Free Born to Be Brad by Brad Goreski

the first time in my life, I was making good money. I used to walk around this great department store, Holt Renfrew—Toronto’s answer to Barneys—and lust over the Prada shoes and the Versace. Now I could almost afford these things. I bought my first pair of Prada shoes, these square-toe slip-on loafers, while I was still in school. I bought a charcoal-gray Versace T-shirt with black cap sleeves and a textured nylon material running down the back. In retrospect, it was hideous, and I wore it all the time. I bought a black Alexander McQueen knit polo with this viscose material weaved through it. I still remember the tag, which was black with red lettering. It felt luxurious. We wore street clothing to work, and I was into tight tops and Versace jeans and Miu Miu shoes. We always turned it out for Saturday nights, when the regular customers came in. Our look was definitely late-nineties Toronto gay—Euro and super-tight.
    I was out all the time, dancing after work, doing drugs with friends and coworkers. But wasn’t everyone? This was college. This is what being twenty years old in a big city for the first time is all about. At least that’s what I thought. I didn’t yet recognize that I had a problem. Because an addict doesn’t see it coming. That’s why people stay using. That’s why people die. It’s because they can’t see the signs.
    Still, I knew enough to hide it all from Trish Lahde, a classmate from theater school. Trish was from Sault Ste. Marie in Northern Ontario, a place even farther removed than Port Perry. The winters at theater school were long, the days even longer, and we often emerged from the bowels of the refrigeration and upholstery classrooms in the dark. But we had each other. With Trish, I was clean. With Trish I was Bradley Goreski from Port Perry. We watched teen comedies from the eighties together and danced to Madonna. One night, I showed her videos from elementary school. She started to cry.
    Despite my best efforts, the abuse was not helping my performance in school. I was exhausted all the time. Luckily this was theater school and the curriculum was full of exercises where one was asked to lie down on the ground and act like animals. There were days where we pretended to be in “zones of silence.” One day, I actually fell asleep on the floor, and the teacher called me out on it, really ripping into me. I swiftly jumped in, explaining, “I have chronic fatigue syndrome. I can’t really help it. It’s not my fault.” I don’t know where the lie came from. I guess I was better at improvisation than I thought. And the teacher was convinced. Not only did he believe my excuse, but in my year-end progress report, he praised me for my perseverance. “Despite his chronic fatigue syndrome,” he wrote, “Brad is still able to succeed.”
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    “I thought I was holding it together. Addicts always do. But others knew.”
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    But six months later, I couldn’t really hide the addiction anymore. I was working at the restaurant, staying out all night, and then trying to go to class. I couldn’t see how far out of balance I was. I thought I was holding it together. Addicts always do. But others knew. My parents made the hour-long drive into Toronto every Sunday night to take me grocery shopping. Back then, I just thought they wanted to spend time with me. Later I realized that wasn’t it at all. They took me grocery shopping because they didn’t want to give me the cash. Because they knew what I’d spend it on.
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    “And I learned a valuable lesson that year: You can’t let someone take your dream away from you.”
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    Soon, the school administration asked me to leave. I pushed back and was put on probation instead. It felt like a terrible rejection. Theater school can be a test of self-esteem; you open old wounds in class to find a character, and to have my weaknesses thrown back at me felt like too much. I dug in my heels. I refused to be a failure. I was stubborn, like a