I have no memory from that night. I only remember leaving Atlas and then waking up in the hospital with a whole two days of memory missing. I have these weird flashes of feelings and emotions, but no picture in my mind to go with them.
They both stilled. Simone’s eyes flicked to Lani, then back to me. “Um, that guy…what’s his name…Bash,” she said quietly. “He found you in one of the dorm lounges and called 911. He carried you outside. Answered your phone when I kept calling.”
“Pretty sure he’s the same guy from that party,” Lani adds in. “The one who…who beat up that dude who—” she stopped. We both knew the rest of the sentence—didn’t need to say it. “Do you know him or something?”
I shake my head. Not really. Just a name I can’t forget, eyes I can remember without even trying, and a voice that could soothe any bad thought.Who is he?Why does he keep showing up? Why does he keep rescuing me? I don’tneedrescuing.
I push that thought away, and I’m hit with everything I still haven’t said to any of them.
“I’m sorry,” I tell everyone, staring at my hands. “I’m so sorry. I was…I was just in so much pain. Nothing helped, nothing made it better. Nothing made it stop. I couldn’t handle it, and everything just seemed like…it would getbetter without me here. I hated who I turned into, and I thought if you all found out how bad it had gotten…you’d hate me too.”
“We don’t hate you,” Simone says, walking over and grabbing my hand. “I’m mad at the drugs. I’m mad at the people who hurt you. I’m mad at myself a little for missing pieces. But I don’t hate you. I love you.Welove you. We’re not going anywhere.”
Lani stands up, trying to swallow her emotions down. “I’m pissed at whoever or whatever made you think this world would be better without you…it wouldn’t, Lydia. We would all be broken without you. You’re one of the most beautiful souls I’ve ever met, and I couldn’t imagine a life that you weren’t in. I know we only met less than a year ago, but the imprint on my life that you’ve already left is irreplaceable.Youare irreplaceable.”
I can’t hold the tears back, and they take away any words I could say back to her, so I just nod, trying to keep myself together. I turn to where Mark and Sarah are sitting on a couch in the corner, and I see Sarah crying with Mark’s hand on her back. It breaks my heart that I keep doing that to people.
“I’m sorry, Sarah…I’m sorry, Mark.” They look up, both with tear-filled eyes. “That’s why I haven’t been back home…I was…I was embarrassed by how bad it was getting, how much I was relying on the drugs to get by…I didn’t want to be a disappointment after everything you’ve done for me.”
They both get up and walk to the other side of my bed. Sarah places a hand on mine, and Mark stands behind her with his hand on my head, wishing they could fix this for me, wishing they could fixme.
“You could never disappoint us,” Mark tells me.
“You’re our girl,” Sarah says through the tears. “Nothing will change that.”
The plan for how my summerbreak will look slowly forms together over the next two days. I’ll finish detox here, meet with Psych about meds, leave with a safety plan, fly back to Charlotte, back to all my nightmares, start the rehab program everyone was shocked I even agreed to…and with support, group sessions, therapy, and all the prayers people can send to a possible God out there, try to resemble a normal person for once in my life.
I don’t think I’m ready. But I don’t think I have a choice anymore.
56
Lydia
They wake us up early.
Every.Morning.
Even if we were up all night.
“Vitals,” a tech says to me, so cheery it’s like she stuck herself with a needle full of caffeine.
Could I get a shot of that?
I automatically stick my arm out before my eyes are even open, not having the will to fight them here anymore. My meds are handed to me in a tiny paper cup, and then they tell me it’s time to head to the dining hall for breakfast.
I sit there and push my eggs around, staring at the food until a staff member with a way too friendly voice comes and talks to me and encourages me to eat—“It’s fuel for your body and mind.”I eat just enough to prove to them that I won’t wither away, and thankfully they take that.
Groups—there’s always a damn group. Psychoed, DBT, relapse prevention, process group where you sit in a circle and try not to lie about how you’re doing. Family group once a week that I kept telling Sarah and Mark they didn’t have to come, and they’d say, “We know,” and keep coming anyway. I’m honestly glad they did, I need them even when I won’t admit it.
I do individual therapy twice a week with a woman named Dr. Raina who could talk anyone down from any ledge.
I thought rehab would feel like a car wash. You drive in dirty, come out clean. A bunch of days full of kumbaya moments, holding hands in a circle, crying together, sitting around a fire pit, bonding, sleeping in, and drinking coffee with a nice view. Spoiler—it’s not like that at all. It’s all the worst parts of you pushed to the front and examined. It’s a room full of people admitting their dark truths in a room where you all sit in a circle and confess things you wouldn’t tell anyone else. Because truthfully? It’s not that you trust these people more; you actually care less about them…and that makes it easier to say all the shitty parts out loud.
Half of the time, rehab is just me constantly still craving to get high so I don’t have to talk about my damn feelings around here anymore.
The first month, I couldn’t hear anything over the need. It lived under my skin like an electric wire I was holding on to. Groups sounded like adults in old cartoons—wah wah wah wah—and it took all my willpower not to stand up mid-session some days and jump out of the second-story window. My body kept demanding to be turned off. To not participate anymore. Staff would put cool packs on my wrists and kept trying to teach me breathing exercises (in for four, hold for two, out for six) like we were in some Lamaze class.
I tried to keep to myself. It felt safer that way. I said the right things in group because I know the right things to say that sound pretty and make people not worry about you trying to kill yourself again. People cried in the group session—I didn’t. People admitted things like they were in a confessional at church and it was the only way to get to heaven. I just crossed my arms and took notes in my head, watched the way people acted and started to understand what made staff watch you more and what made them believe you were getting better.
