The first bit of this-the part in italics-is from the Heroin Diaries, but it felt really powerful to me, so I put it in here. Credit where it's due.
Nikki's POV
Merry Christmas. That's what people say at Christmas, right? Except normally they have someone to say it to. They have friends and family, and they haven't been crouched naked under a Christmas tree with a needle in their arm like an insane person in a mansion in Van Nuys. They're not out of their minds, they're not writing in a diary, and they're definitely not watching their holiday spirit coagulate in a spoon. I didn't speak to a single person today. I thought, "why should I ruin their fucking Christmas?"
I've started a new diary and this time I have a few new reasons. One, I have no friends left. Two, so I can read back and remember what I did the day before. And three, so if I die, at least I leave a nice little suicide note of my life.
It's just me and you, diary. Welcome to my fucking life.
Nobody would believe the shit that happens inside my head, it's haunted. Now that I've come down from the drugs, it seems like a sick play that I saw in a theater somewhere.
Thirty minutes ago, I could've killed someone.
Or better yet, myself.
It'd probably be better for everyone if I was dead. My friends-oh, wait, I don't have any-wouldn't have to deal with me. My band could just find a new bassist and move on. The girl I love has a boyfriend, and she loves him, not me. She'd be better off without me.
Everyone would be better off without me. Now that the drugs are wearing off, I feel like killing myself. I need more heroin.
I plunge the needle into my arm, feeling the rush of euphoria as the drug runs through my veins. Merry fucking Christmas to me. I need more. I shoot up again, and pass out against the bathroom wall.
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I wake up with a needle hanging out of my arm and blood all over the floor. The phone is ringing, but I don't have the strength to get up and answer it, nor do I care enough to. Whoever it is, they can fuck off. I struggle to my feet and stumble towards my bedroom to find a pair of pants and a shirt. Halfway down the hall, I fall over and end up laying on my back, staring at the ceiling
I can't even walk to my bedroom without falling down. Shit. I roll over and crawl towards my door, using the knob to pull myself to my feet. I manage to button my jeans, and get a clean-ish shirt over my head. Then, as I'm looking for more heroin to shoot up, I hear a knock on the door. I grab my handgun and stumble back to the living room.
"Fuck off!" I yell.
"Nikki! Open the door right now!" A feminine voice shouts back. I vaguely remember hearing that voice before, but my addled brain can't seem to place it.
"Go away!"
"No!"
"Fuck off, okay?"
"Open the goddamned door!"
"Who even is it?"
"Frankie."
"Go away."
"I'm not going away till you open up."
"I'm not negotiating with you, I got a fucking gun. Leave me alone."
"You need help."
"Not your help."
"You need someone's help."
"I don't need anyone's help."
"Just open the goddamned door and let me talk to you!"
"No."
"Please?"
"Go away."
"Fine. But I'm coming back tomorrow."
Why can't people just leave me alone? I'm gonna die anyway, I don't want anyone to see me like this. I want them to remember me as THE Nikki Sixx, not an insane drug addict who can barely walk down the hall. I flop on the sofa, knowing I should eat something, but I'm not hungry. I haven't eaten in like, a week, but I'm fine. That's a lie. I'm not fine. I'm fucked up in so many ways.
My head is spinning, dark shadows flash across the room.
They're gonna get me. THEY'RE GONNA GET ME! I try to run, but my legs aren't cooperating. I fall on the floor and crawl over to the closet, closing myself inside. They can't get me in here. I don't think they can get me in here. I grip my gun tightly, shaking slightly. I can hear them, they're looking for me. They won't catch me. I'm too smart for them. I'll shoot 'em up if they try.
I bet I have drugs hidden in this closet. I always have drugs hidden in this closet. Yes. There are drugs hidden in this closet. I find some smack and syringes, and shoot up in the dark.
The drugs made them leave. They aren't gonna get me anymore. I open the closet door and crawl back into the living room. I turn on MTV and climb back on the sofa, the sounds of Every Rose Has Its Thorn floating through my empty mansion. Despite myself, I start to cry. The combination of my depression and Bret Michaels' heartbroken voice eventually make the tears fall. Once I start, it's hard to stop.
Real men don't cry. I'm weak, that's what my bandmates would say. At least that's what Vince would say. Tommy and Mick would probably understand. Maybe I should've let Frankie in. She's right, I need help. But I'm not going to rehab. Hell no. I'll deal with this myself.
Ha. Like hell I'll deal with it myself. I say that now, but I'm high now. As soon as I come down, I'll shoot up again. I can't stop.
My head starts to spin again, so I take some Advil and drink some Jack. Better. Slash'll tell you Jack Daniels is the best medicine, which seems to be true right now. Probably not in the long run, but I'm not sure how much longer I'll live anyway. Not too long, I don't think. I'm gonna cry again, dammit. My fucking life is a disaster, my fucking band is a disaster, my fucking everything is a disaster.
As the tears run down my face, I start to laugh.
What a lunatic.
I need mental help.
I'm fucking done.
