Carrie Fisher - Postcards from the Edge

Wanda was in the hospital recovering from a suicide attempt (carbon monoxide in her car). She called her dealer to bring her heroin because she couldn’t sleep. She overdosed in the hospital, so they just transferred her down here.

Mark was brought in by his parole officer directly from Vacaville. He’s nineteen, and he looks like he’s been on medication of some kind for most of his life. His blond hair is greasy and parted down the middle, and he has very wild eyes. When he walks down the hallways, he hugs the walls, which Carl says is a prison thing. Mark has already been in jail for three years for resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer, and now he’s in a drug clinic. His father came in today to bring him some clothes. He seemed disappointed at the way Mark’s turned out.

My mom is probably sort of disappointed at how I turned out, but she doesn’t show it. She came by today and brought me a satin and velvet quilt. I’m surprised that I was able to detox without it. I was nervous about seeing her, but it went okay. She thinks I blame her for my being here. I mainly blame my dealer, my doctor, and myself, and not necessarily in that order. She didn’t like my hair very much, but pretended to. She said it was “interesting.” She thinks my life would work better if I got a new business manager. She washed my underwear and left.

In the last few years I’ve become an accepted eccentric at best, and a fuckup at worst. I feel like I’ll let people down if I take away the behavior they’ve grown accustomed to disapproving of. They try to discipline me, I refuse to be disciplined. They object, I’m objectionable. We all know exactly what to do.

Julie talked to us today about the family and friends of the addict, the Alanons. She said they become very caught up in the whole downward spiral of watching the alcoholic slowly die. It can become their whole lives. Addicted to addicts. “It’s like an Alanon jumps out the window and someone else ’s life flashes in front of their eyes,” said Sid. I wished I’d said that, but then, I probably will.

I keep thinking that if I could marry somebody, this would be less embarrassing. I’m so jealous of Carol because she has a husband. It makes it seem less final that she’s here. It gives her something to go back to, someone to be with, and someone to be. I have no situation that requires me to be more than I am. It just seems like when you get two people together, and one’s in a suit and one’s in a dress, how could they be unhappy? Unless their kid murdered another kid or something.

I envy people who have the capacity to sit with another human being and find them endlessly interesting. I would rather watch TV. Of course, this eventually becomes known to the other person. I once told Jonathan that I would pay more attention to him if he got better programming. It always seems that in the beginning with someone, nothing they do could ever be wrong, except that they don’t see you enough. And eventually it gets to the point where you just want to say, “Get off my leg, okay?”

What’s the difference? No one would marry me with this haircut, anyway.

DAY TWELVE

This boy Brian was checked in this morning by his mother and his aunt. He wore a red knit hat and stunk of beer. He was about eighteen years old, and he did not want to be in a drug clinic. He had a concert to go to Wednesday night.

Brian’s brother was killed last year in a car accident. He was lying in the street and someone released the brake on a car, and it rolled over him because he was too loaded to get out of the way.

They sent Carol and Bart and me to convince Brian to stay. He said he was impressed that someone like me actually stayed in the clinic, and that he wanted to be an actor, but he couldn’t be persuaded to stay. He said he was too young to stop drinking and drugging. All his friends did it.

He knew he was probably an alcoholic—he drank all day and smoked a lot of dope, and did cocaine when he could get it—and he knew that his brother had, in effect, died of it. Still, he couldn’t handle what it meant to be in a drug unit. He wouldn’t examine it. It was too heavy and it was definitely too hard. It couldn’t be true, therefore it wasn’t. And so he split.

The whole thing made me think. I used up so much energy explaining why I was late, why I didn’t show up, how I wasn’t really loaded, I was just tired, I had jet lag. Avoiding looking people in the eyes because I couldn’t stand how I felt when I saw the disappointment in their faces. That ate up a lot of energy. If I could accept that I’m a drug addict, I could have all that energy back.

So, I’m a drug addict. I guess we’re allowed just so many drugs in one lifetime, and I’ve used up my coupon. From here on out, there’s just reality. I think that’s what maturity is: a stoic response to endless reality. But then, what do I know?

DAY THIRTEEN

This is not necessarily where I envisioned myself when I was young. I didn’t stand up in school and say, “My goal when I’m older is to be in a drug hospital, eating cafeteria food and watching The Outer Limits and fighting in group therapy and playing volleyball in the park and not dealing with my feelings.”

I talked to Thomas on the phone today. He said he’s been trying to reach me, but the line is always busy—it’s a pay phone. Thomas sounded so calm, so okay, so not me. Somehow I absorbed the world’s genetic horror, while my brother inherited the sweetness and patience of someone who befriends birds. He’s one of the few people who, when you ask how he is and he says fine, you don’t question it. It reminds me of the scene in The Exorcist when the priest looks into the devil inside the possessed girl and cries, “Take me!” and the devil leaves the girl and enters the priest. It’s like I’m an exorcist, taking all the darkness and letting it gather inside me, while Thomas absorbs—well, maybe not light, but certainly lighter colors. There’s some sad buoyance in him. He ambles and strolls, moving through life in smooth easy motions. I told him that the great thing about having me as a sister is that I make him look even better by supplying him with contrast. He said, “The really great thing about having you as a sister is that you’re the only adult I know that keeps a bowl of Tootsie Rolls for her guests.” I don’t know why, but this made me feel better.

Sid said that drugs weren’t the problem, life was the problem. Drugs were the solution. I think Sid has a crush on me. He gets me up in the morning by coming into my room and holding my feet until I’m totally awake. I like having my feet held, even if it is by Sid.

Marvin still doesn’t think he’s an alcoholic.

Mark showed me his letter from Manson today. It didn’t seem to make much sense—something about redwood trees. Mark says Manson is deeply misunderstood and a “cool guy.”

DAY FOURTEEN

Today Mark threatened Sid’s life. Nobody quite knows what happened, but Mark was given Haldol, an antipsychotic. Now he has all this mung in the side of his mouth, and he looks wilder than ever. Carol and Wanda say they’re going to put trash cans in front of their doors tonight, because there are no locks in drug clinics.

Carl’s mad at me because I gave him ten dollars to shut up. He says I’m a spoiled movie actress and I don’t know the first thing about real life. Maybe he’s right. Sometimes I feel like I’ve got my nose pressed up against the window of a bakery, only I’m the bread.

DAY FIFTEEN

A lady came in today to beef up our spirituality, AA-style. She told us a couple of great stories. First, she explained why people who bring us into AA are called Eskimos. There was this guy named Harvey, sitting in a bar up in Alaska. Another guy, Tony, came into the bar and started talking to the bartender about God. Harvey said to Tony, “Do you believe all that stuff?” Tony said, “Yeah, I do,” and Harvey said, “Aaah, I tried that God stuff. It’s a bunch of crock.” Tony said, “What do you mean? What happened?” So Harvey said, “Well, I was in this really, really bad snowstorm. I mean, I’d been lost for days and I was dying. I was desperate. Finally, I dropped to my knees and prayed. I said, ‘God, if you’re up there, please get me out of here. Save me!’” “Then Harvey stopped talking, so Tony said, “Well, what happened?” And Harvey said, scornfully, “Oh, nothing. An Eskimo came and got me out.”