“You are receiving a call from the LA County Jail from—DAMON. To accept this call, press one.”
I gasped. Damon was in jail. He was finally locked up. I could have cried tears of relief. I didn’t press one to accept the call. I don’t even know what he went down for.
After I got the call, it was time to celebrate. Jail time was truly the only way that he would have stopped chasing us. It was either that, or me being dead. I was finally truly free.
I only saw Damon one more time in my life. It was a few years later, when my addiction had spiraled even further out of control. On this particular day, I needed some weed, yo. My usual drug dealers weren’t answering their phones, so I texted Damon.
I told my boyfriend at the time that I needed to go pick up weed from my drug dealer ex, to which he replied, “Okay, be back soon!” My then-current boyfriend didn’t know how extreme my past with Damon had been.
I walked inside Damon’s Beverly Hills apartment. The place was a dump—the result of years of decline. He couldn’t handle taking care of it anymore, or of himself. There were empty bottles and cigarette butts everywhere. Paintings and pictures all over the floor. Shadows of what his life used to be.
There was no Olivia anymore. There was nobody except Damon. He was slumped over on the floor in the corner of the living room. There were track marks all over his arms from heroin. He wasn’t scary anymore. He almost wasn’t a person. Heroin takes the life out of you. He was so weak that he could barely sit up. I didn’t feel scared or paranoid—I knew he couldn’t hurt me even if he wanted to.
He looked lifeless.
So obviously, I pointed to the heroin and said, “Ooooh, that looks fun. Can I try some?”
He said over and over again, “Don’t ever do this. Don’t ever do this.”
“Just let me try some!”
“I’m not letting you shoot up.”
Damon, the terrorizing maniac who manipulated me, isolated me, and assaulted me, THIS TERRIBLE PERSON who never truly cared about my well-being—he wouldn’t let me shoot heroin. That’s how devastating it is. That’s how much it kills you.
I don’t think that fact settled in with me at the time. “Then can I at least smoke it?”
I was not learning any lessons on this day, apparently.
“Okay.” He handed it to me.
I tried it, but I didn’t even like it. I vomited right after. I don’t remember feeling good at all. Thank God.
I left that apartment as I had found it, with weed in hand. I left Damon there. I don’t even know if he’s alive today.
In spite of everything, I don’t hate him. He was sick. I saw his parents; I saw where he came from; I saw who he was. It was like the sickness creeped down onto him and overcame him. It’s what happened to Leo and Andre. Sometimes I think that’s what was happening to me, too.
Years later, when I was sober, I saw Leo in a recovery meeting. He was emaciated, shockingly skinny. He looked like a different person. He spoke about the moment he was brought to his knees. A girl had overdosed and died in his arms. That was the moment where his will to get out of his addiction became stronger than one of the most powerful drugs in existence. I don’t know where Andre is today.
Unless you can climb out of it, it doesn’t end well.
* * *
After Damon went to jail, Colleen and I finally got to relax FOR REAL. Things calmed down. In the absence of Damon’s chaotic presence, we could see how crazy our current lives really were, especially with Leo and Andre.
Early on, I really loved that nothing ever fazed those two. No matter what I did or what Damon did, it was just another day in the life. When I had called them to come pick me up after meeting them one time, they didn’t say, “Wait, what? Who are you?” They just accepted it and came the fuck over to save me. They even loved Damon at first. They probably loved Damon more than I did.
They didn’t realize how dangerous he was until the night that he broke in. By then, they were fucking pissed. Damon’s pretty face couldn’t get him past that with them.
And I think in the same way, I hadn’t realized how crazy and out of hand Leo and Andre had gotten until after Damon was gone. I mean, I knew they were using way too many drugs, as was I. But Leo and Andre had taken things a step further, unbeknownst to me.
It was not a normal apartment and that worked for me. We’d party all the time and go out together and have fun. There was always EDM bumping through the walls and drugs sprawled across our dining room table.
One night, they had left some cocaine out on the dining room table.
THANKS GUYS, DON’T MIND IF I DO!
They were so generous! I snorted it and then tried to go on my merry way but . . . My brain went into overdrive. Fuck. Oh fuckohfuckohfuck—
What noise was that? Should I try painting? Should I clean my room or should I paint my walls??? I should paint my walls! How come I can’t play guitar? I need to play guitar! What can I sell in order to buy a guitar? AM I SWEATY? I’m not sweaty; I’m beautiful. I NEED TO SHOWER RIGHT NOW. THE FUCK?
Then I took a six-hour shower.
The white powder on the table was not cocaine. It was meth.
That night, I stayed up until like seven in the morning. Remember when I said good sleep is better than sex? Well it’s also better than meth. #DONTDOMETH
Leo and Andre had gotten into crystal meth at this point, and their meth-head friends were over all the time. Now that our apartment was crystal meth–land, Colleen and I realized that we should probably leave. We needed to start over.
One night out, Colleen and I met Paul, a sweet gay artist who was living in Marilyn Monroe’s old house—it was her house when she was still Norma Jean.
“That’s kind of like me, right, Colleen? I’m in my Norma Jean phase right now, but eventually I’ll reach Marilyn status. Right? Why are you rolling your eyes at me? Hey come back—”
Paul had an extra room that we could move into, and he seemed much less crazy than Leo and Andre. Those were our only two qualifications! Perfect!
We went home and Leo and Andre were sitting in the living room hanging out with their meth-head friends on the couch. Now was the time to let them know.
“Hey guys. Colleen and I are gonna move out.”
Andre was on something and feeling it. He squeezed us into a three-way hug. “Oh, my babies. My beautiful babies. I’m gonna fucking miss you.”
“Are you touching my butt?”
“I’m going to miss this butt.”
One of their very-high-on-meth friends looked at us, very wide eyed.
“YOU GUYS ARE MOVING OUT? OH WOW. DO YOU NEED HELP PACKING? I’LL PACK YOUR STUFF FOR YOU—”
“You’ll pack our stuff?”
“I LOVE PACKING STUFF. SO I’D LOVE TO PACK YOUR STUFF FOR YOU. GO HAVE FUN KIDS GO OUT I’LL PACK.”
Colleen and I looked at each other. Okay . . . a meth-head wants to pack our stuff. Meth-heads are notorious for stealing shit to fund their habits. She wouldn’t do that to us, though!
“That is so nice. Are you sure?” I asked.
“YES YES YES YES YES—”
“Wow, that is so nice! Thank you!” I said as Colleen and I went out.
You know, that Midwestern naïveté dies hard. Even after all the bullshit I had gone through in New York and LA . . . I still trusted people. Hey, don’t judge me! It’s a beautiful way to live, trusting the world around you, not seeing ulterior motives. At least, until all your shit gets stolen.