We’re born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we’re not alone.
I hate days like today. I woke up thinking about my cousin. Today is her birthday. Or rather, today would be her birthday if she hadn’t overdosed on heroin nearly 4 years ago. I was supposed to save her that night. Her sister had called me and asked me to look for her. She was worried that she was out of control. I’d only been clean for a short time and her sister knew I’d know where to look. So I looked for her and, of course, I found her. But instead of saving her from herself that night, I loaded up with her. I woke up the next morning. She didn’t. No part of that makes sense to me. It should have been my heart that stopped that night, not hers. She was young and beautiful and smart. She had so much to offer, so much life ahead of her.
Anyway. I hate days like today. I’ve been in a dark place since I woke up from a very restless sleep.
I’ve been back on the East Coast for a couple of months now. The past 7 months or so are still kind of a blur to me. One minute I was in a safe place, thousands of miles from my life, tucked away in a friend’s little yellow spare room, feeling as close to loved as I have in a long time. Then a few things happened and suddenly I was on a plane, loaded on Xanax, headed back to the belly of the beast, unsure of exactly what was going to happen next. I got off the plane around 6 AM on a Friday and grabbed a cab to a hotel about an hour away. The last 24 hours had cost me nearly three grand between air fare and the cab ride alone. I threw my bag in the closet and fell into a deep sleep on top of the covers of the bed.
I awoke a few hours later and shook off the cobwebs and lethargy. I still felt numb from the realization that I was back and I wasn’t sure what to do next. So I went where I always go when I feel myself tumbling aimlessly through space and time: I went to visit my grandparents. My grandmother died 9 years ago; my grandfather followed 6 years later. They now rest side by side in a family plot at a cemetery just outside the city. I sat with my back against their headstone telling them about what had gone on over the last few weeks. After an hour or so, I got up and headed for the bus station for the long ride north.
I’ve spent the better part of the last 2 months at my grandparent’s cabin in Maine. It’s a remote place. There’s no electricity or running water and it’s pretty run down. Early in my stay, I was climbing the stairs in back and put my foot right through some rotted wood. I ended up tearing a tendon in my ankle, so that’s made things a bit more difficult. Still, it’s a peaceful place for me, full of memories of when I used to go there as a kid with my grandparents. So I embrace it for a while and then I get tired of living like Laura Ingalls and I hightail it into town for some 21st century amenities.
There’s not much to do at the cabin. It’s heartbreakingly quiet at times. I spend a lot of time down by the lake, fishing or just staring out at the water. I don’t go in the water, or not too far in anyway. I’m not much of a swimmer. I used to be, but apparently it’s a skill that can be forgotten and I seem to have lost the ability to not sink, or at least to not panic as I try to avoid sinking. Drowning is not how I want to go out, thank you very much.
Getting back into town from the cabin can be a bit of a challenge. Usually I walk as far as I can until I get at least spotty cell service and then I call a cab or hitch a ride. Being all gimpy with my injured ankle, it’s easier if I take the rowboat across the lake instead of trying to walk around. That old rowboat and I have a tenuous relationship at best. But so far it has managed to deliver me safely to the other side with no major incidents.
Tonight I’m in town. Sitting at the desk in a hotel room I’ve taken for the night. A small lamp illuminates the otherwise darkened room. I closed the curtains and turned on the air conditioner as soon as I walked in several hours ago. I have a vanilla candle on my left and an American Spirit burning down to the filter in a makeshift ashtray to my right. That’s not really allowed but what’s the worst that can happen? I get kicked out? I’ve been tossed out of better places. Whatever. I’m not here for long. I wanted to escape the humidity, get a meal that didn’t include something I’ve kept chilled by sinking it to the bottom of the lake, and indulge in a hot shower. Simple pleasures.
I had to get away from the silence for a while. I’ve been alone since I landed back in Boston. Alone, I’ve tried to process what’s happened the last couple of months. Alone is the only way I know to endure the grief, hurt, and anger I’ve been feeling. Solitude isn’t always easy, but I’ve come to believe it’s necessary. True intimacy has always been difficult for me. Even when, like with my friends D and R, I know they’d be there for me, I have a difficult time reaching out. And so I sit in hotel rooms and write it out, hoping for some relief. Being able to trust has never come naturally. And the times that I have, it hasn’t turned out so well. It’s become far too troublesome to bother to be honest.
D and R spent months breaking down my defenses, trying to get me to embrace life and believe in a future they insisted I had. And to be honest, I felt human when I was around them. I felt safe. “We got you.” But alone in this room tonight, they don’t have me. I’m in this one alone. Terrified and alone. D wants an ending. He wanted a different one than I can give him. I’ve been holding my breath since the day I landed back in Boston, trying to pretend like things haven’t changed, like the experience I had being held in the arms of people who said they loved me, despite my utter inhumanity, didn’t open some door of possibility for me.
In an interview about a movie he was writing, Orson Welles once said, “If you want a happy ending, it depends on where you stop your story.” I’ve been thinking about where I want to stop my story. I may have stopped mine last Thanksgiving at the cottage on the Cape. I felt safe and protected and loved there with my friends. They took me quite literally right off the street and were willing to be there for whatever happened. There in that house, lying on the couch with D and R on either side of me, no drugs in my system, I would have just slipped away. I know that’s probably not the ending they would have wanted for me. Which I guess is why I ended up in California with them a few months later.
My first stay out there. I may have extended my story and ended it there. Though thinking back on it now, that stay offered a glimmer of hope that I made the mistake of trusting. I started to see a way back to life during those couple of months. I was sober, my health was improving, I met people who live fully and who welcomed me warmly. I don’t think I could have ended it there, because I was too full of hope and promise. I wanted what they had, but the terror I felt at how to get there proved too strong, and so here I am. No matter where my story ends now, it’s not going to be the rainbows and unicorns ending that D wants. It’s time to write an alternate ending.
The demons that haunt the darkest places of me are painful and scary and I’ve no earthly idea how to face them sober. I don’t have the tools to do that. I’ve always just numbed myself to the worst of it. For so long I’ve felt like I was too broken for this world. It terrifies me at every turn and that fear has exhausted me to the point of no return. It’s broken me down, and the few times that I dared to hope that I could find my way out, I was pulled back in the cruelest of ways.
It’s peaceful at the cabin. But sometimes even the peace of that place is shattered by the roar of the broken junkie voices inside my head shouting for relief. I feel caught square in the middle between life and death; a swinging pendulum stopped short in the middle of its journey to either side. I feel like I’ve been dying like this forever. This inexorable march toward my own end–physical, emotional, spiritual–not all at once, but rather one by one. Time has stopped here.
I’m not sure what I’m waiting for now. Am I waiting to see if, like it always has in the past, the Monster will rear its head and drag me down once and for all? Am I waiting to start living my life again? Or am I merely waiting to die?
I know I can make all this pain disappear tonight. I mean, I know the quickest and easiest–and weakest–way to stop the hurt. The needle could take all this away. I could be enveloped in dope’s warmth tonight. Dope. My only friend this night. My veins ache for it. The silent scream I feel forming in the pit of my stomach, making its way up my throat, waiting for me to open my mouth and release it all to my savior. I don’t want to be alone tonight. The urges are pulling all the darkness to the surface and I am losing myself to the desperate desire I feel for the beautiful silence of the nod. I can taste the flavor, the bitterness in the back of my throat as the junk hits my bloodstream. I just need a fix.
What choice do I have then? I’m too destroyed to continue to live with dope and I’m too terrified to really believe in the idea of living without it. Will this last shot bring me from zero to forever?
God, I fucking hate days like today.
I’m so tired. I’ve been fighting a fever for weeks. I still have a few hours until the sun comes up. I just have to get through this night. I’m going back to the cabin tomorrow. Back to the peace and solitude of the cabin. I just have to get through this night.