For a while, I lived in an overcrowded, illegal three-bedroom apartment above a brothel on 14th Street and 8th Avenue, sharing the space with two other gay men. One was Australian—the tallest of us, stuck with the smallest room, which was just half the living room converted into a makeshift bedroom with no windows or closet. The other was a Jersey otter, and we’d drink together sometimes. I’m pretty sure they both regretted letting me move in the second my boxes hit the floor. Maybe it was the months I spent sleeping on an unpacked mattress because I couldn’t be bothered to settle in, what with all the drinking.

By 9 a.m., whether alone or with company, I’d yank down the cracked vinyl shades, plunging the room into darkness—a perfect little vampire den where you’d half-expect to find Edward Cullen getting railed. The few slivers of light that slipped through the blinds lit up the permanent haze of cigarette smoke, like a diary written in Parliament Lights.

I’d roll onto my side, staring at the nightstand buried under dust and coke residue, topped with a skyline of empty beer cans—whatever cheap stuff we grabbed from the bodega downstairs or swiped from a bar, stuffed into our trench coats until the condensation left weird little Rorschach stains. Anyone who saw them would’ve known: Those bitches are addicts. But I just needed sleep. Needed my heart to stop trying to punch through my ribs. So I’d curl up and whisper to myself, It’s okay if you die, just sleep. It’s okay if you don’t wake up, just close your eyes…

Stealing those beers always reminded me of Laura, a woman I partied with in Atlanta from ages 15 to 19. She looked like a Jersey housewife who got crowned Queen of the Gays during a bachelorette weekend in Atlanta and never left. Thick brown hair, sharp cheekbones, a skeleton wrapped in oversized Rag & Bone tees and Helmut Lang leather leggings. Always in a blazer, a Love bracelet, and the loudest, raspy laugh you’ve ever heard. She had to be in her late 40s. We met through her best friend Billy, our drug dealer—a mystery of a man who never let us inside his apartment. Short, skinny, voice like a squeak toy, always ready to drag you to hell.

Laura would stash Long Island iced teas from Blake’s—a glorified trailer by Piedmont Park that was every gay’s safe haven—in the bottom of her Hermès Birkin. We’d pile into Billy’s Audi A3 and head to whatever warehouse afterparty or drug den we’d been summoned to, finishing them off along the way.

But back to sunrises. Or one in particular: May 13, 2013. My eyes are glazed, squinting as the sun rises like she’s making her grand debut. It’s my 21st birthday, and all I can think is how pointless it feels after a decade of blacking out.

I’m in a cab with Peter, my boyfriend, crossing the Williamsburg Bridge. I stare out at the East River, phone dead, toes and fists clenched. He runs his fingers through my hair—greasy, matted, but still soft, at least to him.

This wasn’t how the night was supposed to end. I should’ve been at LaGuardia an hour ago, catching a flight to Burlington for my old prom date Jessica’s graduation at UVM. But I wasn’t. Instead, I’m here, trembling with mild delirium tremens in my boyfriend’s arms, wondering how the hell I got here.Jessica’s probably putting the finishing touches on her perfect winged eyeliner right now. Meanwhile, my throat burns from cocaine drip and cigarette smoke. I feel numb, exhausted, ashamed. I keep stretching my chapped lips just to feel the sting.

“Why do you do it?”

Peter’s voice—soft, a little rough. He’s looking down at me, his expression unreadable. I stare back.

“What?”

He exhales slowly. “I mean, I get why people do drugs. And obviously, you do you. But you just seem…” His words fade as he glances out the window, like he’s searching for an answer himself.

I follow his gaze, then tilt my head up toward the sun, its blinding white light. Maybe, if I’m lucky, it’ll burn my vision away.

“You just don’t seem happy.”

I flinch. Suddenly, I’m drowning in a swirl of colors—blue, purple, orange—sunspots burned into my eyes. For a second, I wonder if I’ll get my wish. Then, without opening my eyes, without thinking, I say:

“Because I don’t know what else to do.”

—

A few months earlier, Peter had been waiting for me at 89 Christopher Street. A different sunrise.

I’d spent the early hours dragging the lifeless body of a friend-of-a-friend down her hallway after we’d spent the night speedballing. She was thin, but dead weight, and I had to haul her past apartments full of wealthy strangers. By the time we reached the elevator, her blonde hair was wild with static from the carpet.

How the fuck did this happen?

Forty-five minutes earlier, the three of us had been laughing hysterically. Then Mitt, the guy with us, and I got lost in some pointless conversation until we realized she’d gone quiet. I walked over—her skin was gray-blue, ice-cold. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Mitt begged me not to call an ambulance, terrified he’d be blamed if she died. But stubbornness—or just common sense—won out. The paramedics arrived in a blur of red and blue. Since we looked alike, they didn’t ask questions—just scooped us up. I told them everything she’d taken.

Nothing sobers you up like riding in the back of an ambulance. Harsh lights, cold metal, too many colors, radios crackling, the sterile stench of antiseptic. After a few blocks and some Narcan, she came to—refused to look at me. Any chance of friendship was gone. Not that it mattered. At the hospital, I left without a word. I was late, as usual. Peter and I had a flight to Cancún for spring break.

At his apartment, I collapsed into his arms like I always did at sunrise and broke down. I couldn’t tell him what happened, just that I’d been “out.” He’d already packed, so we rode to the airport in silence, holding hands.

My phone buzzed. A text from the girl:

Fuck you.

Fair enough.

On the plane, I wrote dramatic monologues about how this trip would fix me—how I’d return to the city reborn, no more hard drugs, just responsible drinking.

At the resort—something Azul—I couldn’t even get drunk on their watered-down booze, so I gave up and sweated out the toxins under the scorching sun.

Back in the city, the cycle continued—exhausting, bleak, numb—for weeks. Then, in February, I was arrested for drug possession.Here’s the rewritten version in fluent, natural English while preserving the original meaning:

I got arrested in the Lower East Side when two undercover cops caught me doing cocaine outside a rundown club. Then in late March or early April, she overdosed. I began noticing people vanishing from our extended circle of drug users, theater kids, and so-called friends—disappearing, dropping out, fading into nothing. Ashes to ashes.

At my usual dive bars—the kind where promoters with names like “Jagger” worked their shady magic on naive young guys—people came and went like a game of musical chairs. Within weeks, I was calling up old dealers again, buying my usual mix of pills, powders, weed, mushrooms, vials—whatever the guy in front of me was selling. Cocaine to stay awake, Xanax to sleep, Molly to mix into drinks and joints, and my new favorite that quickly became a regular: heroin. I snorted it as powder because needles weren’t my thing.

By my birthday, unsurprisingly to everyone but me, I had multiple eight-balls ready and a night of mediocre Brooklyn partying planned—complete with terrible gay bars (that definitely didn’t survive the pandemic) and the random friends I’d somehow kept through my worst moments.

“Look—I’d get it if you were having fun, but you seem…” We’re back to 2013. Peter again. I want him to stop talking—my ears hurt and my brain can’t keep up. Just shut the fuck up.

“I don’t mean to assume, and I’m not judging, I swear. I’m just curious—why do coke and all that if it makes you so…”

“Miserable?” I rasp.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know… I don’t want to, but I can’t… stop.”

I barely remember how this conversation ended. What matters is that it happened at all—that for once, I honestly told someone I didn’t know why I couldn’t quit. No lies, no excuses, unlike when I’d claimed I was going to rehab years earlier just to avoid getting kicked off Semester at Sea for smuggling drugs aboard. Peter gave me an opening to admit I didn’t want to keep using—and didn’t know how to stop. A seed planted, watered by the sunrise.

We’re driving to East Hampton. Being trapped in a car with my father usually means bracing for one of his well-meaning but misguided lectures. But this time, nothing. I stare at my hands—square like his, just smaller. Larry Ivan Dorfman, mid-50s Brooklyn Jew with a crew cut and warm smile. A teddy bear of a man. His hand grips the gearshift, and I realize: Oh shit. This is different. He’s quiet. When I called saying I wanted to get clean, he just exhaled and said, “Finally. Thank you.”

He offered to fly out immediately from Hartsfield-Jackson, but I asked for one last night with Peter. He agreed.

Here’s something dark: That night, I googled “celebrity rehab fancy.” Not that I was famous—just delusional, unwilling to go somewhere that might make me mop floors. God forbid recovery actually be difficult.

As East Hampton gets closer, regret sets in. My stomach churns, screaming at me to jump out of the moving car Lady Bird-style (even though Lady Bird… [text cuts off])Bird was still a few years away—thank you, Greta.

“I don’t think I can do this, Dad.”

“You can.”

“I don’t know. Maybe I rushed into this.”

“You didn’t. But if you did, you’ll find out soon enough. We’re here now anyway.”

I press my forehead hard against the cold car window—except it feels more like a hearse.

Damn.

Adapted from Maybe This Will Save Me: A Memoir of Art, Addiction and Transformation by Tommy Dorfman, to be published on May 27 by Hanover Square Press, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers. Copyright © 2025 by Tommy Dorfman.

Maybe This Will Save Me: A Memoir of Art, Addiction and Transformation
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