"Difficult to read and impossible to put down." Chicago Tribune
"Tweak is...Bukowski and Burroughs, the heart to his dad's head and the kid can write." Seattle Weekly
"An unflinching chronicle of life as an addict." U.S. News & World Report
This New York Times bestselling memoir of a young man’s addiction to methamphetamine tells a raw, harrowing, and ultimately hopeful tale of the road from relapse to recovery and complements his father’s parallel memoir, Beautiful Boy.
Nic Sheff was drunk for the first time at age eleven. In the years that followed, he would regularly/i>/i>… See more details below
This New York Times bestselling memoir of a young man’s addiction to methamphetamine tells a raw, harrowing, and ultimately hopeful tale of the road from relapse to recovery and complements his father’s parallel memoir, Beautiful Boy.
Nic Sheff was drunk for the first time at age eleven. In the years that followed, he would regularly smoke pot, do cocaine and Ecstasy, and develop addictions to crystal meth and heroin. Even so, he felt like he would always be able to quit and put his life together whenever he needed to. It took a violent relapse one summer in California to convince him otherwise. In a voice that is raw and honest, Nic spares no detail in telling us the compelling, heartbreaking, and true story of his relapse and the road to recovery. As we watch Nic plunge the mental and physical depths of drug addiction, he paints a picture for us of a person at odds with his past, with his family, with his substances, and with himself. It's a harrowing portrait—but not one without hope.
"Difficult to read and impossible to put down." Chicago Tribune
"Tweak is...Bukowski and Burroughs, the heart to his dad's head and the kid can write." Seattle Weekly
"An unflinching chronicle of life as an addict." U.S. News & World Report
Sheff relates his personal struggle with drugs and alcohol in this poignant and often disturbing memoir. Paul Michael Garcia is the perfect choice for narrator; his stern and entirely believable voice captures the desolation in Sheff's tale. His reading is wonderfully underplayed, and necessarily so. Garcia becomes Sheff, offering a gritty and raw performance that demonstrates just how dire the circumstances surrounding Sheff's existence really were. A Ginee Seo Books hardcover. (Apr.)Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
I'd heard rumors about what happened to Lauren. I mean, I never even knew her that well but we'd sort of hung out a few times in high school. Actually, I was sleeping with her for about two weeks. She had moved to San Francisco when I was a senior and we met somehow -- at a party or something. Back in high school it was just pot, maybe I'd do some acid and mushrooms on the weekend.
But I smoked pot every day. I was seventeen and had been accepted at prestigious universities across the country and Ifigured a little partying was due me. I'd worked hard those last three and a half years. Sure I'd had some problems smoking weed and drinking too much when I was younger, but that was all behind me. I was smart. I was on the swim team. My writing had been published in Newsweek. I was a great big brother. I got along with my dad and stepmom. I loved them. They were some of my best friends. So I just started smoking some pot and what harm could that do me anyway? Hell, my dad used to smoke pot. Most everyone in my family did. Our friends did -- it was totally accepted.
But with me things were different. In high school I was rolling blunts and smoking them in the car as I drove to school. Every break in classes had me driving off to get high. We'd go into the hills of Marin County, dropping acid or eating mushrooms -- walking through the dry grass and overgrown cypress trees,giggling and babbling incoherently. Plus I was drinking more and more, sometimes during the day. I almost always blacked out, so I could remember little to nothing of what'd happened. It just affected me in a way that didn't seem normal.
When I was eleven my family went snowboarding up in Tahoe, and a friend and I snuck into the liquor cabinet afterdinner. We poured a little bit from each bottle into a glass, filling it almost three- quarters of the way with the different-colored, sweet-smelling liquid. I was curious to know what it felt like to get good and proper drunk. The taste was awful. My friend drank a little bit and stopped, unable to take anymore. The thing was, I couldn't stop.
I drank some and then I just had to drink more until the whole glass was drained empty. I'm not sure why. Something was driving me that I couldn't identify and still don't comprehend. Some say it's in the genes. My grandfather drank himself to death before I was born. I'm told I resemble him more than anyone else -- a long face, with eyes like drops of water running down. Anyway, that night I threw up for probably an hour straight and then passed out on the bathroom floor.
I woke up with almost no memory of what I'd done. My excuse for the vomit everywhere was food poisoning. It scared me, honestly, and I didn't drink again like that for a long time.
Instead I started smoking pot. When I was twelve I was smoking pot every day -- sneaking off into the bushes during recess. And that pretty much continued through high school.
Lauren and I really never got very close back then. When I heard later that she'd been put in rehab for cocaine abuse and severe bulimia, I guess it wasn't that surprising. We'd both been really screwed up all the time and I had a history of dating, well, not the most balanced girls. I remember being ashamed to bring her to my house. I remember not wanting my parents to meet her. We'd come in late, late and leave early in the morning -- whispering so as not to wake up my little brother and sister. Maybe it was them I wanted to shield from Lauren the most. Or, not from Lauren so much as, well, the person I was becoming. I was ashamed of my behavior, but still I kept going forward. It was like being in a car with the gas pedal slammed down to the floor and nothing to do but hold on and pretend to have some semblance of control. But control was something I'd lost a long time ago.
Anyway, Lauren was not someone I thought about a whole lot. When she approaches me, I don't even recognize her at first. It's been five years. She yells my name:
I jump, turning around to look at her.
She is wearing big Jackie O sunglasses and her dyed black hair is pulled back tight. Her skin is pale, pale white and her features are petite and delicately carved. The San Francisco air is cold, even though the sun has broken through the fog, and she has a long black coat pulled around her.
So I think...think, think. Then I remember.
"Yeah, don't pretend like you don't remember me."
"Whatever. What're you doing here?"
It's a good question.
I'd been sober exactly eighteen months on April 1st, just two days ago. I'd made so much progress. My life was suddenly working, you know? I had a steady job at a rehab in Malibu. I'd gotten back all these things I'd lost -- car, apartment, my relationship with my family. It'd seemed like, after countless rehabs and sober livings, I had finally beaten my drug problem And yet there I was, standing on Haight Street, drunk on Stoli and stoned out on Ambien, which I'd stolen from the med room at that rehab.
Honestly, I was as surprised by my own actions as anyone else. The morning of my relapse, I had no idea I was actually going to do it. Not that there weren't ominous signs. In the twelve-step program they tell you to get a sponsor. Mine was a man named Spencer. He was around forty, strong, with a square face and hair that stood on end. He had a wife and a three-year-old daughter. He spent hours talking with me about recovery. He helped me get into cycling and walked me through the twelve steps. We'd ride our bikes together along the Pacific Coast Highway, up Latigo Canyon, or wherever. He'd relate his own experience getting sober from chronic cocaine addiction. But I stopped calling him as often. Maybe I felt like I didn't need his help anymore. I seldom went to meetings, and when I did, my mind would talk to me the whole time about how much better I was than everyone else -- or how much worse I was, depending on the day. I'd stopped exercising as frequently. I'd stopped taking the psych meds they had me on -- a mixture of mood stabilizers and antidepressants. I'd started smoking again. Plus there was Zelda.
Zelda was a woman I thought I was madly in love with. She was fourteen years older than I was and, well, she was also engaged to marry another guy, a wealthy real-estate broker named Mike. When I started sleeping with her, I tried to justify it to myself. I figured it was her decision and I wasn't really doing anything wrong and it was just for fun and blah, blah, blah. Basically, I thought I could get away with it. I mean, I thought I could stay detached emotionally.
She came to represent for me everything I thought would make my life perfect. After all, she'd been married to this famous actor and was an actress and grew up in Los Angeles, raised by her famous uncle who was also in the movie business. Everyone seems to know her in L.A. She's sort of a celebrity, you know? Being with her became my obsession.
Ultimately, however, she wouldn't leave her boyfriend for me and got pregnant with his child. I was crushed. I mean, I just couldn't handle it. So yesterday I relapsed, driving up the 5, drinking from a bottle of Jäger.
So now I'm standing on Haight Street and Lauren, this girl I haven't seen or thought about in five years, is here, in her long black coat, asking me what I'm doing.
I'd driven up from L.A. the night before and slept in my old, falling- apart Mazda, parked in a lot on the edge of the Presidio -- a great expanse of forest and abandoned army housing that stretches out to the cliffs overlooking the Pacific and the San Francisco Bay. A friend of mine, Akira, had once lived there. He occupied a basement apartment on the edge of the Presidio. I'd hoped to find him still living there, but after I wandered around the house some -- looking into the dust-smeared windows -- it was clear that the place was deserted. It was Akira who'd actually introduced me to crystal meth when I was eighteen. He was a friend of a friend. He did a lot of drugs and we immediately gravitated toward each other. Somehow that always seemed to happen -- we addicts can always find one another. There must be some strange addict radar or something.
Akira was like me, but more strung out at the time. He had dyed red, curling hair and dark, dark eyes. He was thin, emaciated, with hollowed- out features and narrow, dirty fingers. When he offered me that first line of meth, I didn't hesitate. Growing up I'd heard, you know, never to do heroin. Like, the warnings were everywhere and I was scared -- do heroin, get hooked. No one ever mentioned crystal to me. I'd done a little coke, Ecstasy, whatever -- I could take it or leave it. But early that morning, when I took those off-white crushed shards up that blue, cut plastic straw -- well, my whole world pretty much changed after that. There was a feeling like -- my God, this is what I've been missing my entire life. It completed me. I felt whole for the first time.
I guess I've pretty much spent the last four years chasing that first high. I wanted desperately to feel that wholeness again. It was like, I don't know, like everything else faded out. All my dreams, my hopes, ambitions, relationships -- they all fell away as I took more and more crystal up my nose. I dropped out of college twice, my parents kicked me out, and, basically, my life unraveled. I broke into their house -- I would steal checks from my father and write them out to myself to pay for my habit. When I had a job at a coffee shop, I stole hundreds of dollars from the register. Eventually I got arrested for a possession charge. My little brother and sister watched me get carted away in handcuffs. When my then seven-year-old brother tried to protect me, running to grab me from the armed policemen, they screamed for him to "get back." His small body crumpled on the asphalt and he burst into body-shaking tears, sobbing and gasping for breath.
Then there were the treatment centers, two in northernCalifornia, one in Manhattan, and one in Los Angeles. I've spent the last three years in and out of twelve-step programs. Throughout all of it, the underlying craving never really left me. And that was accompanied by the illusion that, the next time, things would be different -- I'd be able to handle it better. I didn't want to keep hurting people. I didn't want to keep hurting myself. A girlfriend of mine once said to me, "I don't understand, why don't you just stop?"
I couldn't think of an answer. The fact was, I couldn't just stop. That sounds like a cop-out, but it's the truth. It's like I'm being held captive by some insatiable monster that will not let me stop. All my values, all my beliefs, everything I care about, they all go away the moment I get high. There is a sort of insanity that takes over. I convince myself and believe very strongly that this time, this time, it will be different. I tell myself that, after such a long time clean, these last eighteen months, I can go back to casual use. So I walk down to the Haight and start talking to the first street kid who asks me for a cigarette.
This turns out to be Destiny. He is a boy around my age, twenty or twenty-one, with snarled dreads and striking blue eyes. He has the narrow face of a fox or coyote and he's hiding a can of beer indiscreetly in the sleeve of his oversize jacket. He is distracted and out of it as I'm talking to him. I keep trying to get him to focus on what I'm saying. Eventually, he agrees to introduce me to a friend of his who deals speed, so long as I buy him another beer.
"Dude," he says, his voice thick and strained, "I'm gonna tell you straight, man, I'm fo'realze. My boy's gonna hook you up fat, that's no joke. You ask anybody, homes, they'll tell you, Destiny is all right. Everyone's cool with me 'cause I be cool with everyone."
He rambles on like that, pausing only to high-five pretty girls as they pass. As for me, the vodka and sleeping pills have calmed me down enough to keep me breathing through all this -- though the blind hungering for the high that only meth can bring has me pretty anxious. There'd been times, in the past, where I got burned copping drugs on the street. On Mission Street I tried to buy some heroin once and came away with a balloon filled with a chunk of black soap.
I smoke cigarettes, one after the other, trying to keep Destiny on point -- getting the phone number of his connection. It was right before Lauren stopped me that Destiny told me to wait while he went and got his "boy's" number from a friend. He walked off down the street and then Lauren is standing there, asking me what I'm doing.
My first instinct, of course, is to lie. The wind is blowingthe street clear and Lauren takes off her sunglasses, revealing those transparent green eyes of hers. What I say is, "Actually, I just moved back here from L.A. where I'd been sober over a year, but now I'm doing the whole relapse thing and I'm just waiting to hook up some meth. I heard you had some trouble like that too. Is that true?"
If she's surprised, she doesn't show it.
"Yeah," she says, her voice light and soft. "How much are you getting?"
"A gram, I hope. What are you doing here?"
"I was going to get my tattoo filled in. But, well, now I guess I'm going with you, aren't I? You need any money?"
She puts her glasses back on. "What about a car?"
"Uh, yeah, we could use your car. Mine's over on Lake Street."
"All right, then."
What I said about the money is sort of true. I have three thousand dollars saved up and, for me, that is a lot of money. I'm sure that it'll be enough to get me started on a life working and using in San Francisco. The rehab I'd worked at in Malibu catered to wealthy, often celebrity, clients. They paid well and, sober, I had few expenses. I can afford a sixty-dollar gram. In the next couple days, I'll start looking for work. I mean, I've got it all figured out. Really.
We stand watching the people on the street, walking from shop to shop.
"What've you been doing?" I ask. "It's been a long time."
"Five years. But, like you said, I had some trouble. I'm working now, though -- for my mom. I have about four months clean."
"But you're over it."
"Hell, I've just been waiting for the right person to go out with."
"I don't know."
"You look good."
"Thank you. It's nice to see you, too."
"Yeah." I put a hand on her shoulder, feeling her body tense up. "Here he comes."
Destiny is sort of strutting or limping or something down the street. I introduce him to Lauren.
"Rockin'," he says. "We can go meet him in, like, half an hour. Here's his number." He hands me a crumpled piece of paper. "You gonna get me that beer, right?"
"I'll go get my car," says Lauren.
I walk into the liquor store on the corner and buy two 40s of Olde E and another pack of Export As. Lauren pulls her green Nissan around and we pile in -- me in front, Destiny in back. I pass him one of the 40s and drink a bunch of mine down. Lauren refuses to take it when I offer her some, but she pops a few Klonopins 'cause she says she's gonna freak out if she doesn't. She gives me one and I figure it won't do anything since I used to take so much of it, but I chew it up anyway, hoping it might take the edge off or something.
Destiny directs us out of the Haight, and lower Haight, down Market and up into the Tenderloin. The rows of Victorian houses give way to corporate high-rises and then the gritty, twisting streets of the San Francisco ghetto -- cheap monthly hotel rooms, panhandlers, small-time hustlers, dealers, and junkies. Neon signs, off during the day, advertise strip clubs and peep shows. The sky has blown completely blue, but the sun is blocked by the falling-down buildings, leaving everything cold and windswept and peeling.
We stop the car on the corner of Jones and Ellis, watching the scourge of walking dead as they drift down the street. One man -- a skinny white guy with no hair on his head, but a lot on his face -- stands in front of an ATM machine. He turns his head toward the sky every minute or so, screaming, "Please! Please!" Then he looks back at the ATM. Nothing comes out.
"Here they come," says Destiny, getting out of the car with the 40. "Thanks a lot, kids."
"Cool, man, thanks."
"Have fun," he says, nodding toward Lauren knowingly. She maybe blushes a little.
A young kid greets Destiny and then jumps into Lauren's backseat. He is accompanied by a tall, skinny white man with gray hair and a face that looks like a pile of pastry dough. The boy is thin, but strong, with a round nose and darting eyes. He wears a black bandanna tied around his head and ratty, baggy clothes.
"Yo, what's up? I'm Gack," he says.
The fat older man says nothing.
"Hey, I'm Nic. This is Lauren."
"Cool, cool. You wanna G, right?"
His voice comes out in quick, hoarse bursts. I just nod.
"Word," he says. "Yo, this is my dad, Mike."
Mike waves stupidly.
"Anyway," continues Gack, "you're gonna give me the money, and I'm gonna go get yo' shit. My dad'll wait here."
"Dude, there's no way. I'm not letting you walk outta here with my money."
"Come on, yo, there's no other way. My dad'll stay here and, look, here's my cell phone, and my wallet, and I'll leave my skateboard. Just wait two minutes, okay?"
I look at Lauren. She shakes her head, but I say, "Fuck, all right."
I hand him sixty bucks and he leaves. Part of me expects never to see him again, but he returns ten minutes later with our sack. He comes all out of breath.
"Yo, I'm hookin' you up so fat," he says, handing over a very not fat Baggie of white crystals.
"Dude," I say, "this is fucking pin as hell."
"No way, man."
I take out one of the pieces and put it in my mouth. The bitter, chemical sour makes me shudder, but it tastes familiar. "All right, fine," I say.
"You have any points?" asks Lauren.
I'm proud of her. I hadn't even thought about getting rigs and there she is, coming right out and saying it.
"Uh, yeah. You all don't mess around, huh?"
"No," we both say at the same time. Out of his pocket, Gack pulls a pack of maybe five syringes held together by a rubber band.
"Those are cleans?" I ask.
"All right," I say. "We'll take those and we're cool on the short sack."
"Dude, that sack is fat."
"All right, well, call if you need more."
"We will," I say.
And with that, Gack and his dad leave the car and Lauren and I drive off with fresh needles and about a gram of crystal methamphetamine.
I remember Lauren's dad's house from the time we'd beentogether back in high school -- but I also remembered it fromwhen I was much younger. The place is a European-style mansion in Sea Cliff. It is four or five stories high, sort of boxy, with giant bay windows bordered by faded green shutters. Vines climb the gray-washed walls and white roses grow along the sloping stairway. It looks out on the ocean -- rough and pounding, relentless. The top story, a bright, sun-drenched loft, used to be the playroom of my best friend and sort-of brother, Mischa.
See, the divorce went down like this: My dad had an affair with a woman, Flicka, then left my mom for her. Mischa was her son. We all moved in together when I was five. Mischa was my age, with long, white-blond hair, blue eyes, and a famous actor father. He threw tantrums and would bite me, but we were also very close. His father was the one who had lived where Lauren's father lives now. I would go over there and play video games with Mischa, or build Lego spaceships, or draw, or whatever.
Walking in the door with Lauren -- backpack full of drugs, drunk and stumbling -- I can't help but feel a tightness in mystomach, thinking back to the child that I had been. I remember going on walks with my dad out to Fort Point, a jetty that stretches out underneath the Golden Gate Bridge. I remember eating sushi and tempura in Japantown, playing on the ships docked off Hyde Street, riding my bike through Golden Gate Park, being taken to the old Castro movie theater, where a man played the organ before every show. I remember my championship Little League team in Sausalito, birthday parties at the San Francisco Zoo, going to art galleries and museums. I'd been so small that my dad would shelter me from the cold by hiding me in his sweater. Our heads would stick out of the stretched-out wool neckline together. I remember the smell of him -- that indescribable smell of dad. He was so there for me always -- especially when my mom moved down south. Sober and living in L.A., I'd talked on the phone with him almost every day. We talked about everything -- from movies, to art, to girls, to nothing at all. I wonder how long it will be before the calls start coming in -- how long before he knows I've gone out, relapsed, thrown it all away.
Lauren's room is in the basement -- basically just a large canopy bed and TV and not much else. There are books and clothes and things all over the place. The shades are drawn over the windows, and Lauren plugs in a string of Christmas lights above the built-in shelves along the wall. She puts a CD in the player, something I've never heard before.
"Come on, let's hurry up," she says. "My parents will be home soon and I wanna get out of here before they come."
"Cool. You know, my parents' weekend house in Point Reyes will be empty tonight. We can go stay out there."
"I gotta work tomorrow morning," says Lauren.
"That's fine. We'll get you back."
"My parents are gonna freak out if I don't come home tonight."
"Make something up."
"Yeah, fuck, all right."
"Can I use this?" I ask, holding up a blown-glass jar, maybe an inch high, swirled with streaks of white and green.
"You gotta Q-tip?"
"Fuck, yeah, but let's go."
"All right, chill."
She rummages around and gets me the Q-tip. I rip off the cotton from one end. I go to the sink in her bathroom and fill the jar with a thin layer of water. I pour in a bunch of the crystal and crush it up with the back of a Bic lighter I have in my pocket. I hold the flame to the base of the jar until the liquid starts to smoke and bubble. I drop in the cotton and then pull it all up into two of the syringes. I pass the one with less over to Lauren and set about making a fist with my right hand, watching the veins swell easily. My body is so clean, so powerful -- over a year needle-free and my veins reveal themselves instantly. I think back to how difficult it'd once been to hit -- when the veins all began collapsing, hiding under the skin. But now the veins jump up right away. I pull back the plunger, watch the blood rush up into the mixture, and then slam it all home.
The chemical lets off this gas as it reaches your heart, or brain, or whatever and it rushes up your throat, choking you.
I cough, choking like that.
My eyes water -- my head pounding like maybe I'll pass out, my breathing going so fast.
"Goddamn, goddamn," I say, the lights dimming out and really, I mean, there's no feeling like it. The high is perfection.
I turn and see Lauren push off and as it hits her I kiss her without saying anything and she kisses back and it is all so effortless, not like being sober and consumed by worry and fear and inhibitions. I kiss her harder, but she pushes me back, saying, "Come on, let's go to the beach."
We get outta there fast and then we are walking in the sunlight, back toward Lauren's car. It is a different world, man, heightened, exciting. I light a cigarette and my fingers move spasmodically and I start talking, talking, talking. The waves of the drug keep sweeping through me and my palms turn sweaty and I grit my teeth. I tell Lauren about the book I've written and the job I want to get at this magazine in L.A. and suddenly it doesn't seem like these are impossible dreams anymore. I feel like it is all happening -- that my book is getting published and I can get any job I want and I'm gonna take Lauren along with me in my new life. Nothing, I mean nothing, can stop me.
"You know," says Lauren, "my parents are going out of town next week, so you should stay with me in my house, unless you have somewhere else to go."
"No, no," I say, everything fitting together perfectly in my world, in my mind, in destiny, and fate and blah, blah, blah. "That'll be great."
"They're gone for two weeks."
Baker Beach is mostly empty. We pull into the parking lot and look out at the pounding shore break, sucking up the brown, coarse sand and dashing it to pieces against the slick, jagged rocks. The Golden Gate Bridge looms up to the right, and across the channel are the Marin Headlands -- lush, green, rolling hills dotted with eucalyptus and oak, the red earth cliffs dropping down to the swirling water below. We get out of the car and I take Lauren's cold little soft hand in mine. We walk down along the dunes and the wind is blowing sand in my face, and suddenly I stop and strip off all my clothes down to my boxer briefs and run, headlong, into the surf. I hear Lauren giggling behind me, then nothing but the roar of the ocean and the cold, cold, cold.
The current is strong and I'm immediately struggling against it, ducking the swells and feeling the pull out the mouth of the bay. But I'm a good swimmer. I navigate past the rocks and begin paddling into the waves as they break along the beach. Growing up I'd surfed all along this coastline. My friends and I would stay out sometimes five or six hours. In the end I'd gotten very comfortable in the water, able to ride the big waves off Ocean Beach or down in Santa Cruz. I'd watch the pelicans riding the updrafts of the swells, or sea otters eating crabs, floating on their backs. I'd wake up early, heading out before the sun rose to get the morning glass. But as I got deeper and deeper into my using, my surfboards went untouched on their racks in the garage. I lost interest. There's something devastating about that, though I try not to think about it.
I mean, here I am, bodysurfing the breakers at Baker Beach, feeling my breath catch in my lungs from the frigid water. The muscle memory is all there, in my arms and chest. I look back at Lauren, stripped and lying in the warm sand. I take another wave in, then run up to her, kissing the white of her stomach and listening to her laugh and shiver. Then I run on, up and down the beach. Fast, freezing, but not feeling it, really. I look at everything, the trees, and shells, and tall sea grass. It all seems so new and exciting. My little sister, Daisy, never failed to point out the delicate flowers or intricately shaped stones as we went on walks together. She was so present and filled with wonder. Meth gives me that childlike exuberance. It allows me to see, to really see. The world appears miraculous and I laugh and run down the beach until I'm gasping for air -- then back to Lauren.
She smiles at me and I kiss her some more.
That night I drive her car through the winding back roads out to our house in Point Reyes. The drive is so familiar. I know every turn. It's the same route I'd used to get back from school every afternoon. We pass the little towns of San Anselmo and Fairfax, curving beneath the redwood forest of Samuel P. Taylor State Park. Then we come out on the green pastureland, obscured by the darkness and fog. We turn up our street, steep, steep,bordered by dense woods on either side. The car sputters some, but makes it -- taking me home.
My parents' house isn't huge or anything, but it is designed by some famous architect. It's sort of very Japanese and minimalist, with mirrors and windows all over the place. It looks out on maybe half an acre of garden -- wild, tangled vines, hedges, oaks, poplars. Gravel paths twist through the brush and in the spring and summer there are flowers everywhere.
Seeing that the driveway is empty and the lights are out, I creep along to the different doors and windows and things. It's all locked. I climb the faded wooden gate, wander over to the back doors until I find one that isn't dead-bolted solid. I yank it open, breaking the base of the door where it has been secured to the floor. Turning on as few lights as possible, I go through the house to the front and let Lauren in.
"Jesus," she says. "I remember these paintings."
My stepmother is an artist. The walls of our house are covered with giant, swirling canvases. The oil images are dark yet organic -- eyes, organs, branches, shapes repeated over and over.
"They're beautiful," I say. "So haunting, right?"
We go up to the living room and I put music on the stereo -- some electronic stuff I left the last time I'd been home. I open a bottle of sake I find in the closet and pour a glass. Lauren looks at all the art books and things on the shelves. I look at the photographs of my little brother and sister on the windowsill. There is one of Jasper in his lacrosse uniform, smiling. There is Daisy, who's just two years younger than Jasper, dressed as an elf, with a fake beard and her tangled hair pulled back. And there is the whole family together, my stepmom, her parents, brother, sister, my dad, my aunt and uncle, my brother, sister, cousins, and, on the far right, me. Walking through the house, I feel dirty -- like I'm this charcoal stain polluting everything I touch. I can't even look at the goddamn photographs -- it hurts too much. I drink the sake down.
"Let's go take a shower," I say.
"Yeah. You wanna fix some more first?"
We shoot up and take a shower. We have sex in my old bed until my knees are rubbed raw. After that, I smoke cigarettes and look for stuff to steal. I take a guitar and a couple jackets, but nothing bigger than that. Oh, and I need a notebook, so I grab this black thing with Powerpuff Girls stickers on the cover. It turns out to be my sister's diary. Copyright © 2007 by Nicholas Sheff
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I really enjoyed tweak. It was my first time reading a memoir based book and I thought it was very well written. Almost like you were right there by Nic sides experiencing everything he was experiencing. In was first was introduced to this in book in my Popular Literature class. I was drawn into, because it seemed like one of those books you had to read. One of those books that was juicy and just plain bad. I don¿t mean bad because of the way it was written but bad because it was about drugs and the party lifestyle. Come on what high school kid doesn¿t want to know about drugs and there influences. But when I started reading the book I realized there was more to it then just meth. It was about Nic recovery and his constant battle with crystal meth. How hard it was for him to live his life like a normal twenty one year old and how his past reflected upon his future. I mean how he grew up so fast and instead of confronting his problems he turned to drug abuse. I mean putting anything into his body that he could. It made me realize how hard it is to just stop using drugs and moving on. Like they say once you have tried the drug and experience the high it offers you will be craving for it for the rest of your life. Personally I really enjoyed this book and it opened my eyes to how bad it could be, if you chose drugs instead of a normal life. It was interesting reading this book because it was written uniquely and shared every aspect of Nic life. I really could not put the book down till I finish. Defiantly, one of those tear jerking books without the sappy love story behind it. There is a little bit of something for every type of reader.
In the novel ¿Tweak: Growing up on methamphetamines¿ the author, Nic Sheff, takes the reader on a journey through an addiction to crystal meth, heroin, cocaine and a number of many other substances. Throughout Nic¿s whole childhood and years as a young adult, Nic always felt he could quit whenever he felt he wanted too. Though after a violent relapse in California, Nic shortly realized that it wasn¿t the case, and that help was most defiantly needed. The message the reader is supposed get from this book is that drugs are extremely scary and dangerous. Any substance can ruin the relationship between family and friends, and Nic does a good job showing the reader just what can happen to a relationship. Some of the pros on the novel are that it can give all non- drug users a reason not to use, and it can scare a drug user and convince a person not to smoke, drink, or shoot up. Throughout the whole novel the reader is watching Nic try and beat the physical and mental depths of an addiction; an extremely heartbreaking thing to watch, scaring the reader with a mental picture that is quite difficult to imagine. The cons about ¿Tweak¿, is that after awhile it is no surprise that Nic has relapsed, or that Nic has lost yet another job. It is simply just a life story about Nic¿s addiction, meaning, whenever a new conflict comes up, there is no surprise on how it is resolved. This novel is very informational, and shows the reader just what life is like as a homeless, drug addict, and a struggling young adult trying desperately to get back on track. Also, if the book ¿Tweak¿ was appealing, try the Novel ¿Beautiful Boy¿, a novel about addiction through a parent¿s eye. Overall, out of five, ¿Tweak¿ deserves four and a half ¿hits¿.
An incredible story of addiction, healing and relapse. Tweak is painfully graphic, taking the reader through the darkest back alleys of drug addiction. This book should raise awareness that addiction is a powerful disease, and that addicts who fight it are brave, brave souls.
if you read his dad's book, then you have to read this!! i truly enjoyed this it just filled in the peices perfectly to 'a beautiful boy'
This book really did change my life. I read it when i was a sophomore in high school and was starting down this path. Reading what i could turn into and what was in store for me really made me turn my life around. I reccomend this book to ANYONE, even my grandparents. He paints such a vivid picture that everyone should experience.
This book focuses on the life of Nic Sheff who has experimented with many drugs throughout his life and his road to recovery. He started abusing alcohol and smoking weed when he was just eleven years old. His use soon moved on to drugs like cocaine and ecstasy. Later in his life he becomes a heavy user of heroin and crystal meth. He has this thought in his head that his life is better when using and he can get clean to get more money for drugs whenever he wants. One summer he has his worst relapse ever and almost ends up dead. He gets to the point where even very large doses of meth mixed with heroin won't get him high anymore. One morning he wakes up sick, sweaty, shaking, and puking on the floor of his girlfriends parent's house. He calls up and old friend and seeks help. This time things are different and he managed to stay clean and follow through with his twelve step program and keep a job. Drug abuse is obviously a major theme in this book and Nic talks about all the bad experiences he had while on meth and heroin. His message is to show the world the truth about the life of a tweaker and also that it is possible to recover and start a better life although it is extremely hard. I think this is a great book to read if you're interested in learning about the life of a heavy drug user. He doesn't hold back on anything and is very blunt an honest about the things that happened to him and the horrible things he would do just to get high. He talks about everything from selling drugs himself to prostituting himself to other men in exchange for drugs. I love his style of writing -- slightly like a diary, easy to read, and very in depth and honest. There is not one part of the book that I didn't like. If you like this book then I would recommend Crank or any other book by Ellen Hopkins. Although Her books are fiction and Nic's story is non-fiction, they both write about similar topics and similar styles.
I am completely serious when I say that. This book is so real and powerful and heartwrenching. I started crying when I was reading it. This book is so moving and good. I recommend it to everyon. Guys and Girls.
People need to be aware of how bad drugs are and how they affect your life negatively and perminately in most cases.
It is worth every bit of your time.
This book is incredible. I am a twenty year old recovering addict who always sees failure of sobriety. Finally someone leys it all make sense and how you can fight the disease. I want every addict to read this and understand that there is more to life than getting high
I had no idea what to expect from this book, but I never was able to put it down. Following Nic in his struggles and journeys was utterly fascinating and strengthening. I found myself addicted to Nic Sheff and his words.
this book is mostly told in a conversational tone, but it is very well written and he gets the point across. i loved it. he has another book coming out sometime in april '11, We All Fall Down. i am looking forward to reading that a lot!
The book 'Tweak' takes you on Nic Sheff's journey through addiction, recovery, and relapses. Nic started doing drugs at a pretty young age which led him to his crystal meth addiction later on. By the end of the book Nick came to the realization that no matter what, his addiction would always be a struggle. He finally understands who he is and feels like he is a new person once he became clean again, hopefully for the last time. This book was full of his personal stories and was a hard book to put down. It was very engaging. It painted a vivid picture of addiction through the eyes of the addict. One thing I didn't like about the book was how it jumped around. It seemed like he told the story as he remembered it but not always in the order it occurred. Also the ending of the book seemed to be abrupt. He had such an impactful story, and it seemed he could have given more time to his final conclusion. I would recommend this book to 'young adults' because it gives you the image of what an addiction really looks like.There are several people who said the book helped them get through their addiction. Nick Sheff's dad wrote a book called 'Beautiful Boy' which is the story of his dad's journey through his son's addiction. I haven't read it but it has great reviews and is said to be a good book to read before reading 'Tweak'. Overall, I think this book was great!
In this gut wrenching memoir Nick Sheff, a young confused boy tells with brutal honesty the very dark journey of his methamphetamine addiction. After drinking for the first time when he was a child, Nick knew there was something different about him. This story tells about the dramatic lengths Nick went to, to support this addiction and his almost impossible road to recovery. This is one of the better books I've read for many reasons one being the way Nick is a very relatable person. Nick grew up the way many of us do with divorced parents, but parents who really loved and cared for him. His constant need for approval from his family and friends show his lack of self esteem and how that was the main cause of his downfall. From prostitution, to stealing from his own younger siblings Nick tells about the harsh reality of being a drug addict. Nick gives a great insight to what it's like to be homeless and hopeless to the point where you have nowhere else to go but up. I believe this book could help anyone through a tough time drugs or no drugs.
I really liked this book. I thought he did a good job of detailing his life as a meth junkie. I also his dad's book after this one and it was interesting to see the different perspectives of the same events. His dad's book contains not only his struggle, but a lot of information about meth. I learned a lot and also felt an array of emotion. It is a good read.
Tweak, by Nic Sheff, is a memoir about the life from methamphetamine addiction to a sober life. Sheff’s writings about his lifestyle during using, to withdrawals, all the way to staying sober demonstrate the cultures of each different lifestyles. The memoir demonstrates these different experiences like ethnographies aim to portray. Even though ethnographies show customs and cultures in a scientific value, Tweak shows the separation of cultures of addicts to non addicts through Nic Sheff’s point of view and first handed experiences. This book grabs the reader through the darkness of being addicted to meth with vivid and disturbing memories. Tweak takes place throughout a period of a year starting with one of Sheff’s biggest relapses. Nic brings us through days of being high, to girlfriends, keeping his habits, and his journey to sobriety. I won’t lie in saying that his druggie life is significantly more interesting to read than his sober life. I know that is not a great thing to say, knowing that this is a real story about Sheff, but it is more intriguing to read about the crazy sex he would have and the many daily problems he would encounter. Situations like when his girlfriend overdoses on heroine is fast pace and immerses the reader, “I feel her ribs and breastbone plate crack some under my weight as I push down. Her belly fills as I blow the air in. Her chest heaves.” His writing through the relapse is always fast paced and never beats around the bush. None the less when Nic starts writing about his sober days it is fascinating to watch him start to understand his soul and find himself. He constantly asks himself deep questions like, “Why do I always want to become this unfeeling monster, fueled by whatever chemicals I can find to put in my body?” that show how far his mind has matured through his battle. Tweak is fantastic memoir that shows the gruesome transition from addiction to living sober.
Hard to believe some of this stuff, because most of us are thankfully never exposed to this sort of thing. It goes on everyday everywhere and is a real eye opener. There are members of my family and many other families who just won't believe their family could be touched by this sort of thing. Well reality is - most familes have a family member or know of someone with similar situation.-just hopefully not as drastic as this was. Anyone with any chemicsl dependency in their family, please, please, please go to Alanon. It is a family disease whether you believe it or not.
This book is truly inspiring listening to his story. He is such an amazing author and his books are truly addicting.
This book really is amazing. I read Tweak before I read his fathers book, Beautiful Boy. It provides so much insight into Nic's life and it is truly one of my favorite books. I could not put it down and I finished his book and Beautiful Boy very quickly. But then I did not want to be done reading it. I would recommend it to anyone over 15 years old.
This book is so good. I got it like a year or two ago and it was so frikin real. I was like daaaaang thats cray but it was very fast paced and a lil cringe worthy andvraw. Finaly a reall friggin great book!
I bought this book on my nook after seeing the hardcopy in the store. It looked interesting and I had heard good reviews on it but it didn't turn out good at all. I felt it dragged on. I like drug abuse stories and this one just wasn't what I thought it would be. I don't recommend.
Cant wait to read the next!
Tweak in my opinion was not only a book about a heroin addict but a book about way more than that. Nic went through a ton in his life and also lost a lot throughout these hard times for him. I would reccomend this book to anyone over the age of 17 and looking for a true story. This is an unbelievable true story about the author himself. It will definitely make you question the life you are living today for the better. From the lowest lows to the highest highs, Tweak really draws in the reader and makes you question what you would do in Nic's shoes.
I thought Tweak, by Nic Sheff was different, but I really liked it. I've never read anything like it before and I wasn't expecting it to be so brutally honest. He doesn't sugar coat anything; exactly what happened to him is what he writes, and I really liked that. It really opened my eyes to what some peoples lives are like. There are so many things that I didn't know about addiction that I know now. It really describes the life of an addict and how messed up it can get. The things addicts will do to get high shocks me, and he talks all about that in this book. I thought it was definitely educational and just an awesome read. It reads super fast; there were several times when I couldn't put the book down, and I think that really shows how well the book is. It keeps you intrigued and you always want to know what's going to happen to him next. Throughout the book I found myself making connections with Nic and I found myself really wanting him to get help and get better on a personal level, and that's never happened to me in a book before. Overall, the book was well written and really pulls the reader in and allows for a really good connection between reader and Nic.
After reading the book tweak, I truly got the feel of what goes on through the mind of an addict. I now will never judge someone simply not knowing there back ground of what they have gone through to get to where they are now. I thought his writing style was very different but it got you in the mind of him. Some critics would say its awful or " how could someone publish this". Coming from a younger adult view this book grabs and pulls you in simply because most young adults dont know about hard drugs. Most will never try them but its curious to know what it does to you or what its like. I truly enjoyed the book and would reconmend it to anyone who wants to know why users cant simply stop. Tweak taught me not to judge anyone because you simply dont know what there past has been like.