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He leans over and kisses my forehead, his lips warm and comforting against my skin. “Take care of yourself, okay? Promise me.”
“I promise,” I whisper, hoping that I can find the strength to keep it. “Friends?” I add with a hollow laugh, an acknowledgement to the first day we met.
Dion smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Just friends.”
Days later, I stand in front of a beige-brick building, my heart racing in my chest. Something coils in my stomach. I’ve never been here before.
I’ve been telling myself that this is a good step, a necessary step. But now that I’m here, the enormity of it all overwhelms me.
I clutch onto the pamphlet clenched in the palm of my hand.
This is it. My first Cognitive Behavioral Therapy session with my new therapist.
I glance up at the sign by the door. Clinical Psychology is written in neat, black letters that seem to mock my indecision. My feet are glued to the pavement, and I can’t bring myself to take that final step inside. What if they judge me? What if I can’t open up? What if this doesn’t help?
Taking a deep breath, I try to steady myself. I remind myself why I’m here, why I’ve decided to seek help. The panic attacks, the constant worrying, the nights spent staring at the ceiling with a mind that refuses to quiet down…what led me to take drugs. I can’t keep living like this. I need to do this for myself, even if the thought of facing my demons head-on is terrifying.
I take out my phone, check the time, even though I know I’m early. Fifteen minutes. I have fifteen minutes to gather the courage to walk through those doors. Leaning against the cool brick wall, I close my eyes for a moment.
Inhale. Exhale.
Inhale. Exhale.
It’s a small comfort, but it helps.
People pass by me, absorbed in their own worlds, probably not even noticing the girl who can’t seem to enter a building. I wonder if any of them have felt this way before. If any of them know how hard it is to take the first step toward getting better.
The door suddenly opens, and a woman comes out. She glances at me briefly, offering a polite smile before walking away. For some reason, that small interaction gives me a sliver of hope. Maybe this won’t be so bad. Maybe the doctor will be kind, understanding, and patient. Maybe they’ll be able to help me untangle the mess inside my head.
I straighten up, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder. The knot in my stomach loosens just a little. I can do this. I have to do this. For me. For Dion. I made him a promise, and I’m going to see it through.
I take a step forward, then another. Before I know it, I’m pushing the door open and going inside.
After a few minutes in the waiting area, a beautiful, tall woman greets me with a warm smile. “You must be Aria.”
I nod, managing a small smile in return.
“I’m Dr. Esther Goode. It’s lovely to meet you.”
37
ARIA
Three weeks after my first meeting with Dr. Goode, the changes in me are almost palpable. I feel…good. Twenty-one days without a drop of alcohol or a single line of coke—it’s a new record for me. I never thought I could make it this far.
My head is clearer, heartbeat steadier, but I still sweat sometimes, shivers overpowering my body, my system working through the last remnants of the poisons I once relied on and the withdrawal from them.
I’ve even started going to hot yoga again. Today, the instructor, who has become a good friend, asked if I would be her assistant a couple days a week. I signed up immediately. It’s great to be back in the studio, this time in a role that is meaningful. Yoga was my sanctuary before everything fell apart, and now it’s part of my healing journey.
As I leave class, there’s a lightness in my step that I haven’t felt in a long time. The warm, damp air of the studio still clings to my skin, but it’s comforting.
Working with flowers again has also brought a newfound happiness to my life. I had forgotten how much I love the delicate process of arranging blooms, the explosion of colors and scents. Seeing Dion’s greenhouse helped me rediscover a piece of myself that was buried under the weight of my addiction.
Dr. Goode’s words from the last session echo in my mind: quitting drugs and alcohol can seem easy at first, until your brain realizes what’s happening and tries to relapse. I know she’s right. The first few weeks are almost like a honeymoon phase, but the real challenge is yet to come.
Even now, the worst part is the cravings. My mind is a broken record, playing the same plea: just one more hit. But then, I think about the mistakes I’ve made, the people I’ll hurt if I don’t stop, and it motivates me enough to stay strong.
I’m excited about what the future holds, but I’m cautious, too.
