Chapter 26 - Methadone metronome

December 1999

The Disposable Heroes of Hypocrisy with their hit “Television the Drug of a Nation”. Have a lyric that goes “the methadone metronome….”, and it is a very apt analogy, for when you go on methadone you commit to a steady routine of intoxication. As a heroin addict there is no regularity, you go through blissful periods of plenty and torturous times of nothing.

I felt that I could no longer handle this addiction by myself, and I knew that I needed help. The move to the Gold Coast had not helped I was still addicted. With mum’s help we contacted a few detox facilities but they were full up. When we did find one with a vacancy I was not sure I wanted to go. Going on the methadone program seemed like a more attractive solution. It meant I could still be wasted, but for only $3.40 per day, what a bargain. The fact was I didn’t have to change as much

So I burned all my phone numbers for my heroin contacts, including Lee. I didn’t want to be tempted in a moment of weakness. I knew though that if I really wanted it there were always places it could be found (Nimbin, Fortitude Valley in Brisbane).

Mum and Dad were relieved to see me seeking help. They were very disturbed by what I was doing. Dad was in denial about the problem and distanced himself from me, while mum provided the bulk of the emotional and physical support. I was blissfully unaware of the impact my behaviour was having on her, she had withdrawn from contact with other family members because she couldn’t handle talking about me.

Mum’s sister rang and left a message on the answering machine for mum to contact her. “I am very concerned about you Jemima, if you don’t return my call I will be contacting the police to check on you, please call me, we love you please call”

The grip of heroin had become so strong I just couldn’t seem to control my actions alone. At university I had started out with the idea that it would never happen to me, I was strong enough to simply use heroin as a recreational drug. But alas this was not the case. I had wanted to prove that heroin could be used in a reasonable manner. But what I proved is that heroin turns reasonable people into desperate, self-centred, irresponsible, destructive fools. Hey I am sure that maybe a very small percentage of people may be able to manage this drug but they are few and far between and certainly wasn’t one of them.

I went to a doctor who specialised in treating heroin addicts. She put me on methadone, I was relieved and excited. This was just another stage in my journey, and I was certain that I would find the solution to my problem.

“So how much do you use a day?”

“Ah depends what I can get, but usually a decent quarter will last a day but you know it depends.”

“Well I need to know so that I can determine an appropriate dose of methadone.”

I wanted to make sure that I got a enough ‘done to do the job so I was happy to exaggerate the level of my addiction.

She phoned the local pharmacy and organised for me to collect my dose. I was looking forward to my first hit of licit drugs.

“Now Dave this methadone will help address your addiction but you really need some support, why don’t you come to an AA meeting with me?”

“You go to AA?”

“I certainly do, its really helped me with my addiction”

“Your addiction?”

“Yes I’m an alcoholic, I understand what its like to be addicted, AA has really helped me a great deal”

“I don’t want to give up all drugs just the smack, pots ok.”

“You know you are just swapping the witch for the bitch”, she said when I told her I was using marijuana to withdraw from smack.

Mum gave me a lift to a NA (Narcotics Anonymous) meeting a few weeks later to find out what it was all about. But I never went back. The atmosphere was oppressive a bunch of junkies in a hall talking about how fucked up they were, far from helping it made me felt like I needed a hit just to recover from the bloody meeting. Far from being anonymous I felt like the whole process was just a display.

Although I was not working, weekends were still something I looked forward to. The chemist was closed on a Sunday and I would be given a take away dose as well as my usual Saturday dose. During the week I would arrive at the chemist, pay the $4 for my dose and drink about 50 mls of liquid from a small paper cup.

However, on weekends I would go home and take both at once to get more of a hit. Because I could take it home I could also shoot it up. Now shooting methadone requires some extra apparatus. For starters I would get all the gear from the needle exchange who supplied me with 10 ml syringes about the size of a big nikko pen. A long thin piece of plastic tubing and what is called a butterfly attachment which contained the needle. I needed the big syringes because I would usually get about 20ml of methadone to inject, which is quite a lot of fluid compared to about 0.5 ml injected when using heroin.

It didn’t give you a rush like heroin but it was much more powerful way of ingesting it. By injecting the methadone it became active more rapidly than it did when you drank it. There was also a strong psychological association with the whole injecting process, which was strongly linked to the intense rush and pleasure.

When I worked in the exchange people would regularly come in for them, I knew what they were for but had never tried it myself until I was on the “done” , pronounced like Ken Done.

When I smoked pot on the done I got off my face. I wasn’t sure why this happened but there was no doubt in my mind that they had a synergistic effect.

I had been on methadone for about 2 months when I was late going to pick up my dose on a Saturday. By the time I got to the chemist they were closed and I had not only missed Saturday’s dose but Sundays as well.

A couple of old junkies with a young baby sat on the footpath, there bodies looked as if they had been deprived of all nutrient, sucked dry. Sunken cheeks, dry skin, whispy sparse hair and emaciated bodies, in contrast to the grubby cherub squealing in their pram. The male was on the nod, his eyes half closed head hanging forward, and then snap he raised his head opening his eyes to reveal two tiny pupils, his eyes were ‘pinned’.

On the Monday I came in and complained that I had missed my dose, but they explained that it was my responsibility to get there on time. At this moment I felt intensely the sense of dependency and powerlessness that is addiction. I had met a few methadone users who had been on the program for decades, there was no way I was going to end up like that.

I had brief fantasy trip and pictured myself after 10 years on methadone, not a pretty sight. I remembered the warnings “Once you get on the done man, you wont get off trust me, I know I’ve tried heaps a times, just forget it man, I’ve been on this shit for 10 years the government don’t want ya to get off the shit mate, nah they want you on it, the fuckin chemists make a mint on this shit…………………..”.

Heroin has a certain sexy appeal to drug users, illegal, powerful, dangerous, methadone made being a drug user boring, no more rush no excitement, just a monotonous routine. You can’t travel too far from your chemist and so you are always constrained by that.

“Its fucking liquid hand cuffs is what it is, fuckin methadone metronomes, man it just traps people you become dependant on the state and they control you, fuck that shit.”

Thus I decided that I would cease my consumption of this material and rather than steadily reduce my dose bit by bit I just jumped off from 75mg a day to nothing. It was only four weeks till my trial I had been on the ‘done’ for 3 months it was time. The thought of going to gaol as an addict further terrified me.

Bring it on I thought, I welcomed the challenge, that was until the real withdrawals kicked in then I became a pathetic moaning child. The twelve weeks that I was on methadone were like a blur. It was like being in a time warp.

While the withdrawals were intense, my whole body seemed to be screaming out in protest. Every cell in my being was hanging out and they all howled in unison incessantly. My muscles hurt, stomach cramps, restless legs, I felt anxious, could not eat, and felt a terrible sense of emptiness.

When you go on Methadone there a few things they don’t tell you. One o f them is that it creates intense constipation. Jeff who I had introduced to heroin was on the methadone program as well and he had such bad constipation from the Methadone we had to call an Ambulance.

“Dave, fuckin, hell, man….I’m really fucked up dude I cant shit man, I cant fuckin shit, its fuckin blocked like a mother fucker, oh man its hurtin, oh shit, you gota help me man, call a fuckin ambulance please……..” he screamed out.

He was in so much pain he could not walk and they took him to hospital and gave him an enema. They never tell you about how to deal with it when you get it prescribed.It suppresses the secretion of mucous, dry mouth, cant shit or piss. Most junkies have very bad teeth Cavities

To deal with the withdrawals I took Clonidine, Valium, pot and the occasional shot of heroin. It takes about a week to completely withdrawn from heroin, while the withdrawal symptoms for Methadone last for about 4 weeks. Withdrawing from methadone was hell, it made coming off heroin look easy, the sleepless nights, restless legs, muscle spasms, and underlying anxiety, were common to both but the methadone withdrawal symptoms lasted 4 times as long.

Jeff was also on methadone by this time and we swapped stories about our experiences with it. As soon as I was off the methadone I went back on ’the gear’, steroids.

“What do straight people do, I mean they must get so fuckin bored, just doing as they are fuckin like a herd of sheep, one following after the other” , Roscoe Boscoe.

Chapter 25 - A working Junkie

November 1999

After getting fired from GAIN I didn’t work for several months until I saw an advertisement for a mental health support worker. There was a job with Gold Coast Family support that consisted of supporting people with a mental illness who were re-integrating into the community after lengthy stays in mental hospitals. I thought yeah I can do that, sounds interesting, put my degree to use.

The day before the interview for the job I had a shot of heroin. Jeff had phoned and asked me to score for him and his girlfriend.

“Hey Dave how are ya mate.”

“G’day, Jeff great to hear from you man, whats up?”

“Oh ya know same old same old, cruising along, but I was hoping to catch up with you mate.”

“Oh yeah”

“I was hoping you might be able to help us out with a bit of harry”

“Yeah I could probably give ya a hand, havnt had shit for ages now man, but I’ll just call Ralph and see what he can do.”

Which I did and in the process had a taste myself. I told myself that since I had not used for months I felt that I was in control of myself and so I could handle it.

Trudy was my boss at the Gold Coast Family support centre, she was the head psychologist a girl from Inala who had made good. She was tall and gawky, chain smoked and spoke with an irritating nasal voice, and a broad Inala accent. Her boyfriend was Alistair a pom, trained as a chemist but now working as a support person.

“Have you read Peter Breggin Toxic Psychiatry?” I asked Tracey. Breggin wrote a critique of psychiatric medications criticising their efficacy and highlighting the toxic nature of these preparations.

People like Breggin, Thomas Szasz , Michelle Foucault, RD Laing and others have challenged the medical model of mental illness highlighting the inconsistencies, contradictions and failures of such approaches. Yet the modern mental health system has failed to apply many of their revolutionary ideas, instead clinging to security of the medical model life preserver.

Breggin talks of Iatrogenic illness, or illness that are created by physicians, by well meaning people using the wrong methods, that focus on identifying problems rather than creating solutions. People once labelled respond by fulfilling the requirements of the role they have been given, it becomes a self-fulfiling prophecy. Phillip K Dick wrote about this idea in, “A Scanner Darkly”, where the ones who heal you of addiction are the ones who created the addiction in the first place.

In the novel “A Scanner Darkly”, Phillp K Dick has created a character who loses touch with reality, and his identity. Addicted to the powerful drug death he lives in a share house with a group of social misfits and drug addicts. In the end he finds that the treatment facility that cures addicts also produces the drug that gets them addicted in the first place.

“Oh yeah, I’ve read Breggin, but I wouldn’t worry yourself too much with that stuff, he’s a bit extremist I think.”

“Yeah, I don’t know about that it seems pretty on the ball to me.”

“Well I suggest that you put it out of your mind and focus on how you can help your clients, rather than causing unnecessary alarm. I think that you will find that such ideas will only create anxiety for out clients and lead to issues with medication compliance, something that is already a major problem for us. “

Well there was no point trying to push the issue, she was obviously not receptive to critiques of traditional psychiatric treatments. But as someone who has received them and seen the impact they have on people I had no doubts about their limitations.

"Soylent Green is people!"

Thorn (Charlton Heston)

It is similar to ideas that suggest the elite permits and actively facilitates the distribution of drugs in society to control certain groups and make vast sums of money. The criminlisation of marijuana by Ainslinger in the US was aimed at the Meixcan population, while in the US today penalties are higher for crack cocaine, used in the ghetto, than the penalties for use and possession of cocaine.

Ouroboros, “the tail devourer” represents completion and the endless cycle of existence. Images of a snake or serpent eating its own tale are used to represent this idea. The idea of the beginning and the end as being a continuous unending principle. It represents the conflict of life, that life comes out of death, life feeds off itself.

The snake eats its own tale to sustain its life. It is also akin to the homeopathic idea that the ones who heal are the ones who create the pain. "As Above, So Below" - we are born from nature, and we mirror it, because it is what man wholly is a part of. Just as each cell in our body contains a complete set of our DNA so too each aspect of nature is an entire model of the whole.

“You see each atom is a minature model of the universe, in each cell of our bodies is the complete DNA for our selves. A nucleus with proton and electrons revolving around it, like tiny planets revolving around the sun", Roscoe said, moving his hands in elaborate patterns to show the way the planets moved.

"In an episode of Red Dwarf in which Dave Lister creates his own destiny, there is a message inscribed on the side of the box in which Lister was abandoned as a baby."

"The word was a message to the future Dave Lister that when he fathers a child he must return back in time and leave the baby abandoned in the ouroboros box. This creates a paradox in which Lister is his own father, and through this endless cycle the human race will exist eternally."

"The movie Adaptation., directed by Spike Jonze and written by Charlie Kaufman also makes some references to Ouroboros. It would be the basic symbol for Donald's movie, The 3, in which a killer, the cop and the victim are all the same person. The fun part is: in Adaptation, Donald is Charlie Kaufman's twin brother, actually meaning he is a part of Charlie's real life persona, who dies midway across the movie (i.e.: the snake devours its snake, becoming itself)."

“The wise man knows that he is weakest we he thinks himself strong.”

It was about 7am, and I was ready to go. Even though I shot up a fifty last night I was still going to the gym this morning. Since I had started back on the roids I found that I could do that. Although half way through my workout I had to rush to the toilets to spew and as I opened the door to the lavatory stall I couldn’t hold it any longer and I projected a solid mass of spew in the general direction of the toilet.

I loved to train and I had done it since I was a teenager. I had competed as a junior and made it to the Junior Mr Australia, where I placed 3^rd. Disappointed with my result I gave up training and roids, took up professional bong smoking, and generally doing sweet fuck all.

Dealing pot, shooting speed and heroin and finally dealing speed and heroin and taking steroids. But the final stage didn’t last long.

I was sick of all the discipline and routine I wanted to bust out. The switch from roid junkie to heroin junkie and then both was a steady process, though both required a certain discipline.

Bodybuilding and the heroin, speed, pot use is an interesting mix and going to gym the night after using and running from the gym floor with the spew building up in my thoat, and projectile vomiting in the toilets as soon as I opened the cubicle door and solid spray exploded forth and spattered the toilet with a chunky orange green pattern.

Being asked if I am a cop, by dealers due to muscularity.

I wandered out the front of the house to check the mail and grabbed one letter out of the box. Glancing at the enveloped he noticed it was from the Queensland ambulance and then a flash of images flooded my mind.

It had been two weeks since the OD and now I had the bill for the ambulance $280. It was tangible proof that it had happened. It was the second bill I had received in 2 weeks. Two ambulance trips in two weeks, now that was something of a record for me. When I didn’t pay they rang to pursue the money, apparently the cost of saving my life would accrue a late penalty payment in addition to the original charge, and if I didn’t pay they would send debt collectors around to break both my legs, a quite wonderful service really. Two weeks later I got another letter for the same amount, my legs were still intact but with this new letter I was seriously concerned that it might up the ante and therefore lead to death squad being dispatched with my name on the death warrant.

Roy and Steve Rifle, the Rifle boys had an awesome reputation on the coast. He owned two 40 metre yachts, a Ferrari, Lambourgini, Pent houses in Surfers and a fuckin mansion on a hill in Mudgeeraba.

They were big on speed production and distribution. I would often score go-ee from these guys and notice that Steve had chemical burns all up and down his arms from cooking the speed.

The gym was the best way that I had found to treat my depression and feel good again. The endorphins that flowed through my body when I exercised were very similar to the artificial opiates I injected.

Two very different paths to the same destination, bliss. One the one hand exercise requires discipline, effort and practice while heroin addiction requires discipline, effort and practice. But one is life affirming and the other leads to destruction pain and death.

But once the money started to flow in (you have to remember I had been unemployed so although I was not on a large wage it seemed like at the time) and the stress started to build up heroin became even more appealing. Initially I was able to balance the heroin use with my work roles, but as the habit took hold, my body craved more and more of the drug. I was also having great difficulty managing the stress of working with severely disturbed people who are abused by a rigid ineffective system of treatment and support.

Mark was one of the guys that I had to look after. He had been in and out of psychiatric wards for about ten years and had received dozens of ECT treatments. Mark had long curly hair, a beard and usually wore a denim jacket and jeans. He looked like Joe Cocker in the sixties, but the drugs and ECT had burned out his soul. There was an old acoustic guitar in an open case against the wall. He seemed empty and lost. When he spoke his voice was barley a whisper and he would not look you in the eye but kept his focus directed toward the floor.

Mark had a Clozaril gut, a side effect of anti-psychotic medication was the gaining of weight around the mid section, until some male clients appeared to be pregnant. He really liked Steely Dan and out of the blue one day he says in a soft low voice, “ Do you know where the name Steely Dan comes from man…..?”

“Ah no Mark I don’t why don’t you tell me.”

“sure man, its fuckin freaky dude, well you know that book the Naked Lunch by that fucked up junkie cunt who killed his missus doing a fuckin William Tell act, you know fuckin apple on the head, and ole Billy has a shot a shoots the bitch right through the fuckin head, well he wrote this book called Naked Lunch, about fuckin junkie fagots, yeah but anyway there is this chick who gets a dildo from Japan and its called a “Steely Dan III” , and so that’s where those dudes got their name.”

He lived in a housing commission unit and the day before he was due to have an ECT someone would have to stay the night with him to make sure that he did not “freak” out or consume any food or drink.

But I knew this sort of treatment was barbaric. It slowly destroyed the minds of those subject to its use. Mark had received about 30 ECT treatments and despite their failure to cure him he was still put through this ordeal. Research in Europe has shown that ECT can permanently damage parts of the brain and impairs memory function. Therefore it is an illegal practice in several European countries. I felt a great internal conflict in regard to my role, I was complicit in an activity that I felt was deplorable, it was a painful contradiction, I craved heroin to assuage my guilt.

Within myself I felt torn between my beliefs and the requirements of the job I was doing. I wanted to tell my clients to get off their drugs, run away from the psychiatrists, because the so called treatment they were receiving was just a cheap and simple way to render then harmless. It was nothing more than massive sedation, a kind of chemical incarceration. It made me sick.

So on this particular night I found himself with Darren and Mark playing scrabble.

On some days I would phone in sick still hung over from the previous day. It left me with an empty feeling and everything seemed to hurt, I became emotionally bereft and vulnerable to the slightest comment. In such I state I was in no way capable of giving assistance to others.

This was when my addiction would really gain hold. Regular income, low overheads, a passion for smack and a good dealer is a deadly combination, these were the ingredients for my downfall.

I would usually score from Ralph who I had met years ago while working at the needle exchange.

I went to staff meetings on a number of occasions when I was pinned (Because the pupils dilate when under the influence of heroin).

“Dave, I will be quite frank with you, are you gay?”, She stared at me with an aggressive look, as though I had done something wrong. Nicole had dark black hair down to her waist, she was very attractive and often dressed in short skirts.

“Pardon...”

“Are you gay? We need to know”, her voice was grating in its insistence.

“What the hell, need to know, well I’m not OK, whats that got to do with anything anyway?” I blushed and crossed my arms.

“Its just that some of the guys have mentioned it that’s all...and we thought well that it might be a problem in your work, but look its not like we have a problem with it, its just that some of the clients might, we need to think of their welfare, I mean I couldn’t care less what you do but …….”

This was absolute fucking bullshit to be asked something like this in front of a group of people was so bloody rude.

Ralph had borrowed “Half-life” from me, a computer game, in which you play a scientist trapped in an underground research facility with a mass of deadly monsters. It was a First person shooter, or FPS for short and I loved the game and so did Ralph.

When I visited I would wait while Ralph phoned his contact. He would ride down to the local shop to use the payphone or borrow my mobile. While I was waiting I would read old computer magazines or the previous weekends newspapers.

Ralph would not let me shoot up at his place, but I couldn’t wait to get home so I would shoot up in the car park just down the road. Often with the engine running I would mix up and shoot in the car. I would buy a can of lemon squash and use the up turned base as a mixing bowl for my injection. I used it so often that after a while I started to get excited when ever I saw a can of lemon squash.

After scoring from Ralph, at Miami I began the 15 minute drive back to Mum’s place at Southport. On the way the heroin started to kick in. I was swerving up the road, when I noticed a guy in an early model Daihatsu 4x4 waving and shouting at me. I continued to drive erratically down the road wondering what this guy’s problem was. I spend past him but he eventually caught up and by this time he was side by side with me and in his hand I could see the silver badge of a copper.

I slowed the vehicle, pulled over to the side of the road while the off duty policeman parked behind me. He called the police on his mobile and some uniformed constables arrived to take me away. This was my first DUI charge.

A week later I went to score from Ralph and after having my usual shot in the car park I drove to a service station, a song called “Ends” by Everlast was playing on the radio, “ends, some people would rob their mother for the ends”, and then I passed out.

Someone at the petrol station had called the police and I was awoken from my slumber, by two young uniformed coppers holding torches. They searched the car and found needles and drug paraphernalia. I was arrested and taken into custody for questioning.

“This is a record of interview with Mr David Robert Hawkins”

“Dave can you please tell me your date of birth and address”

“Yeah……sure, I wath born on tha 13^th of Octoba nineteen theventy-one”

“So Mr Williams do you understand why you have been held by us?”

After being caught three times in a one month period for DUI, I was now eligible for a jail term. I was terrified of going to gaol. I had seen plenty of prison flicks and knew ex-cons. Images of beatings, rape, and stand-over tactics filled my mind, Madge from Prisoner was trying to push me around in my dream and she wanted my ass, it was terrifying.

In preparation for my possible detention I grew a goatee beard and started back at the gym. I had to get my heroin use under control and I wanted to look good for the court. So I went on methadone. My trial was not for 4 months that should give me plenty of time.

Chapter 24

In progress

Chapter 23 - Falling asleep at the wheel

``As a net is made up of a series of ties, so everything in this world is connected by a series of ties. If anyone thinks that the mesh of a net is an independent, isolated thing, he is mistaken. It is called a net because it is made up of a series of interconnected meshes, and each mesh has its place and responsibility in relation to other meshes.''

Buddha

Feb 1999

I was woken up by a passer-by who saw the accident. When they found me, I was unconscious and leaning against the steering wheel with the horn blaring. The car was written off, but I was unharmed yet again.

The witness called the Police and a tow truck. I was off my face but the car did not look badly damaged. Still smacked out I sat down and started playing my guitar as though nothing had happened.

I denied being under the influence of anything other than my prescription medication, Serzone, which is an anti-depressant. To my utter amazement they seemed to believe me. I knew that my eyes were pinned and I was sure that I had probably slurred a few words but for some reason the copper let it pass.

(Who ever did the programming for the copper really screwed up because in real life there is no way he would have missed my pinned eyes)

The copper took me to the Nimbin hospital so that they could take a blood sample. They breath tested me, but I refused to have blood taken, so they asked me to urinate in a bottle.

One side effect of heroin is being unable to take a piss, so I stood in this small room for 15 minutes trying to take a leak.

They must have got bored waiting because they decided to just let me go. I was very lucky again.

The tow truck driver gave me a lift back to Lismore. He attached the wrecked Commodore to the truck and we drove down the main street of Nimbin. It reminded me of an old western with the villain being dragged out of town by a horse. I felt foolish, only a few minutes before I had arrived in town to score and now I was leaving the car a total right off. I was sure that Tonto was watching and laughing.

Chapter 22 - Respawn 6

"O son, how many bodies we have to pass through, how many bands of demons, through how many series of repetitions and cycles of the stars, before we hasten to the One alone?"[28]
Hermes

“Jeesuz Dave you sure know how to die dude, and nearly the same way again, fuckin cool man, you are getting great ratings”

“Great man just, hit the bloody respawn button”

Chapter 21- Nimbin Take Two

" You are alone now. Last man. You are lone ranger."
Tonto

Feb 1999

Dad was often overseas working and travelling so to get some privacy and a break from mum I stayed at his Main Beach unit. He was still working in Saudi Arabia he had been there now for nearly 20 years. He was in Dhahran at the moment working as a Flight Surgeon and so I had the use of his apartment at Main Beach and the Commodore.

The phone rang and I was woken from his slumber it was 2am.

“Hey Dave, got some bad news for you man, the cops called here looking for you yesterday. They want to question you over some stolen computers. I told them you were on a fishing trawler up north. “ Jeff spoke with a rapid pace and I could hear him smacking his lips as he uttered each syllable. I hated that sound it made me angry. When ever Jeff took speed he always made the most annoying lip smacking sounds. My Dad used to make the same sound when he had a lolly or was eating, I would have to leave the room until he finished.

Jeff was a friend from University, a fellow psych student who I had shared a house with and introduced to smack.

“Oh fuck that’s great, just what I need, “ I realised that Jeff was trying to help me by ringing and warning me, but I wished that he could have waited until the morning. I lay awake for the rest of the night agonising over the call.

The cops were on my trail. They knew I had been involved in stealing the computers it was only a matter of time before I was caught. Then there would be gaol, pain, humiliation and withdrawal from heroin. The thought terrified me and I had trouble getting back to sleep.

After last nights message I woke up feeling like a hit. No cash though, so I visited the pawn shop, and hocked my guitar. I had hocked it so many times, and I had lost so many other things, but somehow, I always managed to save the guitar at the last moment, I kind of thought of it as my Yamaha Express Card, always there when you need a hit.

Lee wasn’t answering his phone so I decided to take a little trip to my favourite tiny little town in the hills, Nimbin. The idyllic setting with lush green trees and rolling hills were a perfect location for a nice little fairy tale. But on this day like many others I was drawn by the easy availability of heroin, rather than the scenery.

The environment is very beautiful and it does make a great setting for getting wasted. I would often drive out of Nimbin and shoot up in the local cemetery. The cemetery overlooked the main road and was only a fairly small plot. I would park the car under a tree and have a blast. I loved the excitement and the risk of being a junkie. Going to Nimbin for a junkie, was like going to Mecca for a Muslim, the Rainbow Café was like the Kabbah, a central hub around which the drug dealing action revolved. You could pick the pilgrims by their demeanour, reverent, observing all the action with bemused yet fascinated expressions.

If you wanted to score smack in Nimbin it was important that you arrived before about 11.30 -12.00 in the morning. Pot was available pretty much all day but heroin was a bit harder to come by. Most junkies really hang out in the morning so everyone rocks up to score from about 9.30 – midday. If you go any later most of the dealers will have left town and it’s hard to get on.

I had been thinking about Kurt Cobain and how he was a junkie and he killed himself. Part of me wanted to die that day too. But it was self-indulgent, self pitying bullshit, wrapped up in romantic crap about suicide, why did I do this to myself, was it just boredom or stupidity. I mean it makes me sick to think what a fucking pathetic fool I was. I put Nevermind on the stereo and enjoyed the cool ambience as the excitement was building and Nimbin was getting closer.

Driving into Nimbin I pulled up in the main street near the school. Down the street I saw a few familiar faces and one in particular caught my attention. It was Tonto, a bloke I knew from many years before. My mind drifted back 10 years, to a cloudy afternoon in Lismore.

“Hey where the fuck, are we going ta score in Lismore?” I asked Sebastian.

“Just do a blocky and we’ll see who we come across”, Sebastian scanned the streets.

“Hey look, see that dude with long hair dressed in black, I’m sure I’ve seen him in Nimbin, he looks like a smoker, we should ask him.”

“Pull the car over and you go an ask him.”

“Lets both do it”

“Ah alright”, I parked the car on the side of the road and we both walked over to the bloke.

“Hey man, how are ya doin, we are lookin to score and were wondering if you could help us out?”

“Yeah I can score for ya just drive me ta me mates place, me names Tonto “He slurred and without an invitation staggered into the back seat of the Datsun 1600.

I wondered if that was his real name. He did look a bit like an American Indian, albeit a skinny drug fucked one, and for a moment I had a vision of the Loan Ranger and Tonto shooting up smack together. He had long dark hair and large wild eyes with chipped and missing front tooth, dressed in black jeans and t-shirt and boots, his body emitted a foul odour of alcohol, cigarettes and sweat.

“How far is your mates place?”

“Ah its not far, mate, you’ll be right, I’ll get some real fuckin good shit man, trust me.” As he spoke a fine spray came from his mouth and a trickle of drool dripped down his chin. He wiped it away with his hand and took another swig of bourbon.

Tonto was holding onto a bottle of Jim Beam and took regular swigs as the journey progressed, guiding us out of Lismore on the road to Nimbin.

It took about 40 minutes to get to Tonto’s mates place along winding country roads. At last we pulled into a dirt track and Tonto directed us to a small shack. We were now just a few kilometres from Nimbin, a bit further than we had planned to go.

“Jus a sec”, Tonto got out of the car and went inside the shack. He came out with a skinny pallid woman and small child in his arms.

“This is me wife and kid, me mates not here, and I need to get ta his place so I can score for ya” His wife looked at the ground while the little boy squirmed in his fathers arms.

“Ok lets go”

“Nah you have ta stay here, look just lend me ya car, and I’ll go score for ya,

“That wasn’t the deal, dude”

“I’ll be back me wife and kid are here for fuck sake”, he gestured to his wife and child now huddled on the ground.

“Man I’m not lending you my car, “

“I ‘m leaving me wife and baby with ya fa fuck sake, I mean jeez, what more can I do for ya? Do you wanta fuckin score or not?” Tonto threw his hands in the air.

“Well I can just drive you myself”

“Nah, no, fuckin way, that wont work, the dude I score off don’t like strangers it’ll freak him out, he lives way out on one of tha back roads”

“Man I am not going to give you my car, that’s bloody crazy. I can drive you or we can forget about it.”

“Ah fuck ya then, go on get fucked you stupid little cunt. You fuckin are really missin out man, you’ll be back”

At the time I had felt a mixture of revulsion and fascination with Tonto.

I came back to the present, and I realised that Tonto was right I did come back. I had a Celestine moment, it was one of those coincidences James Redfield spoke of in his book. Tonto and I were connected in some way through the expanse of space time.

Tonto had not changed at all he looked exactly the same as he had ten years ago, long straggly black hair, filthy black jeans, grungy sneakers, and vacant smacked out stare in his eyes. I thought it was funny how I had become, a scamming junkie like Tonto.

I was in my Dad’s commodore and had just scored the usual process. I decided I would drive out of town to boot up. So I took a turn off the main road and drove down a twisting dirt track. I pulled the car over to the side of the road. With the engine still running I mixed up and injected my fix, I waited a moment to feel it come on and then I started driving down the dirt road. As I was driving I nodded off.

Then what do you know the bloody light again, being drawn upward, a feeling of peace is giving way to boredom, I mean the first time it was pretty cool now it’s just mundane.

Chapter 20 - Trip to the Psychiatrist

“I feel that any form of so called psychotherapy is strongly contraindicated for addicts. The question "Why did you start using narcotics in the first place?" should never be asked. It is quite as irrelevant to treatment as it would be to ask a malarial patient why he went to a malarial area. “
William S. Burroughs

May 1998

“I keep having these dreams where I am in this completely white room, and people keep asking me if I want to respawn, its like my dreams are my real life and this is just all bullshit.”

“Do you watch a lot B grade movies?”

“No, what are you talking about? “

“well its just that what you said sounded like a script from a B grade Sci Fi movie starring Rutger Hauer as the crazy scientist………………bla bah…”

“You know I thought you would listen to me show some empathy for me and I don’t know some sympathy or help…”

“Oh you did, well I am sorry to say that’s not what I do, I am a Psychiatrist and I prescribe drugs for help patients manage their mental health, if you want to have a fucking whinge go see a psychologist!”, white spittle had formed around his lips.

Anyway, lets move along shall we, how long have you been having these, ah dreams?”

“For a while now, they are pretty regular”

“What happens after you have a dream like this”

“I feel kind of confused, Iose motivation to do things, you know I start thinking well what’s the point if its all just a game you know”

“So you believe that the dreams are real?”

“Well kind of, I mean I know I am here with you now, I know who I am, but sometimes I hear voices and shit you know”

“What are they saying to you.”

“Lots of different things, telling me to do things, different voices, some of them are good and some are bad and some are just a bit of both, a kick and a kiss, you can never really be sure what you will get but shit it makes for good stories……..”

“Do you know what a delusion is?”

“but anyway I am getting off track, you see the only way I can really prove that it is a game, is if I keep pushing the limits and looking for the patterns, you, know dip into the valley of death… but also it means I can come back, I can be resurrected or respawn, I can create what ever I want if I can only focus, that’s it isn’t, thats all you have to do, so that’s all anyone who has done anything, has done, they have applied their focus to a point and created the outcome they desire."

“ It seems to me that you may be suffering from delusions, some I can give you some medication to treat this problem, you wont have anymore delusions once you take it”

“Yeh, what about side effects, that shit wont help, it'll just turn me into a bloody zombie, there is no way, ok”

“You realise that this is for your own good, don’t you, the delusions wont go away, why don’t you just try it, I have seen numerous patients experience vast improvements in their life and mental health.”

“Yeah, yeah pharmaceutical company bullshit, look, I am not going to take any drugs, I came here because I wanted to talk to about these experiences, I thought you would understand, anyway, …….”

“I think I understand, look the session is nearly over anyway, why don’t we leave there for today, and make a booking for a few weeks away, how does that sound?”

“Yeah ……………………”

If you are interested in the lies perpetuated by psychiatry see

• Peter Breggin - Toxic Psychiatry
• RD Laing
• Thomas Szasz - the Myth of Mental Illness