by David Sheff
Nic dotes on Jasper and Daisy as much as ever. One morning, in an impish mood, Nic does his Agnes Moorehead impersonation—the one from Pollyanna—but this time his audience is Daisy.
"Missy, you have a stuffy little nose!"
How often have we been furious with Nic but then have found ourselves disarmed by his kindness and humor? How can both Nics, the loving and considerate and generous one, and the self-obsessed and self-destructive one, be the same person?
Daisy, standing up in an African basket, is furious. "Nic, how did you find me? It's not fair."
As usual, her hiding place was the first to be discovered in a game of sardines. Nic found her curled up in the basket near the bookshelf in the living room. "Stop yer caterwauling," Nic says in a new voice, sort of a piratey brogue. "How many baskets go on singin' songs? Next time keep yer singing to yerself."
The two run outside in search of Jasper and their cousins, who are still hidden. It is the end of summer and the maple leaves are maroon, the roses and hydrangea startlingly white and yellow. The air is brisk, and the kids, in the midst of their game, exhale steam.
Nic, this time imitating Karl Malden, a fire-and-brimstone preacher—again from Pollyanna—bellows at Jasper, "We'll find you, and when we do we'll string you up by your fiddly toes."
"Yeah," Daisy says. "And pour chocolate syrup on your fillily head."
Nic plays with the little kids and it seems as if all is well in our house. After his arrest, this paradox baffles me.
Nic has decided to attend Berkeley. On a warm August afternoon, we pile into the car, and Karen and I, with Jasper and Daisy in tow, drive Nic there to help him settle in. We stop for pizza and then enter the sprawling campus, where we find Bowles Hall, an ancient Tudor dormitory.
"It's a castle!" Jasper says, impressed and envious. "You get to live in a castle!"
We park out front and help him carry his luggage through the stone archway and up two flights of stone stairs, where we find Nic's room and meet his roommates, who are unpacking. They seem serious, studious, and, in one case, nerdy. All seem extremely nice. One boy with scruffy red hair and a light-blue crewneck sweater is assembling an elaborate home-built computer system. Another boy, this one in oval tortoiseshell glasses and a striped T-shirt, has George Michael, Celine Dion, Barbra Streisand, and Elton John stacked haphazardly on a small CD player, a selection that does not bode well for harmony in the small room, given Nic's uncompromising musical taste.
Nic walks us out to the car. "It'll be OK," he says nervously. "It's a cool old building."
He hugs each of us.
I mention the George Michael and Nic laughs. "I'll educate them. It won't take long before they're listening to Marc Ribot." Ribot sings one of Nic's favorite songs, "Yo! I Killed Your God."
When he calls in a few days, Nic seems engaged by his classes, particularly a painting course. In subsequent calls, however, he admits that he can't build stretcher bars for his canvases. "No matter what I do, they come out all cockeyed," he says. "And I have to lug them across campus. I feel like Jesus carrying his cross."
More phone calls, and he's complaining about his other courses, too. "We're taught by TAs, not real professors," he says. "They're morons."
In some of the conversations that follow, Nic seems distracted, and then he stops regularly returning my calls. I have no idea what's going on, but his silence tells me that things aren't going well. When finally he checks in—"I've been staying with friends"; "school's cool but I'm really into the underground music scene out here"—I encourage him to take advantage of the opportunity he has at Cal, to weather the initial period. "It will be worthwhile," I say. "It's always difficult at the beginning, but you'll do fine."
I suggest that he meet with school counselors in the health center and, if he wants, check in with his therapist, who has extended an open invitation for Nic to keep in touch as little or as often as he wants. "Lots of freshmen struggle at first," I say. "It's common. Maybe the counselors can help."
He says it's a good idea. Part of me believes he'll follow through and seek help, but a bigger part knows that he won't. A week later, one of Nic's roommates calls, telling me they are worried because Nic hasn't shown up for a few days. I am distraught.
Two days later, on a late fall afternoon, Nic calls, finally admitting that college isn't working. Assuming that drugs are the problem, I say that we need to talk about rehab, but he says that he isn't using anything much. "I wasn't ready for college," he says. "I just need some time. I have lots of work to do on myself first. I've been having a hard time—feeling pretty depressed."
Nic sounds level-headed and it makes some sense to me. There's ample evidence that many children use drugs to self-medicate for depression, not to mention a host of mental-health disorders. The drugs they take may become the focal point for both kids and their parents, but they may be masking deeper problems. How can a parent know? We consult more experts, but they don't necessarily know, either. Diagnosis isn't an exact science, and it's complicated, particularly for adolescents and young adults, for whom mood changes, including depression, are common. Many symptoms of these disorders appear to be identical to some of the symptoms of drug abuse. Also, by the time experts finally figure out that there's a problem, drug addiction may have exacerbated the underlying ailment and fused with it. It becomes impossible to know where one leaves off and the other begins.
"Considering the level of maturity of young adolescents, the availability of drugs, and the age at which drugs are first used, it is not surprising that a substantial number of them develop serious drug problems," writes Robert Schwebel, Ph.D., in Saying No Is Not Enough. "Once this happens, the effects are devastating. Drugs shield children from dealing with reality and mastering developmental tasks crucial to their future. The skills they lacked that left them vulnerable to drug abuse in the first place are the very ones that are stunted by drugs. They will have difficulty establishing a clear sense of identity, mastering intellectual skills, and learning self-control. The adolescent period is when individuals are supposed to make the transition from childhood to adulthood. Teenagers with drug problems will not be prepared for adult roles ... They will chronologically mature while remaining emotional adolescents."
A specialist on child development tells me that children's brains are at their most malleable—that is, the greatest change takes place—before they are two years old and then again when they are teenagers. "The worst time for a person to be tampering with their brains is when they are teenagers," she says. "Drugs radically alter the way teenagers' brains develop." As she explains it, experience and behavior help to set up a cycle that may deepen emotional problems. The biological underpinning may become more acute and more intractable. It enforces and reinforces the psychological problems, which become more firmly established. After that, treating people whose drug use began when they were teenagers is further complicated because deconstructing or rerouting established pathways have biological as well as emotional and behavioral roots.
When Nic broaches it, I can believe that he has been suffering from other problems, possibly depression. Could the impressively credentialed shrinks he's seen missed such an obvious diagnosis? If the therapists missed it, perhaps it is because Nic is good at covering it up, just as he was good at covering up his drug use. Depression is a plausible explanation and easier to accept than a drug problem. It's not that depression isn't serious, but unlike drugs, it is not self-inflicted. It is reassuring to imagine that drugs are a symptom and not the cause of Nic's difficulties.
Nic also tells me that Berkeley was a mistake and he would do better at a smaller college. His theory is that he was swallowed up in the impersonal Cal bureaucracy. "I tried to see a counselor," he says, "like you suggested. But I had to wait in line for an hour to make an appointment. I got to the front of the line and they told me that the first appointment was a week later.
"I want to apply to colleges again," he continues. "In the meantime, I think I s
hould take a year off from school, get a job, and get back in physical and mental shape."
Nic moves home again. He promises to follow the rules we establish—he will go to therapy, honor curfews, help around the house, work, and apply to other colleges. He meets with his therapist, who afterward tells me that he supports the plan. Indeed, Nic seems to feel a little better, and so there is reason to believe that things are improving. He applies to a number of small liberal arts schools on the East Coast. His first choice is Hampshire College in western Massachusetts. When we toured the school, he had been inspired by the vibrant atmosphere and bucolic setting. He sat in on English and political science courses and toured the music and drama studios. I, too, felt it was a college made with Nic in mind. Apparently his transcripts are still relatively strong, because a few months later he receives a letter of acceptance from the school. I breathe easier. Nic is on track again on the inevitable (in my view) path that will lead back to college. We've endured a bad period, but Nic will move on. But though he sometimes emerges to play with Daisy and Jasper, or materializes for a meal, when he's not working, Nic spends most of his time at home in his room.
One night when he is at work, I fall asleep early, but wake with a start after midnight. I sense that something is wrong. Maybe it's a parent's sixth sense. Maybe some part of me has detected the early warning signs of imminent trouble. When I get out of bed, it makes the softest rustling sound, enough to wake Karen.
"Is everything all right?"
"Everything is fine," I whisper. "Go back to sleep."
The floor is cold and the room is cold, but I don't stop for slippers or a robe because I don't want to make more noise. The hallway is unlit, but moonlight through the living room skylight casts a maroon radiance. I turn on a kitchen light and go to Nic's bedroom. I knock on the door. There's no answer. I open it and peer in. The unmade bed is empty.
I am becoming used to an overwhelming, grinding mixture of anger and worry, each emotion darkening and distorting the other. It is a bleak and hopeless feeling. I may know it well, but it is no easier to bear.
Nic has missed his curfew. That is as far as I will allow my worry to go. I anticipate his arrival at any minute and rehearse what I will do. I'll confront him, though facing him is a painful reminder of my inability to alter his behavior.
I tiptoe into the bedroom and try to fall back to sleep, but by then it's futile. I lie awake. Worry is beginning to consume me.
We live at the crest of a small hill, before the road continues up, so that cars driving on the street in front of our house slow almost to a stop before going on. One car and then another drives up and pauses. Each time my heart stops. It's Nic. But then the engine pushes on up the hill.
At three, I give up pretending that I will fall back to sleep. I get up. Karen gets up too. "What's the matter?" I tell her that Nic hasn't come home. We go into the kitchen.
"He's probably with friends and it was too late to come home, so he slept over," Karen says.
"He would have called."
"Maybe he didn't want to wake us."
I look over at her and see the despondence and worry in her eyes. She doesn't believe it either. The minutes click by. We drink tea and fret.
At around seven I start calling his friends, waking some of them, but no one has seen him. I call his therapist, who even now reassures me—maybe that's how he sees his job, to comfort me—that "Nic is working things out, he'll be all right." My panic mounts. Every time the phone rings, my stomach constricts. Where can he be? I cannot imagine, or more accurately, I choose not to. I push away the grisliest thoughts. Finally I call the police and hospital emergency rooms, asking if he is in jail or if there has been an accident. Each time I call, I brace myself for the unthinkable. I rehearse the conversation—the stolid, disembodied voice, and the words "He is dead." I rehearse it to prepare myself. I go toward the thought, pace around it. He is dead.
Waiting is ghastly, but I can do nothing else.
Later, Jasper, barefoot and in his pajamas, pads into the kitchen, looking at us with his clear eyes. He climbs onto Karen's lap and chews on a piece of toast. Next Daisy, yawning, marches in, her hair wild.
We say nothing about Nic. We don't want to worry them. We have to tell them soon, though. They sense something is wrong. They know that Nic isn't around.
Finally Jasper asks, "Where is Nic?"
I answer with more emotion than I intend to betray: "We don't know."
Jasper begins to cry. "Is Nicky all right?"
"We don't know," I say shakily. "We hope so."
This horror lasts four days.
***
Then one night he calls.
His voice trembles, but still it brings a wave of relief.
"Dad..."
"Nic."
His voice comes as if from down a dim tunnel.
"I." Weakly. "I blew it." A guttural sigh. "I'm in trouble."
"Where are you?"
He tells me and I hang up.
I drive to meet him in an alleyway behind a bookstore in San Rafael. I stop the car and get out near a row of trash cans and bins strewn with empty bottles, broken glass, torn cardboard, and grimy blankets.
"Dad..."
The muffled, scratchy voice comes from behind one of the bins. I walk toward it, pushing aside discarded boxes, turn the corner, and see Nic shakily walking toward me.
My son, the svelte and muscular swimmer, water-polo player, and surfer with an ebullient smile, is bruised, sallow, skin and bone, and his eyes are vacant black holes. When I reach him he goes limp in my arms. I half carry him, his feet shuffling beneath him.
In the car, before he passes out, I tell him that he needs to go to rehab.
"That's it," I say. "There's no choice now."
"I know, Dad."'
I silently drive home. Nic briefly awakens and mutters in a barren monotone about owing people money, that he has to pay someone back or he will be killed, then he loses consciousness again. Occasionally he awakens and mumbles, but his words are incomprehensible.
Ill, frail, and occasionally still rambling, he spends the next three days shivering as if feverish, curled up in bed, whimpering and crying.
Though I'm terrified, I am also encouraged he said he'd go to rehab. I call the agency that we visited when he was a high school freshman and make an appointment. But on the morning of the appointment, when I remind him we are going, he looks at me, revolted.
"No fucking way."
"Nic, you have to go. You told me you would."
"I don't need rehab."
"You promised. You nearly died."
"I messed up. That's all. Don't worry. I learned my lesson."
"Nic, no."
"Listen, I will be fine. I'll never do that shit again. I learned how dangerous meth is. It's fucked up. I'm not stupid. I'll never mess with it again."
I stop. Did I hear correctly? "Crystal meth?"
He nods.
It sinks in. God no. I am horrified that Nic has used meth. I had my own experience with that drug, too.
PART II
His drug of choice
O God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains! That we should, with joy, pleasance, revel, and applause, transform ourselves into beasts.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
The Tempest
9
My first summer in Berkeley, Charles moved up from Tucson, enrolling in summer school, and we rented an apartment together. One evening, he arrived home, yanked the thrift-shop mirror from the wall, and set it on a coffee table. He unfolded an origami packet, poured out its contents onto the mirror: a mound of crystalline powder. From his wallet he produced a single-edge razor, with which he chipped at the crystals, the steel tapping rhythmically on the glass. While arranging the powder in four parallel rails, he explained that Michael—Michael the Mechanic, a drug dealer—had run out of cocaine. In its place, Charles had purchased crystal meth.
I snor
ted the lines through a rolled-up dollar bill. The chemical burned my nasal passages and my eyes watered. Whether the drug is sniffed, smoked, or injected, the body quickly absorbs meth. Once it reaches the bloodstream, it's a near-instant flume ride to the central nervous system. When it reached mine, I heard cacophonous music like a calliope and felt as if Roman candles had been lit inside my skull. Meth triggers ten to twenty times the normal level of the brain's neurotransmitters, primarily dopamine, but also serotonin and norepinephrine, which spray like bullets from a gangster's gun. I felt fantastic—supremely confident, euphoric.
After meth activates the release of neurotransmitters, it blocks their reuptake back into their storage pouches, much as cocaine and other stimulants do. Unlike cocaine, however, which is almost completely metabolized in the body (and has a half-life of forty-five minutes), meth remains relatively unchanged and active for ten to twelve hours. When the dawn began to seep through the cracked window blinds, I felt bleak, depleted, and agitated. I went to bed and slept for a full day, blowing off school.
I never touched meth again, but Charles returned over and over to Michael the Mechanic's. His meth run lasted for two weeks.
Charles could be thoughtful and beguiling and seductively entertaining, but on meth he could, at two or three in the morning, become wretched and mean. Afterward, whether he had turned on a stranger or a friend, he apologized profusely and convincingly, and most people forgave him. For too long, I did, but he moved from Berkeley back to Tucson and we drifted apart. Eventually I lost touch with him. I later learned that after college, his life was defined by his abuse of meth, cocaine, and other drugs. There were voluntary and court-ordered rehabs, car crashes, a house that went up in flames after he fell asleep with a burning cigarette in his mouth, ambulance rides to emergency rooms after overdoses and accidents, and incarcerations, both in hospitals and jails.
