The Importance Of Being Cory

The chemical imbalance in my system and the anger that boils up every time I hear of another promising, talented, young individual leaving this world in a black body bag is indescribable. It's not the same as when I was 14, when the death of someone would remind me of my own mortality. Back then, the thought of my inevitable end used to make me physically sick. But now, I've accepted it. It's not death in general that angers me; it's the way that certain people die. This particular kind of death, the one that takes someone because of their struggles with addiction, is what makes me livid.

I don’t even know what to say about Cory Monteith. There’s really nothing new to add to the conversation about addiction and its toll. So many people struggle just to survive — people who are hit with life's harshness every day, yet somehow manage to get through without resorting to substances to numb the pain. Some do, but they still manage to stay alive. The question is: Can you stay the fuck alive? Because that’s what matters.

If I sound too harsh, I apologize. I adored Cory Monteith. His story always resonated with me — a boy who couldn’t sing or dance but loved music, who worked fixing roofs, only to find himself in one of the biggest TV shows in the world where he had to sing and dance. His journey was a beautiful testament to the idea of doing what seems impossible and doing it so beautifully that it became part of the show’s heart. Lea Michele’s exceptional talent combined with Cory’s realness, produced something that was more than just performance; it was heart. Cory’s rise was about beating the odds. And in my mind, he had already won. So, why couldn’t that be enough for him?

We all know that we can't truly understand what someone is going through unless we walk in their shoes. But in today’s world, we also have a responsibility. Each time period brings its own challenges, its own struggles. We are all connected. We are not isolated; we are part of a broader society. The world is more interconnected than we sometimes realize. The struggles of the past, like those of River Phoenix or Cory Haim, were from another time. They were part of a settled era. But now, we live in an era where people lose jobs, homes, and even their lives because they can't afford basic healthcare. In times like these, being able to do what you love, make millions, and help those you love should feel like a dream come true. How could that not be enough?

It’s perplexing to me that the whole world would want your reality, yet you can’t seem to handle it. After achieving everything, there are still some who want to escape their own success. The excuses about addiction being a sickness or a disease don’t resonate with me. Comparing someone’s struggle to live — someone who is acutely aware of every breath they take — to those who throw their health away in pursuit of numbness? That comparison enrages me.

The grief surrounding this boy, Cory, is real and profound, and I feel it deeply. The unexpectedness of it all. We all knew about his stints in rehab, but even toward the end, I found myself thinking someone was playing a prank on me about his struggles with alcohol and heroin. He just didn’t fit the stereotype. With Heath, it was different—you could see the toll it took on him, the intensity of his issues, the brilliance, the turmoil.

But let’s be clear: addiction is never just about the person who struggles with it. It’s about the people around them. Addicts make choices, often with no regard for how those choices will affect the people who love them. They only care about getting high, escaping, just once more, until that one last time becomes their last.

Again, I apologize if I seem too harsh. But Cory Monteith made his choice. He chose to mess around, and this is the result. As for Lea Michele — I can’t help but pity her more than I pity him. There is no worse fate than loving someone with an addiction. It’s a lifetime of uncertainty, of guilt, of wondering if you could have done something different. She will never be the same. Her life will never be normal again. That’s the price of loving an addict.

Though I’ve never dealt with someone close to me using heroin, addiction has shaped my life in other ways — through family members and relationships. People who don’t see the problem, who downplay their behavior, convinced that it’s not that serious. They don’t get how much it affects the people around them. Addiction is not just about the substance or the quantity; it’s about the way it changes everything. When you’re addicted, it’s not just about you — it’s about the chaos you bring to the lives of everyone around you.

For those lucky enough never to experience addiction in their lives, it’s hard to imagine how much extra weight you carry when you’re already burdened by life’s usual struggles. Addicts don’t realize the damage they do. They don’t understand how much harder it is for the people who love them, having to hide their secrets, pretending everything’s fine, trying to control them when they can’t control themselves. It’s a constant battle to keep their lives from spinning out of control.

I recently had dinner with a friend who knew Cory well. We spent hours talking about him, trying to understand what happened, what led to those final days. We examined his last pictures, tried to make sense of the situation, but the truth is: there is no sense to it. There’s no making sense of it. It’s a tragedy that has altered the lives of everyone who knew him, forever.

And what about Glee? What does the future hold for the 500 people who worked on the show, who depended on it for their livelihood? Cory’s choice to use that night has affected so many lives. Ryan Murphy, the creator of the show, left the decision about its future to Lea Michele. The girl who had already been through so much, the girl who now had to decide whether the show would go on, even as she mourned the loss of her boyfriend. She had to be strong for everyone else, but who was there for her? Who was there to help her through the unbearable grief she would now have to carry, not just in private, but in front of millions of people?

In a matter of weeks, Lea will be forced to portray the sorrow of losing her boyfriend on screen. She will be forced to live her grief publicly, a grief that is all too real. She will have to carry that weight, not only as the character, but as herself. This is the cruel choreography of life, shaped by addiction. It swallows you whole and spits you out. There’s no escaping it.

Addiction doesn’t just ruin the lives of those who are struggling with it; it ruins everyone who is close to them. We all lose.