Chapter 7: A Long Way Out

18+ / Explicit content.

My little brother moved back to Finland. He was furious, he thought I’d messed up his apartment. He’s a pedant. The place was tidy enough. I think there was one painting I accidentally knocked off the wall.

I found myself a studio on Topeliuksenkatu. The place was a wreck, just like me. It had a small kitchenette and a balcony. But the location was great. My friends helped me move. One hour and my stuff was in. I bought a bed, a desk and a chest of drawers from Ikea. Spent half an hour trying to assemble the chest, then threw the fucker into the attic.

I scoured flea markets and art exhibitions but couldn’t find a single interesting painting. I wanted something to look at on the walls. I did have an icon my grandparents had given me. It was striking, with real gold leaf on the frames. My christening gift, originally smuggled in from Russia. But it scared me a little. God had turned his back on me when I was a child after all. I remembered praying to God as a kid after my mom’s cancer diagnosis. And she did get better. Whether it was thanks to the doctors or a higher power, who knows. That wasn’t what kept me up at night. But after my stints in the hospital in LA, I was once and for all convinced that if a higher power did exist, it definitely hated me.

I decided to learn oil painting. My mom bought me the necessary paints and an easel. I don’t think I finished a single painting.

My savings were running out. The recession had finally hit Finland too. This time it wasn’t just the Nordic countries but the whole world. I did random moving gigs. Carried large, heavy couches up the stairs. All the sweating made me feel a bit better, I even lost eleven pounds. Though I still had more than forty pounds to shed. The work was easy. The less you thought about things, the faster the long days went. 

I remember a job where we hauled a load from Vantaa all the way to Porvoo. I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to make the trip. This shows you just how small my world had become. I was a scared 6’7” child. 

Physical labour helped me pull myself together. Ridiculous but true. Today I understand that when you do your job well, smile, and treat people politely, you’re a more interesting individual than any rude banker will ever be.

I was sending job applications everywhere. For the first time in a long time, I was excited, as I’d been called for an interview at a new ad agency.

But just as I was about to walk through the glass doors of the agency, I had a huge panic attack. I turned around. Walked back home with my tail between my legs.

Eventually, I was hired as a substitute teacher at an elementary school in Punavuori. Don’t ask how I ended up there… I picked up the phone one morning in a pill-infused haze. Called the school. I needed the money. How difficult could it be to teach 7-year-old kids? I could do addition and knew Sweden was Finland’s neighbor. Armed with this knowledge, I was convinced I’d be the smartest person in class.

On my first day, I felt anxious. I quickly realized the school building scared me. The classrooms looked the same to me as they had when I was eleven years old. In the teachers’ lounge, I was a sheep among wolves. I tried hiding my face behind the newspaper. Twirled my coffee cup in my hand. The coffee was way too strong every fucking day. What maniac was brewing this every day? I decided it must be Ismo, the old history teacher just waiting for retirement. His eyes had lost their spark forty-seven years ago.

My great-uncle was ninety-nine years old and he still had a twinkle in his eye. He knew how to laugh at himself, which (in case you didn’t know) is the secret to youthfulness. I was interested in what he had to say. I knew he was a Freemason, though I didn’t know what that entailed. But I saw the way he treated other people. He was a good man. A gentleman of the old school. This new generation will go the way of the dinosaur sooner rather than later. Their cause of death won’t be an asteroid though, it’ll be text emojis. I could sense Ismo the teacher approaching me. A stupid person is easy enough to get along with, but someone without a sense of humor, impossible.

I liked hanging out with the kids. That was a new experience for me. I played soccer in the courtyard, skipped rope with the girls, folded diamonds out of little pieces of paper. You had to write words and numbers in the folds. Playing with the kids sometimes made me forget I was the teacher. When I was a kid at Töölö Elementary School, we used to play King of the Hill and I always got beaten up. During recess, I used to stare at the hands of the school clock. Count down the minutes. 

Now, years later, I didn’t pay any attention to the clock. I guess it was kind of weird to stand in front of a class with benzos in my pocket. But I enjoyed myself around the kids. I felt lighter for the first time in a long time. Before teaching, I had no idea hanging out with kids could be so much fun. Their sense of humor is the best. I didn’t quite see it at the time, but it was the 7-year-olds who were taking care of me. The care relationship was backward.

Friday came surprisingly quickly. My friends and I decided to go out. We partied at the Apollo. I felt embarrassed about my appearance. I was wearing the loosest-fitting sweater I could find. I hadn’t drunk more than a couple of beers. Jori and Juhis were on the dance floor. I was desperately trying to order a glass of water at the bar. Right on cue, a small man turned up next to me and asked me in English where he could get more cocaine. “More?” How had he picked me? 

He told me he was from Spain. He’d be in Finland for one more week. There were two attractive young girls with him. The water I was ordering turned into whisky. I tried to talk some sense into myself. Getting wasted wouldn’t be good for me. Then I thought, am I happy? The answer was obvious. I started downing drinks like there was no tomorrow. 

I ended up at an after-party with this bunch. We were doing lines in a small apartment in Kallio. The Spanish guy’s “cocaine” turned out to be speed. Awful cut shit. In the morning, I slipped out to the balcony with a young woman. My meds had a negative effect on my sexuality though. We tried to get it on, but it was never going to work. We were both too fucked up. Later that morning, we kept going and hit the Pataässä Karaoke Bar.

On Sunday night, I wondered whether I should call the elementary school. Would I be able to make it to my shift in the morning? Despite my fears, I decided to go anyway and miraculously made it through the day.

About three weeks later, on a Thursday, the principal called me into her office. Had I left my pills in the classroom? I’d be getting a reprimand. Had they noticed I was hungover at work? I’d never come in while drunk, though, of that I was almost certain. But I hadn’t really climbed out of my bender either. 

“Sit down, please.”

I sat down on the green chair across from the principal. A cold sweat beading on my face.

Fuck it, there’s always moving gigs.

The principal opened her mouth. 

“I just wanted to tell you that the children ask when you’re coming back every day. You’re their favorite sub. You’ve been such a help to us. We rarely hear feedback this good from the children. Their parents are saying good things too. They’ve talked about you at home.”

I stared ahead in confusion. So I wasn’t being fired? It was pretty obvious that most teachers didn’t bother to play with the kids. But I didn’t feel I was a good teacher. I mean, I could do first-grade math. 5+6=10. Oh wait, 11.

I did intervene every time I saw bullying. A little girl thanked me once. My intervention had caused her bullies to stop completely. That felt better than a thousand benzos. For a moment, I got to feel I’d helped a tiny human being. It made me emotional on my way home.

A beautiful summer evening in Turku. Sanna and Siru were eating tuna salad, Jori and I had gone for ham and basil pizzas. The cold water made us sweat even more. The waitress was flirting with Jori. We found it funny. Siru blew a fuse.

“You always do that, Jori!”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“Siru, c’mon. Jori was just checking out her awful baggy jeans.” 

“Yeah, right, Emil!” Siru turned to Jori. “Next you’re probably gonna give her a big tip.”

We’d agreed that Sanna and Siru would go for a girls’ night out. Jori and I headed to Börs Night Club. The bar was filling up. We checked out the girls’ beach butts. Jori kept bumping into people he knew. He’d played basketball in Turku before. I hadn’t touched alcohol in over a month. I hadn’t dared to lately, and I didn’t really even want to. I was comfortably numb. Jori did multiple shots with his friends.

“Fuck it, I can’t be too weak to have one beer.”

“One’s not gonna kill ya”, Jori said the magic words.

I ordered a beer from the patio. Downed it in three gulps. Ordered another one. Then a vodka shot.

“Emil, take it easy.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“That’s four beers now. Stop. You know you’re on meds.”

I went to take a leak. Walked inside. Straight to the bar. Tequila shots. It felt good to get drunk. Not scary at all. I was in better shape than I thought. Soon I had a tall blonde woman in my arms. I don’t remember how she got there, what we’d talked about. I wrapped my arms around her and we kissed. She wasn’t quite as drunk as me. We went to sit on the couches. Jori came up to us and smiled. I told him I’d be taking her back to the hotel. “If Sanna asks any questions, tell her I’ll be down for breakfast at the latest.”

I lifted my head from my pillow. There was a naked woman sleeping next to me. A Snickers bar lying on the floor. I ate the bar. Saw a condom wrapper on the floor too. I sighed with relief. Somehow I didn’t feel hungover, even though I’d been drinking like a fish. Pretty soon I realized I was still drunk as a skunk. At breakfast it was the others’ turn to laugh at me. Everybody else seemed to find it very funny.

I was working out at Töölö Gym. They’d switched up my meds a little. Lowered the dose too. I’d made it clear I wanted to get rid of my excess flab. Heikki had moved to another workplace. The doctor sitting across from me snapped, “Your medication should never be discontinued.” So, I’d be on pills for the rest of my life. “You can try other medications of course, we do have options.” 

The doctor told me about a patient who’d come off their meds and, two weeks later, had been running naked in the streets. Interesting. Apparently I’d have to have exactly the right balance of meds in my system at all times…

Like Eminem in “Underground”, though, I didn’t really care what the fucking doctor said, I was gonna do what I was gonna do… Including relapse if I felt like it.

Switching meds helped, though. I started burning fat, and fast. I dropped 13 pounds in one week. It felt nice to attract looks from girls in the gym again. It had been years since I was happy with my looks. My friends noticed my weight loss.

“Emil, you’re looking good.”

“So you’re saying I was fat a couple of months ago?”

“We all decided not to say anything. You couldn’t help it, you know.”

I was still kind of chubby. But at least I’d shed the worst of the bloat.

I was unhappy with my life on every level. Teaching was making me anxious. I felt I was too sensitive to be a teacher. Hiding behind a newspaper in the teachers’ lounge was getting more and more difficult over time. Questions about my favorite sports teams were getting more and more personal every day. 

The day before was haunting me. There was a girl in my class, Marika. She was severely disabled. Always wore a Metallica shirt. Marika was only 3’3’’ tall. She didn’t play with the other kids. We’d both been standing in line in the cafeteria. Marika looked at my t-shirt.

“What’s your favorite Metallica song?”

“‘Nothing Else Matters.’”

“Mine’s ‘One.’”

I was afraid Marika would see the tears in my eyes. I couldn’t find the right words. I was overthinking what to say. The silence turned awkward. I kept munching on a piece of crispbread and couldn’t think of anything other than what the silence must have felt like inside Marika’s head. At least I knew who I’d be approaching during the next recess. 

Being around the kids was slowly getting more difficult for me. I couldn’t believe everything I saw. A first-grader being bullied because of a broken shoe. I’d been bullied because my mom dressed me up in clothes that were too fancy. Anyone can see which is worse.

I’d stopped taking some of the meds, though I was still on three different ones. Three pills every morning and every night. I didn’t even know what they contained. Maybe they did stop me from walking down the street with my dick in my hand. From feeling sad, from feeling joy. How the fuck should I know? I just opened the bottle and washed the pills down my throat with water. 

I felt incapable of teaching. Alcohol had crept back into my life on weekends. If I had one beer, I had another, and didn’t stop until my wallet was clear of everything except my supermarket loyalty card. Getting drunk didn’t make the depression go away, it just interfered with my motor skills. I couldn’t overthink every damn thing when I had to concentrate on walking in a straight line. On Sundays, I’d wake up in Herttoniemi, in Espoo, wherever. Never in Lapland, though, so I guess at least some things were under control. 

I found a Facebook friend request waiting for me on Monday. It was one of the employees from my local video store. I rented movies every night. Forgot to return them on time. Sometimes my wallet was AWOL. But somehow I always managed to rent something. I was a good customer apparently. Had dozens of bonus stamps. The guy and I recommended movies to each other. Once he told me to watch some horror movie. Funny, right? I was even dumb enough to actually watch it while hungover.

Siru was cooking pasta in the kitchen. Jori and I were browsing video rental catalogues online. Jori lit some candles. The left corner of the couch was my spot. I was allowed to put my feet up on a chair. I felt good there. My friend still wanted me over for hangs. Still wanted to do things with me even though I hadn’t been myself for years. The sign of a true friend. 

Some of my old friends had turned their backs on me. I wasn’t bitter. I knew I was depressing company. It’s not fun to go out to dinner when one friend keeps having panic attacks in the restaurant. Always whines about anxiety and can’t enjoy anything. 

I believe Jori privately trusted he’d see the old me again one day. Will I ever be able to repay my friend for his selfless support? The answer’s easy. No. I don’t think I’d be here, writing this, if it wasn’t for him.

I was sitting on the side of the bed in my pyjama pants, barefoot. The bookshelf was covered in thick dust. Very in line with the dust bunnies on the floor. I hadn’t even had the energy to read John Fante in ages. Reading was frustrating, I couldn’t concentrate. 

My phone beeped. A text from Tiina. We’d gone out for sushi twice. We’d met a couple of months ago in a restaurant. She kept checking her watch every half hour. She told me stories about her ex-boyfriend, a hockey player. “Jussi plays in the NHL.” “Oh.” 

It was clear she didn’t appreciate the fact that I was sacrificing three days’ salary every time I took her to an expensive restaurant. Sometimes she didn’t even say thank you after a 150-euro dinner. Tiina was sexy, but she was becoming less sexy the longer I knew her. And she wasn’t even into me. On the other hand, I kept knocking back whiskys with my fancy zander. So who was I to judge her? Who in their right mind would go out with me in the first place?

Last weekend, I’d left the bar early to go to Tiina’s place. She was joining me later with a hot pizza. I opened a vodka bottle she’d been given as a gift. Drank a third of it and passed out on the couch. That was the last straw for her. “Sort yourself out.” Tiina’s text was brief and to the point. 

I threw my phone at my armchair. It bounced and fell on the floor. I didn’t really care. My cellphone can take anything. My grandma had given me the armchair as a gift. It was really fucking comfortable. It just needed reupholstering. I’d forgotten my coffee cup next to it way too many times.

There were candles burning on the windowsill. Our Christmas tree was decorated to perfection. Mom had done it alone this time. My brother was playing Christmas carols on the piano. I was lounging on the couch with a box of chocolates in my lap. We had just finished dinner. 

I thought back to Christmases from my past. One time I was working as Santa Claus, with Jori driving my dad’s car. We split the money between us. As a navigator, Jori was terrible. We got lost all over Espoo. The radio was playing Christmas carols. John Lennon’s “Happy Xmas” was our favorite. I saw all kinds of ways to celebrate Christmas that year. Poor families as well as rich ones. The children were scared of Santa in every family. I visited a small apartment in a Pitäjänmäki high-rise with a father, mother and a 5-year-old kid. The place had a kind of wistful air to it. The family was sad even though Santa Claus was there. I had a feeling that both parents were unemployed. I wonder how that kid is doing now?

There was another Christmas I spent at a Las Vegas strip club. The saddest Christmas ever. Though fun in its own way. Maybe I’ll leave that story untold. Las Vegas at Christmas. No snowflakes falling from the sky. You had to shovel your own snow out of a baggie.

It was always peaceful at Christmas. The world grew quiet for a moment. Our family always celebrated Christmas in a big way. Of course, things had changed a little after my parents got divorced.

Oh hey, my first Christmas present came from Kimmo at the Los Angeles embassy. He had giftwrapped several CDs for me. I looked over the albums. It was music made by Native Americans. There was also a handwritten card. It’s hard to explain, but he was cheering me on in a way.

I remembered a time when we were eating out in Helsinki with Kimmo and my dad. I was staring into space with a glazed look. Distracted and dispirited. Kimmo said to my dad:

“Let’s hope some of these boys become tough guys later. We haven’t had tough guys in a long time. And I mean a long time.”

I never understood what Kimmo wanted me to do. But he’d sent me gifts on several Christmases and birthdays. They always had a message for me, almost like a coach pushing a student forward. I don’t know how to explain it, all the pieces have just fallen into place later.

The months went by at the elementary school. I felt nothing about anything. Holding my pills in my hand always made me feel weak. And I saw zero reason to enjoy life just because I was alive. On the weekends, I drank to get wasted. Combining meds and beer was a non-issue for me. At least I didn’t feel anxiety when I was numbed out. Not that I felt anything at all. My sadness didn’t go away no matter how wasted I got, though. 

Summer came, then fall. I didn’t pay any attention to the seasons. I got so used to how I was feeling that I stopped dreaming about anything better. I did think about death, but…

Then a kind of turning point happened in my life. Completely out of the blue. As these things usually do. You never know when your positive turning point might come. So never give up.

It was Saturday night. Sanna and I were leaving Restaurant Teatteri to go to Apollo. I had picked up my puffer coat from the cloakroom. Sanna was waiting for her leather jacket. A beautiful blonde woman was sitting alone in an armchair. I noticed her terrible pink shoes. They were way too flashy. Barbie shoes. I walked over to her. I was drunk as usual, so approaching her was easy.

“Hi, come with us to Apollo?”

She responded with a cheerful look.

“I’m waiting for my friends.”

“Where are they?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, c’mon. I’m not an axe murderer.”

The blonde chuckled.

“Who are you, then?”

“Emil.”

“Aada.”

“Let’s grab a drink.”

“OK then.”

How was this so easy? Aada’s friends came downstairs. She told me she was going to another nightclub with them. But I managed to score her phone number. I sent her a text from Apollo later. She responded, saying she was going home to bed. “And alone!!”

The next day I sent Aada a hungover text: “Up for coffee?”

Aada sent me a long message where she basically detailed her entire schedule for the week, right down to the hour. She could potentially meet me somewhere between those hours. I was amused. I had pretty much nothing but free time. We agreed on a date at Tin Tin Tango for that same evening. When I got to Töölö Market Square, I nearly texted her and canceled. Cold feet once again. Why were we even meeting up?

Maybe I had this subconscious feeling that someone would save me. Absorb all my pain and make me whole. Even in all my chaos, I believe I’d been hoping to find that for years. 

The hangover wasn’t helping. A panic attack. 

We sat down. Both of us had green tea and cheese sandwiches. When I paid for her snack, Aada thanked me politely. I got a good vibe from her immediately. Aada told me she was fresh out of a break-up. Just moved to a small apartment. She had never been to Tin Tin Tango before, even though her new place was right around the corner. “Hey, there’s a washing machine! You can wash laundry here.” Didn’t she have a washing machine? I didn’t want to ask her outright. Aada told me she was a flight attendant.

“I get to travel a lot.”

“You like it?”

“You mean, do I like waitressing in cramped spaces? I also teach fitness classes. I find that very rewarding. I’m kind of looking for my place in life right now.”

“Going on adventures?”

“Yeah.”

Aada’s eyes were sparkling. They shone with light. I can’t describe it any better than that. I panicked. Cussed myself out inside my head. The green tea didn’t feel right for this. I should have been holding a glass of wine. We looked deep into each other’s eyes. That alone brought on a blind panic. The little moments in life… Why couldn’t I be like other people?

“What do you do?”

“I teach elementary school. But I don’t know if it’s really my thing. I studied art, but I haven’t really been doing that lately. I do write, though.”

“Write what?”

“A book.”

I don’t know why I lied. I hadn’t touched my computer in a long time. I’d tried to write a movie script, but the meds killed off any creativity I had. They killed off my rational thinking too. And what would I have written about? The way everything was gray and black and monochrome?

“I don’t wanna say. It’s too personal.”

“Well, I’ll just read it one day.”

“If I ever finish it.”

Our conversation turned to cities Aada had visited. Our favorite country was the same, Italy. Aada had seen a lot more of the world than me. I respected that. We had a long chat. Could she tell I was on medication? My reaction time wasn’t normal.

I couldn’t remember the last time I enjoyed a woman’s company so much. In that moment, I wanted to be thirty pounds lighter, with a nine-to-five job. Why had I chosen art back in the day? A road to nowhere? This woman was funny and nice. Down-to-earth. We even went for a long walk around Töölö Bay. When had I last laughed and smiled like this? She did that for me. Occasionally I even felt normal. But ultimately I was overcome with shame. I knew no one would want me as long as I had these pills in my pocket. 

The next day, for the first time in ages, I started thinking about ways to get out of this fucking hole. And not by solving a temporary problem with the permanent solution of suicide. If I’m honest though, I didn’t believe for a second that my problems were temporary. And even if I could find a way out, what then? What would I have to give?

Aada sent me a text on Monday. “It was nice to see u. Have a nice day.” 

I looked around at the piles of clothing on the floor. I hadn’t vacuumed in a week. I believe one of the most important things in a depressed person’s life is to try and keep a tidy home. Chaos in your mind and in your environment is a combination that rarely leads to anything good. 

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see Aada again because I was scared. I knew I couldn’t act like an ass around her. She wouldn’t tolerate that for a second. On the other hand, there was no way she’d want me as I was. I tried to solve the equation in my head. Then I remembered I had an unopened bottle of wine. The solution was only six feet away. I opened the bottle and washed away my insecurities. I listened to my favorite Juice Leskinen song, “Risainen elämä” (“Broken Life”).

There were only two other customers in the Spanish tapas bar besides us. The tapas plate was tasty. I still enjoyed Aada’s company. I liked her style. Her outfits were unpretentious. Totally different from what I’d imagined. I didn’t know where the pink shoes had come from weeks before. Maybe she’d broken a heel on her own shoes. Borrowed a pair of heels from a friend. That must have been it. Aada was an unpretentious girl from Ostrobothnia in every way.

“People say exactly what they mean over there.”

“The first time I saw you, I thought you were some dumb beauty queen.”

“Haha! Maybe you like dumb beauty queens.”

Witty, too. The wine relaxed me. I liked being around this little Aada. She was an atheist. Wouldn’t believe anything unless she saw it with her own eyes. I thought that was hot. Except maybe atheist wasn’t the right word. I take that back. She had a spiritual side. It was attractive to me, actually.

“You know, Emil, it’s probably best to focus on your actions. No one’s gonna pick anyone up from home.”

I ordered us two more glasses of wine. The waiter told us the place was closing. It was almost midnight.

“Wow, time’s just flown by. It was only six o’clock a minute ago.”

We continued the night at Aada’s place. She made it clear that nothing “untoward” would be happening. That was more than OK with me. I’m sure you get what I mean…

Maybe I was a true gentleman in her eyes for a moment. We talked in bed until sunrise, when Aada fell asleep in my arms. I looked at the time. It was six in the morning. I couldn’t sleep without my fucking sleeping pills. I’d forgotten them at home. My sedatives alone didn’t have enough of a kick to get me to sleep.

Lately I’d been taking three zopiclone at ten p.m, then another two during the night. Sometimes a third one at five in the morning. Four times the amount I was prescribed. I’d lost all sense of how long I had been doing that.

I looked up at the white ceiling. It needed a fresh coat of paint. I thought to myself, had I ever been able to sleep next to a woman? Did passing out count? I couldn’t think of a single time. Aada had several bottles of cold Corona in her fridge. She had made sure I didn’t drink more than one. What if I tiptoed to the fridge? I couldn’t keep staring at the ceiling thirsty, could I? I tried to get out of bed. Aada grabbed my hand.

“Sleepy time.”

Easier said than done. I turned to look at Aada’s hair. Her blonde highlights were more interesting to watch than a white ceiling. Had she dyed her hair herself? The highlights weren’t even.

I was sitting in the teachers’ lounge holding a cup of coffee, listening to the conversations flowing around me. The gym teacher was constantly trying to initiate a conversation with me. It was starting to get to me. It didn’t seem to bother him at all that I was holding a newspaper. I wasn’t in the mood for a chat. I pulled out my phone and called Sanna. She invited me to the movies. I didn’t particularly care for Sanna’s taste in movies. I casually mentioned how cool Aada was. Sanna was sincerely happy for me.

It wasn’t more than a few days before Jori, Siru and Juhis heard about Aada too. I started getting advice on what to do. Sanna’s advice was not to date anyone else. Jori’s advice was to fuck everything that moves as long as your heart is beating and your dick is hard.

“You should never put all your apples in one basket. Not before there’s a ring on your finger.”

Obviously my friends knew that my new relationship would go to shit sooner or later. Maybe if I’d met another walking pharmacy, we could have made it work.

The ride up in the old wooden elevator seemed to last forever. There was a heart-shaped wreath on Aada’s door. We sat down on the bed. The apartment was sparkling clean. We opened a bottle of wine. Aada sat on my lap. I looked at a poster on the wall. It depicted a New York traffic jam. You could see Brooklyn Bridge in the background.

“That pic would be cooler if the cars were black-and-white too.”

“That’s what they had at Ikea.”

Aada clearly didn’t like my comment. I looked around. All her furniture was from Ikea. I imagined Aada shopping at Ikea. Walking in and deciding she needed every piece of furniture all at once. She’d probably had her mom or sister with her. But her home was cozy compared to my own storage unit. 

Aada had just come out of a three-year relationship. Apparently her boyfriend had just played poker every night. Aada had spent her nights drinking wine with her friends.

“I just didn’t have the energy to go to every shindig everywhere. We’re still best friends.”

The furry rug was starting to burn beneath my feet. Many women would have loved Aada’s situation. A friend of mine told me that Aada’s ex was one of the most successful poker players in Finland. Aada didn’t have any idea about the shitty hand I was holding. And I’d never exchanged cards with anyone else. I filled my glass to the brim. Aada carried the wine bottle out of my sight. 

We talked until the early hours of the morning again. I think I even slept for two hours, because this time I had my pills in my pocket. I took three zopiclone at once just to be sure. I tried to take them as secretly as I could. I’m not sure whether the night would have gone further than cuddling if I’d been more active. Aada controlled my drinking all night. It annoyed me and felt really good all at the same time. A rollercoaster of feelings. Aada made it clear there would be no sex while drunk.

My night terrors were getting even worse. Believe me, nightmares don’t let you off easy when you’re underground. It was my trauma being triggered. I had to up my sleeping pill dosage. What that actually meant was that I stopped keeping track. I poured myself a pile of pills every night. Woke up in the night, poured another pile. I lied to the doctor and said I’d lost my bottles. I got 120 pills from the pharmacy in one go. Which was insane.

Something was badly wrong. Dusty books on the floor. Paintings I hadn’t hung on the walls. Mornings were difficult. I made oatmeal and brewed my coffee. Opened my computer and surfed the internet while I ate. I watched Dave Matthews Band concert clips on YouTube. Ryan had been there. A great show apparently. 

Ryan and I were still in touch via email. Ryan couldn’t stand Facebook. I’d been invited to his wedding. My parents would have lent me the money to fly over. But I was in such bad shape I was afraid to go. What if I had a panic attack in the middle of the wedding? What would my friend say when he saw me? I was a shadow of who I used to be. I felt sad about having to miss the wedding.

Ryan, I promise to be there the next time you get married… (JK) Miss you, my real friend. 

I missed Ryan and Isaac. Would I ever see them again? A nostalgic feeling came over me. I wrote Eminem’s name into the YouTube search bar. I watched his video “3 a.m.” How the fuck had he found his way out? You can tell from the video he’s gone through the same thing I did at the hospital. How does he look so healthy and happy now? How did you do that? Wish I could have you as my therapist. 

That evening, I told Aada on the phone about my morning nausea. The next morning she sent me a text: “It’s eight o’clock, time for a run. Sincerely, your personal trainer, Aada.”

I put on my worn running shoes. Aada was right, the demons left me alone during my runs. They drowned in Töölö Bay. They found their way back to my apartment during the night, though. In the mornings, I dumped them back into the sea again. Bit by bit, some of them stayed at the bottom of the sea. It’s incredible how much exercise helped my mental health. I was sweating out my misery. Shedding a few pounds gave my self-esteem a boost as well.

A rainy Friday night. Aada and I were doing a pub crawl of cozy little bars in Helsinki. Every time I held Aada on my lap, I got goosebumps. We were at a shabby but trendy place on Iso Roobertinkatu. We were discussing the paintings on the wall. They all depicted space. We decided that every piece of furniture in the bar must have been bought from a flea market.

“If you had to take one thing home from here, what would you take?”

I pointed out different chairs.

“How about that green leather armchair? Or that old wooden table?”

“I don’t like either of them.”

Aada’s eyes wandered around the room. I held back laughter. 

“Are we still talking about furniture?”

I burst out laughing. The girl from Ostrobothnia was witty. I gave her a squeeze. Aada fiddled with her hoodie strings.

As soon as I got home, I typed Niklas’ number in my phone. We hadn’t talked for a month.

“Emil Zátopek, my man. What’s up?”

“Still breathing. How’s it going?

“Fuck. I just finished a movie. Had to fight over every frame. I was this close to ending up in a padded cell with you.”

“There are worse places. They all probably have cable TV and PlayStations now.”

“How’s work?”

“I’m a subbing at an elementary school in Punavuori. It’s not too bad. Or I dunno, maybe it fucking is. By the way, I met a chick. She’s really cool.”

My friend instantly figured out the real reason for my call.

“OK, fire away.”

“I’m kind of anxious about it.”

“Just go for it. Don’t fucking overthink everything again.”

“I’m running out of banter, you know.”

“I’m the same way. All sparkling wit and repartee when it’s just some chick. Scared stiff when it’s someone I actually like.”

“Maybe I should just tell her, hi, I’m Emil, I was railed in the ass as a kid. The other kids washed my beanie in the urinals. I played bingo with a therapist from age 11. Heroin came later. Oh, and I tried to kill myself once. I’m also manic-depressive, but apparently that’s genetic. Not ‘cause of my childhood. Or that’s what the doctor says. By the way, he looks like he jerks off between patients. Gets off on pawing at the next patient with cum on his hands.”

“Sounds healthy as fuck! Hey, I’m shooting a movie in London. It got postponed for a year. There’s a job for you there if you wanna come? I might get Sean Penn.”

“Nice.”

“Let’s grab a coffee next summer. Oh hey, I’m just driving past our den of sin.”

“Which one?”

“Chateau Marmont.”

“Haha! But…”

“Fuckssake. Just don’t overthink it…”

I was buttoning up my black shirt. Looked for my favorite hat under a pile of clothes. Cracked open a beer. I needed Dutch courage. I was running late.

Aada was waiting for me at her place. I stepped into her small yet cozy home. Aada was wearing a green scarf, tied prettily around her neck. I realized she had put it on for me. There was fresh Finnish cheesecake on the table.

“Did you bake this yourself?”

“Of course! I made the base a bit differently this time.”

All my demons knew Aada’s street address immediately. Fucking fuck. After a glass of wine, we moved to the bed. I kissed Aada’s neck. She started telling me something kind of odd.

“I was seeing this Swedish guy a while ago.”

“So what went wrong?”

“I didn’t wanna be just a hole.”

I took Aada in my arms. My heart was pounding. The demons were knocking on the gates inside my head.

“And he kept bragging about all these beauty queens he’d slept with.”

“Sounds like a gentleman. What’s the worst thing anyone’s ever said to you?”

“A cunt’s a cunt, even a retarded one.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I don’t either. How about to you?”

“In junior high, I was looking at this girl I had my heart set on. She shouted: ‘What are you looking at, Mickey Mouse?’ Her name was Julia. And I know my ears stick out a little. So it felt bad.”

We cuddled for several minutes. Then we went to the movies as agreed. Aada got to pick the movie. It’d be my turn next time, she said. I felt incredibly weird about never having invited Aada to my place. I started organizing my bookshelf bit by bit. Hanging up paintings. Bought a new dining table. 

That Christmas Aada sent me a postcard. It had a small girl and a boy on it. They were carrying a huge Christmas tree together. It was the best Christmas present I got. But I put it on my bookshelf, out of sight. I’m not sure why, but I think seeing the card scared me. I never stopped and listened to my fears. That’s what pills were for. Maybe alcohol and drugs, too.

It was the first weekend after New Year’s. We were in a red brick house on Runeberginkatu, on the top floor. I was kissing Aada’s body below the neck. My body was tingling. There was an empty Corona bottle on the floor. Aada hadn’t let me drink the wine bottles I’d brought over. She wanted me to be sober. I’d had four beers before coming to her place. She was ready to make love. The demons of Hell found a way in through my ears. I was licking her hairless pussy. I didn’t want to stop. Finally I got up. We kissed. Aada wrapped herself in the duvet and got out of bed. The condoms were inside a dresser in the bathroom apparently.

“Haven’t I seen you naked already?”

“This is just more comfortable for me.”

Aada handed me a condom. I turned into a little boy in three minutes. Overcome with anxiety. I didn’t ask permission anymore, just opened a bottle of wine. The bottle was my Viagra. After that, everything would be smooth sailing. Aada could see something was wrong. She took the condom, blew it into a balloon. My shame was indescribable. She got dressed. She was furious with me for opening the wine bottle. I don’t know, maybe she thought I didn’t find her attractive sober. Guaranteed argument. And I was in no way ready to tell her what was up with me. Even if I was being kind of pressured.

I don’t know. If I’d been able to have three bottles of wine in one go, would I have opened up to her? I believe I would. But I was interrupted on my way to the finish line. I put on my black puffer coat. Wiped my tears in the elevator. I kept walking and ended up in Pub Janoinen Lohi, where I poured a few whisky shots down my throat. I felt immense shame and rage. Once I got home I crawled into bed in my button-up shirt.

I ran into Aada one night in Helsinki. We hadn’t talked for weeks, apart from a couple of text messages here and there. Who knows what might have happened if I’d been honest from the get-go? Probably at least half my demons would have died in one fell swoop. But I was a coward. Could she have been the first woman I was one hundred percent honest with? I don’t think I was even honest with myself. How could I be honest with anyone else?

I froze. I saw her black leggings, her innocent eyes. I felt ashamed. She didn’t want to hang out with me because I was acting like a bitter, sarcastic drunk. She made it clear she’d keep partying with her friends.

My entire childhood played on a loop inside my head like a black-and-white film. The reel had been edited by hand, so you could see the splice marks between every frame. Aada had managed to turn on the old film. I myself wanted to destroy the reels for good. At least I had sense enough to leave the nightclub before I caused any more damage. I was putting on my coat in the cloakroom when I saw Aada looking at me out of the corner of my eye. I didn’t even tell my friends I was going home. They’d have only tried to make me stay. On the way home I texted them: “I had to take off, you guys have fun.”

My courage was being put to the test. The next day I was sitting at my friends’ house, playing PlayStation with one hand and holding a pizza slice in the other. I didn’t care about the others smoking pot anymore. I had to pull myself together. Preferably as soon as possible. I was ashamed of myself.

I didn’t want to lose Aada as a friend. I was scared, but I found some strength by listening to “Fire and Rain” by James Taylor. I was singing along to James.

After I got home, I started organizing my drawers and the bookshelf. I found a pile of my old writings from my student days. I read through them carefully. It felt nostalgic. All that time I had invested in my work. Was it all for nothing? I gathered up old pages from my diary. Opened my computer. The keyboard scared me. There were greasy fingerprints on it. The last time I touched it, I ended up in the hospital. Where would it take me now? 

Fuck it, I thought. Things can’t get any worse. I compiled sentences from the diary. I had a finished story after five evenings of work. It felt good to write things out.

I vomited all my anger, frustration and grievances onto the page. I thought this might be a good way, in fact probably the only way, for me to be brave enough. This was how I could tell Aada what was up with me. The next day I sent Aada a text: “My book’s ready. Would u read it?” She replied quickly: “I’d love to.”

I mean, Eric Clapton wrote “Layla” about a married woman he desired. So this wasn’t that weird, was it? I tried to convince myself this was at least a decent idea. I didn’t consider what it might feel like for the other person to read a creative person’s outburst of emotion. I sent it to Aada’s email. Anxiety flooded my body immediately. You couldn’t cancel an email, no matter how much you wanted to. 

Conveniently enough, it happened to be Friday, so I went out for a beer. The bender went on all weekend. My phone and wallet vanished into dark rooms. I had opened Pandora’s Box, the one you can’t close again. The following week, I laid my story on my dad’s office desk.

“Emil, writing isn’t realistic.”

“They’re just thoughts of mine.”

“It’s impossible to make a living as an author. No one does.”

“For fuck’s sake, it’s a short story. Seventy-seven pages.”

“Of course I’ll read it. I’m just thinking about what’s best for you. Telling it like it is. Put it on the bookshelf.”

I was excited. Maybe my dad would finally understand me. The text is probably still there under all the business newspapers. Probably better that way… 

Aada sent me a long message. She praised my courage. “You had the guts to let it all out. It’s the first step to healing.” She wanted to meet me again. But I’d heard that Aada’s sister was shocked. Aada had let her read my book on the plane. She thought Aada shouldn’t stick her head in a hornet’s nest again.

It was a relief to glue all my diary bits and pieces into a single book. But my demons didn’t let me off the noose that easy. They crawled up out of the page and into my skin. I started drinking even more. I figured that if I could turn off my brain, everything would sort itself out somehow. Once again I solved my problems in my tried and tested way. Three benzos in one go. Three times a day. A couple of beers. What fucking problems?

We were at Aada’s place. Her sister had come down from Kokkola. Tiina was twenty years old, but sharp as a razor. She told me what she thought about my book. I’d have preferred to forget about it. She was trying to initiate a conversation about delicate subjects. After seeing my face, she changed course politely.

“It could help others. If you’re able to show your face. It’s just a bit short. It could be a lot longer, the story felt interesting.”

“OK.”

“You should show it to different publishers. It’s not whoring yourself out”, Aada said.

Her words stayed with me. Should I make one more attempt to show I was actually good for something? Try to prove I was worthy of another human being? But I knew the truth. I couldn’t do anything right. I looked at the New York poster from Ikea. If only I could just disappear into the busy streets right there. New York was my favorite city. We drank wine and talked about Tiina’s friend’s relationship. The friend had called her, crying, earlier that evening. The girls soon realized I wasn’t any good for relationship advice.

“Do as I say, not as I do.”

What a cliché. Aada fell asleep in my lap. We kept talking with Tiina. 

“Have a guess, when do you think I last felt good?”

“I don’t know. Was it in the book?”

“No.”

“How should I know?”

“Guess.”

“OK. You were drunk.”

Sarcastic but funny.

“No. Now.”

“What?”

I pointed my finger at the sleeping Aada. Tiina gave me a wink. I wished the girls a good night and headed home.

All my troubles were on the page. So what had changed? Nothing? I was still trapped inside the book. There was no way out. But my curiosity was piqued. I walked into a bookstore. Picked up one book after another. Why didn’t anyone have anything to say? Why wasn’t anyone screaming out loud? People were happy to set up OnlyFans accounts though… 

“Murder mystery on an island.” What the fuck? Guillaume Musso. I remembered a newspaper interview where he said he uses a formula for his novels. The art of building a plot. Yeah, right… You live a book, you don’t write them wearing a cozy cardigan. Bukowski would have to be hammered out of his fucking mind to browse this book selection. On the other hand, I get it, life is hard for a lot of people. Escaping into a book takes your mind off things. 

But hey, five years from now this will be the latest Italian restaurant à la Hans Välimäki. The menus will look like books. There will still be a couple of bookshelves and armchairs in the background for the atmosphere. And that’s OK, things change. Is there anything better than good conversation and food? That’s art for you.

I stepped out of the bookstore. A young girl in a Minnie Mouse hat was walking by with her mom. The girl was blind. I stopped to look at them. The girl was smiling to herself. She was happy. I wasn’t sure what I was feeling. But I did feel stupid, seeing her. I started walking faster.

I was feeling frustrated lately. A thousand things weighing on my mind, and no way to organize my thoughts. I went to some shindig with Sanna. It was in a nightclub, so they served beer. Great party. Aada, shit, she’s here. I hadn’t expected this.

“You’re hammered.”

“No I’m not.”

“Go away.”

Her friend was giving me piercing looks. A dark-haired guy was trying to get Aada’s attention. He came over to introduce himself to “protect” her. That pissed me off even more. Aada had a new man. I wasn’t her man, after all. I wasn’t even a man, I was a mouse. I went to the bar. My friend vodka Red Bull gave me wings. After my fifth shot, I strode decisively toward Aada. She was sitting at a table. I bumped into it. There were drinks everywhere.

I woke up to an insane headache. I remembered the night before, as much as I’d have loved to forget. I went for a long walk. I knew it was game over with Aada. I realized that the Valentine’s cake I had baked for her was just a pathetic attempt to avoid talking about painful subjects. I didn’t feel like a man. I was taking out my pain on other people. Aada had gotten me to open up to my friends about my past. She had taken the red Converse off my feet. I was learning to walk barefoot.

I knew the stones would rip my skin open, but I didn’t want to put my air-cushioned Nikes back on. If I picked up a bottle again, I’d lose my battle for good. The line between being an extremely sensitive person and a callous asshole was pretty blurry. Every wall felt like it was caving in on me. Anxiety flooded my body. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t be the dark-haired man by Aada’s side. A collected, sensible person. Maybe not as creative or fun. But stable. Who the fuck had dealt me this hand?

I closed my eyes. Daydreamed about a trip to Brazil with Aada. We would stay in separate hotel rooms. Drink freshly squeezed fruit juice on the beach. Walk through small street markets. Get to know each other at our leisure. Dance on the streets. In the evenings I’d go and watch the sunset on my own. I’d heard that Brazilians were in good spirits every day, even if they were poor. Aada could design a tattoo for my shoulder. It’d be an Indian chief. He’d be holding a peace pipe. I’d find the meaning of life to the sound of drums playing in the dark night. The daydreams helped me make it through the day.

In the evening, I lifted my feet up on the bed. Opened a pack of Start! cereal. I knew I was too deep underground. There was no way out of here. Dreaming was easy. Execution was another thing entirely. More than a few tears streamed down my face. I didn’t think I had what it took to sort my life out. I remembered doing well at basketball when I was nineteen, even though the coach didn’t always believe in me. Those were good times. If only I could get that kind of courage back. One achievement on the basketball court led to another. I still remember the day I was called up to the national team camp like it was yesterday. I was grinning like a Cheshire cat.

I turned on the TV. Watched the evening news. They were discussing the reputation of the Catholic Church. Had it been damaged by the actions of pedophile priests? New cases had come to light again. The Pope was talking about the Church’s reputation. How sorry he was. What about the kids? Did the Church hand these children the keys to the basements it had cast these innocents into? Nobody talked about the victims. It was all about the Church’s reputation.

According to studies, more than three thousand people working for the Catholic Church had engaged in child abuse. And apparently that was a conservative estimate. I remembered the Boston Globe article on the subject. At the end of the article, there was a list of churches where abuse had taken place. The list was so long that if I included it here, it would take up an entire page. Some of the priests were still working in those churches. How the hell was this possible? I repeat, how the HELL is this possible!! You spit in the victims’ faces after dropping them off at the gates of Hell! And a hymnal will guide them back toward daylight?!

I got chills. A shocking surge of rage. I was one of those children, technically grown-up but still in the basement. According to the news, there were hundreds more once again. I dug my pills out of the bathroom cabinet. The demons of Hell gorged on news like this. It was like food to them. I downed a bunch of pills faster than ever.

I thought about the Pope, the church. It made my head spin. I honestly didn’t know what to think of the whole thing. If there was a higher power, I was deeply bitter and furious at it. Had God perhaps given all the keys to us humans? Maybe we just needed to exchange keys among ourselves. That way we could unlock everything. The Devil wants us to judge each other’s religions. Not God. I couldn’t make sense of my thoughts. Just as I thought I’d found some great insight, my bitterness came and muddled everything.

I was too anxious. What was the point of anything? I got up to get more pills from the kitchen. Had a fit of rage, threw my phone against the wall. Why had I been backed into a corner? Was nobody gonna help me? I didn’t want to live in the basement anymore. 

I knew one person would help me. He’d already offered his hand several times. I just hadn’t been ready to take it before. My rage overflowed. I looked around. Was this the bed I wanted to lie in for the next ten years, alone, clutching my pills to feel safe? Feeling sorry for myself? “I can’t fucking live like this!” I was a living dead man, day in and day out. I let Eminem take care of the rest. I slowly started piecing my diary pages together. Went through my medicine cabinet, bookshelf, wardrobe. There were bits and pieces everywhere. The song “Not Afraid” did the rest. The lyrics hit deep in my soul. So deep that…

Listen to the lyrics. Read them. I knew them by heart. They burned something into my subconscious, something I couldn’t quite define. I guess the song is about more than just addiction. But you’re gonna have to read and decipher the message yourself. 

Of course, every song means different things to different people. And everybody’s interpretation is equally important.

I bound the pages of my diary together. Put them into an envelope. My demons tried to open the envelope again, even though I’d carefully glued it shut.

I didn’t really know what to do with the envelope. My anxiety grew. I made a decision. I would win this battle. There was no other choice anymore. A life as a human wreck, or just maybe, something else.

I was sitting in a downtown restaurant with Niklas. Two huge burgers with fries in front of us. I’d sent Niklas a copy of the text inside the envelope. I’d wanted to explain myself. I was nervous about his reaction. He went quiet. His eyes were shining. I didn’t understand why just yet.

“They haven’t sent me any good movies lately.”

I looked at my friend in confusion. I knew what he meant and it definitely boosted my confidence. After eating, we strolled down Aleksanterinkatu. I was shivering without my pills, like a marionette. I was trying to wean myself off the drugs gradually. It was my secret. I didn’t want to hear what anyone else thought about it. I was the one shivering all day, not my doctor. I ran my fingers over the anxiety meds in my pocket. It was enough to feel the bottle in my hands. If the anxiety got even slightly worse, I could always pour a bunch of pills down my throat. I was surprised by how much the bottle alone calmed me down. I touched it with my fingers and my heart started beating slower. 

Niklas was asking me why I had to write this book.

“Why do you have this need to pluck the brightest star in the sky?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t get it. We all fucking know you can write by now, but how’s your mental health?”

“I was trying to explain my shit to that chick. Can’t be bothered to talk all the time.”

“So here we are in a capitalist society, but apparently we still get fucking lunatics who send their ear to you in an envelope….”

“Well, where was I gonna send it? To a Mercedes factory?”

Laughter. 

“Well, no. I wanna see your student work again, all of it. I have a feeling I should watch and read them very carefully.”

I broke down and vented to Niklas. 

“Can’t you see why I have to be the best of the best?” 

“Fuck no!”

“Can’t you read? What about the part where I had to have a drink even though I had a naked woman in bed with me?”

Niklas froze. “Let’s go over there.” Pointed at the closest pub. Ordered us beers. Stayed quiet. Pale as a ghost. Finally he opened his mouth.

“Now I get the star thing. The human mind is so fucking weird.”

Niklas was holding back tears.

“Fucking dumbass! How many guys would bake a girl a Valentine’s cake? That’s what women want, the cake. Not you plucking stars from the sky.”

Silence.

“Goddammit, dude. Fucking hell.”

My friend’s X-ray vision pierced my soul. I was at a loss for words.

“The beer’s nice.”

“Just a shitty Lapin Kulta! When did you last talk to Tom?”

I couldn’t remember. Niklas felt that we should call Tom right now.

“Eminem, huh?” Niklas chuckled. I guess he could read between the lines.

“You know what, it must be hard to find love when you’re Eminem.” Niklas went on. “We’ll get Johnny Depp for this. My favorite actor. If only he was a little fucking younger.”

It was a difficult situation for both of us. My friend saw a great piece of writing. It could have made a good movie. Maybe a movie that was, in a way, like a bride at the altar…

I was still trapped inside the book. I hadn’t made it out. We were two boozy creative friends. Alcohol scrambled both our heads. This was the last time I went out with my good friend. We ended up falling out. My friend was the first one to know my worst fears. My friend was the first one to see my soul. I believe he saw it when he offered me a job. My friend invited me to his kid’s birthday party. It was family members only. He also brought me to tears. And he brought me laughter and joy. He was the one who showed me that creativity can be a gift. It’s a shame we fell out.

If I called him today and told him I was stuck on an island and needed a boat… I believe he would bring me the boat.

If this message in a bottle finds him one day… Oh, right, you don’t really know about the bottle yet. You’ll find out soon enough. But he probably wouldn’t send it on. It would require courage on his part too. Still, I believe he’d tear up. Then he’d chuckle.

“Fucking lunatic. Brave lunatic.” 

Of course, he already had a hunch years ago that this might happen. My friend is doing at least as well as I am today. Niklas, if and when this book ends up in your hands, I want to thank you. This is the way it had to go. Without us falling out, I’d never have found inner peace. But hey, I figured out where the star is. Read on and find out… And stop laughing! I’m trying to be an artist, haha. By the way, do you have any idea how complicated it is to bake a good cake? Mine usually get burnt sooner or later.

Niklas, I’m very aware that after this I might find it incredibly hard to find someone for me. It’s my choice. I thought long and hard about it. You’re not stupid, you know what I mean. 

How can we even know who’s right for us? The other day, I heard someone say, “Something ugly can still be beautiful.” It definitely stopped me in my tracks for a while. But I’d already made the decision to throw this bottle into the sea by then. And I don’t want to live a double life. So I looked her in the eye like a dumbass, and couldn’t find the words. All the pages of this book flashed before my eyes. I think it was the second time in life that I froze completely while sober. 

If the restaurant scene at the end of this book happens… I don’t know, it’s a roll of the dice. If I’m honest, I don’t even know if I want to bake cakes anymore. Sad but true. You always think someone will come and save you. But when you save yourself… I don’t know if I even want it anymore. And I don’t need to know. I guess you feel it in your heart if it’s right. And I don’t even know what that feels like, since I’ve never let anyone close enough. So I don’t know.

Even if this bottle runs aground, I guess the person I am today is what Hollywood is trying to be. 

We’ll be young forever. You’ll never lose that spark in your eye. And I have mine back now! It gets me in trouble sometimes. I could tell you a few stories, but I won’t share them here…

The next time I’m in LA, I’m going to learn how to surf. See where the waves take me. I’ll spend two weeks near the beach. The Hollywood sign looks like a Target sign to me now. I doubt I’ll cross Fairfax Avenue. I guess my dreams are elsewhere nowadays. They’re on streets full of life. I’m no longer interested in running down dark alleys through movies. 

Having said that, there are some good things that have come out of Hollywood. The Shawshank Redemption, for example. It’s the third-best movie of all time even today. 

Niklas, without you I’d never have broken out of the cage. If you hadn’t given me a job (and with that, a visa), maybe my life in Finland would have been quiet. But I’d still have been inside the cage. It had to smash into the walls. Life had to tear me apart so I could find the strength to break the cage.

Obviously I’d like to make a few digs at you here. Even the score a little. But then I wouldn’t be any better than my bullies. This is the part where I’m a man and not a gun-toting “badass” = a dumb Mickey Mouse.

It’s not your fault you couldn’t stop me from doing drugs. You were smart to stick with whisky and cognac. I say the next sentence from the bottom of my heart: people like us always wonder whether we’re good people or shitty people. You’re a good person. Always remember that. It’s the sign of a good person to wonder about this stuff. Am I? I don’t know. I do like myself more than I did years ago. That’s a good start.

Maybe next summer I’ll take a sailboat out by myself. Throw my phone literally into the sea. And think about all this stuff. Do I know how to sail? What do you fucking think… The worst that can happen is that the boat runs aground. Maybe I’ll smash into a pier. 

But I will tell you one thing. The next time you’re directing a movie, remember that everyone who works on set is going through something real in their lives. Someone running in front of a movie camera holding a toy gun, while the director thinks they’re making larger-than-life “art”, is fucking ridiculous.

People cry for real in the hospital, at funerals, at weddings.

No wonder artists often have mental health issues. Many authors have sat in bars with a glass of wine in hand, pondering how to make the world better with a poem. Then carelessly cut someone with the wine glass. 

Then they lose their manuscript while drunk and think in their little heads that the whole world will come crashing down… And unfortunately I’ve been one of these morons.

In Finland the state funds these people’s hobbies way too much. While nurses treat real people and get paid next to nothing. And they’re the ones who can truly change someone’s life.

Niklas, you’ve directed a few “movies”… What do you think Eminem feels about Hollywood? Why does it seem like there are no movie projects he’s interested in… Pretty sure the Hollywood sign looks ridiculous to him, too. Then again, there are good comedians out there. Chris Rock, you’re so fucking funny! My favorite.

And hey, a good movie + a pizza = a nice night. But that’s all it is.

Finnish elementary schools and high schools give kids grades in sports, music, art. Then people wonder why kids won’t exercise, won’t sing, won’t draw. They’d rather take an antidepressant than go skate in the park. If your teacher gives you a bad grade in sports when you’re only ten years old, you’re still going to hate sports as a grown-up. The same with music or art. 

It’s kind of funny that the same “cultured” people who advertise this and that literary award can’t fix something like this. A lot of first-graders’ artwork would hang in museums if you just wrote “Pablo Picasso’s first sketch” at the bottom. We’re killing children’s creativity by judging them at such a young age. It’s the same with music.

Every one of us is creative in our own way. Fixing cars, cooking food. Almost everything requires creativity. Do we have to grade arts and sports at school? Or maybe we could prevent a few depressive episodes in the future by fixing just this one small thing?

Anyway, Niklas, maybe our paths will cross again. Maybe we’ll laugh again over pizzas. It takes forgiveness from both sides. Oh hey, I guess I had to get a little dig in after all… 

OK then, back to the story. After our boozy night, I headed home. The night was full of misunderstandings on both sides. I realized that no movie, no book, nothing would save me. You can’t get rid of the pain by building a wall.

Over the next few days, I got a handful of texts from my friend. But I don’t really remember the full message exchange. I’m sorry, that was the first time I lied. I remember it clearly, but it doesn’t matter. My apologies to my friend for dumping a truckload of sand in his lap. He had no idea where to put it.