He’s twenty-eight. He beat it. How?
“I can see the wheels turning in your head from way over here.” He pauses. “Would you like me to fill in the blanks?”
Unable to find the right words, I settle for nonverbal communication and nod. He takes a deep breath through his nose before beginning. “Right around my twenty-second birthday something happened for me to realize that I wanted more out of life. Suddenly, it had meaning. Something to live for every day. Something to be proud of. I finally had something more than an endless string of parties and one night stands. So, I came here. I put in the hard work. Realized that my demons controlled me more than I liked to admit and moved on.”
Hearing about his past makes my brain goes into hyperdrive again. What could possibly have happened to make him an addict?
“Once I completed the program, I took classes. I participated in a sober living program and became the perfect student. My team recognized that and mentioned the possibility of me being able to help others like me—”
“Other addicts,” I cut in.
“Yes.” He forces a smile. “Other addicts. Knowing that I could relate to them on a level that most drug counselors couldn’t was something they considered to be a strong point.” He gestures around the room. “The rest is history.”
I don’t say a word. The clock on his wall ticks.
“But I digress. This isn’t about me.”
My legs jump and down against my chair. Give him honesty. “I just want a hit,” I whine and he nods, his lips pressed into a hard line.
“I get it. I do.”
“Will it ever go away?” I ask, full of hope that one day this will all stop. That someday heroin won’t control me.
Sighing, he shakes his head. “I’d be lying to you if I said it did.”
I slump forward in my chair, folding my arms across my lap and hiding my face against the cool skin of my thighs as I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping to keep the tears from spilling out. But it’s a futile effort and they pool on my legs. A hand rests gently on my shoulder and I flinch. Despite the urge to pull away, I’m afraid to move. I don’t want him to see me crying again.
“The feeling never goes away completely,” Asher says quietly. “But your ability to ignore it gets easier. The stronger you get, the more in control you become.”
“But I’m not strong.”.
“That’s where I come in. I’m going to teach you how.”
SUNDAYS HAD ALWAYS been the bane of my existence. My ridiculously religious family liked to pile into the pews, singing hymns until they were blue in the face then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, once church was over they liked to gather at my parent’s house for a family dinner. Every Sunday as long as I could remember. Just like clockwork.
Pray.
Eat.
Sleep. Kind of like that foolish book about the “beauty in life” bullshit.
I loathed it. Every single second of it. But somehow, through the shitstorm that was my life I managed to keep up appearances, to a certain degree. Church was too early in the morning for me but I would usually grace everyone with my presence at dinner. Despite all the shit they gave me, I had to admit, being around my family was comforting. Covering all my basic needs was something that was hard . So it was nice to be someplace safe. The house had heating; I was warm. I took a hot shower and did some laundry; I was clean. Mom cooked dinner; I was fed.
The constant nagging and worried looks were the price I had to pay for a little taste of home. It hadn’t been out on my own for long. My fall from grace had been a fast one. Being the kind of parents they were, it didn’t take long for my parents to take a stand against my behavior. When they discovered I’d been skipping my college classes, they stopped paying for tuition. With the bill remaining unpaid, it was only a matter of time before the college kicked me out. Once I was out of school with no place to sleep, I landed on my parents’ doorstep. They welcomed me home, albeit upset and distraught that I was “throwing my future away.” But they hoped by taking me in that they’d be able to get me back on the right track. But instead of hopping on the positive train, they discovered the root of my problem—the real reason my life was crumbling down around me.
My newfound love for heroin.
And in an instant I found myself out on my own, with no place to go.
Walking up to my childhood home should have stirred some sort of happiness within me, but looking at the glorious colonial home where I’d spent my childhood only brought pain and sadness. It wasn’t that I’d had a bad life; it was just life had been bad to me. I’d been dealt an unfair hand and I continued to pay dearly for it.
Despite my negative thoughts I moved forward, ready to face another Sunday with the people who cared about me the most. The people I continued to push as far away as possible.
With my hands stuffed deep in my jeans pockets I walked up to the front door. Every time I found myself here, I considered just turning around and going back to where I came from. Where I belonged. To just cut myself out of their lives forever. They’d be better without me around anyway. But I never could go through with it. I was too greedy for that. I needed them. I took a deep breath and pushed through the front door.
Before I could say or do anything, I heard my name mentioned, the sound drifting down the hall. Knowing that I was more than likely the main topic of conversation, I rolled my eyes and sighed.
“Tegan? Is that you?” my mother’s voice called out from the general direction of the kitchen. She used her time there effectively, cooking away her feelings. It was what she did best. Tegan got in trouble for punching a girl at school; Mom whipped up some cookies. Tegan got expelled; Mom baked a cake. Tegan shot up heroin; Mom cooked a four-course gourmet dinner.
“Yeah, it’s me.” I kicked off my sandals and placed them neatly next to the existing shoe arrangement by the door. The perfect line of various shoes and sandals told me that my brothers and my sister were already here, their significant others in tow. I heard a baby cry and I rolled my eyes again. It may not have seemed like the appropriate response from an aunt, but watching my family fawn over Tim’s perfect child with her gorgeous blonde locks and baby blue eyes wasn’t something particularly high on my list of things to do. I walked down the hallway to the kitchen. It felt as though I was walking the green mile. Every—damn—time. Every weekend, it was always the same. I knew I was headed straight into the firing squad.
Where the hell are my cigarettes?
“You’re late!” Tess’s tone was jovial, but the dig was there nonetheless. I laughed, turning the corner and finding of them all in their usual seats around the dining room table. Mom was just placing a green bean casserole on the table, and the scene before me was so typical that no one would ever believe that we were constantly at war; that my addiction was responsible for tearing my seemingly perfect family apart. My head dropped, my eyes glued to the ground hoping to keep the tears at bay.
My family was almost perfect.
The only flaw was me.
I didn’t belong.
They shouldn’t have to deal with me.
They deserved better.
“We were just getting ready to sit down, Tegan.” My father’s voice snapped me from my thoughts. The deep, dark ones that controlled me. The ones that sent me running for the hills. The same thoughts that ruined my life.
Looking up I realized that I was still staring at them, standing awkwardly, looking like I didn’t know what to do with myself. I shifted uneasily in place, thinking I probably shouldn’t have done that hit before I left home.
“Tegan,” My mother led. I looked at her, confused. “Honey, sit down.”
I did as I was told, avoiding eye contact with everyone. I could feel their eyes burning on me and I knew I should say something—acknowledge them in some shape of form—but I didn’t. Instead, I started mounding my plate with Mom’s homemade food: chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, stuffing.
Suddenly I was ravenous. I realized
it had been a few days since I last ate anything more than some chips and even though it wasn’t something I should find funny, I laughed. I started feverishly spooning the deliciousness into my mouth. Having it in front of me must have triggered a hunger I didn’t know I had.
I was oblivious to the fact that no one else was moving. It was some time later before I noticed, only looking up to find them all staring at me when I heard a sob rip from someone’s throat. With a mouth full of potatoes, I watched my mother get up from the table and leave the room. Everyone else’s plates were empty. They hadn’t moved an inch since I sat down. They were glaring in my direction.
“What?” I said with a shrug.
Just like every other time, Tim was the first to chime in and piss me off. “Jesus Christ, Tegan.”
My heart thundered against my chest. I could feel my skin flush right before I threw my fork down into the stuffing. I wasn’t hungry anymore. I was flat out pissed. “What? I didn’t do anything!” I yelled.
“That’s exactly the problem,” Tess said quietly. “You never do anything any different. For months it’s been the same thing over and over again. It doesn’t make any sense!”
Then Taylor decided to join in on the fun, slamming his fist against the table. The baby started crying and Tim’s wife held her close to her chest, before leaving the room in the same direction as my mom. Tim glared in Taylor’s direction and he immediately nodded, knowing that he’d let his emotions get the better of him. Taylor’s eyes fell to the floor. “I’m just so tired of this, Tegan,” he muttered quietly, not looking in my direction.
“You’re tired of it?” I quipped back. They had no idea, and that’s the way I liked it. What they thought they knew was just the tip of the iceberg.
“There’s no need for you to be doing what you’re doing.” Travis was loud under normal circumstances, but his angry voice was on a whole other level. “You’ve had a good fucking life.”
“Just like the rest of us,” Tess added.
Like a rocket, I shot up from my seat and leaned closer to my brother’s face. “You have no idea about my life,” I snapped back.
Tess reached up and placed her hand on my forearm. “Then give us an idea Tegan.” I turned my attention away from Travis and glared in her direction. Deep down I hoped that my intensity would scare her silent, but she continued to talk calmly. “We’d love to try and understand. Because having a reason for the hell that you’re putting us through is better than the silence.”
Nobody knew what I had seen. What I had done. What had been done to me. Nobody. And I intended to keep it that way. It wasn’t me being selfish or stubborn. It was about me protecting them from the hell that lived inside me.
“There is no reason,” I said. Liar. “I get high because I like it.” Liar. “It’s fun.” Lie. I spun on my heel and started walking back to the front door, hearing the commotion behind me as they tried to figure out what to say or do next. Before I reached the front door my mother stepped in front of me, her face streaked with tears.
“Are you high right now, Tegan? Tell me the truth.”
“No.” Liar, liar. “I haven’t used in a week.” Pants on fire.
My mother took in a sharp breath, the air hissing as it traveled past her lips. Obviously, she was shocked by my revelation of faked sobriety. I froze where I stood, looking into my mother’s eyes. Shimmering orbs, full of misplaced hope.
Seconds passed and then I couldn’t look her in the eyes anymore, mine falling to the floor, defeated. She let out the breath she was holding in, clearly full of disappointment. She wanted to believe my words, but deep down she knew better.
But I couldn’t let it end there.
I couldn’t possibly admit defeat.
My mind racing, I bent over and slipped my shoes back onto my feet before standing up and glaring at my mother. She was still standing there, her mouth hanging open. She couldn’t continue to think I was lying. I wouldn’t let her win. I wanted her to feel bad. I wanted her to feel just a smidgen of the pain I did. So I lied again.
“I was going to tell you guys today, but I get nothing but this bullshit. I’m out of here.”
I was good at lying, in case you hadn’t figured that out already. But as my anger overtook me to a place where I could no longer see further than my own feelings, I began to believe the fabrication. I believed that I wasn’t high. They didn’t have the right to judge me.
I opened the door and flew out before anyone could stop me. My heart raced with anger. How dare they?
It wasn’t until I was three blocks away that I started to calm down, the truth making itself known, clearing the fog of lies from my head. I wasn’t sober. My family had every right to worry about me. I was close to death. For me to be pissed at them for loving me was ludicrous.
But that’s the trouble with lying; sometimes you lie so much that you forget what’s the truth.
STARING IN THE MIRROR while I brush my slightly damp hair has become my favorite thing to do in the mornings. Not long ago I was repulsed by what I saw day in and day out, but now that person is slowly fading. I look better than I have in years. The sores on my face have healed; morphing from the angry red they once were to a faint pink. My cheeks have filled out, now with a slight tint of life to them. The dark circles under my eyes have vanished and my lips are no longer dry, chapped, or white, and no longer does my reflection remind me of all the mistakes I made.
In the mirror I see a glimmer of hope.
A few days ago I ventured down to the main building. There’s a little store there and I decided to grab a few goodies to reward myself for surviving detox. Just a few basic toiletries, the stuff a girl likes to have on hand to make her feel girly: perfume, some makeup, nail polish. It wasn’t much, but it was just enough to allow me to feel slightly more human. After curfew last night, I painted my nails for the first time in months. I figured since my hands had finally stopped shaking I might as well give it a go. It was just plain black polish, but it gave me a little pep in my step.
Standing in front of the mirror, catching sight of my freshly painted nails, I decide it’s time to give my face a little attention. I grab the new containers of makeup and tear into them, fumbling a bit with the cardboard, but once it’s removed I toss it into the trash. With newly steady hands, I carefully go through a routine that had once been second nature, but now felt almost alien: apply the foundation, then some blush and finally, mascara for the finishing touch.
Once I’m done, I study my reflection. To most it wouldn’t seem like much, like I’m just an average girl you’d see walking down the street, but for me this is monumental. For the first time in over a year, I look alive.
My lips turn upward into an almost smile before I turn on my heels and head out of the bathroom door, flicking the switch behind me, plunging the room into darkness. I have an 8 a.m. session with Asher, and I’m actually not dreading it. Knowing that his past mirrors mine is comforting in a way. It’s like he gets me in a way that no one else has ever been able to. My family never listened to me. Sure, they stood there while I talked, or yelled, but they never actually took into account my feelings. But Asher does.
I gently lift my hand and wave to a few people I have group with as I walk toward his office. They smile at me and I actually smile back. It feels foreign to me, but also feels . . . nice. Approaching the office where I’ve spent much of my time recently, I read his nameplate again: Asher Hughes, LADC. I read it because it reminds me that not all is lost. If Asher can navigate his way out of the abyss, I can at least try.
I’m just about to knock on the door when it opens. He’s standing there with a smile covering his face, one of those ear to ear smiles. “Morning, Tegan,” he says, his voice chipper.
“Morning.”
He steps out of his office, forcing me to the side. I look up at him, perplexed. He reads my facial expression and shrugs before saying, “The sun is shining so I thought we could have our session outside.” He pauses and looks
at me expectantly, waiting for some sort of reaction. “If that’s okay with you, of course.”
“It doesn’t really matter I guess.” Which is true—it doesn’t matter—but the deviation from my regular schedule has me slightly uneasy. He smiles again before holding his hand out in front of him, gesturing for us to head out.
“Well, shall we?”
I comply and start walking next to him as we navigate through the halls. Asher talks beside me but I tune him out, nodding my head in where I hope are the right places. Even though it’s something small like a change of venue, being a creature of habit, the whole thing has rocked me. I’m comfortable within the walls of his office. Out here in the real world, or as real as it gets for rehab, I’m not so sure of myself. The farther we walk, the more I can feel myself starting to clam up.
“So what’s new in your world today?” he asks as he holds open the door leading out to the gardens. The sun lands on my face bringing with it instant warmth as I lift my hand to shield my eyes from its unrelenting rays. I freeze in place just outside the door before answering him. “Not much I guess.”
He comes to a stop by my side and takes a deep cleansing breath. “So, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but you look great. I can’t help but notice that you’ve put a little makeup on. Painted your nails.”
I squint up at him. “Are you seriously commenting on my grooming habits now?”
“I just thought I’d give you a compliment. You do look great. Healthy.”
I roll my eyes before muttering, “It’s just a little foundation and some damn nail polish.” I hadn’t expected anyone to notice, let alone comment on something as small as an upgrade in my beauty routine.
“Can I ask you something without you getting offended?”
Why stop now? I thought. He’d already pointed out the fact that I looked like shit before. Might as well keep it going. “You can go ahead and ask, but I can’t guarantee that I won’t get offended.”
“Why the hell did you paint them black?”
Reprieve Page 4
