Clean

When you get out of treatment, you and a guy you were in there with ride around town after dark, wide roads lit by fluorescent yellow-white, scarlet pin-pricks scattered through the night along the skeletons of cranes like paprika. Windows down, cigarette smoke pouring out of them like white water. You stop at the red lights, because that’s what people do when they’ve scrubbed up and got decent and, you know, law-abiding. The music makes the frame of the car shake, sometimes you sing along together but mostly you stare. At the kerb, at lone humans loping like wolves in tracksuit bottoms, at the blank glass of empty office windows. When you suck in air you get the pure oxygen of the deserted road hitting you, gunpowder line sparking straight to the core like cocaine, meltdown at the reactor. Hour after hour spent on adventures to the out of town Ikea or the old football stadium, just to watch them glow. Drinking cans of plain tonic water, hyped up on fizzy cola bottles like teenagers, a couple of gentle outlaws on a sugar high.

***

When you are fourteen years old, you eat a whole bag of contaminated hallucinogens. You’re supposed to stop at four, and this is probably one of the first indications you’re gonna have a problem. They say if you can survive 24 hours after strychnine poisoning, you’ll live, on balance. You’re about four hours in when you see an angel for the first time, during one of those neck arches that felt like iron rods being pushed through your nervous system and would you look at that, there is a man on fire. A roman candle of a man, second-storey high flaring with orange gold that sears the drip of your eyelids, white-hot corona around death’s eclipse. The sheer roaring noise of his arrival scars the air, brands it with the kind of living burn you get in a lightning-struck trunk. You’re busy, shapeshifting into a thorn tree, gnarled and pouring out sweat sap hotter than a sticky midsummer, twitching on the lower bunk while Lisa crushed the hours under the doped up gears of her brain. Couldn’t even wake her by screaming she was so deep, or she was a goner too. You think about Johnson and how the great bluesman had gone under via strychnine and figure at least you’d die like a legend, and then you think: fuck off, I don’t wanna die at all.

You don’t have enough liquid in you left to piss at this point let alone weep but you manage to wring out a few acidic tears because you’re never gonna see your Mother again, and you’ll never get to say sorry to so many people, like your Mother. And your scrawny fourteen year-old ass is going to get tossed into one of those forever alone graves at the edge of the cemetery where flowers are only left by the wind pulling them off of the other folks’ hump of grass and some well-aimed bird shit.

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So you’re lying there and everything is calcifying as these little crystals eat up your musculature as they go, and you know you’re not going to the hospital because it’s just you and the zombie in the top bunk so your brain tries to make some peace with The End but you’re too young and stupid, and this panting little animal body twisting in a noose of its own contorting flesh is so much smarter than you are, and somehow another four hours are done. You crawl to the sink and gulp all the water you can choke out of the old tap and swear to God if you can just make it out of this one alive you’ll be different. No one will have to find you fossilised in dirty sheets brittle now with old salt. Never again. Never, never. Anyway, you make it out alive. Years later, you tell this story to a pharmacist friend, he stares at you, says:

‘How much of this shit did you eat?’

‘The pack.’

‘Jesus Christ.’

‘Yeah, I guess He had something to do with it.’

He shakes his head, cap mashed up in his massive hands. ’Well aren’t you a lucky son of a bitch.’

And bitterness rises up like a dark Nile flooding the plain of your gut, because you hear people talk about near-death experiences and how they were changed forever and you didn’t change. You kept change at bay in bars and on living room sofas with springs poking through and street corners and every time you nearly died you’d swear to God: ‘Get me out of this one, honey, and I’ll be different.’ Skinny little liar right off the bat, because even though you knew what had happened in the warped fisheye lens of your brain it was easier to shrug, say, Hell, it was a long time ago, and slide the empty glass back down the long coffin of the bar. 

***

Now you’re resurrected, dragged backwards into your body by the tough-love chest compression of the clinic. Autumn is here – you see it in the curling edges of the leaves fluttering above the benches in the square and feel it slide blade-like into your bones the way it does every year since the accident, but summer doesn’t want to take the hint. She’s a party girl talking too loudly on the stairs, hoping the colder season will take her number.

There isn’t much to do in these newborn days, so you guys drive. You drive around the outskirts of town like one more circuit and your new lives will fly up to meet you, will pour themselves down your throat like shining water. Like the man the size of a house made of flaming wheels will come again with that sound to raze these sleeping buildings to mere lines in the dust and hand you that map he meant to drop off almost twenty years ago when you were busy in the electric chair. You stop at the red lights. It’s what people do when they’re decent, law-abiding. Clean.

To The Bone

The air is glass-coated wire dragged across my lungs. They haven’t been right since October, winter has bitten their slow recovery in the throat. As I settle into the star-haunted hollow of Grace I always seem to fall into at this time of year, I consider the soul. My soul, my soul like a bruised instep, like a shell replaying the music of a dead sea, whatever flies between the void and flesh of me. My soul like a ribbon on a holy tree.

As I wait for the light to return, I strip back the bed. The things of my life are dusted and cleaned, placed precisely and carefully down. I am ruthless with the cracked pots and stained linen, because I care about the housing of that battered soul, and because too often self-care is slathered on in facemasks and bubble baths and boxset marathons, and it is less fashionable to assess the roots and branches of yourself. Cut away the rotting limbs and pull up the roots from their sour bed. And yet…the roses bloom more beautifully for their beheading, for facing the genteel executioner of the secateurs. Ask a gardener.

We are encouraged to work on our defects of character in a 12-step program. It is sometimes a bone of contention, as though in acknowledging the pitiful state of our souls when we come into recovery, we are somehow rubber stamping our approval of an Original Sin. That we are agreeing that we are somehow inherently bad people, caught in an inferior web. I see that this both is and is not so. I don’t think there is anything inherently tainted about the addict, but I know that twenty years of addiction twisted me into something terrible. Something that was sinful in its self-centeredness. Putrescent flesh that was still walking, desperate for an end to its raw misery, to the meagre, salted-meat existence of perpetual December.

And so, because I have seen with my own eyes the power of resurrection, I am hard when moulding the clay, in sculpting a finer vessel, in digging up those monstrous roots. There are many malformations of my character to excise the same way any physician would cut out disease, reach in with a blade and remove the spidering sickness. This time of year, things are purged with fire. Throw on the plague-stained sheets, and watch them burn. Take me, after the knife, to church.

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I watch the glow of candlelight warming the pale stone and think of all the people who huddled there as winter roared silently on down the centuries, staring at the little flames as I do now. Sanctuary. A pool of gentleness in the long, medieval terror of freezing water and small graves. Then, too, the flawed character was a thing to be worked like the land; ploughed and sowed and harvested and taken into the body, that the body might be made anew.

My soul’s house has entered the silence before the Nativity, and in these suspended moments I also grieve and rage. There is so much pain as I pass through the pyre, because sometimes Grace falls like an axe. This year I welcome its lethal mercy. I will bow my head before it and be glad. I will cheerfully go out to slaughter the flowers. I will work myself to the bone.

Tongue of Fire, Hand of Fate

There is a voice that seeks to discourage you.

I hear it when depression creeps like frost over the leaves resigning themselves to death fallen on the autumn soil, and I think: ‘Why live, when waking up is penance and my heart has no home?’ I hear it when my pages miss their mark, or worse, float into silence, ignored, and I think: ‘Why write, when my words fold like paper arrows?’ I hear it now, when a dear friend faces imminent death, body and soul caught in the black maw of crack cocaine and I think: ‘Why get sober, when years of struggle still end in devastation?’

The demolition voice, reducing hope to rubble. You become a ruined abbey, paneless windows open to the cold.

The voice says that this will never change, that the road will always be strewn with rocks and glass, and your feet will always be bleeding. It tells you to hold out your arms, and drops an iron bar into them every day, even when nothing terrible has happened but the sheer relentless passing of grey time is iron itself, until you can’t remember what it was like to stand up straight, until you can’t pinpoint the day your back became irretrievably bowed. That voice that says you have done nothing, will do nothing, are nothing.

You can’t stay afloat with your arms full of iron.

Yesterday I walked round and around Bedford Square, steps too quick, breath harsh, claw-hands. I walked because if I stopped walking I was going to start shouting, or breaking things, or breaking myself, and whatever I started I wouldn’t be able to stop. This week, too close behind my own recent stint in A&E, the unkindness of life has rained down in cold hail as the last of the year’s sun shines on like a traitor. There is a life waiting for the recovering addict, I know, because I’ve seen the power of the rooms in action, but right now I’m surrounded by the drowning as my own lungs are filling with water and I can’t see the salvation, just the living death of the spirit, and it’s unendurable.

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Except…It’s not. Because there is another voice.

The one that says: Get up, get up. You would have to be mad to believe in turning a corner now, so be mad. Ride that wave of lunatic fire, and that conviction like a bell ringing in your body, and that crazy terrifying love you have for people, you sit on that bitch like a horse and ride it right through the valley of the shadow of death. I see you afraid of what people think of you, because you care too much and are passionate beyond reason and thank God for that, because lukewarm and sensible and proper are getting this world fucking nowhere. And no, you’re not going to be everybody’s cup of tea, or every place’s, or every cause’s, but I will show you how that terrible iron can be forged, and where it can be wielded, so get up. Fate is a hand held out to you now, will you take it? These words are falling from a tongue of fire, will you heed them? Do not despair, do not come down, do not bow out, pour out that madness like oil on the wounds of the world and thank me later, because this is not how it ends.

I will not be discouraged. I will listen to that tongue of fire, I will be directed by the hand of fate. I will keep these sodden lungs going because I have spent twenty-five years learning how to breathe underwater.

These are the conversations I have with God. If you find me walking around Bedford Square with a face like the end of the world, don’t be afraid. I’m just walking it off, the weight of all this burning iron. I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea.

Put to Sea

“O God, thy sea is so great, and my boat is so small.”

– old Breton fisherman’s prayer

Exile’s a funny thing.

Some of you know why it has been so long without me writing, and without me needing to tell you. I have been in London now since June, drawn inexorably into its glittering grey web and feeling my marrow corrode like rust as the year draws on. The summer heatwave here cast an aura that threw my vision into cloudy kaleidoscope, a kind of hope-blindness, but winter is on me again and you know the steady tumour of lead that grows against my heart in those long months. I am becoming a loose collection of join-the-dots from one pain to the next; these ribs creaking, this heart in its death-throes, these bones in their aching, premature dotage. That scrawled letter left to untender mercies of gale and sea, the silver sheen of a Milagro tossed in the river, dissolved in the magic of a thing purposefully cast away. I think I threw my soul after it. My lungs won’t stop hurting.

I live in a funny little L-shaped box room just outside the heart of the city. I can reach out and almost touch both walls. There is a window to the rooftops but it is tucked out of the way behind a partition, turning the thing into a sort of eyeless cave. The walls are very thin and the colour of sour milk and lined with Russian literature, and people wonder why I am insane. The sounds of everyone else jammed into this plasterboard carve-up – a halfway house for fellow addicts – are so close they are like hearing my own thoughts. They are just as chaotic in their habits as I, and so half-finished poems breed paper legions across the floor, stained with cerulean and burnt umber. Music comes from the rooms beside and below me. Sprawling herbs are conquering the garden in irresistible green silence; the bathroom mirror was covered in pithy quotes scrawled in old lipstick, but we were told to wipe them away. You are not allowed your own furniture, and sometimes your own thoughts, on pain of eviction.

I have to get out in the days or I find myself lying on the bed with my body warped in a kind of contraction, sinews straining and hands clenched into fists, wanting to vomit nails. Often now I walk for hours simply for the dull rhythm of my feet hitting the ground; for the sensation of muscles flexing and swinging, tuning out the feathery static of the brain’s stuck channel. Like the ponderous shapes of women walking the halls of a labour ward, hands pressed to the small of the back. Walk it off until the pain recedes one way or the other, until the thing curled within you breaks into life or dies there, caught in the suffocating hollow of your body. 

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Exile. Known intimately to addicts and other misfits whose feet are ribbons from long walking the razor’s edge. I feel it standing on a crowded platform, commuters jammed together like a bunch of grapes in which I am inexplicably a stone. I feel it walking down the street when no one seems to see me but the beggars, as though we have the ability to see each other’s ghosts while still alive, submerged in this thin, cold stream running parallel to the river of warm bodies. I feel it in conversations I can barely start and certainly don’t know how to continue without stuttering into the embarrassed silence of someone who isn’t even there and still takes up too much room. Adrift in my little boat on God’s great sea when no harbour will take me for long, but then I never did like staying in one place. There is a peculiar grace in momentum, even as the waves are sometimes tall and black with horror.

Exile, without purpose, is not survivable.

And then a warm and holy thing fell into my hands, smelling of wax and burning leaves, and I became an apprentice beekeeper with my boat anchored in honey, if anywhere. The hum of the hives is a living book of secret hymns, and I am slowly learning the words. If you seek asylum as the outcast living then find the hives, you will meet other pariahs there, standing around a bucket in waterproof clothing. We are there when addicts take Communion with tea and biscuits for an hour in the beige side-rooms of methodist churches and service centres that reek of hand sanitiser and unwashed clothes, lined with faces like collapsing walls. We are there with change and cigarettes for fellow ghosts that haunt the tents on Tottenham Court Road. That, I suppose, is Manna in my personal desert.

Anyway. That’s where we are. This is the point from which I sail again.

 

Persephone’s Feast

Get up, because the draught has woken you again, make a thin, weak instant coffee and listen to the absolute feathery white static silence of the night. Try to be positive; think how lovely this breeze will be in the summer, as you rub the blood back into your feet. Check the cupboards and nibble a slice of hardening bread.

Back in bed, with the covers wrapped cocoon-like around you, wonder if today’s the day you can have a hot shower, or a bath without boiling the kettle seven times, because maybe by some miracle the plumbing your landlord won’t fix is better now. Wonder how many calories there are in the bread you’ve just eaten, tell yourself to relish the cold night because shivering burns fat. Wonder what you’ve become.

There’s an ethereal quality to the hours just before dawn, when the night is over but the day not yet born, it’s the counterweight to faerie’s dusk, when it’s dangerous to look in hallway mirrors. You know you should be writing but instead you’re thinking about Victorian seances and bathroom suicides and bad omens (before you woke you dreamed about a buzzard dying with its wings torn off). About bisexuality and lesbianism in bohemian Paris, about the likelihood of WWIII predicted in Buzzfeed articles, about dying your hair in lilac pastels and changing your name again. About the food you can’t afford (it doesn’t matter, starvation has 0 calories).

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When the sun comes, listen to the crowing of a rooster in someone’s back yard. Dress in cold clothing, staring at the freckling of peridot moss on next door’s tiles. There are bargain plums ripening in a bowl on the kitchen counter but they are not ready to eat; remember that time you bought a pomegranate and every seed was flawless and the most mystical thing you’d ever tasted, rivalled only by farmhouse eggs with the richest yolks of golden orange. Remember a house with heat and light and carpets, look around at the mould beginning to creep through another coat of nunnery-white paint. Wonder what you’ve become.

Call your partner, your sponsor, your friend. Tell them everything’s fine. You miss them, you’re still sober and getting to meetings, what are they up to. Block out the insistent whispering in your head by trying to act like a normal person. With going to the shops and gazing longingly at meat that won’t be reduced until 18.00 like a normal person. With running a tepid bath and lying there until your flesh is numb obsessing over torturous cold water therapy in Georgian sanatoriums like a normal person. With picking up the tablets that stop the worst of this putting you back in hospital.

Wait…Just wait for the quiet night to roll around again, when it’s just you and your ghosts in the Hades of this room, waiting for revelation between the clock hands, eating up the seconds like those pomegranate seeds.

Wonder what you’ve become.

A Room Somewhere

The walls are white, not the soft magnolia of new homes but the stark, sun-bleached white of Spanish monasteries or Provençal cottage kitchens. An iron cross made out of old horseshoes hangs on one wall, beneath it there are always fresh flowers. The sweet, earthy scent of myrrh unfurls through the room, the windows are open to cars and radios and kicked cans and starlings.

I lie on the soft cream bedlinen, mind untethered; I can while whole seasons away like this, the same bittersweet songs playing, the same food every day. In these contemplative pockets I finally find respite from the addict inside who craves novelty and flees from boredom. In these times I cultivate boredom like a beautiful orchid, I drift through the warmer days like a courtesan immersed in long, languid baths. I reflect on everything from the perfume poured on Christ’s feet to the scribbles in my old notebooks to the changing texture of my own skin as it enters a new, dimpled decade. The hours feel drugged, the clock becomes my lover and I can spend all day with him, watching the sun pray over that plain, white paint.

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When I come to, half the summer has gone, usually. Faded like the knees of my jeans as the days melt into each other like butter. I used to sip at pink wine in the bed like a bee regaining strength from sugar water, I wonder what it will be like now, sipping orange juice and green smoothies. A sour slice of yellow lemon in still or sparkling. I dare to hope I’ll write more, free from the shackles of liquor’s apathy which turned my blood to morphine.

I keep those quiet hours close to my heart, precious things pressed between scrapbook pages, mornings of easy solitude like wonderful seashells kept until the end of the holiday; afternoons like petals pulled from the pollen-heavy core of a flower, he loves me, he loves me…a little, madly, passionately, not at all. I become a dusky pink rose, sensual and drowsy with the weight of my own limbs. I hover above myself like pale steam, like incense. They are sacred, those hours, when all I want is a room, somewhere.