We All Fall Down

by Nic Sheff

  When we get back to the apartment, Sue Ellen is full of questions for me, of course. She paces back and forth across the imitation hardwood floor, shouting and demanding to know when and why I started talking to Zelda again, whether I’ve gone to see her, why I’m such a hopeless piece of shit.

  “God, you are such a failure,” she says. “You think you can make it without me? Ha. You can’t make it without me. You and her are gonna start shooting up again, and then you’ll OD and die, and the only people who’ll come to your funeral are your mom and dad. No one else cares about you. They all think you’re a selfish loser. You think Russell actually likes you? You think these people in LA give a shit about you? The only reason they invite you to stuff is because you got published. They aren’t your real friends. They like you because you’re a writer and you’ve been on TV. They are all whores just feeding off you. But then, you should know all about that, since you’re a bigger whore than all of them put together. You call yourself a writer, but you and I both know that’s a joke. Writers use their imagination to create stories. All you did was whore yourself out—like some circus freak show geek boy or something. You’re a train wreck. People are interested in you ’cause they wanna see how far down you’re gonna fall. It’s entertaining for them. And they’re rooting for you to keep ruining your life—which you obviously are.”

  I watch her face as it keeps turning deeper shades of red, like her whole head might pop off. Her voice is growing hoarse from yelling so much, but she still won’t let up. My head pounds. Suddenly all I want is to go to sleep. I want to curl up and sleep forever—hidden away in a tight space somewhere, like between the bed and the wall. I could fall right asleep if she’d just let me.

  But she won’t and I don’t. I stand up and walk into the tiny kitchen, taking out the new jar of that blueberry herb and packing a bowl. I hit it long and hard.

  “Oh, sure, yeah, of course,” she says, yelling through clenched teeth. “Just smoke more pot, that’s really great. God, you’re such a hypocrite, lying to everyone about what a little angel you are. I mean, Nic, you are not sober. Don’t you get that? You smoke pot because you’re a drug addict who’s too much of a pussy to deal with real life. You lie and you lie and you lie to me and you lie to yourself. You are a liar, Nic, that’s what you are. You lie so much you don’t even know the difference anymore. This is the end, you got that? From now on you can’t use my car, and I won’t pay for anything. You’re gonna stay right here all day when I’m at work, and then you’re gonna spend every night with me until we get back to Charleston. I’m sick of your shit. Do you understand me?”

  “Uh, yeah, I understand.”

  I take another hit and then stuff the herb and the pipe into my pocket. Immediately I go grab my suitcase and start packing it.

  Sue Ellen screams and cries so horribly I’m actually scared. “No! No! You cannot go. Don’t do this, please, Nic, please. You don’t have to do this.”

  It takes me less than a minute to get a bag together. I hoist it onto my shoulder and put Tallulah on the leash.

  “Wait a minute,” she whines. “Wait.”

  I get the door open and then speak to her, very quiet and even. “Look. I’m gonna go to my mom’s for a couple nights. I have that speaking thing in Washington this weekend, so let’s just take this time apart. I’ll call you when I get back on Sunday. But, listen, this really is the best thing for both of us. I agree with everything you said. I do. And I can see now that you’d be better off without me.”

  Tears come streaming down her face. “No,” she says, gritting her teeth again. “That’s fucking bullshit. And there’s no way I’m letting you take Tallulah. I don’t trust you with her. You’re going down, Nic. It’s obvious. And I don’t want Tallulah around you and that crack whore.”

  I have to say, I do sort of panic at that. My breath catches, and I feel the muscles in my back and shoulders tighten.

  “She’s my dog,” I say, my voice cracking like I might cry. “She’s the only thing I’ve got. I would never, ever put her in danger. You know how much she means to me. I couldn’t take not being with her. So you better not fight me for her. I said I’d call you on Sunday, and I will call you on Sunday. There’s nothing more to discuss.”

  And so I walk out of there, with Tallulah pulling on the leash, both of us real happy to be outside.

  It’s just about a fifteen-minute walk to my mom’s temporary place on the canals, so I call her on the way and basically tell her I’m coming over. She sounds excited, actually. I mean, I think she gets kind of lonely being on her own. She greets us at the door when we get there and tells me she’s sorry, and I thank her over and over. It’s pretty cool, you know, how my mom’s really started being there for me, ’cause it definitely hasn’t always been this way. But she’s good to me and Tallulah, offering us food and making up the spare bed. She even stays up talking with me for about an hour, listening to my complaining and venting and whatever. She gives Tallulah treats and tells me everything’s gonna be all right. I’m not sure I believe her, but I appreciate it just the same.

  Eventually, though, she goes up to bed, and I go into the bathroom to brush my teeth while Tallulah waits outside the door.

  Now, I swear, I had absolutely no intention of rummaging through my mom’s stuff or anything. But I did realize I forgot to bring toothpaste, so I open a couple drawers, trying to find where the hell she might keep hers. And I do. I do find toothpaste. I find toothpaste and a bottle of Klonopin and a bottle of Darvocet.

  “Oh, thank God,” I say out loud, quickly popping one of the Klonopins and two of the Darvocets. It really is like a miracle to find that shit. My heart’s been racing so fast for the last few hours I feel like it might explode at any second. So, yeah, I take the painkillers, of course, and pocket a few for tomorrow or whenever.

  I go lie down in bed, and Tallulah curls up all pressed against me.

  “Well,” I whisper, looking up at the painted wood ceiling, “looks like it’s just you and me now, girl. But don’t worry, things are gonna be better from here on out, I promise. I’ll figure everything out. You deserve a good life, Tallulah. And, hell, maybe I do, too. We deserve to be happy, right? I mean, everybody does.”

  My hand scratches absently at her ear as she drifts off to sleep and is immediately snoring loudly.

  “We can do this,” I tell her. “I know we can. I’m gonna get clean again and then we’ll get our own place and we’ll go to the beach all the time and go hiking and I’ll actually make some friends and it’ll be all right, you know? It’ll be all right.”

  I close my eyes and hold them shut tight.

  The pills are hitting me now.

  They flood my brain with warmth and pleasure.

  “Tallulah,” I say again, “don’t worry about a thing, girl, we’re gonna be just fine.”

  I roll onto my side.

  As the pills make it all better.

  And for the first time I can remember, I actually believe everything I’m saying.

  I believe I can do it on my own.

  So long as I never have to come down.

  Ch.34

  The water is gray and still and clear—reflecting the sky and sun and fast-moving clouds in a perfect mirror image—like a parallel world—an upside-down reality. The approaching islands of dense evergreen forest existing both above and below. The ferryboat carrying us passengers in both this world and the other—each one of us replicated in the glassy water—as though we’re inhabiting two separate dimensions at the same time.

  Of course, I am here.

  My dad is with me and we’re standing on the deck.

  While our reflected selves stand inverted in the water down below.

  I wonder if maybe, living in that reality, somehow things are different. Maybe down in that world I haven’t been taking Klonopin for the last three days, almost completely depleting my mom’s supply. Maybe I haven’t been smoking weed this whole time. Maybe I never used Sue Ellen fir
st as a way to distract myself from Zelda and then as a meal ticket, only to completely betray her now that I don’t need her anymore. Maybe I never tried to get back together with Zelda even though I know I need to finally move forward with my life. Maybe I never lied to everyone during the whole book tour thing, saying I was sober when I so was not. Hell, maybe in that world I don’t hate myself.

  ’Cause, I mean, isn’t that what this is really all about? I hate myself. I truly hate myself. But, in the end, you know, fuck, I always end up right where I am now—powerless, strung out, crushed beneath the fallen wreckage of the people I’ve hurt and the damage I’ve caused. It’s all so obvious, you know? But somehow when I’m in the middle of it, I can never see what the fuck I’m doing. I find myself like I am now, coming down off my last Klonopin, standing on the deck of a ferry with my dad on the way to go talk about sobriety to a bunch of kids at a rehab off the coast of British Columbia. It’s the center’s, like, twentieth anniversary or something. So besides all the kids in treatment there, we’re also going to be speaking to all the donors and staff and alumni and, you know, other people who are paying big money to attend the event. And here I am, their little poster boy for recovery, who had to hit the bowl a couple times this morning just to wake up.

  I stare down at the water and wish so hard I could just trade places somehow with myself in the reflection.

  “You okay?” I ask him, putting my hand on his shoulders.

  He turns to face me directly. “Yeah, I am,” he says, looking at me sort of searchingly. “Are you?”

  I tell him, “Yeah, I guess,” though I can’t quite look at him when I say it.

  “You, uh, you know that if there’s anything you need to talk about, I mean, anything at all, I’m here for you, okay? You don’t have to worry about me judging you or getting mad at you or anything. I promise, you can tell me and I won’t freak out.”

  I stare down at the sandpaper floor, smeared with dried salt and bird shit. “Did Sue Ellen call you?”

  My dad puts his hands on my shoulders, holding tight. “I’m sorry, Nic, I didn’t know whether to say anything or not. But I just figured, well, if someone called and told me you were carrying around a loaded gun, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I didn’t try to do something. Of course, I wanted to hear your side of the story. I know Sue Ellen’s in a really bad place right now, so I could see her trying to attack you in any way she can. Still, I just, well, when she told me, it seemed like it fit is all. I mean, it is true, isn’t it? You have started smoking pot again?”

  I still can’t look at him. Shame almost drops me to my knees. I try to keep breathing. “Dad, I… it’s not what you think. I… I’ve been smoking pot now and then for the last two years. But it doesn’t seem like a problem anymore. I swear. I just do it occasionally with my friends and stuff. It was scary at first, you know, ’cause I thought maybe it would lead to hard drugs again, but it hasn’t. I’ve been able to control it. That sounds like a cliché, maybe. I mean, I get that it’s hard to believe. But, the truth is, I don’t seem to have a problem with it anymore. The only reason Sue Ellen’s telling you now is ’cause she’s trying to force me to come back to her. Do you understand?”

  My eyes dart up for a second and, yeah, I mean, I can see he’s crying now.

  “I know that, Nic, I know that’s why she called. But, still, you have to understand how scary this is for me.”

  I nod slowly. “Of course. I know. That’s the reason I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you to worry needlessly.”

  “I understand that, too,” he says quietly. “I do. But it just seems like such a bad idea to me. I mean, even if it doesn’t lead you to harder stuff, isn’t that a risk that’s really not worth taking? Think of how much you have to lose now. Think of Tallulah and having to give her up. I know how much she means to you.”

  I try to answer back something reassuring right away, but my voice cracks, and I’m tearing up suddenly. “It is worth it, though,” I say through the blur of stinging teardrops. “It is worth it. I mean, everything is so hard. Pot’s like the one thing that gets me through it. I feel so lost and out of control. I don’t know what the hell to do. And I feel like the only answer anyone ever has for me is to, you know, go back to meetings—get a sponsor—work the steps. That shit doesn’t work for me, Dad. I’ve tried and tried, but I just don’t feel anything when I’m there. So then I’m left with no other option except to keep numbing out. You have to understand, I don’t know what else to do.”

  My dad pulls me toward him, wrapping his arms around me and holding me tight like that. “I do understand, Nic. As much as any outsider ever will, I do understand. And I want you to know that I really do trust you to figure out whatever you think is best for you. I’ve tried controlling your decisions in the past, and I realize that was wrong. So I really am going to leave it up to you to decide what you need and don’t need. For my part, I will help you in any way I can, if you need referrals for treatment options or psychiatrists. As it is, you’re not seeing anyone right now, are you?”

  I struggle to get my words out. “A psychiatrist? No. I haven’t seen anyone since leaving Safe Passage Center.”

  “Nic, you’re kidding. So you’re not on any medication?”

  “Uh, no. I mean, I didn’t have any money, so I couldn’t afford to go see anybody.”

  “Well, Nic, I don’t mean to tell you your business, but weren’t you diagnosed with bipolar disorder? Didn’t you write about that in your book?”

  “Yeah, but, uh, I didn’t have any money to follow up on it.”

  “But you do now,” he says, pushing my hair back out of my eyes for me. “And you’ve got insurance now, right? Well, don’t you think that some of what you’ve been going through might have to do with the bipolar stuff? I mean, I feel like it has to be connected. The way you’ve been acting, it really seems very manic to me. And I know you go into some pretty intensely deep depressions, right?”

  I pause for a moment just trying to remember—or think—or something.

  God, I mean, could that really be it? I have been really manic recently—like there’s a sports-car engine opened full throttle inside me.

  The lows go so low, and the highs go so high.

  And, man, I remember when I was diagnosed with bipolar the last time, the doctor talked to me about how people in a manic state can suffer delusions that they are in direct contact with God and are being given specific messages about what to do and where to go. Basically, it’s exactly what’s been happening to me this last month and a half. I’ve been totally delusional—practically hearing voices in my head—getting high off these delusions of grandeur—racking up an eight-hundred-dollar phone bill.

  It’s so obvious, and I feel so stupid. But I guess I really just didn’t take the diagnosis seriously. I mean, I’m pretty disdainful of the way doctors seem to slap labels on practically everyone who walks in their doors. The last thing I wanted was to be playing right into the hands of the pharmaceutical companies, convinced I have all these disorders of which only their medication can cure me. Hell, I watch TV. I see how almost every other ad is for some new prescription drug designed to combat ailments I never even knew existed. Fucking bipolar disorder, narcissistic personality disorder, borderline personality disorder, restless legs syndrome, varying degrees of autism, ADD, ADHD, OCD. It’s like doctors have gone fucking diagnosis simple these days. And there was no way I was gonna fall victim to that shit.

  But the thing of it is, well, now that I’ve had some time to sit with the diagnosis—you know, just trying to evaluate whether it seems accurate, or whatever—I guess I’ve gotta say that the shoe pretty much fits. I mean, everything about my behavior is straight outta the goddamn DSM. I mean, not that it’s any kind of excuse, or the answer to all my problems, but it does make a whole lot of sense. In fact, so much so that I suddenly can’t help but burst out laughing.

  My dad jumps back a little—startled, or frightened, or I don’t know
what. His face kind of freezes in what looks like total confusion. But I, uh, I can’t stop laughing. I mean, I feel like I’m just about to split open, I’m laughing so hard.

  I laugh and laugh and laugh, and then suddenly my dad is laughing, too, and we laugh together until finally he says, “What the hell are we laughing about?”

  My body’s all doubled over, and I’m gasping to try ’n’ get a hold of myself.

  “It’s just… I… I can’t believe I never put it together. I’m such a fucking idiot.”

  “Yeah, well,” he says, laughing a little more. “I won’t argue with you there. But, hey, now that you’re in LA, maybe I can ask some of the researchers I interviewed at UCLA if they have a good doctor they can recommend. Do you want me to try that?”

  I smile at him. “Oh, man, that would be so great.” I pause for a minute. “You know, wouldn’t it be awesome to find a doctor I actually really like? I mean, someone whose opinion I could respect. I’ve never once had any kind of connection with anyone I’ve ever worked with, so it’s no wonder I never cared what they had to say. Maybe this time I’ll wait till I find somebody I can be excited about working with. That seems like it might make a difference, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, Nic, I do. I really do.”

  “And maybe I could even get into an outpatient program. That’d be a really great way to start meeting people, plus I’d get drug-tested once a week.”

  My dad has tears in his eyes again, but in a different sort of way. “That would be wonderful. I think that’s a great idea. I’ll make some calls as soon as we get back.”

  I hug him and thank him and tell him how much I love him. For some reason, I actually feel pretty excited about everything. I’m excited to start getting better. I’m excited to move forward. I feel hopeful, suddenly. I’m not sure where that’s coming from.

  “Dad,” I say, looking off at the horizon again, “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”