YOU KNOW YOU'RE RIGHT // Kurt Cobain

Chapter 19

Los Angeles, CA

March 3, 1994

If someone told me that I was in hell, I would have wholeheartedly believed them. I didn't think that a breakup would lead to me spiraling down through a cyclone of unhealthy coping skills. Before I knew it, I was snorting coke off the chest of a female stripper in some random club in downtown LA. I felt the immediate high run through my body, and I lifted my head to lock lips with the anonymous stripper, who grasped a handful of my now blue hair before letting go to grab my hand and pull me into an undisclosed location to do... things.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I went down the road of nose candy, becoming inescapably addicted, and tried to forget about Kurt Cocaine's-- I mean Cobain's-- existence by having a series of one night stands with any semi-attractive girl or guy I crossed paths with. This was my life now. Family Drama was done. I really think the Nevermind Tour did us in horribly. I mean, if drug abuse, a love triangle, and a miscarriage weren't enough to knock us all out, I didn't know what would have. But I couldn't help but feel increasingly guilty. After all, most of those things had to do with me and my self destructive choices. Compared to now, though, that tour had nothing on the Great Mental Escape of 1994. I completely lost myself.

Until Greg found me knocking on his door at two o'clock in the morning, hopped up on an Ozzy Osbourne-esque drug cocktail of every drug under the sun, begging him to send me to rehab. I had hit rock bottom, I hated everything about this version of myself, and all I wanted to do was die.

Greg immediately agreed to help me, sending me to the nearest rehab place, The Hills Treatment Center. I'm not gonna lie and say that I liked it. I fucking hated it. The withdrawal was rough, but then the whole talking about feelings and journaling about how my life was going was fucking brutal. I had nothing to live for. The band was done, I was essentially broke, and the only person I ever truly loved and understood was with another woman.

The rehab center prevented any kind of outside information from coming in, primarily through visitation. Greg came every weekend, mostly to show moral support. And then there was Thomas. Every time he came around, he stuffed a bunch of tabloids up his shirt and would smuggle them in to keep me caught up with the latest news in the Kurt and Courtney saga. He was convinced that their romance was just for show. Being completely honest, I wasn't interested at all. I knew everything I needed to know. Kurt got married to Courtney and had the kid that the both of them had always wanted. There was nothing I could do, let alone would do. Admittedly, I already tried to get him back, but it was a failed attempt that set off my initial spiral.

It was November 18, 1993, and I had taken a plane to New York City and then a taxi to MTV Studios where Nirvana was doing an Unplugged session. I stood in the row closest to the door, and furthest away from the stage, wearing an oversized sweatshirt and a bucket hat. I couldn't risk anyone recognizing me.

From the second Kurt sat down in the swivel chair on the stage with his acoustic guitar, saying "Good evening" to the crowd with the utmost sincerity, I knew this was a mistake. I was literally about to bolt out of the studio until I heard the opening chords of About a Girl. I knew then that I had to stay. I found an empty seat and sank into it, watching Kurt pouring his heart out, Krist jamming out, and Dave trying his best not to hit the drums too hard. Poor Dave was so out of his element. But the sound was so pretty. Kurt had always said that when he got older, he would retire from the heavy rock sound and do more of an acoustic vibe. He definitely could pull it off. All I could visualize was Kurt with long white hair and glasses, strumming his acoustic with all his might and screaming the lyrics to a Meat Puppets song until his voice was gone.

At this point in the set, they were playing On a Plain. I loved this version, probably even more than the original. There was more of an emotional intensity that was being presented in this set, overall.

"One more special message to go-- and then I'm done, and I can go home." His voice rang in my head like a siren, captivating me as I watched him play with his green cardigan, his blue eyes holding a sort of sadness within them, a sadness I had never seen before. I wished I were closer to the stage. To be there for him and comfort him, and tell him that everything was going to be okay. But he couldn't know I was there. I took one last glance around the set of MTV Unplugged before stepping out the doorway.

I made my way back to LA the next morning on a red eye flight, landing at seven in the morning. I took a taxi back from the airport to my apartment, and as soon as I closed the door, I leaned against it and broke down. Going to that show was probably the worst mistake I ever made. It left me feeling more empty and unresolved than before. As if things couldn't get any worse, the phone began to ring. I forced myself up from my devastated state and shuffled towards the phone, promptly answering.

"Hello?"

"Oh God, Erin, I didn't think you'd pick up."

Kurt.

"Well, I did," my voice wavered as I tried to maintain my post-breakdown state. This could not be happening right now. It had to be the jet lag. It had to be. I found myself asking, "How are you?"

"I miss you," Kurt confessed, and I damn near gasped, "so damn much. Erin, I fucked up so badly, I should never have left--"

"Save it, Kurt. You made some choices, you have the kid you always wanted, the stable relationship, the whole package," I said.

Kurt was quiet for a few seconds. "Yeah, I suppose you're right. Sorry for calling," he muttered, hanging up and leaving me stunned. Did that really just happen? Yes, self, it did.

I spent half my day in the shower, and the other half on my bed, contemplating all my life decisions. I came to the conclusion that I wanted to forget everything that just occurred, so when 8pm came along, I grabbed my keys and drove to the nearest strip club.

The rest is history.

"Erin, you with me?" Thomas waved his hand in front of my face, pulling me out of my internal existential crisis. "Yeah, yeah, what's up?" I asked, and Thomas looked incredibly worried.

"Oh, God, did you find a way to get drugs in here?"

"No! No, I'm sober. I was just zoning out," I explained, "What were you saying?"

"E," Thomas said, his expression grim, "Kurt overdosed. In Rome. Took a bunch of sleeping pills with alcohol. They're saying it was a suicide attempt." 

Shit. And I thought I had hit rock bottom.