by Nic Sheff
My head does its whole involuntary nodding thing again.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “Sorry, you’re right. I’m the one who keeps repeating these behaviors over and over. But I want to change. I really do. And I’ve been trying. I’ve been trying to take steps in that direction. And I know the first thing I have to do.”
I swallow real loud, choking on some invisible nothing. A kind of heat pushes up against the back of my eyes.
This isn’t supposed to happen.
All I’m doin’ is playing Melonie so she’ll give back some of my privileges.
But when I try to get the rest of the words out, my voice cracks on the first syllable.
The room is unfocused.
Instinctively, I sort of fold in on myself—crossing my arms like an X in front of me—holding on tight to both shoulders—shivering.
“The thing is,” I manage to get out, in a voice that seems very far away, “I’m breaking up with Zelda.”
The tears come—lower lip trembling—rocking back and forth in my chair—my knees pressed together—one foot stepping on the other.
“I have no choice,” I hear myself saying. “There’s just no way we’re ever gonna make it. I have to let her go. I have to. Y’all’ve been telling me, but I still couldn’t see it. I mean, I wouldn’t let myself see it. But now, man, now it’s like I can’t see anything else. She’s poison to me. Man, fuck, I threw away my whole life for her. But it wasn’t enough and it’ll never be enough and I have to end it now before I get sucked back in again. I fucking have to. There’s nothing left for us—not one goddamn thing. She’s a vortex, a black hole. I see it, man, I fucking see it. And I know it’s over. I know it’s the end. But, Christ…”
My voice catches again, and now I’m crying hard, with snot pouring down and my stomach convulsing.
“I’m so scared,” I say, feeling it. “I’m so goddamn scared. I mean, I love her. I love her fucking hard. And no matter how much I’ve tried to quit loving her, I just can’t cut her out—man, there’s no way. As long as I live, I know I’ll never find anyone who can compare to her. And I know I’ll never love anyone as intensely as I love her. And I know I’ll never stop dreaming about her—every day and night. I have to live with that—with fucking missing her for the rest of my life. I have to. And I’m so fucking scared.”
My hands cover my face. The crying hurts—it strangles me. I fight for breath. My eyes are straining closed. I bring my legs up on the chair, knees bent, pressing them tighter and tighter against my body.
“Hey!” Melonie shouts at me. She claps her hands twice. “Hey, Nic, where’d you go?”
I breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe.
“Nic,” she says again, leaning forward, her elbows resting on her gelatinous knees. “Nic, listen to me. I need you to sit up straight, okay. You need to sit up straight right now.”
I try ’n’ do what she says.
“Okay, good. Now I want you to put both feet on the floor. Good. Press down on the carpet. I want you to ground yourself. When you panic like that, all you’re doing is making things worse. Panicking is a way for people to not have to feel their real feelings. By panicking you work yourself up into such a frantic state that it’s no longer about what’s truly going on, it’s about the act of panicking. Understand? As long as you keep running from your feelings, you’ll never move past them. Right now you’re scared. You’re sad, too, but mostly scared. So what I want you to do is check in with your body. Try to find where it is exactly that you feel this fear. Is it in your head? Your stomach? Your legs? Then sit with the fear. Explore it. Try to understand it. Believe me, Nic, the fear of the fear is always much, much worse than the fear itself. Because when you sit with it, embrace it, the fear will begin to lose its power. And eventually it’ll be gone completely. And then you’ll be free. But as long as you keep running, Nic, you’ll never move past it. The fear and trauma will haunt you the rest of your life. Do you understand?”
I tell her I do, wiping my nose on the inside of my sleeve. The crying has stopped by now. My eyes are all swollen, and my throat is sore.
“Good,” she says, straightening up so her back goes pop. “So look, I have some business stuff I need to go over with you. But first I want to say two things. One is that, trust me, you are absolutely incapable of loving anyone. What you think is love for Zelda is actually something else entirely.”
My hands grip the metal arms of the chair, and I clench my teeth.
Still, I don’t say anything.
She continues with an even, meaningless smile.
“Zelda used you. She’s getting older and I’m sure terrified of what that means for her—since, from what I can tell, she’s always been dependent on her looks. You come along—young, attractive, and completely in awe of her—and she takes advantage of you with no thought to your well-being at all. She used you for her emotional and physical validation, then she tricked you into using again with her. You’re right, Nic, she is a black hole. So whatever love you think there is between you is not love at all—it’s codependency and mutual exploitation.”
I breathe in deep through my nose, helpless to do anything but nod my head.
I mean, what choice do I have?
I need her on my side if I’m ever gonna get out of this place.
So I nod and nod like the idiot I am.
And Melonie smiles—so goddamn pleased with herself.
“So the last thing I want to talk to you about is your twelve-step meeting schedule. From what I remember, you told me that you don’t believe in the twelve-step program, is that right?”
My teeth clench together again.
“Well, no, not exactly. All I was saying is that I feel sort of let down by it, you know? I mean, every time I’ve gotten sober I’ve been, like, so fanatic about the program. I give it everything I have—going to meetings every day, working with a sponsor, studying the twelve steps and all the literature until I can practically recite it all by heart. But the thing is, no matter how much I keep trying to do it right, I keep relapsing, you know? And I guess I just can’t figure out if it’s because the program doesn’t work for me, or because I’m not working the program right.”
Now it’s Melonie’s turn to nod self-consciously.
“And the higher-power thing? How are you feeling about that?”
I crack the knuckles on my left hand.
“I don’t know. I mean, I guess it’s sort of the same thing. I’ve tried so hard to believe, right? I’ve prayed and meditated and studied. But it’s never worked for me—I keep relapsing—and, you know, in the center of me, after everything, it just feels like there’s nothing there.”
Melonie’s still kind of bobbing her head for no reason.
“Okay, Nic, that’s okay. But the thing is, without twelve-step meetings, without a higher power, you have absolutely zero chance of staying sober. Now, I am impressed with the progress you’ve made regarding your girlfriend, and I’d like to take you off probation so you can go on outings with the other clients, but I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to do that until you agree to go to twelve-step meetings at least six nights a week. And I need you to get a sponsor and start working the steps as soon as possible, okay? It’s the only chance you have, Nic. And, believe me, there’s nothing so special about you that makes you any different from the millions of other people whose lives have been saved by the twelve-step program.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I know. And I really do want to get involved in the program again. I mean, I’ve seen the way it’s helped all my friends back in LA.”
She swivels ’round slowly in her chair, grabbing a stack of papers and a clipboard off her desk.
“So you can agree to six meetings a week?” she asks.
I tell her I can, and she checks off a little box on the page in front of her.
“Also I need you to get a sponsor by the end of the week, okay? And find a higher power?”
I actually almost laugh at
that.
“Yes,” I say. “Absolutely.”
She checks another box and then looks up at me, smiling.
“Well, congratulations. You’re officially off probation. And, honestly, Nic, I’m very impressed with the change I see in you. Good job.”
I smile back.
I mean, what choice do I have?
Ch.6
Because I’m finally off probation, Melonie went ahead and okayed me for the Sunday outing—a hike somewhere—a place called Tent Rocks, I think. The van’s not loading up for another ten or fifteen minutes, but I’m already up waiting ’cause I’m pretty anxious to get off this goddamn compound.
Not that it’ll be my first time.
I’ve gone out twice this week to twelve-step meetings—plus on a group trip to Target and Borders. Of course, I still don’t have any money, but this stealing thing I’ve gotten into is a hard habit to break.
When I was with Zelda, we subsisted entirely on stolen food from grocery stores and drugstores and wherever. We’d even drive down to the Grove shopping center with the sole purpose of roaming from shop to shop, stealing books and CDs, clothing, computer supplies—basically, whatever we could get away with.
And, it’s crazy, you know, ’cause I never really thought jacking shit could become some kind of addiction, but still, now that I’m sober, I find myself walking outta places with books in my hands and candy bars in my goddamn pockets—none of which I need or even want particularly.
It’s super dumb.
I mean, dumb.
There’s actually a part of me that wants to call up Zelda just to ask if she’s having the same problem, but I figure that’s probably just some excuse, or whatever. I mean, as it is I have to spend, like, every second I’m awake trying not to think about her—keeping myself busy—messing around on the guitar, talking with my friends, playing board games—fucking Scrabble—going to groups. Hell, the other day I ended up spending almost two hours watching this guy Kevin solve the New York Times crossword puzzle.
I think I contributed about three answers.
I mean, even here, waiting for the van, I pace back and forth.
I light a cigarette, listen to my old Discman—playing The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust over and over. David Bowie singing about a Starman waiting in the sky.
If only there really was someone waiting out there—waiting to take me away from all this.
David Bowie singing, “If we can sparkle he may land tonight.”
Suddenly something hits my shoulder kinda hard.
I take off one of my headphones and turn to look back behind me.
I guess, not surprisingly, it’s that Sue Ellen girl.
She punches me in the shoulder again, this time even harder.
For some reason that makes me really fucking laugh.
I tell her, “Ow, man.”
She hits me again.
“What you listenin’ to?”
Her voice is jarring—maybe a little too loud.
She takes off the baseball hat she’s wearing, shakes out her hair—looking up at me through narrowed eyes—her body thin—delicate-looking—I mean, fragile.
She catches me staring.
“Hey… Nic…”
This time I’m able to dodge her punch.
“Damn, girl, all right…. It’s David Bowie. I’m listening to Ziggy Stardust. You know that album?”
Somehow the green of her eyes seems to clear or brighten or something.
“Are you serious?” she asks me, her mouth remaining slightly open. “That’s my favorite album ever.”
I laugh.
“Right on. I wouldn’t’ve thought y’all listened to a whole lot of David Bowie in the South.”
She smiles, tucking her hair back behind her ears.
“Yeah, well, there’s a lot about me you don’t know.”
I start to say something in response to that, but then a sharp, burning pain shoots through my hand and, instinctively, I drop the smoldering end of my cigarette butt that I’d totally forgotten about, swearing loudly.
Sue Ellen laughs and laughs.
She puts her hat on over her face so I can’t see her eyes at all.
“Sorry,” she says, her voice kinda muffled. “I don’t mean to laugh. I’ve been up since five thirty writing this stupid good-bye letter, so I guess I’m still a little punchy, you know? Have you had to write one of those?”
I shake my head but then remember pretty quickly she probably can’t see me.
“No, uh, no. What do you mean? What kinda good-bye letter?”
She pushes the hat up so her eyes are just barely visible beneath the brim.
“Oh, you know—just some lighthearted Sunday morning fun. My counselor wants me to write a good-bye letter to all my friends and family who didn’t stand by me, or even believe me, after it happened. I mean, the way my dad acted, you woulda thought I was the one who did something wrong—it was like he couldn’t even look at me. So I’m supposed to write this letter saying good-bye to all these people, including my dad, my boyfriend, and basically all my friends from school, who I’m supposed to be cutting outta my life for good. Do you know Amy, my counselor?”
I half nod.
“Well, she says I have to start the grieving process with everything that happened—otherwise I’ll never be able to, you know, like, go on with my life. Even though, honestly, I’m not really sure why having to think about all this shit all the time is supposed to help anything.”
“Yeah, I don’t know. I mean, they talk about that kinda thing a lot here—all that Elisabeth Kübler-Ross shit—you know, that doctor who talks about the five stages of grief, or whatever. Like, denial, anger, bargaining, depression and, uh, acceptance, I think. Basically, the idea is that in order to get over any trauma that’s happened to us in our lives, we have to go through that entire cycle—that’s the only way we can move on.”
I find myself doing something awkward with my hands—overgesturing, maybe, like a politician at a goddamn press conference.
I can’t help it.
“What happens to most of us is that we get, you know, stuck in one part of the cycle. At least, that’s what Melonie tells me. She says that addicts usually can’t get past denial—which, uh, I think is the first stage. I mean, we don’t let ourselves feel any of it ’cause we’re just loaded all the time. You know, the whole fuck-the-pain-away thing?”
Sue Ellen sits down on the gravel, her knees sticking out through the frayed tears in her jeans.
“Yeah, yeah,” she tells me. “But I’m not an addict, so what’s wrong with me?”
She stares off at something in the distance that probably isn’t there at all. Her body rocks back and forth, her hands clutching the strings on either end of her knit woolen scarf.
“Wait a second,” I say, sitting down just close enough to feel the whispering of her body as it moves past—tick, ticking like a goddamn metronome. “Wait, you’re not an addict?”
Her jaw seems to clench tight so the bone is protruding just below her cheek. She stamps her boot on the ground—gravel exhaling dust like glitter in the sun, suspended there, sparkling, until wind I don’t even feel comes to scatter it invisible.
Sue Ellen’s face is flushed.
“No,” she says—her teeth clenched tight. “No, I’m not. I don’t know why that’s so hard for people to believe. I didn’t come here for that. I didn’t do this to myself. It’s so much more complicated than that. They promised my mom over the phone that they could help me and that I didn’t need to be an alcoholic, or whatever, but now it’s like they just won’t leave me alone. I mean, the way they talk about it, everybody’s an alcoholic, and everybody’s codependent, and everyone’s a sex addict with eating-disorder issues. It’s fucking bullshit.”
Suddenly I find myself talking at the ground so I don’t have to see what her eyes are doing. My pulse sounds loud in my ears.
“Hey, it’s cool. I mean, I agree, that’s the problem with
all rehabs. They look at us, you know, the patients, like we’re all the same. But we’re not. I mean, obviously. We all cope with things differently and all have different things to cope with. But the way they tell it, there’s only one solution—which is basically to do exactly what they tell you and never question anything. It’s fucking ridiculous. I mean, trust me, this is like the sixth rehab I’ve been to. The only way to make it through these places is to try ’n’ sift through everything they say, you know, and just hold on to the five percent of good mixed in with the ninety-five percent of bullshit. ’Cause, yeah, the majority of what they feed you is worthless. The counselors all have their stupid egos and their stupid power trips, and most of ’em are recovering addicts themselves, so they aren’t a whole lot healthier than we are. If they all insist on treating you like an addict, that’s ’cause they don’t know how to think independently, without relying on their goddamn textbooks and case studies and blah-blah-blah. If they’re having trouble figuring you out, then that’s a good thing. It means you’re more complex than a statistic on a fucking pie chart.”
I glance over quickly, but I’m caught right away. I mean, she’s looking right at me.
“You know,” she tells me, “that’s really smart, what you just said. Are you an addict?”
My head nods sort of mechanically.
“Yeah, they got me on that. I more or less fit their little behavioral profiles to a tee. But, uh, what happened to you? Do you mind telling me? I mean, it’s cool if you don’t want to.”
She leans her head back so I can’t help but stare at her neck stretching up toward the cold, clear blue sky.
“It’s funny,” she says, her voice suddenly distant. “I couldn’t talk about what happened with anyone. None of my friends would talk to me. My dad wouldn’t listen to me. It was like somehow I was the one who’d done something wrong. Everyone just wanted me to shut up about it. So eventually I guess that’s what I did. I shut up. I made myself shut up. But now, since coming here, it’s like all anyone wants to do is talk about it. Every goddamn counselor and therapist has made me tell it all to them over and fucking over. Honestly, I don’t see how dwelling on this shit could possibly help anyone. They should be helping us move on, right? Not making us wallow in self-pity about shit that happened in the past. But, fuck, I mean, if you wanna hear it, fine—I’ll tell you. Anyway, it’s really not that interesting.”