The Life and Misadventures of an Artist called: RAP

LITTLE DOTS 

I sat way too close to the television.

Images blurred into little dots and I escaped into my head, a low buzzing echoing in my ears and I felt calm, serene even. My little hand weaved through my hair, twisting strands into little balls.

Twist.

Foul Play

Twist.

Michael Jackson’s Thriller

Little Dots.

Seems Like Old Times

Twist.

You Can’t Do That On Television

Then I’d pull.

Pin Wheel

Hard.

Today’s Special

Yank.

Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood

Out by the roots.

Little Dots...

The pain felt good.

I’d look at the twisted hair, and roll it into a tight little ball and become entranced by the little bird’s nest of hair in my fingers. Then I’d flick it onto the carpet. Sometimes I’d count the little balls.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

They’d all be vacuumed up later. My mother had managed to turn vacuuming into an art form, and I wondered if she’d ever notice my little carpet creations.

***

“Bobby, you have a bald spot,” Jennifer Johnson said, while sitting in the desk directly behind me.

I flushed with embarrassment. Instinctively, my hand reached up and I felt the back of my skull. 

I felt it. 

Bare skin, where there should have been hair.

***

That night, I sat on the living room couch as my mother inspected my head, like she was looking for lice. 

“Bobby, what have you done?” she questioned, looking at me like I needed to be locked up.

My father paced around the living room.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Why the hell are you pulling out your hair?” he asked, filled with rage and embarrassment.

I started to cry, but I couldn’t answer them.

My head pounded.

I didn’t know why.

It just felt good.

My parents looked at me like I was a leper. 

I felt dirty.

I was totally bad.

My mother was certain beyond a reasonable doubt that I couldn’t possibly be conscious when I was ripping the hair from my head.

“Well, you must be doing it while your sleeping,” she concluded.

That night, when she came into my room to tuck me into bed, she had something with her.

A hair net.

She placed it onto my head, tucking my remaining locks into its confines.

I wore that hair net every night for months.

Sometimes in the middle of the night, I’d sneak out of my bed. The house was completely quiet and scarily serene. I’d head to the dark television in the living room and perch myself inches from the television, pushing the knob with my tiny index finger. The set sparked to life, but there was nothing but static. Little Dots. The national anthem had already played and the broadcasts were silenced for the night. I touched the screen and felt a shock.

They’re here…

I yearned for a poltergeist to rip me from this world and take me away. But I guess they only look for beautiful girls with long blond hair, not little boys with bald spots in a hair net.

Static.

God, I felt so fucked up.

Little Dots.

I have issues…

BOTTOM HITTING BOTTOM 

I was Less than Zero and totally becoming an American Psycho.

Hollywood started sending me signs via E! News Daily. It seemed as though every young star was either going to rehab or dying.

Lindsay Lohan.

Britney Spears.

Heath Ledger.

So sad.

I usually would watch the broadcasts while polishing off my fifth bottle of champagne, calling them losers under my breath, while I stumbled to the bathroom to puke and do a line of coke, not necessarily in that order.

Needless to say, I started to think that maybe I had a little problem. I often wondered if most people blew coke four nights a week, barricading themselves in their apartment watching porn, totally paranoid that FBI agents posing as window washers were spying on their every move. I mean I lived in a walkup apartment, and could barely get the super to fix my toilet, let alone hire a company to wash my windows.

Coke hallucinations suck.

If only I was famous, I would have paparazzi following my every alcoholic-drug addicted move and then my manager would have to send me to Betty Ford to clean up my act. But alas, my agent had stopped returning my phone calls years earlier and the only person I really talked to was my therapist and I loved to lie to her.

At one point I had her convinced I was cleaning up my act. I mean I had stopped blowing coke, but was taking pain pills like Flintstone vitamins. She was so proud of me. It was cute. She called me the 6 Million-Dollar Man and we were totally going to put me back together, one $175 session at a time.

But then one grey, depressing winter day I decided to confide in her, honestly. I was about to run out of dolls and I knew I was either going to have to hold up a Duane Reade pharmacy or go cold turkey. See, I was a big baby. I had watched Intervention and those pills are hard to come off of. 

Not cute.

“Robert, it saddens me that you thought you couldn’t tell me,” she said.

“Yeah, I know… so how rough is this detox thing going to be?” I questioned, wishing I had a pill to snort right in her office.

“Well, how many of these pills have you been taking?”

“Um, like 30.”

“30 a month, okay, well…”

“No. It’s more like 30 a day.”

I had never seen her flustered, but this did it.

Apparently the amount of medication I was taking was considered suicidal and highly dangerous. 

Wow, I felt like a total rock star. 

LiLo would be totally proud. 

My therapist immediately made a phone call to a colleague. She felt I needed an addiction specialist and I should go and see him that afternoon.

Addiction Specialist?

Ironically his office was housed in the same funny farm that I had been locked up in years’ prior, which put me completely on edge. All I really wanted was something for this horrible depression I was feeling. Maybe even some Adderall because I was erratic and all over the place. Or a Klonopin to calm my nerves. I mean running out of Vicodin is like the worst thing ever.

The doctor sat me down on a medical table and began the drug questionnaire. I loved drug-talk, but usually it occurred while doing drugs in some dingy apartment with blackout curtains in the Lower East Side.

Okay Robert, let’s get started, he began. Alcohol? More than 3 glasses per day?

Absolutely. I don’t really keep track. 3 bottles maybe? There’s usually a big bag in the recycle bin that clanks when I take it down to the trash.

Marijuana?

Yes, everyday since I was sixteen.

Cocaine?

Hell Yeah. 4,5,6 days per week, depending on the cash flow situation.

Methamphetamine?

Yes, but only if I want to deep clean my apartment, write a research paper, teach a class of 30 students or have anonymous sex with 20 strangers.

MDMA?

Yes, a lot in college, but my friends made me stop when my right eye kept wandering and Lord knows I never wanted to end up with a lazy eye. Dreadful. 

Poppers?

Ummm… Well only if the guy has a really big one.

LSD?

I haven’t been able to find it in years. But yes.

Mushrooms?

Oh, they are the best! Totally natural!

Ketamine?

Only with E. I hated the K-hole. I don’t like feeling out of control.

GHB?

That’s the stuff in Kool Aid, right?

Mescaline? 

Those little seeds are dangerously fun.

Heroin?

I’ve always been scared of needles. But I’ve always wanted to snort it.

Vicodin?

I love one before work. And then two during work. They’re great with wine.

Oxycontin?

So amazing to take long walks with.

Percocet?

Ah, they make me itchy.

He stopped me there. The doctor looked at me with a completely white face. He informed me that the fact that I had been doing copious amounts of drugs for over a decade, I was considered at risk and I needed to think about getting some help. I was an addict.

Help?

I didn’t know if I liked the sound of drug addict. I mean it took me long enough to get used to the word faggot, now I’m going to have to add a hyphen to my name. 

Fuck. 

This is so not my day.

He recommended that I go directly to rehab. While he was out getting information regarding treatment facilities in the area, I snuck out of his office and called my drug dealer. 

“I want something that will make my unborn child grow gills,” I said to my supplier, doing my best impression of a deflated Party Girl.

It didn’t happen that day, but the party was definitely over.

I was a total bottom, hitting bottom. But I still wasn’t ready for recovery.

…Hit me baby, one more time.