CAN I GET A PRESCRIPTION?
ELLIOTT, CAN I GET A PRESCRIPTION?
Porter has been my best friend for as long as I can remember. He insists I ‘friend-zoned’ him before he even had a chance to know what fun breasts can be – poor baby. As much as he bitches and moans, I know I’m as important to him as he is to me. I’ve punched girls in the face for breaking his heart and he’s returned the favour. It’s great when your best friend is 6’ 4”, built like a wall and rocks his ginger hair like Ewan McGregor. Of course, all of that sexiness is wasted on me. He’s my human teddy bear.
Unfortunately over the years, I’ve given Porter more than a couple of occasions to help me try to save face. Or to save my ass. My shit childhood was one thing, but the final explosion of my parents’ marriage when I was in high school took my insane behaviour to a whole other level. If I could drink it, swallow it, sniff it or inject it – I wanted it. All of it and as much of it as I could put into my body. The second time I overdosed I was clinically dead for three minutes. Porter is the only one who came to see me in the hospital. My parents were too wrapped up in themselves – like normal, to be bothered.
The third time I overdosed I was dead for seven minutes. I lost a lot of memories and gained a lot of blank spots in my mental timeline after that one. But it was confirmation that forced incarceration in a rehab facility wasn’t going to work, since I overdosed in my hospital bed. An addict can’t be forced into recovery – it’ll only work when they want it to work. Even then I still wasn’t ready to fight for my life.
There isn’t much about that last night I remember beyond Porter’s angry green eyes, and his voice. I knew he was shouting but none of it was audible because the sound of my heartbeat was too loud. Thump. Thump.Thump.Thump.Thump… Thump. I remember it hurting and not feeling right. I remember thinking I am going to die in Porter’s arms and he’s never going to forgive me for this. Then I remember nothing at all.
Porter saved me that night. He had found me on the bathroom floor with yet another needle in my foot and stopped me from overdosing. When I had woken up in the hospital, it was to him crying. Seeing the fear in his eyes, and the hurt I was causing him was the eye-opener I needed. Up until then, I had felt I had no reason to live beyond pursuing my next high. When I was high, there was no pain or sadness. Everything was good in my life. But then I realized how fucking stupid I had been. How selfish. I did have something to live for. Someone.
That was the last time I used, and I haven’t had a drop of drink since either. Every single day is a battle, but by following my programs and with Porter’s support, I’m making it. No, not making it.
I’m fucking crushing it.
Sober and dry, I was able to leave my family in my past where they belong. Same with the emotional baggage they brought with them. I took singing classes to help me fine tune my voice, and now I perform more than three hundred nights a year with my band ‘Solo Solidarity’. We started off in small bars and clubs but have now completed two small regional tours opening for bands in auditoriums seating up to 25,000. And some of those people came to see us, based on the souvenir sales.
It took eight years for me to spiral out of control and claw my way back out again. But it was worth it. Porter is still at my side and I could never imagine life without my best friend.
In addition to recording our first album – which is still something I can’t seem to wrap my mind around; in three days we’ll be performing for the city’s largest charity event. All three members of my band are from here, so it is a local boy does good angle and we’re always happy to support worthwhile charities whenever we can. This one is to raise funds for a new safehouse for teenagers leaving rehab but don’t have a proper environment to return to. Not surprising, it is a cause close to my heart. Not everyone is fortunate enough to have a Porter in their lives.
Porter. Fucking Porter. If he tells me one more time that this dress makes my boobs look too big, or that one is too sexy… I may slap him. I knew I shouldn’t have brought him with me to find a dress for the charity performance. He’s worst than a mother hen sometimes! I may not always know how to take care of myself, but I do always manage to fucking dress myself. Jesus! As I try on yet another dress, I can still hear him nattering at me through the closed door. Maybe nagging would be a better word.
“Porter! If this isn’t the dress, then I’m wearing the last one and calling it a day. I. Don’t. Care. Any. More.” I really don’t. I hate clothes shopping. It is a tedious task and if I could walk around in draw-string shorts and a T-shirt all day, I’d be happy as hell. When I turn and I look at myself in the mirror, I no longer care what Porter has to say.
I’ve found my dress.