We All Fall Down

by Nic Sheff

  “No,” he almost whispers. “No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry it’s so hard. I’m sorry you keep having to go through this. I understand now, Nic, I really do. I hate that you have this illness. But I know it’s an illness. I don’t take it personally anymore. We all get it—Karen, the kids—all of us. We just want to help in any way we can.”

  “You are helping,” I tell him. “I mean, you’ve just helped me so much. You did everything right. Man, you’ve really learned a lot from all this book stuff, huh?”

  He laughs. “Well, so have you. I can’t believe how easy this was. In the past you would have blown up at me and then totally shut off. You’ve made a ton of progress, Nic, whether you can see that or not. I mean, honestly, it might seem like you keep falling down again and again. But really, from the outside, I can see that when you fall now, you’re really not falling anywhere near as far down as you used to. It’s like you still make mistakes, but you’re learning how not to make as bad mistakes—as often. You are getting better, Nic, I promise.”

  I laugh along with him at that. “Yeah, well, I guess that’s something.”

  The ferry has slowed and stuttered, and when we look off to the side, I can see the harbor coming up fast. Above us the sun is obscured behind drifting clouds, and I notice that the reflection of the boat and the other world has vanished completely. The parallel reality is gone, and I’m stuck back here, trapped by the decisions I’ve made and the circumstances of my life. But as the ferry eases in to the dock and my dad puts an arm around my shoulder, I realize that, suddenly, this reality doesn’t seem all that bad after all. I feel hope—you know, genuine hope. And I owe that entirely to my dad and all the hard work he’s done trying to understand my alcoholism or addiction or whatever. It’s kind of amazing, right?

  So we walk together to the rental car, and I hold his hand, and I feel truly excited for the first time in… man, forever. As hard as it’s gonna be, I actually feel like I can do it, and there’s a weightlessness in me—a calm—a serenity. Even the fact that I’m about to have to lie my ass off in front of all these people at the rehab doesn’t seem all that bad. I mean, I know it’s fucked up, but the guilt isn’t tearing me apart like it used to. Anyway, it’s just one lie. And in a lifetime full of millions, I guess one isn’t all that bad. At least I’m pretty damn used to it by now.

  Ch.35

  It took about ten phone calls, but I finally did find a psychiatrist here in LA who sounded pretty cool. I mean, all I had to go on was a brief phone conversation, but, uh, I don’t know, this woman just seemed like a good fit is all. I can’t totally explain it—other than to say that, uh, yeah, I got a good feeling from her. Plus, she’s young and works specifically with addicts. And she’s a she, which has always been more comfortable for me.

  But, anyway, we met the other day and, man, she really is awesome. I just respect everything she says so completely, and she was totally cool about not pressuring me about twelve-step stuff at all—even going so far as to say that a lot of addicts in recovery don’t relate to the program and I shouldn’t feel bad or evil or doomed to failure. Hell, that’s tantamount to heresy at every rehab I’ve ever been to, so I respect her not looking at everything as so goddamn black and white.

  In terms of meds, well, she’s starting me out on a kind of intimidating regimen of lithium, Lamictal, and Prozac. It’s a lot of meds, for sure, but she definitely feels like I’ve been goin’ around untreated way too long. So I’m going through the little sample packs of each medication, trying not to get my hopes up, but, you know, feeling hopeful just the same.

  The whole medication thing is pretty fucking annoying, too, ’cause it’s so hard to tell whether the shit’s working or not. I mean, it’s not like taking a hit of E, or whatever, where suddenly everything is all bright, shiny rainbows. It’s subtle. It doesn’t bring me up at all. If anything, it just makes the lows not as low as they would’ve been in the past. And the lithium, well, it really has started to even me out a whole lot. My obsessive racing thoughts have chilled way the fuck out. And these crazy, delusional fantasies compelling me to run off with cult girls or ex-girlfriends or all that shit have eased up as well. Not that it’s perfect or anything. I’m still pretty nutter butter, as Zelda would say, but it’s getting better… all the time.

  Of course, I’d like to say that as soon as I got back from that speaking gig in BC, I took the rest of the medical marijuana I had and flushed it down the toilet or something, but that’s just not the case. Instead, I basically smoked through the rest of it as fast as I could, telling myself it was kind of like saying good-bye or some bullshit—like I needed closure. So for about a day and a half, I was in a total stoned-out haze. I cried a lot and got pretty goddamn scared thinking about giving that shit up. But once it was gone, it was gone. I haven’t gone to get more, and I’d like to think I’m not gonna.

  I don’t know, the way I look at it right now is that, no matter what, if I want to actually live a good life, someday I’m going to have to do this hard-ass fucking work of getting clean and figuring out all my shit. But the longer I wait, the more fucked-up shit I will have done, and the more damage I will’ve caused, so it’ll just be that much more difficult to get clean and start all over again. I mean, the truth of it is, if I don’t do it now, it’s gonna keep getting worse and worse. So, uh, yeah, I might as well get it over with, right?

  And I am.

  I’m getting it over with as best as I can.

  In fact, I’m even starting an outpatient program today, so, yeah, I really am trying this time. The group is run out of a place on Santa Monica Boulevard and, I gotta say, it sounds pretty all right. First of all, it meets only twice a week, so it’s not too intense, and by some miracle, it isn’t twelve-step-based at all. Not only that, but the other people in the group are right around my age, so hopefully we’ll be able to relate all right.

  There’s a cool wind blowing off the ocean today as I ride up Santa Monica Boulevard on this old beach cruiser I got for fifty bucks. Actually, it’s kind of ironic or whatever, ’cause the outpatient building is literally half a block from this pharmacy I used to go to ’cause they’d sell you syringes without a prescription or anything. And, even more ironic still, that pharmacy is literally two stores down from the Los Angeles twelve-step store where they sell all the twelve-step literature and medallions and cheesy bumper stickers and whatever. So between both personas I adopted when living in LA—the twelve-step zealot and the hopeless drug addict—it’s pretty safe to say I’m more than familiar with this particular area. Plus, my mom’s office building is just a couple of blocks over, on Wilshire.

  So, anyway, yeah, I’m riding this shitty-ass bike up from Mar Vista, where I’m actually living back with Sue Ellen again. I don’t know, the way I figure it, since obviously a lot of my behavior was a result of my untreated mental illness—and the fact that I was using—maybe our problems were just sort of a casualty of all that bullshit. I mean, it seems like it’s worth trying it again—even if, well, it does kind of seem like too much damage has been done to ever go back. Already I’ve caught her going through my text messages and reading my e-mails. I don’t have anything to hide at this point, but, uh, still—it carries over to the way she’s treating me in general—suspicious, angry, pretty fucking mean, actually. I know she’d be better off moving on. But unfortunately she just doesn’t see it that way. It’s like, you know, she’s really scared to try ’n’ make it without me. And I guess I owe it to her to give her what she wants. I know I need to be there for her like she’s been there for me. So, uh, here we are.

  But I’m definitely looking forward to meeting some new people at outpatient. In a way I almost feel like I’m starting kindergarten for the first time—you know, excited and nervous—ready with my new set of crayons and Rainbow Brite lunch box. I lock my bike up to a NO PARKING sign and walk over to the front entrance.

  The building is basically shaped like a square doughnut, with the hole in the middle being used
as a kind of atrium with palm trees and wooden benches and ferns and other faux tropical plants and flowers. Dark wood paneling lines the walls and balconies, and everything is laid out long and horizontal, like the whole place was built as a set piece for The Brady Bunch. I’m practically expecting the different doctors and whoever is renting the little offices to come marching out in unison with their flared pants legs, singing “It’s a Sunshine Day.”

  Which it is. I mean, sunshiney.

  Anyway, I guess I’m maybe a little scared about going in right away or something, so I decide to smoke a cigarette really fast, even if that means coming in a minute or so late. But, uh, in LA—I mean, especially in West LA—anytime I smoke a goddamn cigarette, there’s always someone who comes by deliberately coughing and acting all obnoxious, so I make my way around the side of the building to steer clear of any self-righteous yuppies coming back from their yoga classes with their chakras all aligned or whatever, ready to defend their precious, perfect lungs. So, yeah, I walk around to the side of the building and light a cigarette and then practically run right into this kid standing there smoking his own cigarette and looking like he’s probably here for the same group as I am.

  “Sorry, man,” I tell him. “I’m kinda dazed out right now—and, uh, nervous. Are you here for the Matrix thing?”

  He nods and smiles, taking off his black Wayfarer sunglasses and reaching out to shake my hand. “Yeah, I’m Justin,” he says. “And I actually know who you are. My mom brought me to come see you and your dad speak at the Starbucks in Westwood. It was pretty cool. I enjoyed it, for sure.”

  I thank him and make some joke about how I’m sorry he had to sit through our stupid talk. Then we kinda just talk back and forth about whatever—how much clean time we both have—where we live—what we do for money—all that. Turns out he manages an apartment complex in East Hollywood—which is actually surprising to me, considering he looks pretty young—I mean, even younger than I am. But, still, I’m definitely intrigued by the fact that he might be able to help me find a place to live. That is, if I were to ever get to that point. Anyway, it’s not like that’s the only reason I keep talking to him. He really seems kind of amazing—even in just this short amount of time. He’s supersweet and insightful and, I don’t know, introspective… maybe even wise. Plus, he’s, like, really into movies and books and music and stuff, so that’s cool for me. He actually tells me that he’s going to see a screening of that old ’80s movie The Lost Boys at the Nuart after group, and he invites me to go along.

  “Oh, man, totally,” I say. “I’d fucking love that. I watched that movie, like, a thousand times when I was little.”

  “Yeah, me too. Anyway, I was gonna just go by myself, so that’s awesome. Literally every single one of my friends is still using, so I don’t really have anyone to hang out with anymore. Plus, I’m super awkward when I’m sober.”

  “Nah, you’re not awkward at all,” I tell him, stamping out my cigarette on the ground. “And I’m totally down to hang out with you. I’m trying to stay as far away from my girlfriend as possible right now, so it’s perfect. And, besides, I don’t know, I get a really good feeling from you. I mean, I’m having an easier time talking to you than I have anyone in a long-ass time.”

  I smile and then feel kind of embarrassed suddenly that I said that. Not that it’s a lie, or anything. I do really like this kid already, but I think I might be freaking him out a little.

  “Yeah, you too,” he says, smiling sweetly—playing sort of absently with his long, sun-bleached hair. “For sure.”

  “All right, then, cool. Should we go up to group?”

  He nods and I follow him inside, the two of us still talking a whole lot while we climb a couple flights of concrete stairs to the third floor. It’s kinda far-out, you know—meeting this kid. I mean, already I really like him—and that’s definitely saying something, since I suck at making friends when I’m sober—especially with other guys. Anyway, it’s a good start, right? And a good way to start this whole outpatient thing, for sure.

  Of course, we’re late walking into the group, but they all kinda stop for us ’cause I’m new and I have to introduce myself and all. So I do that real quick, and everyone tells me “hey,” and then I finally look around for the first time.

  The group leader is a very striking, tall, thin, blond, Eastern European–looking woman who sits very straight and talks like she’s narrating one of those guided-meditation tapes. The rest of the people are all, like I said, right around my age—more girls than guys—which is definitely fine by me. There’s actually this one girl here who says she relapsed this weekend on heroin but has cleaned up again and is asking for the group’s support—which is totally surprising to me, since every other outpatient I’ve ever been to will kick you out immediately if you relapse. But the way they see it here is that relapse does happen, and they just want people to pull themselves out of it as fast as they can. So, basically, the group is here to help them no matter what, not to penalize or whatever. It’s pretty great. I mean, I’ve definitely been in positions where I’ve relapsed and wanted to get help, but I knew it was too late and I was already gonna get kicked out, so I just decided to go all the way. Hearing this girl tell her story and watching the group leader and the rest of the group doing their best to support her is really inspiring. And, you know, again, just like meeting Justin, this definitely seems like a good start to the whole outpatient thing.

  I don’t know, it’s like things just seem to be making sense suddenly—like I’m on the right path or whatever. And, I mean, it’s gonna be slow, for sure, but somehow that seems like the only way this is ever gonna work. My whole life I’ve been looking for the easy way out. It’s like I’ve been wearing those little plastic water wings, pretending that I could swim but never actually taking the time to learn how. So here I am, twenty-four years old, and I can’t even swim. The water wings are gone, and I’m sinking—I’m going down and I’m gonna die if I can’t get someone to teach me how to swim. In the past, of course, I’d be too damn ashamed or proud to ask for help. Instead, I’d just keep going back for the water wings ’cause I couldn’t survive without them. But now, man—now I’m finally asking for help. And I really do believe that this psychiatrist I’m working with and this outpatient program are the right ones to teach me how to swim—genuinely—with no shortcuts or hidden flotation devices. I think it’s gonna work—I know it will.

  I’m moving on.

  I sit in group, listening and sharing—talking a lot to that girl who just relapsed last weekend. At the break I bring up Justin’s whole Lost Boys idea, and there’re actually a bunch of kids interested in coming with us.

  “Man,” says Justin, talking kinda secretively to me. “I don’t know how you’re able to talk to everyone like you do. I’m way too shy to just open up like you do.”

  I laugh. “Are you kidding? I’m super shy and, anyway, you talked to me just fine. But, uh, no, I’m terrified talking to people. Do you mind me inviting ’em?”

  He shakes his head. “No, it’ll be fun.”

  “It will be fun,” I say.

  We head back inside, but I’m quiet now, just thinking about what Justin said. It is true that I feel more comfortable being around people—more comfortable than I ever have in my whole life. And, honestly, I couldn’t tell you why. It’s almost as if everything I’ve been through these past few years has actually left me with a sense of confidence about myself. It’s almost like I’m not really minding being me anymore. I feel kinda good about who I am. I mean, it’s freakin’ me out. I don’t feel afraid. And I’m not even sure what the hell to do with that.

  Ch.36

  Well, it’s almost over. I mean, it’s hard to believe. Three months have gone by, and Sue Ellen’s internship is over, so we’re supposed to be going back to Charleston on Monday—an idea that really terrifies me. I’m not sure what it is, exactly, except to say that for me, going back to Charleston feels like going back to shooting hero
in. Of course, it would be the easiest thing to do. I wouldn’t have to worry about being alone or running out of money or outpatient groups and random UAs. I’d be able to start using again, and no one would have to know or try ’n’ stop me. John Lennon says that “living is easy with eyes closed.” Well, going back to Charleston would be like stapling my goddamn eyes shut. And it would be easy—safe and easy.

  But, honestly, I’m not sure that’s what I want anymore. As much of a fucking pain in the ass both therapy and outpatient are, I still can’t help believing that staying committed to the work will really help me learn how to live without needing to get high. I believe they’re teaching me to love myself and to love other people. Already I feel like I’ve become super close to almost all the people there—especially Justin and that girl who’d just come back from relapsing—Dylan is her name. Not only that, but I have this awesome connection with my psychiatrist, and I feel a whole lot more stabled out from all the meds. So, yeah, as much as I’m afraid not to go back to Charleston with Sue Ellen, I almost feel like I’m even more afraid not to stay here. I mean, I think I’m really changing. Or, at least, I think I’m finally ready to change.

  And today, driving back on the PCH with Tallulah—the churning green and blue ocean on our right and the dry, cracking canyons on our left—I can’t help but think how miserable it will be for Tallulah to have to go back to the South. She loves the beach so much. And she loves hiking up in the mountains. She loves the dog parks here. She’s gotten so much better about strangers and other dogs since being here. Charleston is a dirty swamp. There are almost no places to take her off leash, and there are crazy bloodsucking flies and fleas and ticks everywhere. She’s so much better off now. This is really a great life for her.

  But, of course, it’s not just about Tallulah. This is a great place for me, too. I’m building a life. I’m taking direction. I’m doing it right this time—starting with a solid foundation and working up little by little. I feel alive, you know? Whereas before I was just drifting in this sort of half sleep—numbing everything out with drugs and TV and endless daydreaming about the way things could be or should be. I spent my whole life just killing time—waiting and waiting—waiting for something to change, even though I had absolutely no idea what that might be. I waited for the day to end. I waited in fear for the next day to begin. I waited and waited and waited and lied to myself that magically it would be all right.