, was there. He had on some getup that was very Britney Spears crossed with Courtney Love crossed with… a five o’clock shadow. He, at least, thought I looked great.

  “You look like a pretty young boy. I’d totally fuck you,” he croaked.

  “You’re a freak, Leon. But you have good taste,” I retorted.

  He laughed.

  It was there that I met Michael, the guy asking Carlos for an address on the street we were sweeping. He was short and Jewish, neither of which I find attractive, but he was nice to me, a great photographer, and pursued me with a terrifying fervor. I eventually caved, and we fucked once. It was awful. He had a small dick and had trouble getting hard. He was nervous and embarrassed. I was insulted and offended. When he finally got a boner, he tried to fuck me in the ass. Listen, I’m not against anal sex, but not the first time I’m with somebody. And, honestly, his dick was so small, I probably would have let him fuck me in the nose if he hadn’t been so presumptuous. But who fucks a girl who just got out of the psych ward and off a relapse? My vulnerability alone would make it too easy, like shooting fish in a barrel. Oh—I’m sorry. I mean, welcome to AA.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  My court date is coming up and I’m only half done with my community labor. I’ve heard from my other fuck-up friends that a first extension is easy to get. However, my lawyer has long since abandoned me, so I’m doing the self-service legal thing now. I have no idea who my judge is or which court I’m supposed to go to. Trina, my bail bondswoman buddy, gives me my case number, and I call the courthouse. Turns out that criminal cases are no longer heard at the Beverly Hills Courthouse. I have to go to Airport Court. And a new judge has my case, and—praise Jesus—it’s a man. This is good. Men like me better.

  Still, I’m nervous. If the judge, for whatever reason, chooses not to give me an extension, I go to jail.

  “Call me tomorrow after court and let me know everything went okay,” Trina says.

  “Yeah, I’ll be calling you. Either to tell you it all went fine or to ask you to bail me out… again.”

  I put on my hippie shirt (it’s the most court-friendly thing I own) and drive down to Airport Court. I really feel like I’m going to have a heart attack. Why do I always think it’s a good idea to drink a five-shot latte and vape my brains out when I’m already nervous? So fucking stupid. I call Linda and cry briefly on the phone with her.

  “What if the judge doesn’t give me an extension and I go to jail?” I whimper.

  “That’s not going to happen,” she says calmly.

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s going to be okay, I promise.”

  “If he’s having a bad day and throws me in the clink, will you come visit?”

  “Of course.”

  “Will you smuggle little bags of coke up your vaj like they do in the movies?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  I hang up and look at myself in the rearview mirror.

  “You got this,” I whisper.

  I wait my turn in the long, crowded line at the building entrance. My bag finally goes through the X-ray machine, and I walk through the metal detector unscathed. We’re good to go.

  I take the elevator up to the fifth floor and enter the courtroom. I sign in with the bailiff and sit down and wait for my case to be called. I’m fussing with the papers I brought: a letter from the rehab saying that I was in treatment for seven months, the paper that proves I completed the year of domestic violence class with stellar ratings, and my sign-in sheet from community labor, showing that I have completed about 120 of the 240 hours of community labor.

  A full-blown debate starts waging in my head: You should have brought a bag of clothes and stuff, in case you go straight to jail.

  Okay… no… that’s ridiculous; this is the first extension, and I’m half done with the hours.

  But really… what if you go to jail? Your car is just on a meter.

  Oh, come on… I’m not going to jail. I didn’t even violate the restraining order.

  But look at it from the judge’s point of view: even though you were in treatment for seven months, that should have been enough time to do all the community service.

  OMG, would you shut the fuck up?

  Just then, they call my case. I nervously scramble up from my seat. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears.

  “You’re here for an extension, Ms. Dresner?” the judge asks. He’s an older man, with white hair and glasses, narrow face, calm demeanor.

  “Yes, Your Honor. I was in treatment for seven months and I have a signed letter from the rehab. I have completed half of my community labor and all of my domestic violence classes.”

  “May I see the papers?”

  “Yes, sir.” I hand the papers to the bailiff, who brings them up to the judge. The judge pulls his glasses down the bridge of his nose and looks at the papers. He nods and hands them back to the bailiff, who returns them to me.

  “How long do you need to finish the community labor, Ms. Dresner?” the judge asks me.

  “Four months should be fine, Your Honor.”

  “I’ll give you six. See you then, Ms. Dresner.”

  “Thank you.”

  I smile politely, and as soon as I walk out of the courtroom, I punch the air.

  YESSS!

  But hold on a minute there, Ms. Misdemeanor. Just imagine if the judge was having a bad day? Say he got a parking ticket, or his hemorrhoid flared up, and he had said no to your extension. You’d be in jail again. Just like that. It seemed terrifyingly easy to get caught in the sticky web of the legal system. And without money to hire yourself a crooked, ruthless lawyer, you are seriously fucked.

  For the first time in my life I feel determined. Determined to finish something. I am taking full responsibility for the consequences of my actions, and although it isn’t easy, it does feel good. Well, “good” probably isn’t the right word. I don’t feel like hiding from the world under the protective tent of my long rocker bangs. I don’t feel like shoving a chopstick into my eyeball when I look in the mirror because I am such a spineless junkie piece of shit. Hey, maybe it isn’t Tony Robbins’s style of transformation, but it’s a step in the right direction. And for the first time since I can remember, I feel really committed to something. I am committed to never getting arrested again, which means staying sober and controlling my temper. Again, it is a start. I wonder if all those years that my parents had bailed me out and “saved me” had really saved me at all. Maybe their patience and generosity and love had just prolonged this necessary and painful learning curve.

  You know that saying, Fool me once, shame on you! Fool me twice, shame on me? Well, for me, it’s more like Fool me three hundred times, Hell… lemme take one more crack at it. I guess I am just one of those stubborn assholes who has to burn their house to the ground to realize you shouldn’t play with matches.

  Tinder is killing me. It’s so addictive. It’s set up like a video game or a slot machine with that stupid BING!, like hitting the jackpot, when you get a new match. Add that to the thrill of a bit of “strange” and the rush of validation and hope, and you’ve got a deadly combo for a romantic thrill-seeker like me. Still, a
s an ex-criminal, I am a little uncomfortable with how many cops are on Tinder.

  A very attractive guy, a New Yorker who comes to L.A. regularly for business, hits me up. He is extremely clear about what he is looking for.

  “Listen, here’s the deal. I’ve got hoes in different area codes…”

  “You are not quoting Ludacris to me…”

  “Yeah, but it’s true.”

  “Umm, okay… so am I applying for 213, 323, or 310? Is 818 already taken?”

  I’m a writer, and I was a comic, so verbal banter, even if it’s bullshit, is my forte. I appreciate his honesty and delude myself into thinking I can handle the situation.

  “Meet me at the Beverly Hills Hotel at eight p.m. tomorrow night. That’s where I’m staying.”

  I think I’ve been to the Beverly Hills Hotel once in my life, back when my ex was trying to impress me. He took me to the Polo Lounge—as if to say, “Look at the life I can give you…” Sad to say, it worked.

  I need something to wear. I have T-shirts with holes in them and flowy seventies Stevie Nicks stuff. Nothing in between. Terry might have something. She was rich and she’s a grown-up.

  “Hey, Terry, I have a date tonight. Do you have a hot top I can wear?”

  “I don’t get it. You stay in your room all day, and you have more dates than anybody I know… .”

  “It’s all marketing.” I smile. “Thank you, Wendy Hall Photography, for helping me lure poor, unsuspecting men into my poisonous lair.”

  “You are so weird,” Terry says. She holds up a lace Isabel Marant number. “How about this?”

  “Bitch, you know me!” I say as I gleefully grab it and put it on.

  I slip on my uniform black corduroy jeans and then some socks.

  “Your socks don’t match,” Terry says.

  “I don’t care. You think he’s not going to fuck me because of my socks? Pleeease. It’s Tinder, girl.”

  I put on a vintage black fur.

  “You look gorgeous—aside from the socks,” she says. “Go have fun.”

  I do look pretty amazing. Now, if I can just throw my voice up an octave, not say “dude” or sit like a man, I should be good.