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Finding My Way Home

I recently volunteered at a homeless shelter, and it brought me right back to all those times I was on the other side of the soup ladle.

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By Nic Sheff

11/28/12

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I am not a particularly altruistic person. In general I’m more concerned with my own stupid ass problems than anything else. But when, a few weeks ago, I was sitting around with two of my friends, and they both began talking about their plans to volunteer at a local soup kitchen feeding the homeless in West Hollywood, I would’ve felt like way too much of an asshole not to go along with them.

So I did.

It was just a few days later that we all met together at the soup kitchen to load up a bread truck full of hot food and donated baked goods and fruit and salad. The lady who ran the program was amazing; she was this 82-year-old woman who’d been living in LA since 1939. She delegated the different tasks and we all set to work setting up tables on a street corner behind a warehouse near the Target on La Brea and Santa Monica.

The job of ladling soup out of a giant pot about half my height into Styrofoam cups seemed like one of the least desirable positions on the line, but by the time I got done unloading the truck, it was the only spot open. 

I never could have possible imagined that I would end up one day being one of those faceless, nameless homeless people asking for money.

So I took my place behind the white plastic table and started spooning out soup with black-eyed peas and carrots. The people waiting to be served were gathered off to one side against a chain link fence. Service was set to begin in another five minutes. I ladled out soup in preparation for the rush. I watched the men and women all standing together, no one looking at each other—their heads bowed and talking softly.

The night was warm and the Santa Ana’s blew in strong from the desert. 

And then, as one by one, the men and women began coming forward to fill their plates, I tried to think of something, anything I could do to make things a little better for them than it was for me back then.

Because it wasn’t so long ago that I was in their place.

I was 19 and I’d just come home from a disastrous semester at college, where the only thing I learned how to do was shoot heroin and unsuccessfully lie about it. I say, “unsuccessfully” because as soon as I did get home from college, pretty much everyone in my family knew just by looking at me that I was strung out again—strung out worse than ever. 

So at that point, my dad gave me an ultimatum—either I go into rehab or I get out. 

And so I chose the latter.

My reasoning was simple: I still had about a gram of crystal left and a whole mess of pills. If the ultimatum had come when I had no drugs and was completely broke, maybe my response would have been different.

But since this was the situation, I quickly packed a bag and pushed my way out of the house, hitching a ride to the freeway and then taking a Golden Gate transit bus into the city.

For about two weeks, I stayed with my friend who lived in a basement apartment underneath his mom’s house on the edge of the Presidio. Then I stole a check from his mom, like a total crazed fucking asshole, wrote it out to myself, cashed it, got the money, bought drugs and then promptly got kicked out of my friend’s place once his mom got the call from the check-cashing place.

Again, if I’d been out of drugs then, I might’ve called my family and agreed to go into rehab. That was something that always differentiated me from the other street kids I would come to meet and be friends with when I was homeless. I had a way out. Many of them didn’t—though at a certain point my shame was so great that I don’t think I would have ever asked for help if I hadn’t ended up getting beat to shit and OD’ing and waking up on life support.

But that came later.

From my friend’s house, I went to sleeping in a park behind the youth hostel in Fort Mason—eating out of trashcans, stealing, begging for money, hustling. 

This would be my first stint at homelessness but it wouldn’t be my last.

Over the course of my using life, I found myself living on the streets many times.

In some ways, it was the begging for money that was the worst. That might sound ridiculous when you compare that to all the other, seemingly more severe consequences of homelessness but it’s true. Having to ask a stranger on the street for spare change and seeing the revulsion or pity and sadness in their faces was worse than getting beat up and having my ribs broken and having to sleep with my wallet and drugs and anything important in my underwear so I wouldn’t get robbed. Seeing the look of reproach and disgust on people’s faces as they turned away and crossed to the other side of the street cut into me worse than any knife.

Dogs would bark at me.

Even the most gentle family dogs would lunge and snarl at me (and only me) as I walked past.

That feeling of being an outcast, like I was no longer even a human being, like I was nothing but a parasite feeding off what others throw away, like the weak one of the herd that deserved to be left behind and eaten by the lions—was the most acute and horrible degradation I’d ever known. 

One day I was sitting on a corner in downtown San Francisco, smoking cigarettes, begging for change. It was me and these two street kids: Twitch, who’d been on the street pretty much his whole life, and Fish, an older kid who lived in the park behind the Safeway on Noe and smelled terrible until you got used it. The three of us were sitting there right on Market in the financial district and it was suddenly as if I could see myself from outside of myself, if that makes any sense. I could see what I looked like from the outside—that I had become one of those homeless kids I’d seen all my life growing up in the city. 

I grew up in San Francisco, where homeless kids and homeless adults are all over the place. Once, when I was around five, I remember that McDonald’s was giving away Berenstain Bears figurines in their Happy Meals. I’ve actually always hated McDonald’s, but I loved the Berenstain Bears. So I did a bunch of chores around our apartment and, as a reward, my dad took me to McDonald’s to get a Happy Meal. I retrieved the toy and then immediately asked my dad if we could give the food to a homeless person. We walked out of the McDonald’s and found a man sleeping in the doorway.

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Last February, my oldest friend died of a heroin overdose at the age of 49. He beat me to recovery, and he beat me to death. He also gave a final, drug-alogue interview on my radio show 20 hours before he died.

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