October 7, 2024
Coming out of summer 2017, I was in bad shape. The stories I could tell about overdosing, trying to kill myself, getting arrested, running from cops, hospitalizations, scamming money, getting robbed, stealing, and just all kinds of sad, desperate shit. If I told you how many roaches had infested my house and what I was doing to “deal” with them, you might not believe me. One day, I got across town to buy drugs and have no memory of how I even got there. After I copped—without a way back home—I just walked into a house that looked abandoned. I shut the front door behind me, sat on the floor of the living room, and shot up. When I woke hours later, my pockets were empty. Someone had come in and stolen my phone and whatever else I had on me. (Probably not much at that point). I mention this specific incident not because it was extraordinary but because it exemplifies a typical day back then. It was one of the less notable things to happen around that time.
I had warrants, and the police were banging on our door often enough that I couldn’t stay there anymore without risking arrest. Wallis and I took just a few things and went over to Steph’s for the next month or so. We were there for Hurricane Irma. My only memory of it is being dopesick, laying in Steph’s bathtub, waiting for what seemed like forever for a dealer to show up despite the storm.
I don’t remember the final straw, but I’d had enough. I got the money together for a four-hour Uber ride out of Jacksonville to Bradenton – to stay with my “adoptive family.” I had the driver meet us back at our house, where we frantically packed, hoping the cops wouldn’t show up before we could get what we needed and on the road. Most of our possessions were left to rot. This would begin the period I now call Round 2: Eight months of clean time – my first since the relapse that put my art career on an extended hiatus.
The detox wasn’t too bad and I was fairly happy just to be somewhere safe and not on drugs. Wallis had a harder time adjusting. She replaced shooting up with drinking and – IF YOU CAN BELIEVE IT – started losing control. One night, especially drunk, we had one of our worst fights ever. She kept threatening to call the police to tell them where I was, get me picked up for one of my warrants. She did this as she was repeatedly punching me in the face. I picked her up, carried her to the front door, tossed her out, and locked the door. When she finally calmed down, I let her back in, but told her we were going to have to call it for a while. The next day, I put her back on a bus to Jacksonville to do whatever it was that she was gonna do.
I started painting again. It was tough starting from scratch after a couple years away from art, but I was enjoying it. The first painting I made was “Mental Health Services Available to Strippers, Junkies, Cutters, and Other SICK GIRLS.” It was, essentially, just about being lonely. Wondering if I wanted Wallis back or just someone. The title was a joke about the kind of girls that I attract. As it also says on that painting, “we are attracted (and attractive) to those with similar levels of mental health.”
“Chemicool” was painting #2. The text up top explains itself: “I HAVE ELEVEN WEEKS CLEAN OFF HEROIN AND NOTHING ELSE.”
But things were picking up. I’d sold some prints. I had a couple offers for new originals. (“Enjoy Me While You Can” and “Run Free, Spit Fire, Yell at Clouds” were both sold before I’d even started them). And “Chemicool,” once finished, was scheduled to be in a group exhibit at a local gallery.
I’d been talking to Wallis about bringing her back down once we’d both leveled out a bit. That would mean getting our own place though. It was too much for both of us (and Lukah) to be living with my fake family. And then, one night, as I journaled:
Oh great. And I just got word that she’s BACK on heroin and back on the street. I’m about to have art money again. Do I spend that to get her here and rent an apartment that I really don’t need? So much for waiting ’til we’re both stable. That day’s never coming. But hey - THESE COLORS LOOK NEAT.
(I do love me some bright, neon colors. It is some consolation when everything else is wrong).
I added sardonically, “I think I’ll kill myself now.” I didn’t mean it; it was just frustrating that Wallis was fucking up so badly.
“Chemicool” went into the group exhibit and sold on the opening night. And I did bring Wallis back to Sarasota. (And was able to get her clean again). But a few months later, just after signing the lease for the apartment we’d found, I got it into my head to use again. On my own. Didn’t even tell her. She’d found a job and I did it one day while she was working.
And everything, of course, fell apart again. And it would stay that way for more than a year before I finally called Brandon to ask him, “If I go to detox, can I stay with you for a while when I get out?” He said yes. I told Wallis he’d be picking me up in the morning. Our electricity had already been cut and the rent was overdue. We hadn’t even really been staying there the last month, but – with me out of the picture – it was clear that the power wasn’t coming back on and she’d need to find somewhere else to go. It was almost certainly the end of our five years together.
Brandon did not pick me up the next morning. Because I was in jail. Arrested just a few hours after calling him. The cops didn’t seem to care that I had plans to go to detox in the morning. They, of course, brought me in. In my possession were enough drugs to warrant more than ninety felony charges. But that’s another story.
6×8-inch “Chemicool” prints (AND LOTS MORE) are on sale in the webstore now!
