I went back home, and I called a friend I knew I could trust.

"Look," I said. "Come pick me up at seven o'clock. No matter what, you have to be here at seven o'clock. You have to take me to this rehab place."

I decided that I wasn't going to give myself any excuse to want to use drugs ever again. I went out and spent my last bit of money on crack and weed and meth. I brought it home and sat down on my living room couch and spread it all out in front of me. And then I just went for it. I smoked about $200 worth of crack. I shot about $300 worth of meth. I smoked a bunch of weed in one of the homemade bongs I was always building from PVC pipe and whatever else was lying around. I did all of the drugs I had bought before it was time for my buddy to come pick me up. That way I wouldn't be able to say, "I didn't do this or I didn't do that."

I didn't want to leave myself any excuses. I was tired of excuses.

My friend showed up to get me at seven o'clock, and we drove over to CPC Westwood. Even before we got there, all of the paranoia I used to feel when I was shooting a lot of meth came rushing back on me like no time had passed. I was chain smoking and looking every which way, sure everyone was after me.

I got myself checked in, and not only was I paranoid, but I was furious, too. It was a really nice place, with beautiful grounds and a pool. But I did not want to be there. Right away, I went from wanting to get sober to being angry that I had to stop using or go to jail. It was not fair that it had to go down like this. I was mad at everybody. I called my mom, and when I got her on the phone, I didn't thank her for standing by me for all of those years, or for getting me into a safe place in the end. No, instead I said, "I hate you, and I never want to talk to you ever again."

Excerpted from Killing Willis: From Diff'rent Strokes to the Mean Streets to the Life I Always Wanted by Todd Bridges with Sarah Tomlinson. Copyright ?? 2010 by Touchstone. Reprinted by permission of Touchstone, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc., New York. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.


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