by Nic Sheff
Now, this is a fucked-up thing to admit, but I suddenly realize that, uh, I’m starting to get sort of aroused. I mean, enough so that if I have to stand up right now, it’s gonna be pretty embarrassing—even if it does seem to be somewhat of a miracle.
Ever since going into detox, I haven’t so much as stirred down there even once. I guess part of me figured that after having been with Zelda, you know, I wasn’t ever going to be attracted to anyone else. I mean, Zelda was the exact combination of all things built to satisfy completely every aspect of my sexual template. Just ask goddamn Melonie; she’ll tell you. It’s got all sorts of shit to do with my mother moving away when I was little—about my need to save her from her fucked-up relationship with my stepdad—you know, all that Freudian shit—for whatever it’s worth. The bottom line is, Zelda marked me deep.
But feeling this sudden, visceral attraction to the new girl, well, it’s pretty cool. I mean, maybe I actually will be able to move on from Zelda. All I need is a girl like Sue Ellen in my life to help me forget. It’s simple, really. I’m not sure why the hell I never thought of this before. Sue Ellen might just be the goddamn miracle I’ve been looking for.
So I listen to her story.
She talks fast, like she’s trying to get it all out before she even has to think about what she’s saying.
It’s a story I’ve heard before.
I mean, it’s the same story millions of girls could tell.
She was going to school out in California—college, that is—studying art. You know, illustration. It was the middle of her sophomore year. She was sharing a small house off campus with some other girls. Well, basically her friends started partying all the time, and she was surrounded by all these drunk-ass people. It spiraled out of control. She wouldn’t tell me what happened, exactly; she just said she felt pissed off and alone. Her friends turned against her.
Sue Ellen had never felt she was popular anyway.
So she was left with absolutely nobody.
She’d had this idea that college was gonna be about learning, and that the other students were going to be all excited about knowledge and ideas. Instead it turned into a free-for-all. She couldn’t relate to any of it. And she began to feel more and more like there had to be something wrong with her—like she was the mistake, like she was the fucked-up one. And so she withdrew even further into herself.
She transferred to a local art school in Charleston. She moved in to her own place there. She started smoking pot and drinking more—hanging out with any guy who’d give her even the slightest bit of attention. She spiraled, destructed, dropped out of her classes. And finally, just before Christmas, at home with her family, she decided she couldn’t take it anymore. She wanted to disappear. She wanted to make it all disappear.
She lay in her bed.
Quiet.
Waiting.
The struggle of living life just didn’t seem like it was worth it anymore.
“I try to look at everything as a cost-benefit ratio,” she says, pulling her knees up closer against her chest. “And at that point, the cost was definitely outweighing the benefit.”
So she thought about how she could make it go away.
She was ready.
But her mom sensed something—she was worried about her.
“She lives her whole damn life in denial,” Sue Ellen tells me. “But at that point, even she couldn’t deny what was happening to me.”
And so Sue Ellen’s mom was able to convince her to see a doctor.
And it was the doctor who suggested long-term treatment.
Both Sue Ellen and her mom fought the idea at first, but things just kept getting worse.
She was out of options and out of ideas.
She was desperate.
She had nothing left.
And so eventually, finally, she agreed.
She said yes to the doctors and yes to her mom and yes to giving it just one more try.
Anyway, she figured, it couldn’t possibly make things any worse.
So two weeks later she was boarding the plane to Phoenix.
And now here she is—rocking back and forth on the ground next to me.
A girl from Charleston, South Carolina.
I remember something I once wrote about Zelda—something from a short story I’d never shown to anyone.
I wrote that my ultimate sexual fantasy with Zelda was just to hold her while she cried.
It was a fantasy I would later fulfill with her.
Many fucking times.
But here, now—close enough to Sue Ellen to feel her, without really feeling her—I remember that same desire.
I want to hold her.
I want to be there for her.
But for now all I have are my words.
I mean, they’re meaningless, but I speak them anyway.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I mean, fuck—people are such assholes, right? And we’re so goddamn sensitive to it—like we just feel everything so much… more than normal people do. You know what I mean?”
She nods, pulling her knees up tight against her chest.
“And, look,” I tell her, “you don’t have to be ashamed about that shit. I mean, not to freak you out or anything, but when I was younger, I used to be a sex worker… you know? And, man, I couldn’t talk about that with anyone. ’Cause the thing is, for me, hustling wasn’t even really about money. I mean, sure, I was strung out and living in a goddamn park, so it’s not like I had a whole lotta options. But still, you know, more than just the money, it was about trying to feel like I was actually worth something—like, if guys wanted to sleep with me and would even pay me for it, then maybe I’d finally feel beautiful, or confident, or whatever. Of course, that’s not how it worked. I mean, I just ended up hating myself even more after that. Plus I got beat up, raped. I woke up in the ER on life support. And I was so scared all the time, you know, just fucking terrified.”
My voice catches suddenly.
I swallow loudly.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I didn’t mean to start rambling like that. All I’m trying to say is that, you know, as corny as this sounds, you’re not alone. And, I have to say, I really do believe that this place can help. So, anyway, I don’t know, I’m really happy you’re here. And, uh, I’m really happy to have met you. And I guess I just feel this connection with you. And, uh, I really gotta shut up now. I mean, it’s way too early. And I don’t even know what I’m talking about, anyway.”
Thankfully, Sue Ellen laughs at that.
She snorts a bunch of snot up her nose.
She wipes away still-wet tears with the back of her hand.
“No,” she says. “I appreciate it. I really do.” She laughs again. “I mean, thank you. And, uh, I’m glad you’re here, too. Really.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh at that.
“All right, well, enough of that,” I tell her. “Let’s talk about light shit, okay?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Light shit.”
She pushes herself up off the ground—turns—looks back at me. “You coming?” she asks.
I nod.
Our eyes lock together.
I tell myself this is what I want.
I mean, I know it’s the best thing.
We can make it work.
I just know we can.
And everything’s gonna be all right.
Ch.7
When I open the door, the cold rushes immediately into the lodge, as though it had been pounding there the whole time, fighting desperately to smash through the windows—to tear the frames from their hinges—to come flooding in—to drown us all in icy seas—snowcapped waves. As though our world inside should never have existed at all.
I slam the door shut—pull my jacket tight around me—leave footprints in the muddy snow as I trek to the smoke pit.
A whole bunch of us are there, for some reason talking about how terrible Christmas is. Smoking cigarettes, huddled in against ourselves, under the p
rotection of the little wooden shelter.
Sue Ellen is sitting with her legs crossed, rocking back and forth, smoking all exaggerated, like a teenage girl.
“I think this last Christmas of mine has to be recorded in some book as, like, one of the worst Christmases in the history of Christmases,” she says, exhaling through a big O she’s made with her mouth.
She goes on to tell us, first off, that she’s part of a big family, and that her cousin, Lily, who’s twenty-five, announced at Christmas Eve dinner that she was six months pregnant. According to Sue Ellen, the pregnancy was the result of her cousin not wanting this deadbeat, unemployed douche bag to break up with her. Said douche bag had agreed to marry her, but they had nowhere to live and no money. Well, if that didn’t cause enough of an explosion, Sue Ellen’s brother came to the Christmas dinner drunk as shit and then proceeded to get a whole lot drunker. He started yelling at everyone, screaming obscenities, talking about how he knew they all hated him—all this before storming out the door, turning on the car, and driving over the front lawn before screeching out of there. The police called about twenty minutes later—her brother was in custody after having crashed his car into a nearby lake. The punch line of the story was her sister’s husband saying, “Man, this sure beats karaoke.” Which, I guess, is what they usually would’ve done.
Anyway, we’re all laughing super hard at the way Sue Ellen tells the story. And, of course, I can’t help staring at her—her pale skin stinging, red from the cold. I’m staring, staring, and that’s how Melonie catches me. I mean, I didn’t notice her walking up at all.
She clears her throat, and I glance over in immediate terror to see her bundled-up, wide pig face, bordered by a thick black scarf and a black, furry hat.
“Nic,” she says, not smiling at all, her eyes looking at me intensely. “I need to talk to you in my office before group, okay? Can you walk down with me?”
My stomach tightens.
“Is it all right if I finish my cigarette?”
She pauses for a couple seconds.
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “No, you’d better come now.”
I stamp out the rest of my cigarette and then follow Melonie down the hill.
Honestly, I’m not sure what the hell Melonie expects, exactly, when she sits me down and says, “Nic, I want you to tell me the truth now: Is there something going on between you and Sue Ellen?”
I try to make my face look as disgusted as possible.
“What? You mean romantically?”
She nods.
“No way,” I say, kinda loudly. “Not at all. I mean, I think she’s fun to talk to and all, but that’s it. She’s like a little girl, you know? Like my little sister. Besides, I’m not even into girls my age. Believe me, we’re just friends, that’s all. I could so not be interested in her.”
Melonie reclines slightly, and I figure that must be a good sign.
She smiles some.
“Oh, good, Nic, I’m so glad to hear that. But you do understand why I asked, don’t you?”
My shoulders rise and fall. I’m trying to look, what? Incredulous? Something like that.
“Honestly,” I tell her, “not really. I mean, we have been spending a lot of time hanging out, but I figured anyone who had eyes could see all I want is to help her.”
Melonie leans way forward, resting her elbows on her knees. She makes her eyes intense, so it’s like she’s about to drop one of her profound insights on me.
“It sounds to me,” she says, pausing a whole lot like some bad TV actor. “It sounds to me like she reminds you of your mom—or even Zelda. Sue Ellen is just another woman in trouble who you think you can save. I believe you when you say you have no romantic intentions toward Sue Ellen. Still, I can’t help but notice that you’re repeating a similar pattern. You couldn’t rescue your mom, and you couldn’t rescue Zelda, so now you’ve found someone new to reenact your fantasy with—even if it is on a strictly platonic level. Why don’t you check in with yourself and see if that resonates at all?”
I nod my head, okay.
I mean, I gotta say, at this point I’ve definitely been here long enough to know how to handle this. To get all defensive—tell her to fuck off, like I wanna do—is only gonna be taken as an admission of guilt. What I’m supposed to do, if I want it to look like I’ve made progress in the program, is just to accept the feedback, ask myself whether it feels true, and if it doesn’t, just let it go. So, yeah, knowing all that, I just nod my head, saying, “Yeah, okay, I’ll think about that. I mean, that could be playing a part in this, for sure. Right now it doesn’t feel like any of this is even that important, but I’ll take it in, for sure.”
Melonie seems very pleased. I stare at her little baby teeth all lined up straight in a row. She’s smiling real big.
“Good, Nic, good. You know, you’re really making so much progress. I mean, God, when I think about how you were when you first got in here, I can’t even believe you’re the same person. There was a while there where I didn’t think you were gonna be able to make it here. I was honestly thinking about having you committed to lockdown psych ward. But now I just look at you and, I’ll tell you what, Nic, you have single-handedly made me the proudest I’ve ever been in my five years of substance-abuse counseling. I was starting to have doubts about the effectiveness of my work, but you’ve made me see that what I’m doing really is important. You’ve helped me to care again. I’m very grateful to have been able to work with you.”
She laughs. “You’re like a second son to me.”
I laugh at that, too—but mostly ’cause something just started eating away at my stomach lining.
“Yeah, right, the son you never wanted.”
She shakes her head. “No, I’m serious, Nic.”
I look up at her, and she’s smiling with her whole body, and I suddenly can’t help feeling a heat building in my eyes. I mean, she is just a stupid ol’ cow, but still. I feel tears burning down my face. My voice cracks some when I try to speak.
“I’m really grateful for you, too. I mean, you’ve saved my life. I owe everything to you. And, uh, I just… you know… thank you so much.”
Of course, now she’s crying, too.
She stands up and I stand up and we hug each other.
For the first time I actually do feel aware of the progress I’ve made. I mean, even if I keep making mistakes, I’ve still been clean for almost three months—I’ve broken it off with Zelda—I’ve started talking to both my parents again—I’ve made friends here—I’m enjoying my life—sober.
I cry about it.
I mean, I don’t even care how pathetic I must look in front of her.
“Well, good,” says Melonie, wiping her face with a tissue. She sits back down. “Enough of that, right?”
“Right,” I say, both of us laughing.
She rolls up her sleeves and fans herself with her white, pudgy hand like she’s having a hot flash or something.
“So, anyway,” she tells me, struggling for breath suddenly. “Like I said, in regard to this whole Sue Ellen thing, I really do believe you. But the thing is, based on what her counselor’s told me, I’m not so sure Sue Ellen is looking at your friendship in the same way you are. I realize that you are very open and sensitive and caring, but for someone like Sue Ellen, that can open the door for a romantic attachment. You’re a handsome kid, Nic—though I know you don’t think so—and you can be very charismatic. So my worry is less for you and more for Sue Ellen. And her counselor agrees that she may be looking for something more than just friendship and that it’s keeping her from fully engaging in work here.”
I interrupt. “Oh, man, well that’s totally the last thing that I want.”
She continues. “I know, Nic, I know. So that’s why I want you to sign this contract, okay? Saying you and Sue Ellen, at least for the time being, won’t talk to each other, interact in any way—passing notes, whatever—or be in the same room alone together.”
&nb
sp; I tell her I understand. I don’t fight at all. I sign the piece of paper and stand up to leave.
“Thank you so much, Melonie. I mean, for everything.”
She hugs me again, saying, “Thank you.”
I shut the door behind me.
A shiver wraps itself serpentine around my spine.
I walk out into the snow.
* * *
After my conversation with Melonie, I realize I have only a short time before group, so I figure I’d better write some sort of letter to Sue Ellen—just telling her that I’m sorry and that I really do care about her. It seems like the right thing to do.
I hike back up to my cabin, which, thankfully, is empty, so I sprawl out on my plush bed. Honestly, the beds here were, like, the only thing that kept me going the first couple weeks I was here. It was such a relief after coming from detox, where we slept on hospital beds with rubber sheets—freezing always—with only one thin-ass blanket apiece.
But here, yeah, the beds make you never want to get up ever.
I take out one of the composition books I brought with me from LA. The first half is already filled with rambling, repetitive attempts at writing while coked outta my head.
But today I flip straight to a blank page, scribbling Sue Ellen’s name at the top.
I write about how I’m starting to fall for her.
I write about how I’ve made the decision that I want to be with her.
I write about how amazing and strong and beautiful she is. How brilliant. How sensitive.
I even find myself using lines that I clearly remember having written to Zelda when we first started hanging out.
I mean, in a way it feels almost like I am writing all this for Zelda.
Writing to her.
Writing about her.
I substitute the name.
But it’s okay.
I know this is the best thing for both of us.
