A big day (part two)

I never made it to the police station. Just didn't happen. I felt too rough to go. I'd shaved, or rather plucked my face with a horribly blunt razor before vomiting and going back to my duvet. I didn't feel as though I was in any condition to surrender myself to the police; I was barely there mentally, and my focus was on getting through each two minute task. I was preoccupied with my meeting with my boss, and really, I just wanted a bit of time unconscious, and warm, so I slept.

The only reason I went to see my boss was because he owed me two thousand pounds, in bonuses and salary. I knew I was going to be fired. Two thousand pounds is a decent sum of money; it's a flat, for months, plus food while I find  a new job. I'd be lying thoug, if I said I was thinking of that. I was thinking of leaving with a load of money, getting warm, and getting smashed out of my brains. It would not have lasted long, and then I'd have been worse off than before and I'd have been on the rob and scrounging, ticking gear and hustling, a tightrope slip from real trouble.

I have a phrase for this sort of behaviour, borne out by friends who get their giro (state benefit), splurge, then eke a living/habit from nothing thereafter - I call it "King for a day, Cunt for a week syndrome."

Things didn't pan out like I thought., My boss said he wasn't going to pay me, and there was no job for me, unless I cleaned up my act. I love what I do. It's a niche field, but I'm in the top 5 or 10, worldwide in my sector. I am very very good at it, and I thoroughly enjoy it. My job gives me self-respect, identity and purpose (and because I determine my own income, and I am always cash hungry), it focuses me like nothing else. I was shocked - I expected to be fired, which was bad, but I thought I'd be paid off, which was good (for a little while). This was bad news. I then got told that my company would front me the grand a week needed for a residential rehab, on condition I repaid it. No-one expected me to complete rehab; they expected tonot get the money back, I expected to mess it up, and wasn't convinced I needed help (or couldn't admit it to myself, being proud [but not too proud to hustle and rob - I took pride in being able to survive doing it]).

It was fixed that the next day, I'd answer bail and then check into rehab.

That night, I went out on the beer, met a mentally ill (paranoid schizophrenic) man who was also an addict, and frightened of demons. He'd just got a £160 giro; I, with the help of a friend, convinced him I was a devil, and dead behind the eyes (I've had several people tell me that there is nothing behind my eyes, that I'm soul-less and potentially a monster. I disagree, all the girls I've loved, and been loved by, tell me my eyes are bright, lively and mischevious - maybe both groups are right, or maybe people just project their thoughts onto what they see). Anyway, I took his money, and his phone, and got high.

The next day, my bail was answered, I was officially charged with fraud, and I began rehab. After telling porkies and getting an excessive methadone script, free of charge (which was ace!)

Three months later, I was 100% clean. For a bit, anyway.