by Nic Sheff
I clean up the kitchen and get the dogs’ leashes. We walk together through the neighborhood. Actually, it’s more like the dogs are pulling me the whole way. The eucalyptus trees are enshrouded in fog and I pull my coat tight around me. There are little purple stocks, like maybe lavender or something in the yard of the house on the corner. I feel exhausted, like I just fought a goddamn war or something. I let the dogs drag me.
When I get back to the house I call Lauren.
“Look, uh, I think I’m gonna stick it out here,” I tell her.
“Good,” she says. “You know I want you to be safe. That’s the most important thing.”
“You too.”
“Well, call me sometime.”
I tell her I will.
Spencer gives me a hug when I see him.
“It’s all right, Nic. This is all part of the process. There are no mistakes in God’s world.”
I try to just feel him hugging me.
“It’s crazy how fast my moods change,” I say. “It’s like from moment to moment I never know what I’m gonna feel. I just wanted to die, you know, but now I feel so grateful to be alive. I’m so grateful for you, Spencer. Thank you for helping me.”
He tells me not to worry about it. I help him make dinner, then clean the dishes. We all watch TV together, Spencer, Michelle, Lucy, and me. It feels almost like we’re a family sitting here. I wish I never had to leave.
DAY 167
I worked all day at the salon. Mostly I just have to answer the phones and book appointments. The girls and I talk a lot about whatever—celebrities and things. They have a huge stack of magazines, like Vogue and People and Interview. I read through them ’cause I’ve got nothing else to do. I write some. I’m trying to work on a children’s book and a screenplay about zombies that take over a drug rehab. These writing projects usually go nowhere, but it feels like I always have to be working on something. Writing gives me a purpose. I think in some ways it has helped keep me alive. Without it I’m not sure I would ever have enough hope to get sober—to make that decision to live.
I remember when I was younger I read Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre. The main character is this man, struggling with his existence. He can’t find any reason for living and he is sort of horrified by humanity. Finally he decides that the reason life is worth living is for art—to chronicle his struggle. That gives him enough purpose to keep going every day. I can really relate to that. Of course, Spencer would tell me that the only reason for living is helping other people. That’s what gives his life meaning. I really do want so badly to get to that point. It’s not like I enjoy being so selfish and self-absorbed.
And that’s the other thing I’ve been really practicing at work, experimenting with Spencer’s idea of how to work the second step, which is “Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves can restore us to sanity.” Spencer has told me that I need to experiment with asking the Higher Power for guidance throughout the day. That way, he says, like a scientist doing research, I will collect examples of how my life changes once I start developing a relationship with God. Spencer tells me that I need to find my own interpretation of a Higher Power. He says that there is no right or wrong way to think about the Power. He says he uses the name God because it is just simpler that way—though his God has nothing to do with any religion. Spencer thinks that should make coming to believe easier for me, but I still have a hard time with it. I still don’t really believe in any of this spiritual stuff. But I trust Spencer. And I have no options.
So at work each day I ask God to be with me as I fold the towels, or answer the phones, or even just talk with the girls. Spencer has told me to always pray in the affirmative, as though the prayer has already been answered. I should say, “Thank you, God, for helping me be kind and patient.” As opposed to, “Please, God, help me be patient.” Affirmative prayer reinforces that you have already received the guidance, therefore you are able to focus on the solution. Saying that I need help just reinforces the problem—helping me wallow in it.
I try what Spencer says. I practice and practice.
“God, thank you for being with me as I wash these brushes. Thank you, God, for the perfection of my life.”
They’re like positive affirmations. And, really, they do seem to work. My head clears some and I don’t obsess as much about the past or the future. It keeps me very in the moment, but it is a struggle to keep focusing on the prayers—driving out all other thoughts. My head sort of hurts physically from the battle going on in there.
The girls at the salon are all incredibly nice to me. They have become like my family here. They look out for me and I try to look out for them. I share everything with them and I listen as best I can. Besides Fawn and Michelle, there are four other stylists. Ayuha is the wife of this wannabe rock star; she has Bettie Page black hair and giant fake breasts. Simone is blond, and when she’s not doing hair, she cooks macrobiotic food for cancer patients. She’s in recovery and has a weakness for cowboys. Gertrude is a little sexpot from outside of Boston. She’s sort of the most hated among the women because she complains so much about her love life. Nikki is very light-skinned black—born and raised in L.A. She’s Christian and always talks about church groups. She’s very sweet and it’s fascinating to watch her do all these weaves—literally sewing other people’s hair to her client’s heads.
It really is a great job for me and I am very fortunate. I feel very safe there.
Spencer and I are going to a twelve-step meeting tonight and he is picking me up in about ten minutes. It’s warm outside, even though it is almost night. The sun is still up, though just barely. People say it’s the smog that makes the sunsets so vibrant here. Tonight the sky is bright purple, fading into a deep red and orange on the horizon. I go wait for Spencer outside.
When I get into Spencer’s BMW he has a coffee waiting for me. I thank him and drink it down.
“How was your day?” he asks.
I tell him it went all right.
“You know,” I say, “I think I’m starting to get this talking to God thing. But I swear, man, my head hurts from trying to control my thoughts all day.”
Spencer laughs.
“It shouldn’t hurt, Nic. Just let go, it’ll come naturally. It really does become effortless.”
I nod. Spencer’s been really urging me to call my dad and check in with him now that I’m sober. So far I just haven’t had the courage, but Spencer brings it up again.
“You know, Nic, I’m not telling you what to do or anything, but if I were you I would just call him. He is someone you want a relationship with and I bet it’s pretty hard having this weight on you.”
“I’m just so embarrassed,” I tell him.
It’s true. Every time I’ve gotten sober in the past my dad has reemerged as one of my closest friends. I have always shared everything with him. When I was a little boy my father was absolutely my hero. I loved just hanging out with him. We went everywhere together and he introduced me to so many amazing people because he worked for all the great magazines doing interviews. I got to paint on a mural with Keith Haring with him. We went to plays and avant-garde art shows. I remember marching in protests with him against the first Gulf War. The rallies started down the block from us, in Dolores Park. I had a set of bongo drums I’d tie around my neck and I’d beat rhythms along with the antiwar chants. My dad introduced me to the writings of everyone from Henry Miller to Herman Hesse to Milan Kundera to political essays on socialism and class wars. He instilled in me a sense of deep caring for people and their struggles.
When I was a junior in high school, my dad encouraged me to attend a vigil outside San Quentin the night a prisoner was set to be executed. The prisoner was Native American, and men and women played ceremonial drums outside as they counted down the minutes to his death. We held candles and listened quietly. I cried so hard when they announced the inmate’s death. It was as though I could actually feel that his life had been extinguished from the Earth. It was t
his visceral sorrow. I shared that with my father and we cried together. It was incredibly painful, but also an absolutely beautiful experience.
My father took me on trips to Paris and Italy and London. He took me to rock shows when I wanted to go—Michael Jackson, Nirvana, Guns n’ Roses, Primus, Hole, Tom Waits. He always supported me and expressed genuine interest in the things I liked. Our life together was definitely not conventional. I mean, I’ve had therapists in the past denounce how overexposed I was as a child. But, honestly, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I am proud of the way my dad raised me and I love him for it.
But then I started doing crystal meth and we just grew further and further apart. I’m not sure whether my father will ever forgive me for the direction my life has taken. I’m not sure if he ever should. I am a disappointment. I have let him down so many times. I guess that’s another reason I don’t want to call my dad. I’m scared of taking on the responsibility of having a relationship with him. I never want to hurt him again by building up his hopes and then smashing them all to pieces. I’ve done that so many times.
“Just ask your Higher Power to walk you through this,” Spencer tells me.
I agree to make the call later, after the meeting. I know it is the right thing to do.
We park in a lot on 18th and Olympic. The meeting is in a school classroom. They have coffee and cookies inside. As I walk in, I realize that all these people from the rehab I went to in L.A. are there. A bunch of them are friends of mine from before the relapse. I’ve been scared to run into them, just ’cause I’m so embarrassed.
But here they all are, standing out front smoking cigarettes. There’s Josh—a skinny kid from Beverly Hills who knows everything you could ever want to know about movies and, oddly enough, the Civil War. He was smoking heroin until a little over a year ago. There’s Karen, an alcoholic about my age who’s blond with big, big blue eyes and a degree in sociology from UCLA. There’s Trace and Angelina, a couple who actually started hooking up in the rehab we all lived in. That was completely against the rules—but somehow they managed to get away with it. There are a couple of other old friends of mine who I see.
Josh comes up to me first. “Holy shit, Nic, I thought maybe you died or something.”
I hug him. This is my friend, I think to myself. This is a real friend. I remember going to movies and to dinner with him. I remember talking with him for hours when I was going through my affair with Zelda. He listened and tried to help, though he told me I was crazy for sleeping with a woman who had a boyfriend. I’ve missed Josh and I hug him more and then I’m almost crying ’cause I’m so grateful to be back here.
I talk with some of the other kids I haven’t seen in so long. Then the meeting starts and we all take our seats. We listen to a man’s story about his crack addiction and then we all take turns sharing about our own struggles. I ask God to be with me, to help me hear. I repeat that over and over. It does seem to help, really.
After the meeting Josh and Karen are going out to eat and want me to come. They agree to drop me at my apartment. At first I want to tell them I can’t make it. I’m worried because I have to get up early to ride my bike before work. I get up at six a.m. every day to exercise and I feel really crazy and anxious if I miss it. It’s like I need to kill my body with exercise in order to be calm enough to function throughout the rest of the day.
Anyway, besides that excuse, I also have incredible anxiety socializing with people. I mean, if I’m at work, or I’m high, then that’s okay. But sober, going out with people my age, I am just really uncomfortable. I’m not sure what it is that scares me. Maybe I just don’t know what to say and I’m constantly worried about what they think about me.
But I know that I need to try and reach out to people in the program. And I am incredibly lonely. So I agree to go with them and Spencer seems happy for me. He tells me to call him tomorrow.
Karen and Josh and I drive together in Josh’s old Volkswagen. We go to this diner on Santa Monica Boulevard. It’s kind of a fifties throwback place. I don’t eat anything, really, ’cause I don’t wanna feel sick on the ride tomorrow morning. I drink tea and Josh makes fun of me. He gets a burger and fries.
They tell me all this gossip about what everyone we went to rehab with is doing. One guy, Evan, OD’ed and is dead. They all went to the funeral. Evan was an amazing guitarist and toured professionally. I always thought a passion like that could keep you sober. I guess that’s stupid. What about Hendrix, or Janis Joplin, or Kurt Cobain? Each one either OD’ed or killed themselves. I’m sad thinking about Evan and I feel really terrible about not being here for the funeral. It makes me wonder what my life would be like if I hadn’t relapsed. Things had been good. I had good friends who I cared about. I feel like an idiot.
When we finish dinner they tell me how good it is to see me. It feels so good to hear that. I hug them when they drop me off, agreeing to call both of them tomorrow.
Upstairs I know that I have to call my father now. I don’t want to, but I know I have to.
“God,” I say. “Thank you for walking me through this. Thank you for letting me be there for my dad. Thank you for letting me hear him and treat him with humility and kindness. Please guide me, God. I mean, I really need help.”
I dial my dad’s number, lying on the bed and staring at nothing. I guess he recognizes my number, because he picks up, saying, “Nic, I’m glad you called. What’s going on with you?”
I tell him as best I can about my job and going to meetings and everything. It feels like he’s weighing every word, just trying to feel out if he should trust me or not. I guess that could all be in my head, though.
“Well, I’m happy you’re safe,” he tells me. “I love you, Nic. I was really worried.”
“I know. I’m so sorry. I’m gonna figure things out. Things are gonna be different this time.”
“Oh, Nic. I’ve heard that so many times.”
I know he’s right. Someday I will make this up to him. I have to. I tell him I love him and we get off the phone pretty quick. I guess it just felt really awkward for both of us. I didn’t really know what to say. I tried asking for God’s guidance during the conversation, but I was too nervous.
Out the window from my apartment there are a bunch of different buildings and I watch a couple arguing in their living room. They are around my age and the girl actually looks a lot like Lauren. I close the blinds and lie back down. I try to sleep. My mind is going round and round. I think about my dad, my little brother and sister, my stepmom. I think about Lauren. This image keeps repeating itself in my head—an image of sticking a needle in my arm. I see it so vividly. I see an image of Lauren and me making love. It makes me feel sick to my stomach. I see an image of Gack and I just want my mind to stop—to become completely empty. I try redirecting my thoughts to thoughts of God. It doesn’t work. I lie on my bed for over an hour. My thoughts are just obsessing on everything—my past—my fear of the future. I can’t turn them off. I lie there like that till I fall asleep.
DAY 229
So I’ve been riding my bike like a fucking maniac.
Almost every morning I’m out at six thirty with this group of riders who take different routes around West L.A. It’s a big pack, maybe fifty or sixty guys. The pace is intense and it’s taken me a while to keep up, but I’m getting stronger—faster and stronger.
Work is going well. The girls at the shop are all very nice and patient. It’s almost like I can do no wrong—like even the mistakes I make are the cutest things ever. I’ve become a sort of mascot for the place. Spencer and I talk every day and we spend a lot of time together and he’s helped me just so much.
Anyway, Spencer and Michelle are coming back from a trip up to Calistoga. It’s October, so they went to some harvest festival up there. They actually had me house-sit and watch their little brown dachshund, Tom. How they ever trusted me with all this responsibility, I have no idea. Still, they’re coming home tonight and Tom is still alive—though I h
ave wanted to kill him a couple of times. He has this habit of getting all excited when I come in and turning on his back and peeing all over me—plus he stole a really nice piece of meat off my plate last night.
It’s early evening when their taxi pulls up in front of the house. Lucy comes running out and Tom jumps all over her and then she hugs me. She’s wearing a pink ballerina skirt, a thick wool sweater with bumblebee patches sewn on the front, and a pair of knee-high, red plastic rain boots.
“Nicky,” she screams, wrapping her arms around me.
“Hey, girl.”
Michelle gets out next and her face is drained of all color. She walks over and hugs me, but then takes me aside and puts a hand on my forearm.
“Nic,” she says in a whisper. “Nic, Spencer is very sick.”
“What do you mean?”
“He needs to go to the hospital.”
Her eyes blur and tears come down.
“Something’s wrong, Nic. Please…we…we need your help.”
“Of course.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I hate asking you.”
“No, are you kidding? You guys have done so much for me. I’ll help any way I can. What’s wrong with him?”
“He has a fever—he can’t stop shaking—he’s soaked through with sweat—he has this pain in his head.”
“Jesus, well, I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
“Yes, of course. But do you think you could stay with Lucy tonight? You’ll need to make dinner, then get her ready for school in the morning. Here, I’ll go in and write you a list.”
“Okay, and Michelle…”
“Yeah?” she asks, wiping away the mascara that’s running down her cheeks.
“Don’t worry. It’s my pleasure to help you guys.”
She goes into the house with Lucy and I help Spencer out of the taxi. Sure enough, he’s dripping wet and shivering and just out of it. I tell him it’ll be okay and then get their bags. We go inside and Lucy seems unconcerned; she has the TV on and is watching SpongeBob SquarePants. Spencer lies down for a moment. Michelle shows me the pasta and stuff and how to make it just right—butter and parmesan cheese and nothing else. She says I should try and get Lucy to take a bath, but I don’t have to wash her hair. Otherwise, she just has to be at school by nine. Then they leave—off to the hospital on Robertson. Lucy kisses them good-bye and we eat buttery noodles and watch TV. I’m sure Spencer’s gonna be fine—I’m just sure of it.