Tweet for Help

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Tweet for Help

By Nick Dothée 02/23/17

The plan was to quit using crystal meth now and then things would start to happen for me again.

Image: 
an image of a tweet from Nick Dothee saying "Help Me"

Tweet, Feb. 17th 2016:

Cabin fever.
#whatismylife
haveyouseenmelately
#Guerneville
#seeyouatsafeway
@Russian River

The abusive crystal meth dealer I was dating—or rather using with and sleeping with—screamed at me and kicked me out of a cabin that wasn't his. He (Rob) was basically squatting. My parents were done with me and I had nowhere to go. Well, unless I wanted to get sober again. So, the dealer who actually owned the place (Adam) took pity on me and drove me to his other house in San Francisco. I stayed high for days just outside of the Castro District. I was sure my barbarous ex would come and yank me out of this house. It was a Victorian-style crack den in a great location. And in foreclosure. Drug addicts came in and out tripping on the broken wooden front steps before pounding on the door, frustrated by the busted buzzer. Adam had a month to get his shit out. We stayed in his bedroom, smoking meth and inviting guys from Grindr to come “PNP” (Party and Play)—which meant do meth with your preferred chaser (mine was GHB) and fuck.

Adam wanted Rob out of his place in Guerneville, partly for my sake, but mostly because he now was forced to make a home out of what was once just a sensible, rustic drug adventure getaway pad. Rob flipped his shit, but finally vacated and left Guerneville with two friends that stayed with him, and did the drugs he was supposed to sell. Adam and I could now have the cabin to ourselves.

On the way from SF to Guerneville, we stopped in Santa Rosa where my mom lives. I didn't visit her, but I did go see my new doctor to get more Xanax. I had run out and was not good at coping with the meth comedown without it. The doctor gave me a blood test first, and told me she couldn't prescribe anything while I was doing meth. I was shocked. How dare she withhold my Xanax. I explained my ADD and Adderall use. She wasn't buying it but had to prescribe some benzodiazepines regardless, because the withdrawal can be lethal.


Tweet, Feb. 20th 2016:

Clarity comes in #Guerneville murky river water that varies in depth as each day passes.

Rob showed up unannounced in the middle of the night. Adam told me that Rob owed him money. I hid in the bedroom, terrified, for a few hours as they made small talk. My psychosis told me they were plotting against me. It seemed time to get out of there somehow, but I couldn't go back to my parents. I couldn't go back to NYC either. LA didn't hate me yet. The only clarity I had in that cabin was in the crystal rocks I was smoking, and those too were highly questionable.


Tweet, March 1st 2016:

Your challenge was to spend weeks with only redwoods and your own demons living in the narrow…

My poetry got methy. I started to reach out more, getting on Facebook and tweeting. This particular tweet, I tweeted twice. Oops. It was time to let everyone know that I was okay. I had been MIA for too long to get away with it. Adam and I rarely slept, but we’d brew coffee in the morning. We’d make food to not eat. I even invited my mom over. She came and I was very convincing. Adam made a quesadilla casserole and she loved it so much, she didn't notice that we didn't eat it. I also had to deny having her iPad mini, since one of our companions fresh out of jail stole it the night before her visit. Her name was engraved on the back. I felt pathetic, but I had to keep going. I just had to get to LA and everything would be fine.


Tweet, March 7th 2016:

Last moments in the #Guerneville cabin. New life. Next step. Keep moving toward the truth…


The image used with this post was one taken by Adam as part of a photo shoot we were taking quite seriously. There were lighting checks and wardrobe changes involved. We spent an entire day Photoshopping. Everything—down to how white my teeth were—was a version of a story I thought I was getting away with. I looked like claymation with hollowed dark pits for eyes. It was time to go. One of us had overstayed our welcome, but he lived there. Adam couldn't get me in the car. It took three days. He put highlights in my hair with some L'Oréal box he found in his bathroom closet. Everything should be brighter for LA, he told me. I was screaming and crying most of the drive down. I forgot what real life was, and I was petrified to be forced to remember.


Tweet, March 26th 2016: 

Wait, so I like fully live in LA now I just noticed… But yet, don’t have a place to live.

I figured things would just start happening because I wasn’t in a cabin in the middle of nowhere smoking crystal meth all day everyday. I finally made it to LA after three months isolated in the woods pretending to plan this very move. I half-ass contacted a few close friends from college, alerting them I’d be arriving and needing a place to live. Diana responded and said she needed a roommate. Perfect. If I moved in with Diana, I’d get back into acting and leave the drug world behind me. She said I could stay with her and her other roommates for a week while we looked for a new apartment together.

In preparation for seeing a close friend I hadn’t seen in almost 10 years and an appointment to view an apartment with her, I drank half a bottle of Bacardi ready-made mojitos, snorted a line of meth, and took a shower. It wasn’t even noon—hence the mixed drink and only half a bottle. Despite the performance I thought I nailed at the relatively fancy West Hollywood apartment with Diana and the building manager, we were denied the apartment. Upon further review, Diana no longer wanted me as a roommate.


Tweet, March 30th 2016:

LA- I’m here and I need an apartment like home; no place like it, but I’m willing to lower my bar, obviously. Who’s got something to rent?

I met the couple on Grindr. They said no crystal meth, but that we could do GHB and hook up. I was into it. But when I got to their apartment, we really hit it off and ended up spending more time joking around and watching YouTube clips of vintage American Idol than we did actually fucking. I expressed what a difficult time I was having finding a place to live because Southern California was so strict with their credit score policies for prospective renters. It was lost on me that perhaps my excessive drinking and drug use exacerbated that particular housing requirement difficulty. They told me they were going to get married and move in together, and wanted the luxury of moving out of their place slowly. They had two massive aquariums filled with beautiful tropical fish and pieces of furniture too large for the space. I’d only pay $800 and they’d pay the rest. Or rather, my parents would only pay $800 and they’d pay the rest.


Tweet, April 5th 2016:

Does LA make people dicks or do all shitty people with no moral compass just end up here? Shallow is one thing, but dense too… #humanitydoesntlivehere

The Studio City pre-paid one-bedroom was the perfect storm for my addiction. It allowed for day drinking and isolation in between the week-long meth and GHB binges. My parents agreed to help me out as long as I got back into the program of AA and checked myself into an outpatient rehab. Okay, maybe I talked them into outpatient as opposed to inpatient. I also convinced them not to come down and take me back up north for the Salvation Army residential treatment program. I’d heard the stories. Apparently the gays weren’t their favorite flavor of addict. Anyway, I kept finding excuses as to why I couldn’t start the program. Like, the doctor was out of town to confirm that I had detoxed. True, the doctor was out of town, but I was far from detoxed. And everyone knew it.


Tweet, April 8th 2016:

LA- I need a job!

I was high and drunk and watching Killers starring Ashton Kutcher and Katherine Heigl. I told myself that Facebook employment inquiries were a sufficient job search for the evening. As all-nighters became week-long binges, and finally full-month marathons, what became more than painfully clear was that the main thing I came to LA without was a fucking clue.

The plan was to quit using crystal meth now, and then things would start to happen for me again.


Tweet, April 11th 2016:

Help Me.

I was coming off of a seven-day meth and GHB run. I don’t eat or sleep during those. I had finally kicked the benzodiazepine physical dependency, but rapidly replaced it with absurd amounts of alcohol. A meth comedown is uncomfortable, at best.

The cops showed up and I was on the couch in the front room. The door was open. They asked me how I was doing, I wasn’t going to be rude. I told them I was okay, but just really sad. They told me I could get help and feel better if I went with them. Some sober friends of mine in NYC had responded to my tweet by calling the police. I wasn’t mad, I was drunk. I was desperate. I went with them.

I was taken to the station and held in a cell while I waited for hours for a psychiatric professional to come and check me out. They told me the handcuffs were protocol and for everyone’s safety, and assured me I was not arrested. I was chained to a bench in a barred room, but I wasn’t arrested. I remember thinking that I was so relieved to finally find out what was wrong with me. I was so exhausted from myself. Surrender was the only logical next step. So I didn’t say "no" when they told me I was going to the hospital to be evaluated. I didn’t say "no" when they checked me into Olive View. I didn’t say "no" when they told me I’d be there a week. I was done. The jig was up.


Tweet, April 19th 2016:

Ok I’m back! And with more material than I know what to do with.

I had written while in the psych ward with pens coated in plastic. They called them “suicide-free” pens, or maybe I made that up. I wrote about psychosis and how everyone was nuts. I wrote about the obese Ebony who asked if I would help her take a shower. I wrote:

“Sunday- another melt down. I think my roommate might be calling me a weirdo to a social worker. I started feeling sad for a second, but quickly considered the source. He hasn’t peed in any of the three cups the nurse has placed on his nightstand. I’m never doing meth again.”

But I did.


Tweet, April 23rd 2016:

LA peeps- I need a job! Badly- like the day before yesterday. I have many skills slash what restaurant to you have an in?

Typos were the least of my issues.

The skills I was currently exercising were the ability to convince guys on Grindr and Scruff that I was okay, a good time, and worth them paying for an Uber or Lyft to get me from Studio City to West Hollywood. My skill was finding a nice apartment I could crash at long enough to come down from crystal meth and start drinking their alcohol. I couldn’t risk the boys I was renting the apartment from seeing me high out of my mind, but I also couldn’t afford not to drink at this point. It had come to shakes and all of that stuff you hear about.


Tweet, May 2nd 2016 6:31pm:

I literally hate life out here.

It was very apparent to me that LA was the problem.


Tweet, May 2nd 2016 6:32pm:

Help Me.

In AA we practice humility and ask for help. I tweeted for it twice. I truly hope I won't have to see how charming a third time can be, but I'd be doing myself a disservice to rule it out completely.

I think I'm all set with the serious tweets for a while, however, I won't regret the past nor wish to slam the door on it, as they say in the program. The internet makes it very difficult to slam the door on any past. Once it's out there, there it is. Even if I could permanently erase my tweets, I can't erase the impact it had on me and those who read them. And that's okay.


Tweet, November 28th 2016:

6 months.

Nick Dothee

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