cw: addiction, violence
First, I really think Euphoria could be set in Broward County, Florida (where I grew up). The look of the convenience stores and the alleys and just the vibe makes it feel like home. Second, I think this adds to the fact that it feels the way I did as a teenager in that place, or a place just like that: teeming with life while completely in a downward spiral.
All of this to say that Rue's world blew up this week and I was riveted by how exactly real and harrowing it felt. The intervention staged by her mom and her sister after Jules tells them that Rue has relapsed was the most real depiction of the experience of confronting someone with an addiction I've ever seen in media; this was also probably the first time I could actually sit and process this experience, even fictionally, and really think about what it's been like to be in this exact situation. There isn't enough support for those living with addiction, primarily because addiction isn't neatly summed up as the thing we want it to be: something someone just wants to do. I wish I had understood this better when my mom was still alive but I'll take having learned it late over never learning it at all. I thought I would have more to say about this part as I started writing but this is all to say: addiction is an illness, it hollows out people you love, it's no one's fault.
For unrelated reasons, I didn't sleep the night I watched this episode so when I fell asleep the next night, I slept deeper than usual. I had a simultaneously surreal and realistic dream where I saw a friend I no longer have a relationship with. We immediately embraced and held each other for a long time, crying and apologizing for what had happened between us. The dream went on for ages, the two of us mending our relationship and filling each other in on what we had missed in all the time we weren't speaking; it felt so incredibly real.
I woke up and felt teary because I knew this hadn't happened. Not because I don't forgive them; I drew a line and they chose to walk away. I carried a lump in my throat for a long time about whether I had overreacted and should walk back ending things. Someone I know told me just a few days ago that boundaries aren't meant to push someone away, they're meant to show someone where you're willing to meet them. It rolled around my brain for days, not really landing until I woke up from that dream. I'm here, I've forgiven but I can't make someone else respect my boundaries.
It was like that with my mom. I woke up one day to all the money in my bank account gone because she had taken my debit card and withdrawn it all. I checked her into rehab only to be called by the facility a few hours later to come get her because she had snuck a handle of vodka in with her. I stood there during an intervention while she screamed in my face about how I was a selfish disappointing failure who only cared about myself. I loved her more than life, still do, but I also couldn't have any of that in my life. She died a little over a year after I moved to a different country; I'm haunted by the fact that there was probably nothing I could have done even if I was next to her every single second of every day.
Like with my friend, I was heartbroken and I was angry for a long time but I've forgiven. I used to think I ran away from hard things, from messy things, but I understand now that I was setting a boundary even if I didn't know that's what I was doing. How does the saying go? I can't set myself on fire to keep anyone else warm. I think that's always really been what the words you've escaped have meant in my life: a reminder, a mantra, an oath—of what's been and what will never be again.
Programming note: beginning next week, You've Escaped will be dropping into your inbox on Thursdays instead of Wednesdays. Thursday! What a concept.