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L.A. Affairs: How I learned the difference between love and survival in a chemsex world

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L.A. Affairs: How I learned the difference between love and survival in a chemsex world

On Christmas morning, the man I thought I needed left me in another man’s cabin.

Hours earlier, Thom and I had been sprawled on the floor of a Santa Rosa utility closet where we’d been living, passing a meth pipe between us. I was 34 at the time. The mattress barely fit and it folded like a taco beside lube and dead torch lighters. Thom, in his 50s, had become my partner in chaos.

“Christmas. Anything you wanna do?” he asked with a tenderness I didn’t trust.

I scrolled Grindr. I’d traded seeing my family for crystal meth and the relief of nobody expecting anything of me.

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After crashing my mom’s car and a stint in jail, I couldn’t face her disappointment. A decade in New York had promised stardom; by Christmas 2016, the promise had curdled. All I had left were men who only wanted my body. That was all I had left to give.

I showed Thom a torso-only photo on Grindr. “This guy’s having people over.”

He squinted. “That’s Ed.”

Thom’s Prius wound into Guerneville, a gay mountain retreat with meth undercurrents. That’s where Ed, a onetime costume designer, held his gatherings. Porn playing, GHB Gatorade, torch lighters that actually worked — everything we’d failed at. Billy, who was in his mid-20s, answered the door naked.

The cabin smelled of rot and wood smoke. We stripped down. It was part ritual, part performance. It’s how I’d stayed high and housed for the last few months. So I knew what came next. I knew my role. I pulled on a jockstrap two sizes too small.

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Ed, who was in his 60s, grinned. “You’ve got that ‘West Side Story’ face, like you’re about to break into dance at the gym,” he said.

“Well, I played Tony,” I shot back. “No dancing for me.”

He laughed, and we were off, trading theater jokes, wardrobe malfunction stories and references Thom couldn’t follow. Thom’s jaw tightened as our connection excluded him.

He watched, his contempt spilling over, calculating whether I was worth competing for.

His face said exactly what I was: too much, replaceable. We were all using each other: Ed and Thom locked in an old rivalry, me the bait that kept older men supplied with boys. Billy was about to be replaced by me — I didn’t care. That was the cycle.

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Thom yanked on his jeans, gave me one last sharp look and slammed the door. I waited for his car to circle back, even just to tell me off, but it never did. So I stayed with Ed.

Months blurred together without Thom. His absence weighed more than his presence ever had. With Ed, there was more than meth and sex. He spoke to the part of me that still loved literature, pop culture, acting — the part I assumed died. It wasn’t love the way people imagine it, but it was the closest thing I’d felt in years.

We settled into a routine of smoking, not sleeping, drawn curtains and dirty dishes until one morning I made peace with dying in a chemical haze.

“You really loved Thom,” Ed whispered over eggs neither of us wanted and then added, “I’m just glad I won.”

The words were petty, but I knew what he meant. I wasn’t just another Billy. In his own broken way, Ed cared, enough to know I didn’t belong there, not forever.

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I stared at him, trying to read his next move. Was he kicking me out?

“If I let you stay here, I’d never forgive myself.” His voice was low, steadier than usual.

Ed was a dark character, fueled by his own hurt — he didn’t need to consider my future, he could’ve kept using me like everyone else had.

“Would you take me to L.A.?” I asked.

Ed nodded. “I’ve got an uncle in Venice.”

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So we packed up his orange Honda Element. We tried leaving a few times, car loaded, engine running, but we were too high or too terrified of life on life’s terms. Then we finally made it. Even collapse felt easier in motion than rotting in that cabin.

The Central Valley stretched endlessly with dead grass and lawyer billboards. As palm trees started appearing, the air felt different — warmer, full of promises I hadn’t earned. But I told myself I would — if I could just get clean.

Ed’s uncle’s garage apartment reeked of must and jug wine. It was blocks from Venice Beach, yet still a prison. I didn’t know how to break free from the drug or the cycle that had trapped me. “Isn’t there a Ferris wheel on the beach?”

This was me trying to sound like I’d be willing to brave the world outside. But Ed knew better.

“That’s Santa Monica, the pier.”

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The next day I reached out to Diana, an old college friend in North Hollywood. I’d told myself just get to L.A. — old connections would save me. But the look on her face when she saw me, my emaciated frame, the chemical burn under my clavicle, sour smell I couldn’t mask, told me otherwise. She hugged me stiffly, then pulled back.

“Jesus, Nick,” she said.

Ed said he was leaving and going back to Guerneville, but I begged for one more night. At a cheap motel, I accused him of hiding drugs.

“They’re my drugs,” Ed snapped. He grabbed his keys and was gone.

Abandonment had a sound — engine noise fading into Ventura Boulevard traffic. By morning, I still hadn’t slept. Outside, the sky burned neon pink and orange, the kind of L.A. sunrise that’s beautiful even if it’s born from smog. I just lay there, listening. Every car that slowed could be Diana or nobody.

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At 10 a.m., she knocked, flinched when she saw me and helped me into her car. On the drive, she filled the silence with inconsequential chatter, as if nothing had changed. I pressed my forehead to the glass and counted palm trees to slow my heart.

Three months later, I landed at Van Ness Recovery House, an old Victorian in Beachwood Canyon under the Hollywood sign — 20 beds, three group sessions a day and nowhere left to lie.

The program director, Kathy, slid me a scrap of paper. It had a phone number with an area code I recognized.

“Ed?” I asked, though it wasn’t really a question. I knew what was next. I’d told the whole story in group. She knew everything.

“No contact. Ever,” Kathy said. I nodded.

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“Tell him it’s over, and then hang up.”

Kathy handed me the phone. My hands shook as I dialed.

“Nick! How are you, sweetheart?” Ed answered, his voice warm and familiar.

Tears came before words. “Ed, I can’t … They say I can’t talk to you anymore.”

Silence stretched as Kathy watched and waited.

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“But you helped me. You got me here. You …”

“Hang up, Nick,” she said firmly. “He’s a backdoor to your recovery.”

“I have to go,” I whispered.

“Wait, Nick, …” he started, but I hung up, Kathy’s eyes still on me. I handed the receiver back to her.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” she said. “This is your last chance. You can’t afford an escape route.”

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Outside, the Hollywood sign caught the afternoon light. For the first time in months, no meth psychosis obstructed my view. It looked different, not a destination, but a witness.

Ten years later, I’m married to someone I met at an AA meeting; a quiet, steady love, the opposite of the chaos I once mistook for devotion. We bought a house in the Valley, have two rescue bulldogs. Today, when I drive past Van Ness — that old Victorian recovery house where I learned to tell the truth — I remember the Nick who thought survival was the same as love.

It wasn’t. But it got me to Los Angeles, where I finally learned the difference.

The author is a Los Angeles–based writer with recent bylines in the Cut, HuffPost and the Washington Post.

L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.

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Exercise is vital to your health, but so are the arts. Here’s how to reap the benefits

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Exercise is vital to your health, but so are the arts. Here’s how to reap the benefits

When she has time, Daisy Fancourt likes to sit at the piano and play something by Bach, Francis Poulenc or, if her children are with her, a nursery rhyme.

There’s nothing frivolous about playing or listening to music. It can reduce stress and inflammation, improve heart health, lift moods and slow cognitive decline, according to Fancourt’s book, “Art Cure: The Science of How the Arts Save Lives,” out in February. Other artistic pursuits, from painting landscapes to taking salsa lessons, have similar benefits.

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Shelf Help is a wellness column where we interview researchers, thinkers and writers about their latest books — all with the aim of learning how to live a more complete life.

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“I think somehow the arts are still seen as ‘fluffy,’ even though we have such strong evidence about everything they do,” says Fancourt, a professor of psychobiology and epidemiology at University College London, and director of the World Health Organization’s Collaborating Centre for Arts and Health. She calls art the forgotten fifth pillar of health, alongside diet, exercise, nature and sleep.

“With physical activity, we all take it seriously — even if people don’t do it, they know they ought to be doing it. And I think it would be wonderful to get to that same place with the arts.”

Portrait of author Daisy Fancourt.

Portrait of author Daisy Fancourt.

(Tom Burton)

Despite Fancourt’s skill as a pianist (as a college student, she played for a classical radio station between taking classes at Oxford University and interning at a hospital arts program), she insists that people needn’t be master artists to improve their physical health and mental well-being. A simple visit to a museum or a live theater production can do wonders, as can a humble activity such as knitting.

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Scientist that she is, Fancourt presents plenty of evidence for art as a cure to what ails us. But her main concern is helping people “see how they can apply the evidence in their daily lives and make changes that will improve their health.”

This interview has been condensed and edited for clarity.

What are some of the most important ways that the arts can make us healthier?

When we engage in the arts, we activate reward and pleasure networks in the brains, we experience the release of dopamine as a happy hormone, and we also psychologically give our brains what they need to be happy. We give our brains a sense of autonomy, control, mastery and a way of regulating our emotions, all of which are fundamental to our mental health.

Arts engagement affects nearly every region of the brain. And if we engage regularly, it actually affects the size, structure and functioning of those brain regions, which can help with the development of brains in young children. It can help with the preservation of cognition as we get older. It can even help our brain to develop new neural pathways around brain injuries.

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Every system in the body is affected by art. So when we breathe through singing, we support our respiratory muscles. When we dance, we reduce our blood pressure and glucose levels. When we look at relaxing paintings, we actually activate our pain analgesic response.

"Art Cure" by Daisy Fancourt book cover.

“Art Cure” by Daisy Fancourt book cover.

(Celadon Books)

In the book, you describe screen time as the “ultra-processed food” of the arts. Why isn’t watching content on screens as beneficial as experiencing the arts in person?

When we looked at people going to the cinema versus going to live theater or music gigs, we found there were no benefits to cognition from regularly going to the cinema as they got older, but they had better cognitive preservation if they were going to live performances instead. That’s not to say [engaging in the arts] online is necessarily bad for you — there are plenty of examples where it’s good. But it can dilute benefits you would get from real-life social interactions.

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You point out that narratives on TV can have some benefits, but now people are migrating to even shorter videos on TikTok and Instagram. How do you think about the difference between consuming content on, say, Netflix versus scrolling on TikTok?

We know that shortened engagement just doesn’t provide the same kind of meaning that you can get from longer engagement. And it’s not just online. We’re guilty of that even when we go to museums. The average amount of time that people spend looking at artwork in museums is 28 seconds. If you really want to enjoy the arts, you have to give them your attention, whether that’s really looking at a picture properly in a gallery and thinking about your response to it, or whether it’s taking the time — not for a 30-second clip on TikTok — but a 30-minute drama that’s actually going to allow you to get into the details of storylines and characters.

So, I recently tried and failed to read “Ulysses.” People might have lofty ambitions to read a great novel or learn how to play an instrument, but at the end of the day they turn on the TV because they’re exhausted. What are some strategies to engage with the arts in a meaningful way when people have limited time and energy?

Pick the art you want to do, not the art you think you ought to do. So if “Ulysses” is what you want to be reading, then great, but don’t think that some kind of highbrow art is going to be the best for you. It’s not. You need to pick art that you think you’re going to enjoy, that speaks to you, that you have a frame of reference for. So that’s my first point. My second point is to make it equal to your energy level. If you don’t have the energy to read a book, why not turn on a concert on the radio? But don’t be on your phone. Don’t be doing anything else. Don’t multitask. Just sit and enjoy that concert and that experience.

Another thing to consider: How can you make [regularly engaging with the arts] doable? If you would normally go out and meet up with friends in the evening for a drink, well, how about going and meeting up and doing a craft activity instead? So it’s not requiring any more time. If you’d normally read the news on your way to work, swap that for a book. Those simple swaps can make it much more feasible.

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TAKEAWAYS

From “Art Cure: The Science of How the Arts Save Lives”

I was fascinated by the “tragedy paradox” that you mentioned in your book. Can you talk about why art that deals with depressing and scary situations can actually make us feel happier at times?

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It makes sense that happy art would make you happy. But actually, reading sad books or listening to sad songs, even watching scary films, people say that makes them feel happier. In our real lives, if we experience a sad or scary thing, then it’s sad or scary. But when we’re experiencing it through art, because it’s art, we know it’s not real, therefore there’s a detachment from it. Our brains get to use that experience almost as a learning process, to think about, “How can I regulate this emotion? How would I respond in the real world?” Also, we find that when we have negative and positive emotions together, we find events much more memorable, including arts events.

[Note: Fancourt writes in the book that sad or scary works of art that trigger negative memories from our past do not help us regulate our emotions.]

How often should we be engaging with the arts to get the full health benefit?

Think about it like you think about food. So we all need to be eating every day. We should all be doing some kinds of arts every day.

People dancing to music

(Maggie Chiang / For The Times)

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‘The Pitt’ approaches the end of a very long shift : Pop Culture Happy Hour

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‘The Pitt’ approaches the end of a very long shift : Pop Culture Happy Hour

Noah Wyle in the second season of The Pitt.

Warrick Page/HBO Max


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Warrick Page/HBO Max

In HBO Max’s The Pitt, an ER full of doctors, nurses and staff are put through tense, high-stakes shifts. The first season was a critical success and won the show a raft of Emmy Awards. Now the second season is close to an end, and while this shift has been less catastrophic in some ways, it’s clear that everyone, including attending physician Dr. Robby (Noah Wyle) is stretched very, very thin. 

Subscribe to Pop Culture Happy Hour Plus at plus.npr.org/happyhour

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