We All Fall Down

by Nic Sheff

  But now I’m not waiting anymore. I’m not putting it off or pretending it’s not there. I’m not trusting in some deity that it’ll all work out. I’m not relying on some prescribed set of rules that promises me stupid platitudes if I unquestioningly shout “How high?” every time I’m told to jump. No, this time I am doing it my own way. I’m following the steps that seem right for me and I, well, I feel good about that. My life seems, uh, full. I’m excited about things again. I have real friendships. I don’t want these days to end. I want to go on like this—building and growing. It seems so beautiful to me. And it’s kinda life or death at this point, anyway—living or dying—standing at the dividing line.

  Fuck.

  Charleston or LA.

  Sue Ellen or my new friends here.

  I hate that it’s come down to this. But it fucking has. And either way I lose.

  “What the hell do we do?” I ask Tallulah, wiping away some crusted sand and salt water from her eye.

  She smiles kinda goofy at me and licks my face. Her breath smells like rotted fish.

  “Ugh,” I say, and she goes in to lick me again. This time I block her.

  When we get back to the apartment, I really don’t have time to do more than chuck Tallulah inside, ’cause I have my last therapy appointment in, like, twenty minutes, and I’m totally running late.

  The drive from Mar Vista to Westwood should be real quick, but of course it never is, ’cause of all the traffic and everything. I’m listening to the Velvet Underground’s self-titled album, and I’m sweating like crazy, even though the air-conditioning’s going full blast.

  I smoke another cigarette, listening to Lou Reed singing, “I’m beginning to see the light.”

  And I sing right along, walking through the crowded UCLA campus to the medical building where I have my appointment.

  Dr. Cooper’s actually super nice to me about being late and all—which is a lot cooler than some therapists I’ve had in the past. She leads me back to her little office and sits down cross-legged opposite me in her uncomfortable-looking computer chair. I have the choice of a couch or a kind of plush armchair, so I go for the couch and cross my own legs and breathe out loud.

  She adjusts her wire-frame glasses, asking me the same question I’ve been asking myself all day. “So, how are you feeling about going back to Charleston?”

  I sit up straighter, and then I go over everything—repeating all the reasons I feel obligated to go back with Sue Ellen and all the reasons I don’t want to.

  “The fact is,” I say, trying to make eye contact as best I can with her, “she was there for me when I needed her. So whether I’m in love with her or not, I need to be there for her now. That’s the right thing to do. I mean, I really do owe my life to her. That’s how it works, right?”

  Dr. Cooper actually laughs some. She tucks a strand of blond hair behind her surprisingly tiny ear, and I notice for the first time how long and thin her fingers are.

  “Look,” she tells me, acting kind of mock exasperated, or something. “Don’t kid yourself, all right? What she did for you was not some selfless, saintly act. She’s no Mother Teresa. She acted on her own self-interests just as much as you did. I mean, let’s face it, you both used each other, right? The decisions she made were based on her own needs and desires. So, I promise you, one hundred percent, you don’t owe her anything. Obviously, it’d be great if you could end the relationship in a straightforward and kind manner, but even that you don’t actually owe to her. And I gotta say, Nic, without trying to tell you what to do at all, you really do have a lot to gain by staying in LA. The work you’re doing here is already paying off in a big way, but, honestly, you’re still in the very beginning of the building process. Now, I’m not saying you can’t continue this work in Charleston—and, obviously, I’d be happy to keep up appointments with you over the phone—but the support system you’ve built here just seems to be working so well for you. I’d hate for you to have to lose that.”

  “No, I know, me too,” I start to say, but she cuts me off, apologizing.

  “Sorry, Nic, I just want to say one more thing. You talk a lot about how you’re not in love with Sue Ellen, but I think there’s a big part of you that feels like the reason you don’t have that love for her is because you are comparing her with Zelda. I’d even go so far as to make up that you don’t think anyone could ever possibly compare to Zelda, so there’s no point in even trying. But the truth is, Nic, the only reason you don’t feel Sue Ellen compares with Zelda is that you very simply don’t have a real connection with her. There are girls out there who will compare with Zelda, though, I promise you that. There are girls out there who will even far surpass her. What you have to do is be patient until you find that girl. Because she really is out there. And, Nic, you deserve that. And, honestly, that girl, whoever she is, deserves you, too. But Sue Ellen is not that girl. I know you know that. I’m just trying to help clarify things for you.”

  My voice gets all choked up when I try to respond too quickly. Tears are coming down. “So I don’t have to sacrifice myself for her?”

  Dr. Cooper laughs, but just to emphasize her point. “Of course not, Nic. I mean, this isn’t the Middle Ages. We don’t need martyrs anymore.”

  I laugh, even though I’m still crying.

  “Look,” she continues. “You don’t need to hold yourself to such ridiculous standards. I can tell you honestly that you’ve made just so much progress. You’re allowed to be happy, Nic. You deserve that. You deserve to live for yourself and, yeah, to love yourself. I give you permission, okay? And that actually means something because I’m a doctor, right?”

  We both laugh together at that, and then I just close my eyes and sit silent for about a minute, breathing.

  “Yes,” I finally say. “Okay, yes, you’re right. I deserve to be fulfilled. I mean, why not? Everyone else deserves it, so why not me? I deserve to find some sort of happiness and, yeah, I believe I can. I believe doing this work here and in outpatient and with my friends and all really will give me the foundation I need. I believe in the life I’m building. So I’ll stay. I’ll figure it out and I’ll stay. Hell, maybe I’ll call that kid Justin and see if any of the apartments he manages are open. That’d be perfect.”

  “It would,” she tells me. “That would be just great. But I do want to say one more thing. If you do this, which I absolutely support, it’ll be the first time you haven’t been in a relationship in… what, five years? Is that right?”

  I think for a minute before nodding. “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s going to be a major transition, so wherever you go, I’d suggest you try and find something where you can be around other people who can help you through this. If that means living with your friend Justin, then that would be perfect. But I really do think that is something you should definitely be aware of.”

  My head keeps nodding.

  “And, Nic,” she says, her words coming out slow and deliberate. “Since we’re on the subject, how would you feel about abstaining from relationships for at least six months?”

  She smiles slyly, but, uh, surprisingly, my stomach doesn’t drop out or anything. I mean, I get it and, uh, for once, I totally agree.

  I thank her a whole bunch of times before leaving the office. We make an appointment for next week—when Sue Ellen will be gone and I’ll still be here.

  I have to admit I’m pretty fucking scared.

  But, then again, I mean, what the fuck else is new?

  I smoke another cigarette.

  I dial Justin’s number.

  It rings twice before he answers.

  I’ve always been awkward as hell on the phone, but, uh, here goes.

  “Hey, man, it’s Nic. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing, man, nothing. I’m just hanging out with my dad. What’s up with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  My hand’s shaking some, but I don’t tell him that. What I say is, “Hey, man, I don’t think I’m gonna
be going back to Charleston with Sue Ellen anymore. I mean, I think I need to stay here. So, uh, I was gonna just go stay with my mom, but I was wondering if maybe one of the apartments you manage might be open or something. I’d pay rent, of course. I just thought it’d be cool to live where you do.”

  There’s a good long silence.

  “Well,” he finally says, “there is this one place where I used to live. It’s a tiny little space, but it backs up to an old abandoned barbershop. I’ve been thinking about taking the wall down between them and making it into a livable space for two people. You could stay there if you want. There’s no hot water, but all we have to do is install a heater, and then the gas company can come set up an account. It needs a lot of work, for sure. The kitchen needs a new ceiling, and there’s no stove or anything. But it’d be great to have you come live here. And, I mean, of course I wouldn’t charge you anything. Would you be down with that?”

  “Are you kidding?” I tell him, smiling all over the place. “That would be awesome. I’d love to work on fixing the place up with you. That’d be such a cool project.”

  “Yeah, it’d be pretty ironic, right? Fixing up that broke-down place while we’re fixing up our broke-ass lives.”

  We both laugh together.

  “When can I come by?” I ask.

  He tells me to come as soon as I can.

  “All right, then,” I say, my voice coming out light and excited. “I’m gonna go get Tallulah and my stuff, and then I’ll drive out. It’s gonna be World War Seven when I try to leave, but, uh, I’ll figure it out.”

  He laughs again. “Oh, shit, you mean Sue Ellen doesn’t know? Man, I’m sorry, that’s gonna be so hard. How ’bout this, then: As soon as you get out here, I’ll buy you a milk shake at the most awesome ice cream place.”

  I smile big at that. “Thanks, man. That’d be perfect. And, look, Justin, I really appreciate this. You’re a really great friend to me. I mean, I really love you.”

  “I love you, too, man,” he says. “And don’t worry about it. I’m happy to have you here. So, uh, just call me when you’re heading over, okay?”

  I tell him I will.

  We both hang up.

  The cigarette’s burned down close to my hand, and I can feel the heat of it smoldering.

  I walk back to the car, humming that same Velvet Underground song.

  Because it’s true now—I am.

  Beginning to see the light.

  All I have to do is take Tallulah and go.

  Ch.37

  The wall came down today.

  With a plaster cutter and a couple of sledgehammers, we broke through the dividing wall from the little one-room apartment to the abandoned barbershop in front. Of course, it’s not an ideal space. The only windows in the front shop are boarded up and broken, and it doesn’t really make a whole lotta sense fixing ’em up, ’cause the street we live on is kinda dodgy and it seems wise not to advertise our presence too much. Hell, the day I was moving my stuff in, these teenage kids got into a gun battle about ten feet in front of us. It was a miracle no one got shot.

  Not only that, but twice a week some Christian organization hands out food in front of the building, so there’s a line that wraps around the block from, like, ten to three, and we wouldn’t be able to really use that entrance anyway.

  Still, it’s actually kind of a great neighborhood. The Hispanic bakery on the corner is ridiculously cheap, and all the people who live right around us are super nice. Plus, it takes me, like, five minutes to drive to Griffith Park, so Tallulah and I have been going on hikes there every morning, exploring all the different trails, me watching while Tallulah harasses tourists at the observatory. We go on hikes in the morning, and then I come back and take a cold shower (since there’s still no hot water). I feed Tallulah and I feed myself, and then I write for a while until Justin comes over. We work on the apartment for most of the day, taking a break to go drink coffee at this super-great café in Silver Lake. At night we go to outpatient or to dinner or we go see a movie or watch a movie on the old TV we got for the apartment. Sometimes we fall asleep during the day and nap for a couple hours. Sometimes we drive out to Malibu to take Tallulah to the beach. Sometimes we hang out with kids from outpatient. We’ve even gone to a couple of twelve-step meetings.

  It’s kinda funny, you know, ’cause as much as I can get sort of turned off by twelve-step meetings, Justin really can’t stand them. He doesn’t understand it at all, and I can see how visibly annoyed and frustrated he always gets. Still, I keep making him come along with me every now and then. I mean, for me, it just seems like a cool way to meet some other sober people, you know? It’s nice to feel like there’s this community out there that’ll always be available for me, no matter what. There’s something super great about that. In terms of the actual content of the steps and everything, well, I guess I really try not to think about it too much. I’m grateful the meetings are there. And for me—for now—that is enough.

  But mostly, I mean, we just work on the apartment, like I said, talking and laughing and listening to music and really working hard—rebuilding the broken-down structure—rebuilding our broken-down selves.

  ’Cause Justin was right, you know? We’re not just working to fix this place up together—we’re working to fix up our lives—together. We’re both going to therapy. We’re both trying to get on the right medications. We’re both going to outpatient. We’re both trying to learn how to make friends in sobriety—how to be a friend in sobriety—how to fucking love ourselves, sober. And the truth is, even if I can’t see the changes in myself, I can see the changes in Justin. He’s opened up so much. He’s become so much stronger, so much more authentic. And, genuinely, I can see him learning how to love again. It’s pretty fucking rad. He’s growing up, you know? I feel proud of him. That probably sounds stupid, but I don’t even care. I love him.

  As for myself, well, I think I have started changing, for sure, but that doesn’t mean I’ve, like, stopped making mistakes altogether. After breaking it off with Sue Ellen and dealing with her subsequent screaming “Fuck you!” yelling fits and the barrage of really angry e-mails, I guess I was feeling pretty fucking scared and insecure, ’cause I did end up sleeping with that Dylan girl from outpatient. And, I mean, she was super great, and it wasn’t like she was looking for anything other than sex from me, either. Still, I know I was just using her not to have to feel everything that was going on with me and, whether or not that was right for her, it was wrong for me. Plus, she has a boyfriend, so, uh, yeah—exactly. I might be changing, but I sure as hell haven’t become a better person overnight. Still, after making that one mistake, I was able to call it off and apologize, and we’re still really good friends and all, so that is some sort of progress.

  I don’t know, it almost seems like that’s as good as it’s gonna get for me. I mean, I’m always gonna make mistakes, right? The trick now is to make less bad mistakes, less often. And I think it might actually be working. My mistakes aren’t as bad—and they’re definitely a whole lot fewer and farther between. That might sound like a cop-out, but it really isn’t. I’m learning and growing, man—I am. Problem is, I’m just a whole lot dumber than most folks. It’s taken me a hell of a lot longer than it does normal people. But I am doing it—at my own pace—putting one goddamn foot in front of the other. And things, at least for now, are slowly getting better. I have friends today. I have people in my life I genuinely care about. I have a pretty awesome dog. I have a great place to live. I have an amazing support system. I have a life, you know? A full life. And it’s getting better all the time.

  The wall came down today.

  We broke through to the other side.

  Justin and I.

  Tallulah.

  Dr. Cooper.

  My outpatient group.

  My family.

  Justin hands me a cigarette as we sit down in the pile of rubble we’ve left on the floor.

  The random playlist on my computer has
landed on a Syd Barrett song—his monotone voice half singing, half talking. “Isn’t it good to be lost in the wood. Isn’t it bad so quiet there, in the wood.”

  I light my cigarette.

  Justin lights his.

  “Well,” I say, exhaling loudly, “we did it, huh? We made it through.”

  Justin laughs, punching my shoulder. “Yeah, man, we did. But, uh, let’s not go congratulating ourselves too much. We still have a long way to go. Knocking it down’s the easy part. I mean, it’s building it back up that’s the fucking bitch.”

  I go on and laugh along with him.

  Hell, it’s the truth.

  But somehow, at this moment, it doesn’t seem so bad.

  I guess I just know we can do it.

  I know we can.

  I do.

  EPILOGUE

  It’s October 2011… a little over three years since me ’n’ Justin were living together in that apartment in East Hollywood.

  It’s been three years, and by some fucking miracle, I’ve been sober all the while, and, crazily enough, Justin is about to graduate from law school.

  Well, I don’t know, maybe it’s not just a miracle.

  I mean, I’ve done a lot of work, too, learning how to love and accept myself—building up a life that I actually want to fight for. Trying and trying and trying again.

  Holding on.

  Not giving up.

  Fighting.

  Fighting for the life I have today.

  ’Cause I do…. I fight for it.