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And that’s what it all comes down to. For all of us in this room.
That beast named Addiction might prod at us, and at times, violently so, with claws that scrape us down to the bone, begging for relief.
But ultimately, it’s our belief in ourselves, or rather lack of, that drags us under when we’re at our lowest.
It’s what the beast relies on to get what it wants. And why it worked so hard to break us down in the first place, so that anytime down the road where we find ourselves at our weakest, we’ll turn to the lesser of two evils for comfort.
Recovery, as it would turn out, isn’t so much about getting clean, as it is tearing ourselves down, and building ourselves back up. So we can leave this place, and rejoin the land of the living stronger, wiser, and with weapons forged from things like faith and positivity to ward off the cruel itch pacing inside us all.
It’s… a lot, for lack of any better words.
“Well, my suck this week was that Judy didn’t make chocolate cake.”
At the gruff, wry voice coming from the seat next to me, soft chuckles and snickers fill the room, including coming from me.
He’s not wrong.
Since sobering up, I’ve got an appetite that rivals a linebacker. Good thing there’s an on-site gym with treadmills and weight machines and whatnot, otherwise I’d be rolling my way back to Shiloh.
Dr. Simmons smiles. “Yeah, that is quite sucky, Tom.”
“As for my sweet,” the middle-aged man goes on, stretching his legs out. “I decided that when I go home next week, I’ll be moving in with my brother.”
Dr. Simmons nods from across the circle. “And your wife?”
Next to me, Tom shrugs. “She’s not ready to get better. And as much as it kills me to…to not be there for her, I know if I go back to the way things were, I’ll relapse. Again. I just…I want off this carousel, man. I can’t keep doing this.”
Sucking in my cheek, I blink down at the linoleum floor.
“That’s good, Tom. Proud of you.” At Dr. Simmons words, others murmur in agreement, and the chair squeaks next to me as Tom pulls his legs in, sitting a little taller. He blows out a breath, and a glance over from the corner of my eye shows him smiling, his red-rimmed eyes bright with something like relief and determination.
“Mason?”
I clear my throat and look around the room at all the familiar faces, save for one.
A new admit.
He looks to be around my age, with thick, dark brown hair, hollow cheeks, and dark heavyset eyes that just stare blankly ahead, like he’s miles away.
Aside from a girl who got discharged last week, he’s the only other patient here currently that is young like me. The rest vary from middle-aged to wrinkly and gray.
Whether or not their appearances actually reflect their ages…
Hard to say.
Most of them are on their second or third or even fourth attempt at rehab. Like Tom.
“Well, other than the fact that my girlfriend is still missing,” I say, a short, bitter laugh rising out of me as others in the room give me sympathetic smiles, “and everyone wants me to just…give up, say she’s dead, you know. Same ol’. Just so I can get better and move on or whatever.”
Dr. Simmons nods encouragingly.
“I’ve been feeling really guilty. For what I put my family through. Especially my sister.”
Again, my words are met with more sympathetic smiles and nods of encouragement. Understanding.
They know what happened.
How I ended up here.
