top of page

KRIS

 

“Hi my name is Kristopher, and I am an alcoholic and a heroin addict.”

The room fills with a resounding “Hi, Kristopher”, and I start to let go. I never used to like these meetings, there’s something about the smell of stale coffee and desperation that I never quite got over. I’ve been going to meetings for six years, but it wasn’t until recently that I found a group I genuinely felt comfortable sharing the deepest, darkest parts of me.

 

There is the 54-year old alcoholic who always seems to make everyone laugh, even with the most depressing stories. Personally, I think he might come to meetings drunk sometimes, but who am I to judge? He’s at what we like to call a soft-bottom, not that anyone would ever say that to his face. Married, still has a job – although it might be in jeopardy at this point, considering he hasn’t gone since last Tuesday – two kids, and lots of toys. Alcohol hasn’t caused him to loose everything yet, hence the soft bottom designation. Even though he isn’t the type of addict I generally associate with, he has been in and out of the program for so long he can recite almost every passage in the Big Book. I like talking to him. Sometimes I feel like if I’d never picked up that syringe, I would be just like him, happily maintaining my soft bottom. But unfortunately that’s not the case.

 

Then there’s the homeless woman, who I’m pretty sure is severely schizophrenic, but that doesn’t bother me. Her stories are always elaborate and entertaining to say the least. Sometimes I think she comes to these meetings just to have people to talk to, everyone gets lonely once and a while. Actually, at this point, loneliness seems to be the only feeling in my life that isn’t fleeting; I guess her and I have that in common. 

 

Sitting next to her is the law student. He’s been working the program for years and has 8 or 9 years of sobriety under his belt, I can’t remember.  I feel like he is a constant reminder of what my life could be if I could just quit, and talking with him always motivates me in that regard. When he shares, it seems a little stiff, but talking with him one-on-one is pretty inspirational. He started drinking when he was thirteen, starting shooting dope when he was fifteen, dropped out of school when he was sixteen. Five years and two felonies later, he ended up in prison. With nowhere to go when he got out, he agreed to enter a Salvation Army program as a stipulation of parole, and never went back to it. He always tries to convince me to go to Salvation Army, but I don’t think I’m cut out for it. First, you have to share a room with anywhere from 10-20 people, and you are required to work insane hours just to compensate for having a roof over your head. That sounds like prison to me, but I guess if I’d actually been in prison, that might seem pretty nice.

 

Finally there’s her. She’s a young, longhaired brunette with these big, beautiful brown eyes. Her olive skin always seems to glow under the fluorescent lights in this place, illuminating the slew of track marks up her left arm. They seem to be scabbed over today, she must not be using. But she has the most beautiful singing voice. I think that’s partially due to the pain she has experienced in her life but nonetheless I enjoy playing music with her, though I’ve never used with her. She doesn’t make it every week, and whenever she’s not here, I always find myself thinking about if she’s okay and if I’ll ever see her again. But I try and fight those thoughts because getting involved with people early on in the program is pretty much the worst rule of AA you can break – besides don’t drink, of course.

 

There are 14 other regulars, but I don’t spend much time talking with them after meetings, so they’re more or less common fixtures – much like a floor lamp or a potted plant. Before I know it, I’m done talking. It’s always hard to come back after a relapse, but I guess it’s better than not coming back at all – at least that’s what everyone is telling me. I feel bad because I find my mind wandering about my own issues when other people are talking, which only continues to exemplify the self centered nature of my diseased mind. The meeting comes to a close, and we join hands, as we do every meeting. Her hands are always so cold, I just want to wrap her in a blanket and hold her close to me until she warms up. I can think of a way we could both warm up a little bit. I need to stop. The room goes silent as the law student begins to recite the serenity prayer – I’ve never really bought into the whole prayer aspect of AA, but I like the rest of the meeting so I guess I just put up with it.

 

“We put our left foot behind us for something to fall back on, and our right foot in front of us to keep us pointed in the right direction. We keep our heads up; they’ve been down long enough. A moment of silence for the babies out there struggling in and out of addiction, followed be the we-version of the serenity prayer.”

 

The room goes silent, followed shortly by a resounding

 

“God, grant us the serenity to accept the things we cannot change, the courage to change the things we can, and the wisdom to know the difference, just for today”

 

I can’t wait to go home, I’m so tired. And I know I have a dime bag waiting for me on the nightstand. Heroin is without a doubt the strangest drug I’ve ever tried. There is nothing else in the world I love equally as much as I hate it. To be honest, sometimes it’s not even about the high; it’s about avoiding the withdrawal. I relapsed three days ago and my life has been a series of black ins and outs ever since. I can’t say I’m particularly excited to shoot up tonight. Sure it feels good, but I really just don’t want to be throwing up and convulsing tomorrow. I’m on the waitlist to get into detox though, so at least I’ve got that going for me. I never used to get put on a waitlist when I decided I wanted treatment because my parent’s health insurance plan gave me pretty good coverage. I actually can’t name a treatment facility I haven’t been to in this state. But after I turned 26 this year, I got kicked off of my parent’s insurance, meaning I no longer have access to the “real” places. There are a few options available for people without health insurance, people like me, but they always have a waitlist and the programs themselves aren’t as good. But that’s the thing about sobriety; it’s never going to happen if you don’t want it to. I’ve been to rehab seven times, but I don’t think I have really ever wanted it until now. I’m getting to old for this. Of course that’s how it works. As I walk over to my bike, that’s when I hear her,

 

“Hey Kris, wait”

 

Her voice is perfection. We decide to get coffee at this place near her apartment that was having an open mic night, and I knew that meant the usual crowd would be there. Music has always been my release. For as long as I can remember, I have used playing my guitar and writing music as a way to express myself when I can’t find the right words – but I can’t sing worth shit. She can though, not that she has ever sang in front of a crowd. I got my usual, an extra large black coffee, and she got hers, a medium chi tea latte with skim milk. She has this tendency to avoid eye contact; I’ve never understood it because she has the most beautiful brown eyes. I think she’s scared to let people in, at least that’s what I’ve gathered thus far. I guess she’s been sober for about two weeks, which means she is already past the worst of it. I almost feel bad just being in her presence, it’s not really fair or honest considering I’m planning to go shoot up later. But I don’t have time to be sick right now. I’m just waiting to get into detox. 

 

As we listen to the music I can see the tension in her face slowly start to fade away. She loves music in the same way I do, it’s cathartic for both of us. It’s so hard to find people understand the depth of my two passions: music and heroin. It’s not something you can really lead a conversation with. I can’t tell you the number of times I have wanted to answer any question about my hobbies, with a shocking “oh by the way, in my free time, the only thing I really love to do is shoot up heroin” but whatever. I guess that’s something that normal people don’t really understand…that there really is a divide between us. Imagine trying to have a conversation with someone who has absolutely no concept where your mind takes you on a daily basis, it feels like they’re speaking in a different language. That’s why it’s so nice to have people like her in my life. Because when she says she understands, she actually does, unlike my family members, or the countless psychologists I’ve seen at this point.

 

I keep trying to convince her to get on stage with me to sing that song we wrote, but to no avail. I can’t say that I expected anything different. I want so badly to ask her if she wants to come back to my apartment, but I know that’s not fair to her. Again, there’s that selfishness creeping up on me. The worst part is that I recognize it. I recognize all of it. I’m an addict, I’m selfish, and I’m downright unstable. It’s easier to treat people poorly when you don’t recognize it, when you don’t care who you are hurting, but I’m past that now. She is starting to look tired; I guess it is getting pretty late. But my internal clock is so off I can’t feel anything – let alone tired. I make one last ditch effort to get her to sing on stage with me, I’m not sure why I was expecting a different answer.  We compromise and decide to go outside and smoke a cigarette. She smokes Newport 100’s. Personally I’ve never been fond of menthols but I like them on her. I walk her home and say goodnight – God, give me the strength to just say goodnight. We hug and I turn away and start walking, with the promise of a much darker lady patiently awaiting my return home.

 

I get home to my dingy, dark apartment and sink further into my loneliness. My roommate isn’t home, but that’s okay because I don’t really like him much anyways. I went straight to the kitchen to grab a spoon, and we’re out. Of course, my stupid junkie roommate burned all of our spoons. Rookie mistake. I laugh to myself at the irony, and went to find the spoon I used last night. Apparently, I fell asleep with it in my bed and it had burnt a hole in my sheets. Reason number 547 why I shouldn’t be alive…but I think it’s still usable. I grabbed a Q-tip from the bathroom and pulled the cotton off of one side. I’ve found Q-tips are a relatively cheap source for cotton. I mix the heroin with water, put the cotton in the spoon, and burn the impurities out from underneath. I draw it up into one of those insulin syringes you can get for free at the hospital, the ones with the orange caps. I looked to my favorite injection site, upper left thigh, so no one can see the tracks. In almost an instant I’m drifting off. Everything starts to melt away, and I start to think about my life. Every time I get high, it’s eerily like what I presume dying would feel like, which is ironic in it of itself. As I start to nod out, the last thing I think of is my 3-month-old son. I always told myself I would be a better father than this.  

 

AARON

 

“Shit!”

 

The sirens are getting closer, I can hear them over the sound of my feet hitting the pavement. I don’t think I’ve ever run this fast in my life, not even last time I got picked up…probably because it’s for real this time. I already know I’m going away for a long, long time, but I don’t have no time for that shit right now. I’ve got too many deals to take care of and the moneys never been better. I caught this case doing dumb shit with my boy Josh last week, but his ass has been in county since it happened. I’m smarter than that.

 

I feel the sweat start to roll down the side of my face, but it’s that good sweat. This is what we train for. Pull ups, push ups, sit ups, any kind of ups you name it, I can do a thousand. I’ve never joined a gym, gyms are for rich people who try to convince themselves they’ll get in shape, but they don’t have the mental strength that I do. There’s nothing in this world I love more than adrenaline. At least that’s what my psychiatrist was trying to tell me. When I got out on parole a few weeks ago, the court made me go see this bitch about how messed up I am. You know what though, I think she’s messed up. What is a life that is built on framed pieces of paper hanging on the wall? A wasted life, that’s what. So just because she has all these diplomas and shit she’s better than me? Yeah right. She wouldn’t last one day in my life, so how am I supposed to take anything she says seriously. She doesn’t know me. But I guess I do agree with the adrenaline thing. I can’t say I love anything more than the feeling I have when I’m tricking, cutting deals, getting high or running from the cops. I like smoking crack, drinkin and smokin weed, but I live for this high.

 

The sirens are getting closer. But they’re not gonna get me today, too much is goin good for that to happen. It don’t help that I have this tether on either. My mom is so pissed at me, I was stayin with her when I got out of the joint. But I can’t sit still for that long, I think I’m ADD or something. She left some money out on the counter for food and I just grabbed it and left. As soon as I walked out the door, my tether went nuts until I got 300 yards away from my door and then it just stopped. Freedom. That was somethin like four weeks ago, and I stayed out of trouble mostly until last week when me and Josh got caught. We were runnin some tricks and sellin some dope and this dude played us. He owed us 600 for some rocks, and 200 for the time he spent in the back with Jasmin and Robin. If there’s one thing everybody knows, you don’t fuck with my tricks and you sure as hell don’t fuck with my dope. Retaliation isn’t a choice, it’s the only way to protect your brand. So we hit a rock a few times, had a couple Budweiser’s and showed up at this guy’s house to get what he owed us. Heart pounding, eyes focused, I walked straight up to his door with a baseball bat, kicked it in, grabbed a laptop and got out of there. Even though we didn’t really plan it, it worked out pretty good because there was a huge college football game in the city so all the cops were tied up takin those college kids to county.    

 

Anyways Josh and I jumped in his truck and bounced. We celebrated that night with the girls, and let me tell you that is some top shelf product. But it’s product we don’t have to pay for…hell they should pay me. They all try to lay this game, but I won’t ever let no bitch that tricks hold me down. If there’s one thing I know, bitches come and go. I learned that lesson the hard way. I always thought my baby momma and me would end up together. I always said I would take her back for our son, but I put up with that shit for way to long. I met her back when me and my mom were living in the trailer park in Detroit. I was sixteen and she was fourteen, and by the time I turned nineteen she was pregnant. She got caught up in the life three years after Caiden was born, and has been trickin ever since. I think she was the closest I ever came to loving another person, but she’s too far gone. The last time I saw her, this bitch was out of control speedballing screaming at me about some shit, like how I was a horrible father. She pissed me off so bad, I grabbed that bitch by her hair and dragged her all the way to her dad’s front door. She’s his problem now. That was five years ago now, but I sill miss the old her, before all of the drugs and the tricks. But no matter what, she’ll always be my kid’s mom so she needs to get her shit together, for him at least.

 

I have been seein this girl though. She’s so good, like on the inside and shit. She comes from money and is on her way to do great things in the world. She wants to be one of those doctors that goes to other countries to fix poor kids. I don’t understand it really, like why would you give your time away when you could be making money. We come from really different situations, she talks to her parents almost every day and is so nice to everyone, even when people are mean to her. She doesn’t start shit with other girls, doesn’t get jealous, and doesn’t judge people. I think the only thing she really wants in life is to be happy and care for others. She never asks me for anything, I’ve never met a woman like her in my life. Like I said, I’m used to the hoes that hang around for the dope. Sure they’re fun in bed but they aren’t the type that would have dinner on the table when I get home from work, or be able to take care of a kid. She is though. But it’s definitely not too serious for me at least, I’m still gettin it with a few girls, but she doesn’t know that of course.   

 

The sirens stop. Silence.

 

I beat them at their own game again. They’ll never stop me. I’m untouchable. Unbreakable. Even though I dropped out of high school, I’m smarter and more ready than anyone with a badge. They always say that education makes you smarter, but I think it’s experience, and that I’ve had plenty of. I promise you. My paces slows, and the only thing I can hear over the silence of the night is my breath. I laugh to myself, it’s too easy. What does that say about your police department, huh? A 26-year-old felon who is absconding parole with active warrants in four counties has outsmarted two of your best, again. But I’m not a average felon. I’m smarter, faster, and better than those people who get picked up, people like Josh.

 

It’s over, at least for now. But tomorrow is a new day, and I’m sure they’ll be looking for me. I reach in my pocket, pull out a cigarette and try to light it but it’s too windy. I cup my hand around the light to protect it from the wind, and suddenly feel a huge force from behind me pushing me up against the wall.

 

“PUT YOUR HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!”

 

I feel the cuffs tighten around my wrists behind my back. God Dammit.

 

Man are you fucking serious? I look up at him and I can already tell this isn’t the first time this cop has put cuffs on me. He knows I don’t go down without a fight. I have a pretty solid rep in this town, people know not to fuck with me. He picks me up, and I spit right in his face. The other cop punches me in the stomach and they both start kicking the shit out of me. I can feel my ribs breaking, one, two, three, maybe a fourth. They pick me up again.

 

“Alright Woody, you done yet?”

 

Hell no. I kicked him right in the shins, and took off running with the cuffs on. I know I’m not going to get away, but why make it easy for them? I hear a click.

 

“WOODY, FREEZE. I WILL SHOOT YOU, DON’T PUSH ME”

 

Game over. I may be crazy but I’m not tryin to die today. They usually don’t pull their gun until the third time I try to take off, maybe they’re getting tired of my shit. I turn around and give them one of my best smiles. They slam me down on the hood of the car, and start talkin at me.

 

“Aaron Woody you are under arrest, you have the right to remain silent…”

 

I tune them out after the first sentence. I’m so sick of this shit. I hate sitting in the back seat of a cop car, I mean who the hell are they to contain me like this. Like I’m an animal or something. At least I get a new mugshot though, I don’t like my old one. I usually get along pretty well with the police once I have cuffs on, they know I’m not a bad guy. I can turn my charm on pretty quick, and I get what I want. Women, money, privileges, you name it, I’ll get it.

 

“I bet you thought you got away right before we popped you, didn’t you?”

 

They laugh.

 

“We turned that siren off on purpose, we knew you would think that we lost you.”

 

Motherfuckers.

 

“Yeah, you know”, I say. “Just tryin to keep you guys in business”

 

I smile. They smile. We pull up to the station and the one that was driving turns around and looks at me.

 

“Don’t try anything stupid”

 

“Who me?” I say, “Never.”

 

They laugh. We walk through the doors and I start saying my hellos to the officers working at their desks. I swear I know every single person on their payroll. I pause extra long at Ms. Kimberly’s desk, because she’s fine as hell. All of the officers want her, but she has this rule where she doesn’t date anyone she meets at work. I wink at her when I turn to leave, and I can see her look down and smile. She wants it. It’s too easy.

 

They take me to the booking room and I get a new mugshot. They always take them with webcams, but it don’t matter, I still look good. They take me to my cell, and there were already four guys in there. I looked at the cop like he was crazy, and I could tell he already knew if he put me in there, I would start some shit. He doesn’t get paid enough to deal with that. He took me down the hall to a smaller cell, and I have it all to myself. Much better. As he turns to walk away I hear him say

 

“Woody, you gotta get over this shit. I don’t say this to many people, but you’re better than this.”

 

I already know this. But I tell him, “Workin on it, boss”.

 

“That’s what I like to hear”.

 

He leaves and I stare up at the ceiling. It’s kind of crazy but these cells are like home to me. I’ve spent more time here than I’ve spent in any other place, I know it’s always here. I don’t even hate jail to be honest, usually by the time I’m in here I’ve been on the streets smoking crack for a few weeks and jail is a pretty good place to detox, sleep, and eat. I start counting the cinder blocks, but I already know there are 56 across and 24 up and down. Like I said, I’ve spent some time here. I lay down, and start trying to clear my head, when all the sudden she pops into my head. The good girl. I don’t know what it is about this chick, she’s not even that sexy. She’s okay, but girls way sexier than her, like straight up 10’s throw themselves at me on a daily basis. But man, is she going to hate me. Whatever, why do I even care, she’s just a piece of ass.

 

The officer comes back and tells me that he forgot to give me my phone call, but I decline.

 

He says to me “Come on, pretty boy Woody must have someone to call”

 

I laugh, and tell him I’ll call my hoes in the morning. He leaves and I stare at the ceiling again. The worst part about thinking this much is that I don’t know anyone who would go out of their way to get me out of here right now. Especially if money is involved. Some friends I have, right?

 

BRITTANY

 

I can’t believe Cassie and Luke are already twelve! I remember my twelfth birthday, my dad and I went to a beautiful five course dinner in the city followed by an evening showing of The Nutcracker. Since then, we’ve made it a tradition to go every year. Though sometimes it doesn’t fall quite on my birthday, it’s been hard for him to fly up here since he got the job at John’s Hopkins last year. He used to be the chief of surgery at our local hospital, but I guess he wanted a change of scenery and accepted a position with less pay, less power, but more prestige. Personally, I think he was bored with the small town medical emergencies and needed a challenge, and some excitement. He’s always told me “Brittany, if you’re the smartest person in the room, you’re in the wrong room.” I think he had been sitting in the wrong room for far too long. Even though I’m happy for him, it’s been hard not having him around, especially for the kids. I can’t say he doesn’t try his hardest to make it work though. During the week, he lives out of a hotel and flies home every Friday only to return late every Sunday night. If there is anyone who knows about sacrifice, it’s him. But it’s the little things, like the twins’ birthday today that his absence is felt the hardest.

 

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Luke and Cassie, happy birthday to you!”

 

They both blow out the candles on their individual cakes. My mom has always made it a point to make sure that they don’t feel like they get less than anyone else on the holidays just because they’re twins. It’s funny because I think the guilt that she feels pretty much guarantees that they get more than anyone else. Not that it really bothers my brother Jackson or me. After graduating from college last spring, I’m just thankful that they are still paying for the house that Jax and I live in while I try and figure out what I want to do with my life. Everyone tells me it’s normal to be a little lost at this point in my life; I mean I’m only 22. I have time…right?

 

Cassie and Luke start tearing through the mountain of gifts that are piled just next to the cakes. Even though they are twins, I couldn’t imagine two more opposite people. As Cassie is ripping the wrapping paper to shreds by any means possible to get to her presents, Luke delicately unfolds the carefully wrapped packages in an effort to save and reuse the paper.

 

I look around the room and see my mom smiling, my aunts laughing, my younger cousins running around the table, and Jax sitting there, looking pensive, as always.

 

Then it hits me.

 

In an instant, I am sick. I look up and see the way my mom’s face has changed from smiling to panicked. I hate doing this here, especially in front of her. Jax jumps up and grabs my arm as I start to get light-headed.

 

“Brit, why don’t we go in the kitchen and get the other presents?”

 

“Mhm, okay. Yeah.”

 

The room is spinning as an undeniable wave of nausea starts tearing through my body like a tsunami. I can’t hold it. I see the kitchen sink 20 feet in front of me, but it’s too far away. I see the garbage can 12 feet to my right, but it’s too far away. I can’t make it. Suddenly, Jax grabs my arm and spins me towards him, pulling out his shirt simultaneously.

 

“It’s okay” he says, “I have other clothes in the car”.

 

I can’t hold it even if I want to. The shame and guilt starts to poor out of me in the form of stomach acid and bile, right into Jax’s shirt. I’m disgusting. Jax grabs my hair and pulls it back behind ears. Between the heaves, I hear him ever so softly,

 

“It’s okay Brit, I’ve got you. It’s going to be okay”.

 

I start asking myself all of these questions I already know the answer to.

 

“What have I done to deserve this?” Maybe it’s the oxy use, or tricking my dad into writing me prescriptions, or selling my body to the highest bidder, or embarrassing my family for the millionth time.

 

“When is this pain and suffering going to end?” I could feel better in under a week if I decided I wanted to kick.

 

“So why don’t I?” Because I’m scared of the withdrawals. I’m scared of being sober and having to feel the pain of my dad leaving us. I’m scared of being an adult and having real responsibilities.

 

I heave one more time and I think it’s my last one. Yeah, I’m feeling much better. I use the sleeve of my shirt to wipe the corner of my mouth and slowly look up at Jax.

 

“You feel better, Brit?”

 

“Yeah” I say softly. “Thank you”.

 

“Can you help me get this shirt off? I don’t want to spill this all over. What do you think, should we try and take it over my head or should we just cut it off?”

 

There’s no way we can pull the shirt over his head. I must have thrown up half of my body weight.

 

“We’re going to have to cut it I think, I’ll grab some scissors.”

 

“Damn Brit, you know this is one of my favorite shirts!” he laughs “Naw, I’m just kidding, it has a hole on the back of the neck anyways. I think mom keeps the scissors in the drawer next to the sink”

 

It’s hard for me to even look at him, but I do. His eyes are so forgiving, and soft. It only makes it harder. Sometimes I just want him to get mad at me. I mean honestly, I just threw up in his shirt at the twins’ birthday party and he’s ready to make jokes.

 

I grab the scissors and walk back over towards him. Ever so carefully, I begin cutting up the side of the shirt, while he makes sure none of my insides spill out onto the floor. It smells foul, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t used to it. I could almost bet that Jax has helped me throw up more times than he’s ever thrown up himself, so he’s probably used to it too. I hate myself for putting him through this, he’s the only thing in my life I’ve cared about since dad left.

 

I make the final cuts, and we get the shirt off successfully.

 

Jax smiles and puts his hand up for a high-five, “We’re getting pretty good at this!” He laughs.

 

I can’t bring myself to high-five him back. This isn’t anything I’m proud of, or anything I think is funny. I look back up to him, and I can feel my eyes tearing up. This time from emotion, not my gag reflex. His smile fades as I try to choke out an apology.

 

“I’m sorry, Jax. I’m so, so sorry.” I look down at the ground, and I feel him put his finger under my chin, lifting it up until our eyes meet.

 

“Brit, I’m so proud of you.” I laugh. Now this is funny. “No, I’m serious. I’m so proud of you.”


I’m confused. “Why?”

 

“Because if you’re throwing up, it means you aren’t using. And I’m proud of you for that.”

 

I guess I didn’t think about it like that. I have been trying to kick lately. Ever since dad stopped writing me prescriptions, it’s gotten too expensive. The things I’ve done, rather the people I’ve done to get money to support my habit are repulsive. I hate using, but I love being high. It’s a Catch-22.


“Jax, you know I’m not completely off…I mean I haven’t been taking the oxys but I’ve been on suboxone for the past week.”

 

I’ve heard a lot about Suboxone in the past few years, especially from my therapists and my doctors. People say it works wonders for easing the pain of opiate withdrawals, and I’d have to agree for the most part. The only drawback is the instant withdrawal. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. Usually when I’m withdrawing I’m bedridden for a few days with a fever, more or less feeling like I’m going to die. The Suboxone lets me detox while being able to function, except once and a while I get this overwhelming sense of withdrawal that comes on almost instantly. And it always tends to happen in public places or really horrible situations, like my sibling’s birthday party. But I really don’t expect much more from life, so whatever.

 

“Doesn’t matter, Brit. You’re doing it. It’s going to stick this time, I can feel it.”

 

At least one person in the room has confidence in me.

 

“Alright Jax, come on. Let’s try and get back out there before they start thinking something is wrong. Here are the keys, go grab a shirt…but go out the back door so they don’t see you. I’ll try and find something to wrap in the mean time.”

 

“Okay…wait what are you talking about ‘something to wrap’?”

 

“Jax, you told the kids we were coming in here to grab presents! We can’t go back empty handed.”

 

He smiles. I smile. All is restored.

 

I sneak into the TV room and grab a couple of DVD’s, they’ll never know. I wrap them in today’s newspaper and reconvene with Jax in the kitchen.

 

“All good?” he asks.

 

I nod and we walk back into the living room. My mom glances between us nervously. My Aunt gives me a judgmental glare. And the twins, well they don’t appear to even notice we were gone.

 

I stick the DVD’s on top of their gift mountain and smile. Everyone is smiling again. Suddenly it’s as if nothing happened. Like I didn’t just leave to throw up into my brothers t-shirt because I’m detoxing from opiates. I feel my mind going back to the questions I was asking myself when I was throwing up, and I seem to have just one more question.

 

“Why do I continue to put myself through this pain?”

 

Honestly I don’t really know the answer to this one. The only think that comes to my mind is maybe I deserve it. Maybe this pain is God’s way of punishing me for the things I have done to disappoint the people who care about me. Maybe. 

 

 

                                                                                

bottom of page