Through My Eyes

The first time I met my friend James Siddall was a year after he came out of rehab. James was an extreme addict, addicted to alcohol, painkillers and other prescription drugs. We were on a car launch together and spent the whole journey from Durban to PE discussing James' messed up alcohol and drug infected life.

He was not scared to tell me what he had experienced; at the time James had just signed a deal with Jakana and has started writing his book. In our twenty hour drive James told me horror stories that gave me nightmares, for many weeks after that launch.

James Siddal's book Dystopia hit the shelves in Exclusive Books stores last month, receiving fantastic reviews from his fellow journo friends. Having heard first hand what James went through in his long journey to recovery, it took me a while to get the book, frankly I was scared of being dragged down the sad spiral of hopelessness with James.

When I started reading the book I was immediately hooked, I have heard these chapters from James on our long drive to PE and now I cannot put it down. Sadness overwhelms me, 'My God' I sigh, 'we are shaped by our past and there is nothing we can do about it.'

It's 3am and I cannot sleep. I pick up James' book and I am overwhelmed with sorrow. I think of my childhood friend Alexis. The last time I saw him he was nineteen years ago, I went to see him in his small apartment in Kensington, which he inherited from his grandmother. I brought my son Damian along who was eight months at the time.

Just a year prior to my visit Alexis lived in a magnificent space, furnished with priceless antique furniture that his grandparents had shipped from Germany before the war. On that day, as we entered his apartment, there was a stench that hit my gut and I was shocked to find the furniture gone and Alexis on the floor with a dodgy looking women smoking 'white' pipes.

I stayed for at least an hour watching my friend killing himself and there was nothing I could do. The sight of the buckets, the drool and the stench shocked me beyond belief and sent me spinning. I knew nothing about my friend's addiction or the side affects of smoking 'buttons' or 'mandrax' or whatever it was that he was smoking. All I knew was that I would never see Alexis again.

Three years later while waiting to see a client, I was reading a story on a fancy rehab somewhere in the Western Cape. It was a beautifully written piece in one of these expensive mags, Alexis name came up and immediately I knew it was him. So I decided to track him down. After getting permission from his parents, I finally got through to my childhood friend.

By that stage he was addicted to everything. Heroine, sex, cocaine. He told me that there was no hope for him and that he was expecting to get kicked out real soon because he was using again while in rehab. As I put the phone down I started to cry. Seeing my pain my husband came to me and said, "Alexis you have just spoken to is not your childhood friend and he never will be againlet him go."

Last week I stood with James at Exclusive Books at Cape Town Airport, he was signing autographs for the store, I asked for a copy even though I was dreading what the book would do to me and I was rightI need to find out what happened to my friend Alexis, but first I need to finish Dystopia.