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“Yeah, I know.”
She backs out of my room without another word, leaving the door hanging wide open. An exasperated sigh slips from my lips as I finally get out of bed. Going to group meetings and therapy sessions are literally the last thing that I want to do. I’d rather lie in bed all day and drown in my own fucking sorrows. It’s not like I’m going to talk about any of this with anyone there. I know that I’m protected and nothing will get repeated to my mother, but that’s a risk that I’m not willing to take.
If I speak it into the universe, it solidifies its validity in life.
I’m not fully ready to accept it yet.
I change out of my sleep clothes in a rush, tossing them into my laundry basket in my closet. I grab an oversized band t-shirt and a pair of biker shorts and slip them on. My black Converses are still downstairs, I hope, because I can’t find them anywhere in my room. My feet carry me into the bathroom where I brush my teeth in a haste and throw my thick hair up into a massive bun on the top of my head. I pair it off with a bandana headband.
I look like a fucking train wreck, but it will do for today.
I’m not in this program with the intention of impressing anyone. I couldn’t care less what the people there think of me, especially if they’re going to base it off of my looks. The only person that I actually care to see there is Cartier. At this point, though, I’m not sure if it’s more because of the drugs or because I found a friend.
Hudson has called me a few times since I’ve been home. Even though he left for college and I don’t have to physically face him, I can’t bring myself to talk to him, not after I basically walked out on him too. There’s a sense of embarrassment and shame from my actions in the past. Hudson had a front-row seat to my downfall. I don’t know that I’m ready to talk to him yet, after everything that had gone down.
I will in time, but that’s what I need. Time to heal, to think, to get my shit together.
Hudson will understand—he always does. And if for some reason he doesn’t, then maybe he isn’t the friend that I thought he was.
My mom drives me to the outpatient center, rambling on about who knows what as I sit in silence and stare out the window. I tune her out as soon as she started talking about needing to tell my father that I was home. I don’t have the mental strength to have any conversation that is remotely close to this one with her.
She drops me off out front, blowing me a kiss and wishing me good luck. My nod is terse and I don’t return her air kiss. It feels fake and forced, even though I know that it’s genuine from her. I’ve been struggling with my emotions and how to express myself.
There’s nothing like addiction to show you how unhealthy your coping mechanisms are. It’s all learned behavior, things that I’ve picked up from the way I was raised. Nurture over nature. I’ve got a lot of fucking work to do and old habits to change.
I’m trying, so that has to count for something, right?
Cartier is waiting for me inside, nodding her head toward the bathroom as I slip inside the waiting room area. I follow her into the bathroom and she hands me a small bag of pills before disappearing into one of the stalls. I go into the one beside her and crush up two small blue pills with my lighter on the back of the toilet. My hand finds my wallet in my purse and I fan through some bills, looking for one that I’ve rolled up before.
I listen to Cartier snorting her pills from her stall and watch her hand as it appears underneath the divider, handing me a rolled-up dollar bill. My wallet falls from my hand, landing back in my purse. I silently thank her, taking it in my hand and place it up to my nostril as I inhale the powder.
It burns my nose, in the way that I’ve grown accustomed to. I wipe away any remnants from the bottom of my nose and wipe off the back of the toilet before exiting the stall.
“You ready to do this?” Cartier asks as we both stand at the sink, washing our hands and fixing our faces. I slip the dollar bill into her purse and look up at her in the mirror and nod.
“I’m as ready as I’m going to be.” I shrug. “It’s not like this is going to be any different from any day.”
Cartier raises her eyebrows sarcastically as she places her hand over her chest. “You mean you’re not going to talkagain?”
I narrow my eyes at her. “It’s not like you ever share much anyway.”
“There’s not much to share that the public record doesn’t already tell.”
My eyebrows pinch together as I watch Cartier through the mirror, applying a layer of lip gloss. “What are you talking about?”
“You really do live in your own little world, don’t you?” Cartier turns her head, her eyes meeting mine as I glance over at her. “Google ‘The Brookside Massacre’ sometime, if you really want to know.”
I swallow nervously as I step past her, pulling a paper towel from the holder. I feel Cartier’s eyes on me, assessing me after she dropped the smallest hint about her own story. It doesn’t explain much, but the title alone gives me enough to assume that something really fucking bad happened to her.
“Is that what got you addicted?”
Cartier shakes her head. “Nah. It was after all the medications they gave me at Shadow Bay. It’s hard to go back to normal life after you’ve been pumped full of Benzos and every antipsychotic known to mankind for four years.”
“Shadow Bay?”
“Your parents are rich and you’ve never heard of Shadow Bay?” Cartier scoffs, rolling her eyes at me. “It’s a psychiatric facility advertised as a boarding school for spoiled little rich kids. Their parents ship them off there when they want to brush their problems under the rug.”
“Your parents sent you there?”
