Carrie Fisher - Postcards from the Edge

Take me, for example. I have a better story than this. Not that I have an addiction problem like them, but some of my drug experiences are interesting enough to tell in front of groups. Sometimes I think maybe I should lead kind of a splinter group of Cocaine Anonymous. Make my own cocaine meetings, with really hip people at them. Where the hip people just naturally come, like Suzanne and maybe Carol and her husband.

Suzanne keeps talking to Carol. I should be sitting next to her. We could talk about how much we hate this film, and how much better ours is going to be. I wonder how much money there is in this…

DAY TWENTY-TWO

Sam and Julie got into a big fight tonight and Sam stormed off the unit. Julie said something typically condescending to Sam, whose face got all red and puffed up, like he was blowing up an invisible balloon. The gist of what he said was, “How dare you talk to me like that? Don’t you know who I am?” And Julie said, “Who are you? You’re in a drug clinic. Who could you be?”

Sam charged back to his room and smashed some pictures against the wall. He got his wallet and a sack of Chee-tos and left the hospital. Julie called Sam’s wife Amy and told her to expect him. I wonder if he’ll get loaded.

Carol, Ted, and I watched The Incredible Mr. Limpet on the four-thirty movie. We all agreed that Knotts’s work was superb, and were perplexed at the absence of a sequel. We decided to inquire about the availability of the rights when we get out of here.

Maybe I should have a baby.

What if I got into this? I doubt I would, but I know I’d be a better therapist than Stan. He’s so unpleasant to everyone. I think he has something in particular against me, which isn’t fair. They should get someone unbiased.

They should have a real doctor or something. I would like to be treated by someone in the medical profession rather than by these amateurs whose only qualification is that they took a lot of drugs eight years ago, and now they haven’t taken drugs for eight years. I think they should be more qualified than that.

They keep telling me this is a serious situation. Well, if it’s so fucking serious, there should be doctors here. We should be on medicine. I don’t think I’m getting properly attended to. I don’t know that any of this is that good for me. I keep hearing about all these other drugs I didn’t even know about. It’s like putting thieves in with murderers—they learn how to be murderers. Well, I’m learning how to be a drug addict. What if I wanted to walk right out of here and go find some lodes like that guy Sid took? I’d never even heard of lodes before I got here.

Fuck them! Telling me I’ll never stay sober, I can’t beat the odds. I’ll show them! I’ll do it. I’ll do it without them. I can’t do it without going to meetings? Fuck them. I’d rather go to a doctor than be judged by people who took a lot of dope. I mean, what is that? What is that? I have no intention of sitting in a room with a bunch of alcoholic personality types drinking caffeine and smoking cigarettes. That’s not how I envision my life.

I know Stan has something personal against me. I think he’s keeping Suzanne away from me. I think they’ve said something to her about me. Fucking Stan . And Julie, with that string of pearls. I just want to rip it off her neck and watch them go bouncing down the hallway. She wears enough perfume to knock out a horse. I just don’t see the point of talking to these people, and watching these stupid films with the floral couch and these understanding parents and their whacked-out daughter and the group therapy…

Group therapy with my parents. I would sooner die . I would sooner swallow a handful of lodes and die than sit in a room with my father and mother and talk about my “drug problem.” I just want them to keep paying the bills and stay away from me. Well, not paying the bills, but paying the bills until I can get back on my feet again. I think I’m owed that. They fucked up somewhere along the line and I ended up taking chemicals.

If they actually expect to get Stan and my parents and me in the same room, they’ve got another think coming…

DAY TWENTY-THREE

My inner world seems largely to consist of three rotating emotions: embarrassment, rage, and tension. Sometimes I feel excited, but I think that’s just positive tension. Stan gave us a list of emotions today and told us to circle the ones we’ve felt recently. I lied and circled seven.

Mark refused to come to group today—he stayed in his room and listened to the Doors. He had his Walkman on so loud at breakfast we could hear the music through his nose.

Marvin announced at lunch that he thought he might be an alcoholic. We all sang “God Bless America.”

Amy brought Sam back today. He seemed a little chagrined. I was embarrassed for him, and subsequently tense. Two out of a possible three.

…This is what I get for coming to her rescue. This is my reward. Everyone goes off to a shopping mall and I wind up stuck here alone in this stupid room. I hate Stan, I hate him.

I can’t believe Suzanne went without me. How could she? I defended her. He was attacking her and I stuck up for her, and I wound up getting nailed to the wall. That’s my thanks. Fucking Stan. Doesn’t he know who I am? Doesn’t he know who I’ll be? I’ve got to get out of here.

I’ll just leave, right? What are they gonna do? Call the police? I’m not breaking the law. I’ll just leave. I’m not… What am I doing here anyway? I hate it here. I hate these nurses with their little name tags, and they won’t give you any aspirin. They’ll give you Tylenol. I’ve got a flaming headache. I’ve got a flaming headache and all I get is two little Tylenol. Well, that’s not enough.

I’m just gonna check out of here and then she’ll feel bad. She’ll be sorry she didn’t talk to me, even after I took her side. Stan was attacking her for being too nice or something—what is his point? I don’t understand his point. He should have a problem like being too nice. It’s like he thinks he’s God, but God never took drugs.

How dare he come after me? He thinks I’m “nervous,” does he? Well, I’m not nervous! I’m tense. I’m not nervous. “Nervous” is a ditsy kind of a… I’m… Sometimes I’m tense. I think to live in this world, everybody’s tense. I’m not the only tense person. Stan is tense, with his jaw clenched so tight it twitches.

Fuck it, I don’t care. I don’t care about any of them. I don’t care about how Wanda’s father doesn’t like her. I don’t care about Carl and his scrawny legs. I don’t care about Sam and his homemade tattoos. And Mark. Mark! Manson’s buddy. These are my peers?

And this fancy fuckin’ jargon. It’s like being in est. Well, I didn’t want to do est and I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to sit around and swap war stories about drugs and alcohol. I’m sick of it. It’s bullshit .

And Suzanne! At least Carol came in and said, “Come to the mall with us.” But Suzanne, who I defended and got slapped down for my trouble, did she come in? No. I might have gone if she’d asked me.

I’m sick of this place. I don’t like the blanket on my bed, I don’t like the noise of the toilet, I don’t like the homo pubic hair in the Jacuzzi, I don’t like Ping-Pong. I don’t like the food at all . I can’t stand the cute little desserts, those squares of pink and white cake, and I loathe Jell-O. And I don’t want to watch The Outer Limits anymore. I’ve seen all the episodes. I have them on tape at home. I can watch The Twilight Zone and The Outer Limits anytime I want. I don’t have to sit and do it in a drug clinic, and I don’t have to have them ramming themselves up my nose about how nervous I am. I’m not nervous, I’m pissed . It’s a waste of time to sit in this place. I’ll just sneak past the nurses’ station and…