July 13th, 2021:
I have been sober for almost two years. To be exact, it's been 23 months and 19 days. I know I sound like a new mom announcing her baby's milestones on social media saying that, but as an addict, it helps to cling to each day. Except, I've never actually gotten into deep conversation with another addict before, so I don't know if that is universal, or if they stop counting at some point. I know that for me, the number is always in the back of my mind, growing larger and larger each day. I feel pathetic for that, but it is what it is.
My name is Joel Michaels. I'm 24 years old, and while I've only been drinking legally for three years, alcohol (and other things) have been consuming my life for several beyond that. I started college very young, which isn't the cause, but it's a necessary preamble, and I had easy access to almost any substance I could think of. Although, in hindsight, I didn't really take advantage of that until my last two years in school. During which, it was confirmed that I had a problem.
I'm now a film director in Los Angeles, California. I wouldn't say I'm living "the life" by any means, but I've come far.
Oddly enough, I was in recovery from a drug overdose when I got the email with my first job offer. It wasn't a very big film, but it was my first one, so it felt huge. Most people only watched it because they heard the director was 19 and fresh out of college.
In the five years I've been in the industry, I have made several movies, and I've written even more. I think that's my favorite part of the job: dreaming up and writing movies. I have alwavs loved to dream.
Tonight and every other night for the past two weeks, I've found myself dreaming obsessively in a way that is becoming difficult to control. It's nothing too out of the ordinary for me to let my thoughts drown out the rest of life. Though, on reflection, I have learned that it means I am about to lose control if I haven't already—I don't know that I "lose control." I've just noticed that I'm accused of having lost control around the same time as my little daydreaming problems.
My best friend—and the co-owner of my film production company—Josiah Wesley, is always the first to call me out on it. He and I met in college, and since that overdose I was talking about, he has been a psycho about my sobriety. I don't completely understand why. His fiancé, Khloe Keegan, who we have also known since college, told me one time that he formed a fixation around my staying sober out of guilt. For some reason, I felt the urge to laugh it off, and I asked why anyone would feel guilty about anything I did to myself. To which, she called me an inconsiderate jackass, and told me to start paying attention to how my actions affect others. We didn't talk for two weeks after that.
Lately, I have found myself thinking about that conversation with Khloe at least once a day. Right now would be the second time today. The first time, I was actually with her, and we were talking about something completely unrelated, but it's almost every time I see her now that I think about what she said. It's something about the way she said it. She spit out the words like they were bitter tasting—and like they'd been floating around her head for quite some time.
This will sound weird, but with everyone I know, there is something like that I think about. Something they said in an argument or something they did. It's almost like a hyper-fixation. For instance, the one thing I think about with Josiah is when he blew up at me during our senior year. It was the biggest fight we have ever had, and I think getting into it now would kill me, so I m not going to.
I'm sure the self-help books and the poets would say that I shouldn't be holding onto those things, or that people often don't mean the things they say. And that would be good advice if I were able to forget and maybe if what they said wasn't true. It would also be good advice if I were willing to listening, but as I am not, my self-help consists of the following: writing, sitting in bar parking lots to remind myself why getting drunk is embarrassing, and staring out my window until I'm convinced the whole world is fake and we're all just in a simulation
Currently, I'm steadily rocking with the third option. I couldn't tell you exactly how long I've been doing this for, but I know it's not even close to my record. I once stayed up all night, and in an attempt to tire myself out, I tried counting all the lights in LA. Only, there were lights that turned off and some that turned on while I was counting, so I just frustrated myself.
The window is really just the patio door in my dining room, but since my entire first floor is basically one room, I like to call it a window and lay on my couch where I have a good view.
I sat there for a while earlier, but something didn't feel right, so I got up, and I've been standing by the door since. In the glass, I can see my faint reflection as it stares back at me. I examine myself for a moment. It's not that I hate the way I look or anything. I just spend so much time in my head that it's weird for me to see myself outside of my own thoughts. Anytime I catch a look in a mirror, or see a picture that I'm in, I am hit with the realization that I am a real person, and I have to take a second to stare at myself-like right now.
My eyes are a very pale, turquoise color, and they are grossly surrounded by dark circles. I have a straight nose with a rounded tip that is dotted in faint freckles. My top lip is spare compared to my lower lip, and disappears behind my smile. My hair is blond, but it gets darker with every year—so I guess it's just brown—and I have a clean stubble beard that my stylists won't let me shave because it makes me look older.
My skin is now dark from the sun of a long California summer. I'm about 6'1, and I don't know how much I weigh, but it can't be a lot because I'm the thinnest I've ever been (out of natural causes, I'm pretty sure). I don't have super high cheekbones, but they are high enough to make my jaw stand out. I also have a scar that cuts through my left eyebrow. It's kind of an unimportant detail, but it really does add immensely to my appearance. It's the first thing I notice when I look at myself, and the first thing people ask about when they meet me.
Out of nowhere, something glows in the room behind me. I stare at it in the reflection. It's my phone on the dining room table. I turn around and pick it up to see that Khloe is calling me. Below her call are several notifications from the last four hours that I have missed. The vast majority of them are messages and missed calls from Josiah. I accept the call and hold the phone to my ear.
"Hey," I say. "What's going on?"
There's distant talking over the line, and then, her voice. Her ridiculously angry voice.
"What's going on?" She repeats, loudly. "How about you tell us? We have been trying to reach you for hours."
"I know, Khloe." I tell her, "I just picked up my phone."
She takes a deep breath, and I hear a door open and close
"It's okay." She says, her voice low. "Josiah said you left the after-party tonight feeling sick, and he's pissed now because he thinks you might relapsed.
"What?" I ask, trying to sound like this is an outrageous accusation. It's not. "No. I—"
She cuts me off. "Joel, I want you to tell me right now if that's true because you and I both know that he will lose his shit."
I feel a little offended that she is only asking because she doesn't want to deal with his anger—but I get over it quickly.
"It's not true." I say, and it comes off more irritable than I mean it to. "I left the after-party because I didn't want to be there—not because I planned to come home and shoot myself up full of
drugs."
"Don't say that like I'm being stupid," she scolds. "I'm just looking out for you."
I open my mouth to apologize, but I'm interrupted by the door opening and closing again, and it's a shame because I was going to really mean that apology. I hear the phone as it's passed off.
Now, it's time to console Josiah—though I feel nervous about it for some reason, and all of the sudden, my stomach has dropped, and I feel as if something terrible might happen.
"Where have you been?" He asks, "is everything okay?"
I take a second to breathe. Maybe everything isn't okay. I just realized how exhausted I am. I had a movie premiere earlier tonight, and most of it is a blur, but I'm tired just the same, and I don't know why.
"Joel?"
I snap back into real life. "Yes sorry," I say. My voice comes out scratchy. I clear my throat. "I've been sleeping. I just woke up." I don't really consider this a lie, but I can see how one might perceive it to be.
"Oh, don't worry about it," he tells me, and I can hear in his voice that he has eased up a little. "You'll probably be up all night now though."
I force a laugh. "Ugh, I know. I hate when I fall asleep too early."
He laughs too. "I guess I'll leave you alone now."
A wave of relief hits me. He's not worried, and I can go back to freaking out. That should be a tagline of mine, as I only allow myself to lose my mind once I know everyone else is taken care of. He isn't worried. He is doing well. Khloe is doing well.
Those are the only two things that matter to me at this moment. I can't even remember anything I was saying earlier. They are good
"Okay, Siah. Goodnight."
"You too, Kid." He says through a heavy sigh. "Oh, happy birthday, by the way."
I check my watch. It's now 12:23 in the morning, and it is also now the 14th of July. I completely forgot about my birthday. I'm officially 25, and I wouldn't have even known if Siah hadn't told me. How did I forget my own birthday?
