It’s kinda funny, you know, ’cause as much as I can get sort of turned off by twelve-step meetings, Justin really can’t stand them. He doesn’t understand it at all, and I can see how visibly annoyed and frustrated he always gets. Still, I keep making him come along with me every now and then. I mean, for me, it just seems like a cool way to meet some other sober people, you know? It’s nice to feel like there’s this community out there that’ll always be available for me, no matter what. There’s something super great about that. In terms of the actual content of the steps and everything, well, I guess I really try not to think about it too much. I’m grateful the meetings are there. And for me—for now—that is enough.
But mostly, I mean, we just work on the apartment, like I said, talking and laughing and listening to music and really working hard—rebuilding the broken-down structure—rebuilding our broken-down selves.
’Cause Justin was right, you know? We’re not just working to fix this place up together—we’re working to fix up our lives—together. We’re both going to therapy. We’re both trying to get on the right medications. We’re both going to outpatient. We’re both trying to learn how to make friends in sobriety—how to be a friend in sobriety—how to fucking love ourselves, sober. And the truth is, even if I can’t see the changes in myself, I can see the changes in Justin. He’s opened up so much. He’s become so much stronger, so much more authentic. And, genuinely, I can see him learning how to love again. It’s pretty fucking rad. He’s growing up, you know? I feel proud of him. That probably sounds stupid, but I don’t even care. I love him.
As for myself, well, I think I have started changing, for sure, but that doesn’t mean I’ve, like, stopped making mistakes altogether. After breaking it off with Sue Ellen and dealing with her subsequent screaming “Fuck you!” yelling fits and the barrage of really angry e-mails, I guess I was feeling pretty fucking scared and insecure, ’cause I did end up sleeping with that Dylan girl from outpatient. And, I mean, she was super great, and it wasn’t like she was looking for anything other than sex from me, either. Still, I know I was just using her not to have to feel everything that was going on with me and, whether or not that was right for her, it was wrong for me. Plus, she has a boyfriend, so, uh, yeah—exactly. I might be changing, but I sure as hell haven’t become a better person overnight. Still, after making that one mistake, I was able to call it off and apologize, and we’re still really good friends and all, so that is some sort of progress.
I don’t know, it almost seems like that’s as good as it’s gonna get for me. I mean, I’m always gonna make mistakes, right? The trick now is to make less bad mistakes, less often. And I think it might actually be working. My mistakes aren’t as bad—and they’re definitely a whole lot fewer and farther between. That might sound like a cop-out, but it really isn’t. I’m learning and growing, man—I am. Problem is, I’m just a whole lot dumber than most folks. It’s taken me a hell of a lot longer than it does normal people. But I am doing it—at my own pace—putting one goddamn foot in front of the other. And things, at least for now, are slowly getting better. I have friends today. I have people in my life I genuinely care about. I have a pretty awesome dog. I have a great place to live. I have an amazing support system. I have a life, you know? A full life. And it’s getting better all the time.
The wall came down today.
We broke through to the other side.
Justin and I.
Tallulah.
Dr. Cooper.
My outpatient group.
My family.
Justin hands me a cigarette as we sit down in the pile of rubble we’ve left on the floor.
The random playlist on my computer has landed on a Syd Barrett song—his monotone voice half singing, half talking. “Isn’t it good to be lost in the wood. Isn’t it bad so quiet there, in the wood.”
I light my cigarette.
Justin lights his.
“Well,” I say, exhaling loudly, “we did it, huh? We made it through.”
Justin laughs, punching my shoulder. “Yeah, man, we did. But, uh, let’s not go congratulating ourselves too much. We still have a long way to go. Knocking it down’s the easy part. I mean, it’s building it back up that’s the fucking bitch.”
I go on and laugh along with him.
Hell, it’s the truth.
But somehow, at this moment, it doesn’t seem so bad.
I guess I just know we can do it.
I know we can.
I do.
EPILOGUE
It’s October 2011… a little over three years since me ’n’ Justin were living together in that apartment in East Hollywood.
It’s been three years, and by some fucking miracle, I’ve been sober all the while, and, crazily enough, Justin is about to graduate from law school.
Well, I don’t know, maybe it’s not just a miracle.
I mean, I’ve done a lot of work, too, learning how to love and accept myself—building up a life that I actually want to fight for. Trying and trying and trying again.
Holding on.
Not giving up.
Fighting.
Fighting for the life I have today.
’Cause I do…. I fight for it.
Every day I take the different medications I’ve been prescribed. Every day I go running with Tallulah and Rhett, my little baby bloodhound, up in the canyons around Los Angeles.
Every day I write and try to build a life for myself.
Every day I pay my bills and clean my apartment and eat dinner and try ’n’ sleep.
Every day I live sober.
I travel around talking to high school kids about addiction and
