Chancers

by Susan Stellin

  Most people were really supportive, but I think some of my friends felt bad about what had happened to me, wondering if there was anything else they could’ve done. One friend told me that someone I’d known for years had discouraged him from trying to do an intervention—telling him I was beyond help. Hearing that was really painful. I know I pushed everyone away, but I still can’t believe that anyone thought there was no hope for me. I spent a lot of time thinking about what I would’ve done if it had been the other way around.

  Probably the hardest part was going to see my family a few months after I got out. Susan kept calling our trip “The Apology Tour,” joking that we should get T-shirts printed up listing all the places we went. I remember getting off the plane in Edinburgh and being shocked by how much older my mum and dad looked, and feeling like shit about how much I’d contributed to that. We went to a pub for lunch and it was pretty uncomfortable at first, so I was glad Susan was there to keep the conversation flowing. My dad opened up more when I was alone with him, but my mum didn’t seem to want to talk about what I’d been through. I think the fact that they both liked Susan eventually put them at ease. My mum made Susan steak pie—complaining about what a picky eater I am—and my dad showed her pictures of me growing up. I’d never seen them get attached to someone so quickly. By the time we left, I could tell they felt a lot better about me.

  After that we flew over to Dublin and saw my brother and sister and their kids, who treated me like I was some long-lost uncle who’d just come back from years at sea. My nieces and nephews didn’t know what had happened to me—although they probably guessed something was up. The initial awkwardness with my brother and sister didn’t last very long. Pretty soon we were cracking up playing cards with the kids and they were joking that now that “the number one son” had reappeared they’d have to take a back seat. As great as it was to feel like part of the family again, it made me feel worse about all the times I wasn’t there.

  One morning, my sister and I went for a walk along the waterfront and she told me how glad she was that I’d pulled through, but didn’t hold back about how hard it had been for all of them. It was sort of like her letter—she had to get it off her chest, but once she did she could let it go. My brother just kept saying, “It’s all behind you, Graham—time to move forward,” which was sort of the same attitude he’d had about his divorce. He wasn’t bitter or angry, and he hadn’t lost his sense of humor—teasing me about how puffy I’d gotten and telling me I should start running again. But he did put me on the spot about getting back to work.

  That was weighing on my mind, too. I still had enough money left that I didn’t have to take any job I could get, but with a criminal record, my reputation trashed, and not having done a photo shoot in years, I had no idea what I was going to do. I tried scrapping cars with Jimmy, but that wasn’t really my cup of tea, so I finally bit the bullet and started emailing everyone I’d ever worked with. That wasn’t easy, but like one friend told me, “Suck it up and write them, Graham. You were a fucking dope addict, you can do this.” He was right—I’d fought so hard to get clean and win my case, I couldn’t let my insecurities hold me back.

  But it was still pretty discouraging to send hundreds of messages and get so few replies. Even a client who wrote a letter to the judge for me wouldn’t return my calls. I was starting to wonder if I’d always be a fuck-up in some people’s eyes, but I kept at it and slowly things started coming together. I got little assignments here and there and it was brilliant to be taking pictures again. Then a friend offered me a part-time job teaching photography, which I jumped at—until I saw that the application asked, “Have you ever been convicted of a misdemeanor or a felony?” Luckily, I still got the job and it turned out I really loved it. I felt like I had something to offer and the students motivated me to embrace how photography had changed—not resist it.

  A lot of people ended up opening doors for me, so it was tough to see many of the friends I was locked up with get thrown back into the same mess they’d left. Marco managed to stay clean for a few months, then got busted for possession, and Jimmy got arrested for driving without a license—even though the tow truck was parked, and he was just waiting for the guy who was helping him. Walker was doing well for a while, but he’s young and all his friends are still partying, so he did what I used to do—think it was alright to just drink less or use drugs occasionally, which landed him back at York County Prison.

  Actually, out of all the people I knew from those years, Tracy was one of the few who got her shit together and stayed clean. For a while I’d see her at AA meetings—she had really embraced the program and stuck with it—but after about a year I went less and less often. I definitely got something out of sharing and hearing other people’s stories, but once I started running again, that became a more important part of my recovery. It was a way for me to put what I learned in the Freedom Program into practice: stepping back, thinking more rationally, not overreacting. It’s hard to explain, but running gave me that release. And once I started sharing my story with people outside of AA, I found that more inspiring than talking to people who’d heard similar shares hundreds of times. It was a lot tougher to tell a colleague or an old friend what had happened to me, but I felt like I opened a door for them to have a conversation they wouldn’t normally have had. They’d often tell me about someone they knew who had a problem, and those exchanges were really uplifting. It helped me get over the shame I’d been carrying around.

  The biggest challenge for me was not beating myself up over the past or getting overwhelmed by everything I needed to tackle. There were many times when I got discouraged, but Susan really helped me keep a positive frame of mind. She was patient with me, but she also pushed me, encouraging me to step out of my comfort zone when I was reluctant—like when she suggested I look for a workspace. I was worried that renting a studio would be too expensive or inconvenient, but one night she and her friend opened up Craigslist, we started scrolling through listings, and within a week I’d found a place. It sounds crazy, but I was so out of the habit of doing things for myself, I just needed that little nudge to be more independent.

  At first I’d thank Susan constantly for everything she’d done for me, but she went out of her way to make me feel like I didn’t owe her some big debt. I thought things might be more fraught between us, especially living together, but she was way more laid back than she used to be. I’d go to my storage space and bring back some of my stuff—old running trophies, a photo of Johnny Rotten, vintage belt buckles—and she’d just roll her eyes and tell me we didn’t really have anywhere to put all of my quirky knick-knacks. She’d get frustrated that I never screwed the lid on a jar of peanut butter tightly or I’d forget to pick up milk, but I did keep my promise to help with the chores and I was pretty good at fixing things.

  I think Susan had gotten used to dealing with a lot on her own, so I tried hard to be supportive of her in the same way she’d been there for me. I’d pull her out of a funk when work got frustrating, suggesting we hop on the subway and go out to Coney Island or visit friends upstate, and we did eventually take that trip to Japan I suggested back in 2006. We ended up doing a lot of traveling, even cashing in some of those frequent flier miles I’d been hoarding, so I’d like to think I made up for some of the shit I put her through. I still send her pictures of love hearts I find painted on sidewalks or buildings, and I tell her all the time how glad I am that she’s in my life. Relationships aren’t easy when you’re in the early stages of recovery, but I don’t know how I would’ve managed if I’d had to do it all on my own.

  I’m sure a lot of people thought Susan was crazy for taking me in, but that made me even more determined to prove I was worth it. I wanted to be everything I hadn’t been for her the first time around. In one of her letters, she talked about what I needed to do to find the love that I wanted—get drugs out of my life and deal with my insecurities—and I did those things, but in the end, I think we both found the love
that had been missing from our lives.

  EPILOGUE

  January 2016

  Cobble Hill, Brooklyn

  Graham and I are sitting next to each other on our couch, looking at my laptop. There are piles of paper all around us, marked up with edits—my comments in blue pen, his in green.

  “I would never say that,” he tells me, pointing to a line of dialogue on the screen.

  “Well you wrote it,” I answer, reaching for one of the many pages of handwritten notes he’s given me.

  “Okay, but looking at it again, I’m realizing that’s not how I would’ve said it.”

  I exhale, slowly. “So how would you have said it?”

  “I don’t know…just not like that. It doesn’t sound like me.”

  This is probably the fifty-ninth time we’ve had some version of this conversation, but we’re too tired to argue about it—or fix it. I just highlight the line and we move on to the next page.

  Writing a book with your partner, about the worst years of your life together, is not something either of us would recommend. There have been times when I felt like I was subjecting Graham to some sort of prolonged exposure therapy—forcing him to reexperience painful events again and again. As a therapeutic treatment, the goal is to reduce the negative impact of those memories, but in Graham’s case, I’m not sure that desensitization ever happened.

  “I need you to describe what it’s like to smoke crack,” I’d tell him, “And don’t just say it’s ‘brilliant.’ What does that hit really feel like? You’ve got to explain it with more detail—but not the same way you described shooting up.”

  Graham would get this pained look on his face, trying to remember how it felt to get high—then a couple of nights later, he’d wake up traumatized by yet another drug dream. After he finally fell asleep, I’d lie awake next to him, wondering if I was pushing him straight into a relapse. As much as I agree with Joan Didion, that it’s important to remember the people we used to be, I’m not sure spending so much time inside our former selves was a good idea—for Graham or for me.

  So why did we decide to do this? We’ve asked ourselves that question almost every day for the past year and a half.

  At first I was just going to write about my experience, from my perspective: loving someone who’s an addict and making a difficult choice about helping or walking away. But as I drafted an outline, picturing courtrooms and jail time, I realized that it would be a much richer book if Graham told his side of the story, too. I wasn’t there when he was doing drugs or getting hauled off in handcuffs, so I knew he could capture what he went through better than me—with some help polishing the writing. It turned into an unusual collaboration, with debates over phrases and details and what to include or leave out, but we’ve tried to reveal as much as we and our families could bear.

  Even at its worst, our experience was not as ugly or desperate as life can be for a lot of the people Graham knew, and our happy reunion isn’t how many of these stories end. But it’s the truth. Graham didn’t relapse. We stayed together. It didn’t take that long for me to trust him. After he got out of prison, I realized that our relationship wasn’t going to work if he felt like he was still on trial, or if I was constantly suspicious. We had to move on with a clean slate.

  When things were tough, especially that first year, many of the lessons Graham learned in the Freedom Program ended up giving us both the tools to address problems. Sadly, his bed-making skills lasted about seventy-two hours, and so did that habit of wiping up the bathroom sink. Even off drugs, he still sometimes walks out the door without his phone or his keys. But I’ve learned not to say “You need to pick up your awareness” in that smug way that drives him crazy—just like he’s learned to let me be mad for at least a little while after we’ve had a fight, because I can’t just get over it instantly.

  Graham is better than me at saying he’s sorry (he’s had a lot of practice), and I think anyone who knows him would say he made a huge effort to make amends to the people he hurt. I can’t imagine what else he could’ve done to prove that he deserved the chance the judge and everyone else gave him—which is why it’s so frustrating that in some ways, he’s still being punished for his mistakes.

  Graham was lucky that his criminal record didn’t prevent him from getting a teaching job he loves, but I’m sure there are many landlords who wouldn’t approve his application as a tenant. He can’t travel to Canada, unless he wants to pay a lot of money and go through a lot of hassle to get a waiver for his drug conviction. Whenever he returns from a trip abroad, he’s usually taken into another room by immigration, while I wait with our bags—worried they’ll find some reason not to let him back into the country. He finally applied to become a U.S. citizen, submitting glowing letters of support, but the woman who interviewed him said she couldn’t approve his application—it had to go through a legal review. Almost six months later, as this book is going to press, Graham is still waiting for an answer.

  These are all minor problems compared to the barriers many recovering addicts and former inmates face, but they make me wonder if we as a society really believe in rehabilitation. During the time he was in custody, Graham was primarily defined as a drug addict, a criminal, and an alien, and those identities can be tough to escape.

  But if certain people hadn’t seen beyond those labels and made even a small effort to help him, Graham probably would’ve ended up in a much darker place. If the woman at York County Prison hadn’t given him my phone number, or his CO hadn’t suggested he apply to the Freedom Program, or the judge had decided that Graham shouldn’t be allowed to stay, our lives would be very different today. Just like what I did for Graham ultimately had a much bigger impact than I could’ve imagined—which is what I wrote about in my notebook almost five years ago, after Armen called to tell me that Graham won his case.

  It’s January 14, 2011 and this ordeal began—for me—on August 24. Even though I was confident things would go Graham’s way, neither of us knew until now. I picture him in the courtroom, probably closing his eyes as the judge gives the verdict, then maybe fighting back tears (a little) because that’s what he does when he’s emotional, especially when people say nice things about him. That’s the side of him I love—the guy who can be so grateful, and push so hard when he sets his mind on something. He’ll go back to his dorm, have lunch—a last crappy baked potato—start packing and giving his things away.

  When people say I saved Graham’s life, I feel that’s not quite right because in the end Graham chose to save himself. But I did change the course of his life and right now that feels pretty incredible. That everything he does from today on will be different than it would’ve been if I hadn’t helped him, if he’d signed the deportation order and been banished from the U.S. Maybe he would’ve done ok, but in my heart I think he would’ve ended up giving in to drugs, and probably died of an overdose—maybe intentionally—slumped in a corner of some dingy room or stairwell. Who knows what will happen with us, but at this moment that almost doesn’t matter. As painful and stressful as this has been, it was worth it.

  That was the last time I wrote anything personal in my notebook. I’m not sure why, but maybe I didn’t need that outlet anymore; I had Graham to talk to when I was anxious. But I can honestly say that even if we hadn’t ended up together—or stayed together—it still would’ve been worth it, because I got to see all these people who love him get him back.

  When I hear Graham on the phone with his dad, even when they’re just talking about the shite weather in Scotland, I know what it means to his parents to have those Sunday calls, without the weight of the worry they lived with for so many years. Seeing him laughing with his brother and sister, or hanging out with friends—telling some story with that same passion I saw in Montauk, without the alcohol or drugs. And watching him hug his grown-up son and tell him he loves him, then hearing Liam say it back—maybe a little embarrassed, but no longer burdened by his dad’s addiction.

  I u
sed to tell Graham that saying “I love you” is easy—the hard part is showing it. But I’ve come around to understanding that it’s important to say it, too, because sometimes people don’t make the leap from what you do for them to knowing how you feel about them. You have to tell them. And you also have to find the courage to “say things that are difficult to say,” like David once told me, because if you don’t, they fester and become much bigger problems. I think those two things are the glue that have kept Graham and me together—and hopefully, will keep us together over the long haul.

  In a few weeks, it’ll be too late to change any of the things we’ve tried to say in these pages, and I’m sure some of them will make us cringe later. We’ll wish we said it better, or maybe not said some things at all. We’ll realize we missed things we should’ve included.

  All we can hope is that what we’ve written helps other people talk more openly about their own lives—that it gets easier to tell a friend that they’re struggling with a drug problem, or admit that their child is using heroin, or say at a dinner party, “My brother is in prison.” And maybe it’ll change how some people think about addicts, and people with criminal records, and immigrants.

  That’s why we wrote this book, and right now, anxious about what’s going to happen once it’s out in the world, we hope that it will have been worth it.