by Nic Sheff
The best thing about the weekend was this chef they had working named Bing. I mean, his food was amazing. Oven-fried chicken; baked French toast; quesadillas; pozole; Caesar salad; made-to-order omelets; mozzarella, tomato, and basil salad; ribs. He was fantastic. But also he was just really great to talk to. He told me he was from San Francisco and he worked all over the city—even running a little bakery in Glen Ellen, where I lived when I was three. His face was all smashed in like a boxer’s, so I figure he’d been through a lot. He gave me some encouragement about hanging in there. He was just gentle as hell and I felt like I could really connect with him.
The routine here is pretty simple. I wake up early and eat breakfast and then go to a morning group that lasts until lunch. In the afternoons I go to different groups about chemical dependency, codependency, sexual dependency, or men’s issues. There’s also a class called Living in the Body where we have to do exercises with movement, sort of like yoga. They also have eating disorder groups and body image groups, but I don’t go to those.
Besides all that, I talked to Zelda. She’s in detox and doing all right. This friend of mine, Eric, who was just a pinnacle of sobriety, was in detox with her, so I feel a little better about having relapsed and all.
Zelda is still pretty high and hearing the sweetness of her voice just destroys me. I can’t talk very long. It’s horrible. I want to leave so badly and not use, but just lie in bed and watch movies with her—make love, whatever. I feel very alone. I write her a long letter professing my commitment to her, but it’s all so tiring.
I’m overwhelmed all over again by the reality that I have, in truth, destroyed everything in my life. That weighs on me so heavily. I just keep thinking about how I had everything and I threw it all away. It seems like trying to build it back is an impossible task. I’m not even sure how to begin. I guess just being here in Arizona is a start.
I’m finally meeting with my primary therapist—this woman, Annie. The way it works here is that you have a psychiatrist who does your meds, then there are the people who run your morning group, where each person spends time discussing whatever is bothering them. The name of my group is Serenity. Then there are different therapists who run the afternoon groups.
In addition to these groups, everyone has a main therapist who handles their case. They meet with you individually, though everything you tell them is shared with the entire staff, so there’s no confidentiality. Plus there are these counselor aid people on the grounds twenty-four hours a day who are everywhere and are constantly calling your individual therapist, telling them all the things you’ve been doing that are wrong.
Anyway, it’s complicated.
Annie, my therapist, resembles a large barnyard animal—most specifically a pig wearing way too much makeup. She snorts when she laughs and her butt is wider than her entire body from the waist up. She invites me into her office and I sit down in an uncomfortable office chair. There are motivational slogans on the wall and a few personal photos—mostly of a young boy who’s probably ten or eleven. She introduces herself to me and then asks me to just tell her my history. I try to get through it as quickly as possible.
When I finish she sets about organizing my treatment plan, telling me which of the afternoon groups she wants me to attend.
“I want you to go to chemical dependency and sexual dependency twice a week. I want you to go to anger group and also to the group that helps you discover spirituality.”
I try to tell her I’ve tried all that before.
“Well, obviously it didn’t work, so you better try to get something different out of it this time. This treatment program is all about what you make it. If you put a lot into your recovery, you will reap the benefits. If you skate through here, well, you’re not going to change.”
I’m so sick of this recovery twelve-step psychobabble. There’s just no way I can make it through another round of rehab. It never works and I feel really hopeless about this whole process.
“Look,” I say. “I’ve done this so many times. I don’t think it’s going to make a difference. I can’t stay sober.”
“Yes,” she says. “You can. Maybe you ‘won’t,’ but you absolutely ‘can.’ You know, just watching you I notice how closed off your body posture is. If you’re going to be open to doing this work you need to adopt an attitude of willingness. I want you to put your feet flat on the floor and sit up straight and just breathe quietly for a minute.”
Everything Annie has said to me just sounds like the same old shit, but I comply just to make things easier. I put my feet down and sit with my back arched. I close my eyes and breathe. It does seem to center me slightly.
“Now,” she continues, “I’ve talked to your father and we both agree that we want you to stay here for at least three months to fully immerse yourself in this work. How do you feel about that?”
There’s actually a panic that surges through me when I think about being away from Zelda that long. In three months I imagine that she will forget all about me. I need to get back to her quickly. I remember when she was having the affair with me and she was lying in my bed. Her phone rang over and over, so she finally answered it. I listened to her telling Mike that she was at her sponsor’s house. Her lies were so convincing. I mean, I was literally holding her naked next to me and she was talking on the phone to Mike—telling him “I love you, too,” before hanging up.
Besides, I’m worried that when she gets sober she will finally realize what a total loser I am. I’ve always figured it was just a matter of time till she woke up and asked herself what the hell she was doing with me. I have to get back to Zelda as soon as possible.
However, I know about rehab and all and this whole codependency thing they always talk about. Every program I’ve ever been in has had groups centered around treating codependency. I know that if I talk about my feelings for Zelda, Annie will see it as a sure sign that our relationship is unhealthy. I also know that if I resist her telling me to stay for three months, she’ll say that my addict self just wants to use again and there’ll be no way I can get out of here any sooner. I want to play this rehab game perfectly and I think I’ll be able to do it too, because I’ve been in so many of these goddamn places.
“I’m not sure I need to stay here that long,” I say. “But I’m definitely open to talking about it.”
“Good,” she says. “That’s all I ask. Now, I’ve received reports from several of the therapists and counselor assistants who’ve observed you that you have very leaky sexual energy.”
“What?” I ask, kind of angrily.
“They’ve just told me that they think you come off as being very flirty. You also have sort of an androgynous look about you that is very sexual. Have you ever thought about cutting your hair?”
This all seems to come out of nowhere and really pisses me off.
“Look, just because I’m not some fucking football-loving asshole guy and I’m comfortable with my femininity doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with me.”
“That’s just it,” she tells me. “You don’t seem very comfortable with yourself. I think you use your sexuality to try to control and influence other people. That’s what you did as a sex worker, isn’t it?”
I almost want to cry I’m so frustrated with her.
“This is bullshit. You’re just some hack therapist, not even a doctor, who thinks you know something about addiction ’cause you read some goddamn statistics in a book. Well, I’m not a statistic and I’m never gonna drink the Kool-Aid at this place, so you might as well not even try. I’ve been around some amazing people in my life who’ve inspired me to want to change, but you will never be one of them.”
She just laughs, snorting. “Good, I knew there was some anger in you somewhere,” she said. “Now, from what your father has told me, you don’t have any options other than being here, so, unless you want to hitchhike back to Los Angeles, I suggest you comply with the rules here. Just to test your willingness, I’m gonna put you o
n a no-female contract. That means if you are caught talking to any women, you will have to meet with a panel of therapists. If you do it again, you will be asked to leave. I want you to go to the art room and do some drawings around the feelings our meeting has brought up for you. I want you to draw your anger, okay?”
I don’t know what to say. I feel this heat all in my body. I am so utterly defeated. Annie tells me she’ll see me in two days and I go up and smoke a cigarette, wanting to scream as loud as I can and cry and just go home—home to Zelda.
DAY 590
This morning, when I go to my core group, I notice a huge pile of different stuffed animals, dolls, toys, scattered across the floor. The two facilitators of the group, Wayne and Melissa, ask me if I’d like to do something called Animal Farm. So I have to stand up and walk over into the middle of this pile of toys and things.
I really don’t want to be here and I feel so resistant, but, at the same time, there is a tiny piece of me that does want to change. I’m just afraid it won’t work. Also, I am worried that to really embrace the process here, I will be forced to let go of Zelda. I mean, I hated everything Annie said to me yesterday, but what she said really made me question how much my insecurities have played a role in my acting out. I even began to wonder if my time as a sex worker was more a result of my hunger for acceptance than just needing money. My mind has just been going and going all night long. I feel like at least, since I’m here, I might as well just play along for now. Besides, what Annie said was true. I have no real options.
Anyway, Melissa and Wayne sit together and ask me to go reach down and choose different items to represent things in my life—like my families, my different addictions, traumas, myself, my relationships, all that. Melissa is fat and cherubic, with dimples, rosy cheeks, and a sweetness that is a little overdone. Wayne is so slow and deliberate and gentle that I think he must be really stupid—but the more I actually listen to what he says, I realize he is pretty insightful. He has a long pointy nose and always talks in a loud whisper. It actually snowed last night, but now sunshine reflects through the windows. There are, of course, stupid, obligatory twelve-step slogans all over the walls.
So, first off, Wayne “invites” me to go into the pile and pick out something to be my two families in San Francisco and L.A. I search around for a minute, but he interrupts me.
“Try not to think about it. Just pick things intuitively.”
I nod, getting out this hard plastic alligator to be my stepmom and these two polished stone eggs to be her children. I have her turning away from me and protecting her kids. My dad is a bear of some kind—soft and furry and standing in between me and Karen and the kids. I’m a stuffed cat under a hard hat, with Zelda, a fluffy dog, hidden under there with me. Todd is a plastic tyrannosaurus with gnashing teeth. It goes on like that.
After I finish, people in the group are encouraged to point out what they notice regarding color similarities and placement—whatever. This one girl with a shaved head notices that I’ve used the same animal to represent Zelda and my mom. They are also lying in the same position. Someone else points out that they are even the same color. It is just a coincidence, but it does make me think.
Wayne asks me if I can notice any connections between my mom and Zelda in real life. It actually seems pretty obvious to me.
“Sure, I mean, they are both these sort of unattainable women who I’ve always been afraid of losing. Plus I always wanted to rescue my mom from her husband, and with Zelda, I was sort of able to do that. I mean, I rescued her from her boyfriend, Mike, who reminds me a lot of my stepdad.”
“So,” asks Melissa, “do you think maybe you are reenacting your relationship with your mom with Zelda? And do you think that maybe the fear of abandonment you have with your mom since she moved away when you were so little has transferred to your fear of losing Zelda?”
It makes sense and it’s not really that shocking of a revelation. I’ve been in therapy forever. I don’t think I have that difficult a time recognizing these patterns in my life.
“Yeah,” I say. “I mean, that’s pretty obvious, but what am I supposed to do about it?”
“Just acknowledge it,” says Wayne. “Hopefully someday you will love yourself enough to choose a partner who instills peace in you, not fear. But for now just try and feel it. Try to feel that you may have unconsciously chosen your girlfriend because she is emotionally unavailable, like your mother. Try to experience that feeling in your body. Put your feet flat on the floor, breathe, and let yourself sit with that. You must not like yourself very much if that’s the kind of woman you would choose to marry.”
I’m all curled up on my chair so I try to straighten out. The whole time Wayne was talking I felt really angry and defensive, but as I sit up and push my feet into the ground, I feel just more sad than anything else.
“But I love Zelda more than anything,” I say. “We are meant to be together.”
“That’s true,” says Melissa. “But only so long as you are willing to keep bringing self-hatred to the relationship. If you were to get healthy, to feel good about who you are, I don’t think the two of you would fit so well anymore.”
“And that leaves you with an interesting choice,” says Wayne. “Do you sacrifice your own happiness and feelings of peace in order to have this relationship, or do you start to get well and choose a real life that maybe doesn’t include Zelda?”
This all feels like too much pressure on me and I want them to just move on to somebody else. I don’t look at anyone, but I can feel all their eyes on me.
“I’m happy,” I say. “As long as I can make Zelda happy.”
Everyone is silent. Finally Melissa speaks.
“If that were true, then why did you end up nearly killing yourself with drugs?”
“And,” says Wayne, “from what little you’ve said about Zelda, it sounds like making her happy is an impossible task, so you are just setting yourself up for failure and, frankly, a miserable life.”
“But it’s your choice,” says Melissa.
I want to argue with them, but Melissa tells me just to sit with it all.
“Why don’t you do some drawings around what’s come up for you in group today.”
That seems like their answer for everything. I try to think about what they’ve said, but it’s just too much for me. I can’t even go there right now. All I want to do is smoke a cigarette and not deal with any of this crap. I do want to love myself and not need to seek approval from other people, but that just feels impossible. I’ll never get to that place. If all the other rehabs couldn’t help me, then why should this place be any different?
It isn’t. It won’t be.
I can’t change.
Trying is terrifying because I know I will just fail. But I do want things to be different. I do. If I’m going to live then I have to find something here at the Safe Passage Center to help me. It’s the only chance I have. I know that. But what can that possibly be? I am so afraid. I’m afraid to hope again.
DAY 596
I’ve finally moved out of the Serenity group, transferring into the all-male core group called Empowerment. Annie actually thinks I’m making a lot of progress and I agree, you know? I mean, I have decided to try and that is a big step. I’m not sure what exactly made me start opening up. I guess the will to live is stronger in me than I thought.
The people who lead the Empowerment group are these two complete opposites. The man, Ray, is older—looks like a Hell’s Angel or something, with a long ponytail and Marine Corps tattoos. He is big and surly, but still sweet somehow. The woman who co-leads the group, Kris, well, I like her all right.
I sit down on a worn-out blue couch in the group room. There are signs with the word EMPOWERMENT painted on them all over the walls. Besides me there are five other guys in the group. There’s James and Jim, an older guy named Justice, a kid around eighteen named Henry, and a big Irish guy with a knee brace named Brian. We all take turns checking in. Because i
t’s my first day in group, I have to tell my story for about half an hour—just explaining why I’m in treatment and what I’ve been through. At this point I’m really just trying to be as honest as possible. I still really have my doubts about this place, but I am here and I don’t want to go back to using like I was. So I tell my story as best I can.
When I finish we all go take a cigarette break and then return to the group room so everyone can give me their feedback. I sit nervously on the couch, trying not to look at anyone. Right off Kris asks me to sit straight and make eye contact with everyone individually. I feel very exposed having just told all these strangers everything that’s happened and, for some reason, having to look them in their eyes just makes it all feel more real. By the time I get to Justice I see that he has tears in his eyes and that makes me start crying. I look down at the floor again, but Kris tells me I have to keep going around the circle looking each person in the eye. It is so hard. I just want to disappear, but I follow her directions.
“Good,” says Ray in this gruff voice. “Nic, what was really disturbing to me as you were telling your story was how disconnected you seemed from what had happened. You just described some pretty terrible things, but you talked about them as though they were happening to somebody else. It’s nice to see you feeling it finally.”
“Also,” says Kris, “it was obviously really interesting how much your life has been surrounded by celebrities. The way you talk about it, well, it feels kind of like you’re bragging. I wonder how much your obsession with fame and celebrities contributed to you being so obsessed with your current relationship.”
I feel defensive when she says this and also just very embarrassed.
“I’m not one of those people,” I say, sort of angrily.
“Okay,” says Kris. “Well then, why don’t we try a little experiment. For the rest of your time here, I’m putting you on a no-name-dropping contract. Now, group, I want you to help Nic with this. If you guys notice him talking about any famous people he knows, I want you to remind him to honor his contract.”
