by Nic Sheff
By the end of the weekend I’d cleaned out quite a bit of her mom’s medication, plus I stole some packs of insulin syringes from her mom’s drawer. I’d never shot drugs before, but the needles had just presented themselves to me. When we got back to school, I taught myself how to shoot heroin. I lied to Emily and my family and somehow managed to keep up the act of being seminormal. It lasted until I went home that summer and ended up stealing the money from Jasper.
Using is such a fucking ridiculous little circle of monotony. The more I use, the more I need to kill the pain, so the more I need to keep using. Pretty soon it seems like going back, facing all my shit, well, it’s just too goddamn overwhelming. I’d rather die than go through it. But for whatever reason—some tiny bit of hope or just pure stupidity—I go through the hell of detox and start trying to stay sober one more time.
And now Emily has contacted me.
“Just checking in,” her e-mail says.
It reminds me of all the craziness I keep trying to forget. I wonder how I can ever make the past up to her. How can I make it up to anyone? How can I make it up to everyone?
Spencer tells me to be patient, something I’ve never been very good at. He tells me I’ll have a chance to formally make things right with her when I complete the eighth step, which is “Made a list of all persons we had harmed and became willing to make amends to them all.”
So I write back three lines to Emily.
“I’m doing all right. I’m so sorry about everything. I’m so goddamn sorry.”
I know how meaningless these words must sound. I want to say much more to her, to everyone. I feel so powerless and, well, that’s what I am. I am powerless. I guess that really is the first step in recovery.
I stare at the computer screen. My message has been sent. I want to buy out a billboard over Sunset Boulevard. I want to take out ads in all the big papers. I want to write my message in the sky. I want to tell them all, “I’m sorry. I’m so goddamn sorry.”
Spencer just keeps telling me to take it day by day. He suggests I call my mom and my dad, just to open up the conversation between us. I’m terrified about calling both of them, but I know I have to do it. I decide to start with my mom because she lives here in L.A. My hand shakes like crazy as I pick up the phone.
My relationship with my mom has never been very mother-and-son-like. I mean, she was pretty removed from my life when I was little. My dad had custody of me, and I only saw her on holidays and over the summers. After I moved here from New York, however, we became pretty good friends. She helped get me into Sober Living and we began spending more time together than we ever had before. We’d go running, or to movies, or out to dinner. I still wasn’t close to her husband and avoided going to their house, but I talked to my mom at least once a day over the year that I was sober and living in L.A. Of course, I left to go relapse without telling her anything. I haven’t spoken to her since.
So, hand shaking, I dial her number. She answers the phone right away and I’m not sure at all what to say. I stumble over my words.
“Mom, uh, I’m, uh, back.”
“Nic? Thank God. Are you all right?”
“I think so.”
“Can you meet me for lunch?”
“Okay.”
I ride my bike up La Cienega to the high-rise office building where my mom works. It’s been in the same place for the last twenty years—tall, tall wood-colored paneling and glass. As a little boy I would spend hours drawing quietly on the gray vacuumed carpet beneath her desk—waiting, waiting, waiting for her to get off work.
The place we’re meeting for lunch is a little café down the street from the office, where I’ve eaten probably a hundred times. The place is very L.A., right? It’s all egg-white omelets, vegetable drinks, and vitamin elixirs. There was a redheaded girl I asked out here a while ago. The idea of even hitting on anyone is totally inconceivable to me now. I have just nothing to offer. I feel so drained, pathetic—an emptied-out container of nothing. I wait, drawing on a napkin, and when my mom walks in I can’t meet her eyes. She looks the same as ever—pretty, small-boned—wearing jeans and a shawl draped over her shoulders.
Standing awkwardly, I let her reach over and hug me. Her arms are shaking and she cries and I do too. She puts some sunglasses on and sits down across from me.
“All you had to do was call.” That’s the first thing she says. She chokes on the words.
I try and say something. “Mom…”
“No, damn it, just a call—just to say you’re all right. We thought you were dead—or’d been kidnapped—or God only knows what.”
“Mom, I was afraid. I was afraid and ashamed. I couldn’t face you guys like that.” I cross my legs and arms and make myself as small as possible.
She keeps her hands clasped in front of her. “I know, sweet boy. You just don’t understand what it’s like to be a parent. I felt like there was a knife sticking into my side every minute of every day you were gone. I was so worried. I couldn’t sleep, or eat. I just lay on the kitchen floor and cried. Days I spent like that.”
“Mom, please…”
“I mean it. How was I supposed to go to work, or take the dogs on a walk, when all I could think about was you out there on the streets? It’s not fair, Nic. It’s not, not fair.”
I apologize, knowing how meaningless my words must sound. I try to explain how sorry I am and she does seem understanding. She just wants to help, after all. She kisses my forehead three times, short—longer—longest. She tells me I can use her car to go meet with Michelle at the hair salon. She gives me some cash. I thank her—feeling just, like, nonexistent. We walk together back to her office and she hands me the car keys.
“I’ll be back in an hour,” I say. “Maybe two.”
“Okay, sweetheart. I love you. I thank God you’re back.”
I nod and drive off.
The hair salon is right near the Venice pier—on a strip of sidewalk that is lined with small shops and businesses. I’ve been told to park in the garage, so I do, walking into the back entrance to the salon.
The place is sparely furnished—a small space decorated only with hanging Japanese lanterns and long red curtains that look like something out of a David Lynch movie. There are two floor-to-ceiling windows that look out on the street and there’re mirrors everywhere. There are four women cutting hair, or applying color foil. A young girl is answering the phone behind the counter. I don’t know what to do with myself, but then I see Michelle coming in the front door with an armful of official-looking papers. Her business partner, a tall blond woman with dark green eyes, comes over and introduces herself. We sit in the garage, the three of us, and they ask me questions about my experiences and what I’m willing to commit to. It’s only part-time work, but I am very grateful. We all agree to try it out. Fawn, the blond woman, has been sober a number of years and one other stylist is a recovering alcoholic. They promise me it’ll be a safe working environment and I promise to show up on time and work hard and I really mean it. They introduce me to Raquel, the receptionist. She takes me around and starts showing me the basic aspects of the job—answering the phone, making appointments, doing laundry, cleaning a little bit, and all that. I feel so blessed to have this opportunity.
I drive to my mom’s office, drop off her car, then ride my old bike back home.
DAY 124
It’s been a hard week. I ride my bike, go to work, go to a meeting, then go to sleep. Every day it’s the same thing. I am lonely and bored. I miss the excitement of my life using. I know how terrible things got and all, but still, there is a part of me that just wants to go back to that.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate my life sober. I appreciate Spencer, Michelle, my family, my job, but it’s like there are two different people battling inside me. I want to be good, do good, be a worker among workers, a friend among friends. But there’s also this part of me that is so dissatisfied with everything. If I’m not living on the verge of death, I feel like
I’m not really living. I’ve even been thinking about Lauren a little bit. I know she had problems, but at least I had a girlfriend. So far I haven’t met anyone that I could possibly have a relationship with. That is a big thing for me. I’ve always felt sort of worthless if I didn’t have a girlfriend.
When I was five I remember playing Sleeping Beauty with a girl from my kindergarten, pretending to be the prince—kissing her to wake her from her spell. I was twelve when I had my first serious girlfriend, a girl named Savannah. She was a year older than me and her father was this famous director. I remember him being passed out on the couch the whole weekend I’d stay over there. He was shooting heroin at the time. His girlfriend would take Savannah and me to the video store to rent horror movies. Savannah and I would lie in bed watching the slasher films and clinging to each other. This led to my first real sexual experience.
After Savannah, I continued pretty much going from one crush or girlfriend to the next. If I wasn’t dating someone, I was searching for someone to date. It made me feel more complete. By myself I felt like I was nothing. I guess I still feel that way. Right now I have nobody. And, ironically, sometimes twelve-step meetings just make me feel worse. They remind me what a loser I am.
The days that I don’t work are even harder. All this free time makes me go crazy. I have all this anxious energy in me that I just can’t release. This morning I got up and rode my bike for eighty miles. I pedaled up the PCH to Trancas Canyon. It takes over an hour to ride out there, then the climb to the top is another hour, then I have to ride back. As I stood in the shower after the long ride, I felt a rare clarity in my head. It was like my thoughts had finally turned off; I was literally too tired to think. But now I’ve drunk a cup of coffee and eaten some cereal and my mind is just going again.
My mom has asked me to check on her dogs today after my ride. Todd is working and she can’t get away. My mom has two standard poodles, Andy and Warhol, and I swear she treats those dogs better than most people. Before I relapsed this last time, I remember going over to dinner at my mom’s when Todd was working nights. My mom would cook hamburgers for the dogs, grate parmesan cheese and carrots into their bowls, then top off their meals with flaxseed oil. We used to take them running out at the beach or on hikes around the Santa Monica Mountains and I actually grew pretty fond of those dogs.
Anyway, I pedal my bike up to my mom’s work. She’s really busy closing a story, but she gives me her keys and asks me just to make sure the dogs have water and to maybe take them on a short walk.
Driving down Wilshire the air is thick with fog and I can barely see the brake lights of the car in front of me. It reminds me of San Francisco. I miss the weather there. L.A. is usually so hot and clear. San Francisco’s weather has a lot more personality, even right now, in the middle of summer. I wonder what I’m doing in Los Angeles anyway. I mean, it’s not like I’d have to start using again if I moved back to San Francisco. I could live with Lauren. At least I’d have a girlfriend.
I think about it while I play with my phone. I try to remember Lauren’s number. It takes me a few tries but I finally get it right. She answers. Her voice sounds like a stranger’s. I have absolutely no memory of it. I wonder for a moment if I really even know who she is. After all, I never spent one second with her when I was sober. Still, I tell her it’s me and she gasps. “Nic, Jesus, what are you doing?”
“Uh, nothing.” I’m really just trying to breathe. I feel very nervous all of a sudden.
“Nic, I’ve missed you so much.”
“I’ve missed you, too. I think I might come back to San Francisco.”
“Oh, yes, please. I have an apartment, you can stay with me.”
“Okay. Yeah, I’d like that.”
“Are you serious? Are you coming?”
“Uhmm, yeah. Let me figure it out and I’ll call you back.”
“I love you.”
“Me too.”
I hang up. I’m shaking and sweating now. What the fuck am I doing? It’s like I’m running on automatic pilot or something. It feels like I have my foot on the gas and I’m going fast and out of control, but I just can’t stop. I try to focus on the road. I’m turning in at my mom’s house. It looks the same as ever.
Beyond everything, it is just hard being back here. I step out into the fog and walk through the white trellised arch that leads to the front yard. The dogs are barking at the door, and as soon as I open it, they burst out, climbing all over me—licking me and whining. For a moment I feel intense jealousy toward these dogs. They get to just live here with my mom while being completely taken care of. They don’t have to struggle with trying to build their own lives, going to work, building relationships. They have no obligations other than to be loved.
“Come on dogs, inside.”
We rush into the living room all together. It is the same—deep brown wood floors and ceiling, full of my stepfather’s little knickknacks and sports pennants. There’s the same worn-out sofa covered in blankets that they’ve had since I can remember. My stepfather has all these stuffed animal toys, which he displays everywhere. There’s a furry multicolored crab and a spider with a red top hat. My stepfather named the thing “Spidey.” I look at the photos on the walls. There’s one of me with long blond hair down to my shoulders, a long Batman T-shirt, tights, and cowboy boots. I was probably around five. The background is a sloping-down hill of golden-colored grass. I ask myself, what the hell is wrong with me? I have so much and I always want to throw it away. Why am I this way? John Lennon says that “living is easy with eyes closed.” I want to close my eyes. I want to close my eyes so badly.
I know I’m going to go get high now. I want to. It doesn’t seem like there’s any real reason to live. I’m going to go be with Lauren and use until it kills me and then, well, that’ll be a relief, won’t it?
The impulse seems to have hit me fairly abruptly, but I know I’m going to follow it. My stepfather was always freaked out about terrorists after 9/11 and I know he has hidden supplies around the house—extra water, canned goods, flashlights, batteries, and emergency cash. I’ll bet the money is either in the kitchen or the garage. Maybe it’s in his closet. I’ll find it. I almost felt like crying a minute ago, but now things seem all right again. I have some purpose suddenly—get money, get high.
A piece of me thinks about calling Spencer. In twelve-step programs they tell you to pick up the phone if you feel like using. But what’ll Spencer tell me? He’ll probably say I should ask God for help. I’m just so sick of that crap.
I open the kitchen closet and begin moving the stacks of grocery bags from Gelson’s Market. There’s all sorts of cans and things, but no envelope full of money.
Andy and Warhol are right on top of me, trying to get me to pet them. I look at Andy.
“What the hell am I doing?” I ask him.
He doesn’t answer.
I look up at the ceiling. It is stained with something that looks like coffee and it’s cracking in places.
“All right, fuck. God, please, if you are there, then, well, could you help me? I don’t even know what’s happening.”
God doesn’t answer either.
I get down on the floor with the dogs. I lie on my back and they start licking my face. I laugh.
“What do I do?”
They keep licking me. I pull the phone out of my pocket and dial Spencer’s number. I don’t press send. I just stare at the screen. The dogs are whimpering like they need to be let outside. Fuck. I call Spencer.
He picks up after a second. I hear his voice and I start crying. The dogs are licking my tears.
“Spencer, I want to die. I mean, really, I just want to go back to San Francisco and use and then die. I’m sick of trying. It’s just too hard.”
I hear Spencer laugh.
“Congratulations,” he says. “Welcome to the real world. I’m glad you made it.”
“But I don’t want to live in the real world.”
“Yes you do. You do
. You called me, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Well then, you want to live. Look, I know how hard it is. When you’ve got nothing it seems like you’ll never pull yourself out. Give it time, Nic. You have such a beautiful future ahead of you. Just stay sober.”
I don’t believe him. I don’t believe I have a beautiful future ahead of me. I want to believe him, but I don’t.
“Spencer, it’s just no use. I know I’m gonna fail.”
“Bullshit. That’s your disease talking, man. That’s your disease wanting you to get high again. Your disease wants to isolate you, to get you all alone so it can kill you. That’s what it wants, but that’s not what you want.”
“Spencer, I don’t have a disease. This is not like fucking cancer. This is my choice.”
“You’re right,” he says. “Right now, what you do is up to you. Once you get high, though, then you’ve got no more choices. You get high and you lose everything. But you have a real shot at building a great life for yourself and your family. Look, if you fail in ten, twenty years, whatever, then deal with it then. But if you stay sober, I guarantee that you will learn to love your life and you will not fail. I believe in you, Nic. I really do.”
I cry harder at that. Who is this man? How has he come into my life?
“Anyway,” he continues. “We’re having steaks tonight if you want to come over. I know Lucy would love to see you.”
“Thank you, Spencer, I’d like that.”
“So what are you gonna do now?”
I tell him I’m gonna take the dogs on a walk and then come straight over. He tells me to call him if I need anything in the meantime. We say good-bye.