Recollections from a Rehab – Part Four


Continued from recollections from a rehab – part three…

So, with a grand less in my bank account and from my hideout in Whalley Range, Manchester (the north of England), I quite logically booked myself onto a flight to Durban departing from London Heathrow, (the south of England) leaving two days hence. Again, I have only a hazy memory of this, and of frantically calling back, several times, trying to reason with what were clearly unreasonable people, attempting to either cancel or change this non-refundable, non-changeable flight.

I boarded the train to London Euston, found myself a table seat away from as many of the other passengers as possible, turned my I-pod on and immediately fell asleep. After what seemed about five minutes, I awoke to the sounds of whistles and train doors opening and closing, signalling to my great surprise that I had somehow arrived in London; utterly convinced though I was, that the train hadn’t moved an inch.

Heroin sleep isn’t really sleep, it is more like being anaesthetised for a short while; a period of unconsciousness which is usually terminated, swiftly, with the cunning bringing together of a lump of crack and a pipe, causing all bodily systems to swiiiiiing the other way, in a constant see-saw motion of very fucking conscious, to clinically dead, and back again, so as the hours and days of a long session go by, so too do the hours and days of not getting any proper sleep and things start to go weird quite quickly.

I slowly raised my head from the table it had rested upon. There were people bustling past me and I felt totally shattered; all I wanted to do was go back to sleep but knew I couldn’t and so with some superhuman force of will I ordered myself to try to do stuff.

All I had to do really was stand up, put my glasses on and get off the train, which was what I attempted to do, whilst at the same time feeling as though a small, fat, child were strapped to my back, hindering my movements.

I started to look around for my glasses but couldn’t seem to find them. I knew I had been wearing them when I got on the train; I had to have been; there would have been no way of me being able to see my way from my house all the way onto the train without them, even in the condition I was in, so they just had to be somewhere next to me…but, hunt as I may…no glasses made themselves known to me.

Onto the table went my bags, which were thoroughly searched inside and out but to no avail. I walked all the way down to the end of the carriage in both directions looking under the seats…but…nope…fuck all!

All of this was taking up a lot of what little energy I had left. I was dead to the world. I couldn’t see a fucking thing and my glasses had just evaporated into thin air…this wasn’t good…nope…not good at all…I needed to form some kind of plan because I still had a shitload of traveling to do…I had to get to South Africa for fuck’s sake!

I went into the toilet and smoked some crack.

When I came out, I was marginally more alert but still as fucked as I was when I went in there and now people were starting to board the train, wanting to go in the other direction, back up to Manchester.

I got off the bleeding thing and started to pace, trying to get my act together.

I was in London, on the arrival platform of my train down there. I had not made it any further than that and I was fucked! I couldn’t see anything and I was supposed to now cross central London and make my way to Heathrow airport, where I was required to find my flight, negotiate security, fly to Dubai, negotiate another flight and security set up, then fly to Durban, where…if I’d managed to actually arrive there…I would be happily dribbling myself into a nice, heart-warming bout of heroin withdrawal.

“Fuck IIIIIIITTTTTT!!!” I announced to anyone within a couple of hundred feet, as i picked my case up, hurled it through the open door of the train and fucked off back to Manchester…another thousand pounds gone to heaven…and with an ice-cold feeling of loneliness and desperation beginning to seep into my bones and with no family left to whom I could make a phone call.

I plugged my I-pod back in, placed my head on the table and tried to go back to sleep; a sleep which i knew now would only come, once the tears i was hiding, had run their course.

To be continued…

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One Response to “Recollections from a Rehab – Part Four”

  1. johnmiddle@sbcglobal.net Says:

    Myopia both generalized and metaphysical.

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