Try

I have a friend.
It’s not really that common of a thing for me.
I don’t keep a whole lot of them.
I mean, I really do get along with most people. Sometimes I think I don’t, but I do. At parties or gatherings or whatever I can usually talk to just about anyone. The conversations aren’t necessarily super goddamn meaningful, but I can hold my own.
Real, genuine, penetrating connections with other people are a lot more difficult for me. It always seems like such a miracle when I actually do meet someone who thinks about the world in the way that I do—or who really thinks at all.
But I have a friend—a fucking good friend. We’ve gone through a ton together. Recently, however, I’ve been kinda distracted, right? I mean, last week I was on book tour again with my dad. I’ve been getting involved in a new relationship and that’s been taking a lot of my attention. Not that I totally abandoned him or anything. We hung out a ton and I tried to include him in whatever it was I had planned or whatever. Usually he backed out, though. Social anxiety’s a fucking bitch.
So when I got back from Arizona on Sunday I called my friend to see if he wanted to go on a walk up in Griffith Park. He agreed, maybe surprisingly in retrospect.
We walked up the steep, dry dusty trail. It was sunset and the smog over downtown was light up all pink and electric. My dog ran up and down the canyon walls, chasing squirrels or birds or whatever else lives in the brush there.
My friend was breathing pretty hard and sweat ran down the paleness of his skin. Still, he reached in his pocket to get a cigarette.
At first I wasn’t sure what I saw—or I didn’t wanna believe it or something. I questioned my eyes. I guess denial can be pretty fucking strong.
A syringe fell out on the ground—the orange cap in direct contrast with the muted earth. My friend kicked at it spastically, covering it with dirt not very casually at all.
I pretended to be looking off in the distance. I pretended not to see it. I mean, I didn’t know what the fuck to do.
My voice kinda caught in my throat, but I tried to carry on a conversation as normally as possible—while my mind went fucking ‘round and ‘round—trying to figure out what was gonna come next.
So I walked the whole walk with him—suddenly hyper aware of his rambling and spacey expression. Still I didn’t say anything about the needle or whatever.
I tried to think, right? What would I want someone to do if I was in his position. I guess I’d probably want them to leave me the fuck alone. But that wouldn’t be what’s best, of course. He was gambling with his life. I mean, it’d just take one bad shot to kill him dead and gone. I couldn’t not approach him about it.
But then part of me just thought, “What the hell. If he’s getting away with it then more power to him.”
The thought even entered my head, right? I could just go out for one night. We’d just use that one night and no one would know and what the fuck would it matter anyway.
Honestly I’m not really sure why I dismissed that idea so quickly. I guess, maybe for the first time ever, I actually have a life that I sort’ve love. And, I mean, this whole feeling my feelings thing I’ve been trying out—you know, not running from the sadness or fear or whatever—it’s kinda been making a huge difference. No feeling I have seems as hopelessly unmanageable as it used to. Just through the practice of dealing with whatever it is that I’m feeling, the need to escape myself has gotten so much less acute.
I really am so excited about my life and I’m definitely growing to at least start to sort of like myself.
So I don’t wanna throw that shit away.
And, of course, one night of heroin ain’t never gonna fuckin’ happen.
If I haven’t figured that out by now, well, I’m a fucking idiot.
Which, I guess, is the case a lot of the time.
But, anyway, with my friend I didn’t let myself go there. The thought of using with him was dismissed pretty quick and that’s definitely progress. I mean, for sure.
What I really felt was sadness—this intense, penetrating sadness. I knew my friend had been really struggling. Actually, it seemed kinda chemical to me.
Psychiatrists always talk about people’s baselines. When you’re chemically depressed, your baseline is way lower than normal people. It’s like most people float on the surface—sometimes rising into the air and sometimes sinking down into the salt, thick, blinding water. Suffering from chemical depression is having to spend all yer goddamn energy just getting up to the surface. Fighting so hard just to achieve some semblance of normalcy. Getting on the right anti-depressants, for me, has totally helped raise my baseline. It’s not that I’m all high and euphoric—like being on ecstasy or something. I just don’t have to struggle so frantically to keep treading water. I actually enjoy things in my life. I feel excitement, wonder, hope, and temporary satisfaction.
Spending time with my friend, I was always super aware that his baseline was fucking low—even lower than mine. It’s like the pleasure receptors in his brain (if there is such a thing) have been totally burnt to nothing. I’ve talked to him about maybe getting on medication, but his therapist actually keeps delaying it—which pisses me off, even if I’m not a doctor.
My friend’s loneliness is almost tangible—thick and heavy like the brown layers of smog spinning exhaust, dirt cocoons over the buildings of downtown. His hopelessness bleeds out from a thousand cuts covering his whole body.
But, of course, I love him. He is such a deep thinker—so wise and insightful. We talk and talk forever. We go out to dinner and get milkshakes and watch movies in the apartment. We walk the dogs and go to the beach and make fun of people we see on the street. He is a lovely precious star. Really.
But he was shooting dope again. I mean, no fucking question.
I dropped him back at the house and told him I was gonna meet him for coffee in an hour. I wasn’t gonna let him back out. I mean, no way. I had to talk to him that night for sure.
There wasn’t much I could do, though. I mean, either he’d wanna get help or he wouldn’t. He could totally freak out and scream at me to leave him alone. He could run.
I talked to my mom and she just suggested I let him know that I love him and that I’m willing to do anything to help. If he’d let me—and depending on how long he’d been using—I could totally drive him to a detox. I’d help pay if that were an issue.
My dad was more cautious, urging me to keep as much distance as I could. It just wasn’t worth the risk of being exposed to that shit.
I guess he was right. It was a fucking dangerous situation.
But I had to do something.
So I called my friend and he met me outside his place. We walked with the dogs around the block.
I told him what I’d seen.
He was fucking out of it, but he knew he’d fucked up. He wanted help. I mean, he said he did.
I talked to him for a long time about everything that’d led up to his using again. He accepted my offer to go in to detox if he wasn’t able to get clean by the next day. I hugged him.
He’d only been out for three days. The kick shouldn’t be too bad.
That night I kept him company watching a movie at my place. Actually, I fell asleep in the first fifteen minutes, but I was still able to be there for him.
The next day he managed not to use, which was a fucking miracle to me. We hung out that night and he was sick—sweating—his nose running—so I knew he was goin’ through withdrawals and couldn’t have gotten high.
The next day we went to the movies. He was still sorta kickin’ but the worst was definitely over. Today he spent the day with his mom. I just talked to him and he sounded really clear and full of hope.
So that’s three days he’s got now.
Obviously whatever triggered him to relapse in the first place hasn’t gone away. He’s gonna have to face that shit if he wants to stay clean—and hopefully he can get on some better meds.
But fuck, man, if the goal is to make fewer, less severe mistakes as we go along, he’s totally made a ton of progress. I’m super proud of him—and I believe in him—even if he fucks up again.
Of course I’ve been super preoccupied with makin’ sure he’s alright. And, even if he does stay clean, for now the risk of him bringing that shit around me is not worth exposing myself to. So I’m trying to distance myself a little. And I know I gotta move out of the place we’ve been workin’ on together. I love him, but my dad’s right, I gotta protect myself—even if that sounds selfish.
But as long as my friend is trying to get clean, I’m gonna be here for him.
I know I can’t keep him sober, but I can support him as he goes along.
So tomorrow will be day four.
If he makes it.
I believe he can.
There is hope.
I mean, as long as we keep living, there is always hope.
And that is beautiful.
And that sets us free.
Anything can happen.
Anything.
We just gotta keep trying.
Always.