#David Sheff

[4pologygir1]

✶ BEAUTIFUL BOY ✶

spencer reid x reader | angst / hurt-comfort | 2.6k words

cw: post tobias hankel reid, established relationship, addiction/dilaudid abuse, needles mentioned, withdrawal symptoms, emotional distress, intense arguments, mean spencer but he isn’t mean he’s just struggling, themes of codependency, rehab mentions, recovery, brief mentions of vomiting… overall just pretty sad :( but it’s okay! he’s alright! oh and use of y/n.. (i know, i'm sorry!) basically reader loves him and gives him the support our guy SHOULD have had!!!

summary: he used to be all coffee spoons and poetry, soft hands and fast facts—but now he’s gone, and you’re searching. a fic about staying. about what it means to love someone through. heavily inspired by the 2018 film beautiful boy.

---

He hasn’t come home in three days.

You stop trying to sleep. You stop waiting for his key to rattle in the door. You stop wearing the sweater he left on the couch because it doesn’t smell like him anymore—it smells like dust and old coffee and panic.

You pace. You whisper his name to the walls. You turn your phone up so loud it startles you every time it buzzes, even when it’s not him. 

You leave the porch light on. Always. You tell yourself that it’s for safety, but it’s really a lighthouse. If he’s out there somewhere, maybe he’ll see it.

You check in with Garcia—clumsily, cloyingly, ashamedly. She tells you she’s worried too. She won't elaborate when you ask her if the rest of the team has noticed anything off about him.

You leave notes in bookstores, libraries, coffee shops:

He will sometimes send you funny emails. He prefers spaghetti over penne.

Have you seen my boyfriend?

Have you seen my beautiful boy?

Tell him I miss him.

You talk to strangers. You learn the faces of local street people by heart. You ask, gently, over and over:

Have you seen him? Tall, messy hair, talks fast, brown eyes like burnt sugar. Has anyone seen Spencer?

You start writing letters you never send.

I miss the way you talk when you’re tired. I miss how your hands fidget with receipts. I miss you. Please come home. Please be home so that I can come home to you. Where are you, Spencer? What can I do?

And when you finally sleep, you dream of him as a child, wandering around alone and calling your name like he’s the one who lost you.

---

When he returns, it’s like someone else is wearing his skin. His eyes are glassy and unfocused, the way they were after Tobias Hankel. But this is different. Less trauma, more...hunger.

“Hey,” you whisper. He flinches like the sound is too loud. “Where were you?”

Spencer shrugs, shuffling past you, eyes downcast.

You notice the tremble in his fingers, the way he scratches at his arm absentmindedly.

He doesn't want to talk. He wants to pretend. Pretend this is fine.

So you cook him spaghetti. You ask him about a crossword puzzle. You pretend, too.

But later, when you find the vial in his coat pocket, you stop pretending.

---

He gets mean. Not all at once. It isn’t immediate, It's little barbs at first. Corrections that feel more like punishment than help. Eye rolls. Disdain. Cold silence when you touch him. You start to feel like an intrusion in your shared apartment.

“You know,” he says one night, “for someone who reads as much as you do, you don’t really understand people very well.”

You stare at him, stunned. “Where did that come from?”

He shrugs, smirking to himself bitterly, eyes sharp like knives. “Just saying.”

You walk away. Not because you're mad, but because you're afraid you'll cry in front of him. And he's not him when he sees your tears these days. He twists them into guilt trips or throws them back at you like weapons.

But some nights, when he thinks you’re asleep, he holds your wrist like a lifeline. Murmurs your name in apology over and over again.

You keep letting him in. You love him. Even when it hurts.

---

It happens after he misses your anniversary. After you wait in a candlelit apartment for four hours with a trembling glass of wine and a heart that thuds with dread.

When he walks in at 3 a.m., he smells like motel soap and chemical sweetness.

“Where the hell have you been?”

He scoffs, dropping his bag. “Don’t start.”

“No, Spencer. I am starting. I’ve been quiet. I’ve been supportive. I’ve held you when you shook, and I lied to your friends, and I—”

“You lied to my friends?”

“You told me you didn’t want them to see you like this.” 

He throws his keys against the wall. You try not to react, but you can’t help but flinch. “God, you’re just like them! You don’t actually love me—you love some.. version of me that you made up in your head.”

“This isn’t who you are. This sickness. I know you, baby. I know my beautiful boy, and this isn’t him.”

He throws his hands up in the air. You notice the tremors. “You’re just embarrassed ‘cause I was like.. You know, I was this amazing thing, like, your special creation or something, and you don’t like who I am now.”

“I thought we were close,” you sob. “I thought we were closer than most girlfriends and boyfriends! Why?”

“I felt better than I ever had,” he spits. “What am I supposed to do? After that case… I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t think. I feel alive now. You need to quit trying to fix me and just let me be happy.”

“This isn’t us,” you whisper, chest heaving. “This is not who we are.”

He stands there, face twisted in something between rage and grief.

“This is me, Y/N! Here, this is who I am!”

You don’t have the chance to part your lips for your response before he shoots you down.

“What are you doing, huh? You always have to be controlling everything all the time!”

The next hour is spent with harsh words and strained yells confined by the walls that once held nothing but love and domesticity. You confront him about how your shared bank account is seemingly draining more and more each week. He tells you to go through your monthly subscriptions. That’s the moment it becomes even clearer. An alcoholic will steal your wallet and lie to you. A drug addict will steal your wallet and then help you look for it.

You collapse into a chair. You don’t look up when he storms out.

---

You wake up to an empty house.

You check every motel in Alexandria. Every street in Quantico. Every subway station in D.C.

You visit every needle exchange program in a 30-mile radius. You even try shelters, pretending you're his wife, or sister, or... anything that makes it easier to say please help me find him.

You carry a photo of him folded in your wallet. You hold it out like it’s sacred.

You tell stories about him to strangers:

He solves puzzles in seconds. He cuts his own hair. He can read seven languages. He cries during documentaries. He never matches his socks. He writes letters for me to wake up to when he leaves for work. He’s a good man. He’s just... sick right now.

It’s raining the night you find him.

He’s curled up outside a gas station, legs pulled to his chest, jacket soaked. You can’t tell if he’s crying or just drenched.

“Spencer?”

He blinks, slow and vacant.

“Oh,” he mumbles. “You.”

You kneel beside him. “Don’t move. I’m gonna take you home.”

“I don’t... I don’t think I want to go home,” he slurs.

You swallow your sob. “Why not?” You manage to say in a way you could only describe as weak.

“‘Cause you’ll hate me if I do.”

“I don’t hate you. Oh, I don’t hate you. I hate-” You can’t help but choke up, brushing strands of hair stuck to his forehead back. You force the words out anyway. “I hate what using has done to you. This- This anger, it isn’t my boy. It’s the drugs talking, don’t you know that? Because I do, Spencer.”

He looks at you like you’re a sort of savior, someone who will take this pain away. You catch your reflection in the car window as you carry him to the passenger seat. You look more like a confessional. Somewhere to voice your sins and be cleansed of them. Again and again. A seemingly endless process that you go through every other time you manage to find him.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” he breathes. “I just want to be home.”

You press his head to your shoulder and wrap your arms around him.

“I know,” you whisper. “I know, honey.”

---

It's hell.

He shakes. He sweats through his clothes. He throws up until there's nothing left and still his body heaves. He cries. He curses. He begs you to make it stop.

“I can’t—I can’t—” he gasps one night. “Please, angel, please just a little—just one more time—I swear I’ll stop after, I swear.”

You kneel beside the bed, tears streaming down your cheeks. “No, baby. You know I can’t do that. God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” You say through his incessant begging.

He claws at his chest. “I’m dying.”

“You’re healing.”

He knocks a water glass off the nightstand, thrashing as he presses his fingertips into the dark, hollow circles of his eyes. “You can’t do this to me. Just—” He brings his hands down to his inner elbows, scratching.” “Give me some money. I can get it. I need it.”

“And I need you!” you cry. “I can’t give you any money, and you know I won’t. Where does this end, Spencer?

He turns his face away.

But later, when the sun begins to rise, he reaches for your hand.

---

The worst comes weeks later. He’s been clean. Recovering. Trying.

But relapse lurks. 

Days are spent writing on every online page you can find.

Fortunately, I have a boyfriend, my beautiful boy

Unfortunately, he is a drug addict.

Fortunately, he is in recovery.

Unfortunately, he relapses.

Fortunately, he is in recovery again.

Unfortunately, he relapses.

Fortunately, he is not dead.

This repetitive cycle doesn’t feel any easier now, only different. You miss his call at first—your phone is buried in the laundry. 

When you finally pick it up, your hands are shaking. Partially in fear that he won’t be your Spencer, but also sick with the dreadful thought that there may not be a Spencer anymore.

“Y/N,” he whispers. “I wanna stop... but please, please, please, please, please no rehab, alright? Just let me come home.”

You close your eyes, tears falling freely.

“You know what? I realized it’s actually—I need to be at work. Solving cases, helping people. That’s gonna give me the strength to stop. Alright?”

You breathe out. Steady. Gentle. Grieving.

“I wish that I could do that, Spence. But I can’t.”

The silence on the other end is soon ntrrupted by crackling as he shifts the phone in his shaky grasp. You can almost picture him outside, either laying on the dingy floor of a cheap motel room or sitting out on the steps of some old building. Waiting. Waiting for you to give in. Waiting for you to give him money. Waiting for you to leave. Waiting for his dealer. Waiting for it to kick in.

“Y/N…”

“I wish… I wish that I could do that for you, but I can’t. That’s not what you need, Spencer. You need to go somewhere where they can help you.” You sniffle, and hope he doesn’t hear it. “Help you in ways that I can’t.” You specify, keeping your voice level.

He sobs.

“I’ll go,” he says. “I’ll go.”

---

And he does.

It’s hard. It's awful. It's beautiful.

He writes you letters. You visit when you can. Sometimes you don’t talk, you just sit in the sun and read.

He begins to smile again—not often, but when he does, it reaches his eyes.

He comes home different. Softer. Clearer. Tired, but willing.

There are rules. He has a sponsor. You make tea. You learn how to build trust again, slowly, piece by piece.

Some nights, he wakes up crying. You hold him and don’t ask why.

Some mornings, he hums while brushing his teeth.

One afternoon, he cooks you spaghetti and laughs at his terrible sauce. And you know that he is coming back to himself.

---

He’s standing barefoot in the kitchen, hair damp from a shower, wearing his sweater with the fraying cuffs. There’s a cracked mug in his hand—lavender tea steeping slowly—and the sun is melting through the windows like honey. 

He doesn’t see you at first. He’s just standing there, staring at the steam.

You watch him for a moment. You memorize him again. The curve of his spine. The slight twitch of his fingers. The way he breathes deeper now, like his lungs finally remembered how.

He turns and sees you. His mouth tugs into a crooked almost-smile.

“This is the first morning I haven’t woken up already running,” he says, voice gentle again. “Like… my body wasn’t bracing for something before I even opened my eyes.”

You cross the room slowly and press your palm to the center of his chest.

“What does it feel like now?”

He looks down at your hand. Then back up at you. And he glows. Like dusk and childhood and safety.

“Like I can finally stand still. Like the noise of it all has quieted. And— And like there’s space inside of me again for something soft.” he whispers.

You lean into his chest, both hands tangled in his cardigan now. He wraps his arms around you. Holds you like you’re breakable and sacred and the last thing tethering him to this world.

“You saved me,” he murmurs into your hair.

You shake your head gently. “No. You saved yourself. I just left the light on.”

He kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

“I want a boring forever with you,” he says. “I’m tired of the battle. I want laundry and grocery lists and falling asleep on the couch. I want a whole life where you’re just... here.”

You smile, wet-lashed and aching. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted too.”

“Thank you. For not giving up on me, I mean. For loving me even when I was...”

You don’t make him ramble his way through that sentence. Instead, you slip your hand into his, squeezing it reassuringly.

“Do you know how much I love you? If you could take all the words in the language, it still wouldn’t describe how much I love you. And if you could gather all those words together, it still wouldn’t describe what I feel for you. What I feel for you is everything. I love you more than everything.”

He kisses you, slow and sure.

“Everything.”

You stand there a long time, swaying slightly in your own orbit. The kettle sings. The sun moves. The planet keeps spinning.

And for the first time in a long, long while—neither of you flinch. The world feels small and safe again.

—

a/n: i’ve always been drawn to stories where love is messy and awful yet still worth it. My first angsty piece… this fic isn’t soft, but it’s devoted. it’s about choosing someone repeatedly—even when it’s hard, even when it hurts. if you’ve ever loved someone who was falling apart, this is for you. if you’ve ever needed to be found, this is for you too. if you like this fic, i recommend watching the film that inspired it! ALSO there are DIRECT QUOTES from the film AND the memoir it is based around written into this fic! i do not take ANY credit for the phenomenal words of david sheff.

with all my aching, awfully sentimental heart,

winona.

[tavolgisvist]

As I read the other day, he [Paul] said in one of his ‘fanzine’ interviews that he was trying to put some distance between The Beatles and the public – and so there was this identity of Sgt Pepper. Intellectually, that’s the same thing he did by writing ‘He loves you’ instead of ‘I love you.’ That’s just his way of working.

(John Lennon, 1980, All We Are Saying, David Sheff)

“Even if I’m writing something very specific, I veil it. If I want to write about loneliness, it will be Eleanor Rigby who carries the can. “With Little Willow, I was very affected by Maureen’s death. The fragility of life is in that song. But it wasn’t called Maureen, if you get what I’m saying. It was called Little Willow.”

(Paul McCartney on the Nineties, jamming with Ringo and life with wife Linda by Simon Cosyns, The Irish Sun, 7 Aug 2020)

[johnnyhatesducks]

[ruffsabbath]

Saddest but most relatable movie ever.

[toalltheangels]

Have you seen my beautiful boy?

I have my very own beautiful boy, hope he's okay out there

[elysian101]

If you could take all the words in the language, it still wouldn't describe how much I love you. And if you could gather all those words together, it still wouldn't describe what I feel for you.

• Beautiful boy

[addictivecontradiction]

Beautiful boy, 2018

[tortellinik1ng]

“Have you seen my son? Have you seen my beautiful boy? Tell him I miss him.”

Just punch me in the jugular next time, it’d hurt less.

[pmak2002]

okk so i get this request for nic sheff beautiful boy and reader and his dad/parents find out he taking drugs and tries to confront him and he just crying in reader arms just as a movie scene w his dad and thank uuuu

Of course Amon! Thx for the request.

“Nic I can’t believe you’ve been using again. No wonder you’ve been asking for money!” David spats as you and Nic sit on the couch together in the living room of David and Karan’s home. The kids are at school and it’s just you, Nic and David as Karen is out running errands.

As David yells and berates his son. Nic is shaking beside you holding your hand.

“Y/N can’t save you have to save yourself! We are finding you a proper program and you’re staying until we figure this out!” David snarls.

“Please David don’t overwhelm him.” You try to butt In.

“Stay out of this Y/N he is not well and he needs help. You can’t fix him. Us parents can’t fix him. We need to send him somewhere where he will get better!” David snarled.

It had been like this since Nic had first started using drugs. You and Nic had known each other for a long time way before he even started using.

No matter what you were there for him and his family. You were afraid of what would happen if he was sent away again and if it would work. If it wound finally cleanse Nic of this horrible demon.

Nic kept crying and shaking in your arms.

“It’ll be alright Nic we’ll get you better.”

“Y/N he needs to do this on his own we can’t keep coddling him! We’ll support him from the sidelines he needs to work on himself!”

“He can’t be alone David! He won’t want to get better if we just leave him.” You say.

“Y/N please we’ll get him set up in a safe place we won’t have to constantly worry about him.”

You sigh as Nic clings to you sobbing.

“Dad please no.” Nic says so softly you almost don’t hear him.

“You need help Nic and just because you’re an adult doesn’t mean you can’t fix what you did to yourself!” David says

On the day Nic gets dropped off you go to say your goodbye for a while but David wants you to only wave through the door as if Nic is some rabid and dangerous animal.

You hope things will change and Nic will finally get better and get back to the Nic you love.

[shaunashipmanslvr]

i got my birthday gift, im so scared to start reading it 😭

[tavolgisvist]

'Just call him on the phone'

Q: Aside from the millions you’ve been offered for a reunion concert, how did you feel about producer Lorne Michaels’s generous offer of thirty-two hundred dollars for appearing together on Saturday Night Live a few years ago?* A: Oh, yeah, Paul and I were together watching that show. He was visiting us at our place in the Dakota. We were watching it and almost went down to the studio, just as a gag. We nearly got into a cab, but we were actually too tired. Q: How did you and Paul happen to be watching TV together? A: That was a period when Paul just kept turning up at our door with a guitar. I would let him in, but finally I said to him**, “Please call before you come over. It’s not 1956, and turning up at the door isn’t the same anymore. You know, just give me a ring.” He was upset by that, but I didn’t mean it badly. I just meant that I was taking care of a baby all day, and some guy turns up at the door … But anyway, back on that night he and Linda walked in and he and I were just sitting there watching the show, and we went, Ha-ha, wouldn’t it be funny if we went down, but we didn’t. Q: Is that the last time you’ve seen Paul? A: Yes, but I didn’t mean it like that.

<...> Q: You say you haven’t really listened to Paul’s work and haven’t really talked to him since that night in your apartment— A: Really talked to him, no, that’s the operative word. I haven’t really talked to him in ten years. Because I haven’t spent time with him. I’ve been doing other things and so has he. You know, he’s got twenty five kids and about twenty million records out — how can he spend time talking? He’s always working.

(John Lennon, 1980, All We Are Saying, David Sheff)

*It was in 25 April 1976 **it was in 26 April 1976

Well, when I, when I was Just a little baby boy, Every night, every night I would call, Because your number, you know, Brought me such sweet joy. I've called your name, John, Every night since then But I ain't never, no, no, never Heard you calling me, My sweet, sweet babe, So, you know, you better call me back again, I call your operator but I still can't get through to you, Call me back again

(Call Me Back Again, presumably, 10 June 1976, Seattle)

Tell me, is she everything i see Or is she really not the one for me? We know, and though some may disagree But do they know the way we want to be? <…> Building something One thing made to last And holding something Special from the past And do I still believe in stories we've been told***? Are all the things she brings me worth their weight in gold? Oh yeah, (oh yeah) pure gold

(Pure Gold, Paul for Ringo, 1976)

***I remember when John and I were first hanging out together, I had a dream about digging in the garden with my hands. I’d dreamt that before but I’d never found anything other than an old tin can. But in this dream I found a gold coin. I kept digging and I found another. And another.The next day I told John about this amazing dream I’d had and he said, ‘That’s funny, I had the same dream’. So both of us had this dream of finding this treasure. And I suppose you could say it came true. I remember years later talking about it – ‘Remember that dream we had?’; ‘Yeah, that was far out’. So the message of that dream was: keep digging lads.'

(Paul McCartney to The Big Issue, Feb. 2012)

After you've gone And left me crying After you've gone Ain't no deny You'll feel blue You'll feel sad You'll miss the dearest pal that you ever had

There'll come a time And don't you forget it There'll come a time When you'll regret it****

Someday when you grow lonely Your heart will break like mine You want me only After you've gone After you've gone away

(After You've Gone, 1977, Paul's version - 'just for fun' as he said - of a 1918 popular song written by Turner Layton and Henry Creamer, and it's Frank Sinatra's (and Sophie Tucker!) version.

****the line 'Don't you forget it/When you'll regret it' reminds another old (not as old like After You've Gone but old) song -  I Love You And Don't You Forget It by Perry Como. The song, what our lads were singing in their early years so playfully:

Klas Burling: Tell us something about how you find a song… how you get the idea about a song, to write it down. John: Well, sometimes it's the words first, and then the music after. Klas Burling: Very often you've got a title, you know… Me and you, and everything like that? Paul: Yeah. We try to do that, to make it personal so it's… so we really mean it. When we sing a thing about 'I love you,' it's easier. John: (singing) 'And don't you forget it!' John & Paul: (singing together, jokingly) 'I love you and don't you forget it!' Paul: Well, you see, it's easier than singing something about the cat that lives on the hill, man. (laughter) Paul: It's a lot easier just to sing about what you feel yourself.

(August 23 1963, interview with Klas Burling)

Was I just dreaming or was it only yesterday I used to hold you in my arms And now a baby, and a another on the way [Indescernable] in a farm Now must we be alone? If it don’t feel right, don’t do it If it don’t look right, look right through it If it don’t feel right, don’t do it Just call him on the phone

(John Lennon, Real Life, Feb 1977)

We'd had a bread strike over here***** and I rang him and I was saying, What are you doing? He says. I'm baking some bread.' 'Oh! Me too.' Imagine, with the stereotypes, John and Paul talking about baking bread.

(Paul McCartney, May 2001, interview for Mojo magazine)

*****a bread strike in England was in Nov 1978

Q: Do you regret that your life has become so public? A: I realized that a good fifteen years ago. I remember actually thinking when I went on holiday somewhere, ‘God I’d really better start thinking now about keeping a few countries aside where we don’t sell records. I won’t be able to go anywhere without being recognized.’ But now I think, ‘Really, I’ve reached the point of no return. There’s no going back.’ Even if I didn’t want to sing anymore, I’d just be like Greta Garbo or Brigitte Bardot. They both retired but you’d never know it. John said this to me a year before he died. He said, ‘Be careful what you wish for, it might just come true.’ That’s the way I look at it. I wished for all this and I got it. To regret it would mean I’d have to sit here and live with negative thoughts about it. I know that would only sink me. Even if I had feelings of regret my personality would not really let them out. ‘Look mate, you don’t regret it. Look on the other side,’ that’s me. Not to sink. I always used to do that instinctively, and not allow too many negative thoughts to surface.

(Paul McCartney, April/May 1982, interview for Music Express)

The couple of years after the Beatles broke up it was very touchy because I think we suspected each other of business manoeuvres. So anyone would ring up, it would be like, “Why is he ringing?” And when you put up the defensive like that it’s very difficult to say, “I’m not! Honest!” You just don’t know where to put yourself. So we had a lot of those ups and downs for quite a few years. But the favourite thing was that if ever we talked not business – and what we ended doing, actually, was make a rule not to talk business on the phone – and on those occasions, we had really good vibes, man. And it was great; we just talked kids, we talked family, we talked cats, we talked life, rather than, “oh, what songs are doing with x business affair?” And one of the great things for me, one of the consolation prizes after John was killed, the only thing– you know, you find yourself holding on to little bits of wreckage to keep yourself afloat. And with me it was the fact that our last phonecall was really one of the best we ever had together; it was really warm, we were really friends again.

(Paul McCartney, 1984, interview for CBS Morning News)

Q: Do you remember your last conversation with John? A: Yes. That is a nice thing, a consoling factor for me, because I do feel it was sad that we never actually sat down and straightened our differences out. But fortunately for me, the last phone conversation I ever had with him was really great, and we didn’t have any kind of blowup. It could have easily been one of the other phone calls, when we blew up at each other and slammed the phone down. Q: Do you remember what you talked about? A: It was just a very happy conversation about his family, my family. Enjoying his life very much; Sean was a very big part of it. And thining about getting on with his career. I remember he said, “Oh, God, I’m like Aunt Mimi, padding round here in me dressing gown”– robe, as he called it, ’cause he was picking up the American vernacular –“feeding the cats in me robe and cooking and putting a cup of tea on. This housewife wants a career!” It was that time for him. He was about to launch Double Fantasy.******

(Paul McCartney, Dec 1984, interview for Playboy)

******Double Fantasy released 17 November 1980

I was lucky. The last few wee... months that he was alive, we’d managed to get our relationship back on track. And we were talking and having real good conversations. Real nice and friendly.

(Paul McCartney about This One, interview with Bernard Goldberg for the TV series 48 Hours, 1989)

[rainbowfunks]

beautiful dilf

[spooksalotnoel]

The tragedy of Beautiful Boy

Want to start off with a TW, I'll be covering topics of drug abuse, addiction, and death.

I watched Beautiful Boy just a month or two ago for the first time. I saw this movie again just a couple of days ago. I debated on whether or not I wanted to write a post on this movie. I felt as though I couldn't really capture what it is. Instead, I've decided to talk about my experience with addiction and how it's affected me. And I will be relaying that to the movie.

For starters, went into this movie wanting to learn more about how my father felt as he was the addict. My father passed on my birthday from an OD. Watching this movie, I thought, "wow, I wish he didn't feel so alone". At the time of my father being present I couldn't comprehend why he couldn't just stop. I'd never fault my father; he was the best of the best. I know what was happening to him was something he just couldn't control. I had endless love for him, and the real beauty about this movie is that it really showed me what I couldn't see.

I messaged my stepmom who is a recovering addict, she's been sober for 6 1/2; 7 years. I wanted to know how she felt about the movie. I learned that it's hard wanted to stop but not mentally being able to. I also learned that the film, to her at least, was pretty relatable. Like I said before, I can't put into words how much I appreciated this movie. I can't convince you it's good either. I got another opinion from my grandmother. She said it was way too long and it dragged out. Thats when I realized something, this movie cannot touch you if you aren't sensitive to this topic. My heart breaks for those who have gone through loss, addictions, drug abuse. This movie was a huge lesson for me, and I don't regret watching this.

I'm sorry for such a deep post, I hope this reached someone who needed it. I am not sure if I will keep this up, but know you are loved.

[moviepolaroids]

Beautiful Boy Movie Sticker Set / T Shirt and more!

2018 biographical drama film directed by Felix Van Groeningen, based on the memoirs of David Sheff and his son Nic Shef

[01hebu]

“Nic is injecting drugs—shooting them into his arms, arms that not that long ago threw baseballs and built Lego castles, arms that wrapped around my neck when I carried his sleepy body in from the car at night.”

Beautiful Boy, David Sheff

[addictivecontradiction]

Beautiful boy, 2018