You were always an epic and infamous arguer with a penetrating ability to wear people down. I vividly remember the four-hour screaming match you had with your roommate in the Sherman Oaks house while I was visiting over whether a movie we’d just seen was good or bad. (It was Funny Games, and for the record, it was bad.) The fight started in the lobby of the theater, followed us into the car and, ultimately, moved into the house, where it continued all night. Your roommate literally threatened to move out.
The Analyze Phish podcast, where you tried to convince Scott Aukerman to like Phish, was the most Harris thing of all time because you were always obsessively determined to make people see things your way. Like Scott, I never liked the band Phish either because why would I, but for decades, you refused to accept this as a possibility. Once, when I was living in New York, you finally wore me down enough to get me to a show at Coney Island that you swore would change my life. Even though Jay-Z made a surprise cameo that night, it didn’t. To you, this meant that there must be something wrong with me. I can still hear you say Steph in that way only you say that word with so much disappointment and aggravation.
Here’s what we learn from your therapist: Ultimately, you wouldn’t give up control. You wouldn’t surrender and accept that you were powerless. Three times over the course of your seven-week stay, you refused a Vivitrol shot, a drug that would’ve made getting high impossible by blocking sensors in your brain for thirty days. And you fucking refused it. You weren’t done. You had every intention of using again.
This was your third rehab over the course of one year to the day and the one we all thought would finally stick. You clearly needed something more long term; the thirty-day programs weren’t cutting it. The first rehab was in Malibu. You checked in last year on my birthday, February 20, 2014. Despite the stellar reputation and $30,000 price tag, you relapsed immediately once you got out. Six months later, after you’d started shooting heroin, you checked into another thirty-day program in Oregon that proved to be equally ineffective.
This last (and final) rehab in Hollywood seemed like a great fit. It was close enough to home, so you could eventually integrate it into your life. You spoke highly of the people both in the program and running it. Plus, it was a longer commitment and would allow more time for the program to sink in and change you on a permanent, brain-chemistry kind of level. When you first got to The Hills at the tail end of December, you completed a thirty-day detox then moved to their sober living residence in February, where you were supposed to live for a period of months at least, before transitioning back into real life. But you only stayed in sober living for three weeks before checking yourself out.
We inquire about your mental state the day you checked out without telling us because you knew you’d be met with resistance. From our sporadic phone calls and emails, you sounded like you were doing well, and we wanted you to stay that way. We knew you would be moving to New York in two weeks to start shooting Master of None but hoped you’d stay in sober living until then. Any lapse in treatment could jeopardize your sobriety.
According to your therapist, you had your final session with him on Tuesday afternoon, February 17, right before checking out for good. You seemed perfectly fine, he explained. Totally sober. Nothing out of the ordinary. He had no reservations whatsoever about your transition back home.
You overdosed and died two days later.
Driving away from the Hills, I wonder why we even felt it necessary to visit. It wasn’t going to bring you back. I suppose it’s all part of the manic investigative phase, which is missing from the stages-of-grief flowchart. I keep trying to piece together a timeline, to crack the case, as if this will somehow soften the blow. I go over and over and over the facts like some deranged, sleep-deprived detective: You checked out of sober living on Tuesday afternoon. You booked your Airbnb for New York, where you would be heading in two weeks’ time to start production on the Netflix series. The Airbnb tab was still open on your laptop. You did stand-up at Meltdown on Wednesday at 8:00 p.m. After the show, you came home. Or maybe you didn’t come home. Maybe you went to Skid Row. Maybe you already had the drugs in your bathroom drawer or in the center console of your car.
Mom emailed you earlier that night about the Parks and Recreation series finale:
So is each show going to say goodbye to the characters from here on out? I get the feeling this is how it’s going to wrap up. It’s very cute and sweet actually. Time to say goodbye. Hope you are on good footing still. I am very excited to see you. Are you nervous about living in NY? A great new adventure for you. I think you are up to the task. How is the house hunting going? Steph turns 34 on Friday BTW. Love you very much. Mom
You responded at 12:00 a.m. her time, 10:00 p.m. your time:
There’s only one more Parks episode left and it’s the big farewell episode that will make you cry. i found a cool place to live in Manhattan. I feel good!! I am feeling very fortunate. Love you.
And you were found dead on Thursday around noon.
It doesn’t make any sense. It will never make any sense. What happened between clicking send and sticking a needle in your arm?
I spend hours trying to figure it out, sifting through texts
