I had been friends with Elaine Bilstad for a number of years in the early 1990s, along with her then-boyfriend, Daniel Bardol. She was very pretty and, of course, I was attracted to her, but still we had just been friends. She would try to connect me with girlfriends of hers, and once in a while it would work, but not for long. Eventually Elaine and I developed a relationship, and I fell deeply in love with her. It was different than being with Nicollette. Being good friends first and then having things develop into a relationship was a new thing for me, and I liked it.
Elaine was an actress. We would go out to parties and things with Robert and Debbie Downey, who were her friends, too, but we also spent a lot of time alone together. We would go camping together out in the desert at Joshua Tree and places like that. That was Elaine. She loved being outdoors and had a very natural way about her. Sadly for both of us, that was right around the time I started doing heroin. What had started as a lovely little love affair soon became corrupted by the drug.
When the addiction kicked in, I was going through a lot of money for the both of us. Soon Elaine and I occasionally went to flea markets on weekends selling things of mine to make money. We’d make candles, copper crosses, and other crafts to sell. It was hard. Neither of us was working steadily so money was always tight. Eventually she would leave me because of heroin. She couldn’t take my addiction anymore, and I don’t blame her. At that point I barely had a place to live. I would crash at friends’ houses on couches or even sleep under a table in my mom’s apartment. I was so close to being homeless that it wasn’t even funny. I had nothing. No money, and soon no Elaine; my dream of our being a young couple with all of our dreams ahead of us evaporated, burned away like so much brown powder on the foil. She was my best friend and I missed her beyond measure. I was starting to feel like the end of my life was near. I would’ve been okay had I died at that point; I would’ve had no complaints. I had lived a very full and complete life, and I hated what I had become.
In my possession today, I have a framed piece of silver foil. Spelled out in the residue of the heroin I was so addicted to is the word “help.” I made it by shaping the residue on the foil into the letters. That was my cry for help. But nobody ever got to read that. I was sitting by myself in my room, lost and lonely, living the life of a junkie. Several years later, Ed, the guy who had gotten me hooked, came to my door and mentioned, almost flippantly, that he had heard that Elaine had died recently, from a heart ailment. This pushed me even deeper into the abyss.
This was how I used to do it. I have always had a great fear of needles! Just promise me you will never try it!