After shooting or smoking a large dose, there would be the tweaking and a vigil at the front window, pulling up the corner of the blinds to look for the squads I was always convinced were on their way. All day. All night. A frantic kind of boring. End-stage addiction is mostly about waiting for the police, or someone, to come and bury you in your shame.
It's hard in life and in memoir to own your faults. To lay yourself totally bare and try to identify the roadmap of your life. That's exactly what David Carr does though in this riveting and ache-inducing piece on addiction and recovery, a story told in track marks, abuse, and babies left in cars. It's wonderful and it's heartbreaking.
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