I had bought a pack of cigarettes and was sitting out on Joey's cold deck, smoking. Smoking too much. I inhaled, breathing the smoke deep into my lungs. Coughing it out. Smoking made me feel like crap but it was the only thing I could do, except drink strong coffee. I couldn't really drink alcohol since it messed with my psych meds, and I'd never been much of a drinker, anyway.
I'd bought the pack of cigarettes and was smoking them one by one because I was pissed. I puffed lightly on my Marlboro so I wouldn't hack up a lung, blew the smoke out and watched it twirl away. I really wanted to be snorting some coke. I liked that confidence boost. I'd liked feeling good about myself for once. I'd felt bad for so long. But there was no coke here and I didn't want to try and get it. Didn't even know if I could. But even if I could I couldn't do that. I'd kicked it. I'd suffered in that rehab, being locked up again, clawing at the sheets at night, my eyes round and staring. I'd kicked it. I wouldn't go back to it. I was pissed because Joey suggested college.
I closed my eyes for longer than a blink, pitched the butt away onto the frost bit lawn. College. I didn't know about school. School had been okay for awhile but then, with the bipolar, I didn't really have the attention span or drive for school. That wasn't what I wanted to do. I wanted to focus on my music, and I had been until I screwed it all up.
Smoking made me feel sick. I knew how bad it was, of course. But everything was bad, even the psych meds I had to take. But what could I do? If I didn't take them I wouldn't be able to function. But sometimes I missed that energy that came with the manic phase of it. I could get so much done, all the songs I could write.
I could see Joey inside the house. He was keeping his eye on me. I felt like the grade nine kid I had been, suicidal and so messed up. I guess in a way I was still that kid. Had I ever even dealt with that stuff, my dad and his death and all of that? Things piled on top of me so fast, I felt like I couldn't deal with one thing before another came along.
Ellie. Her name popped into my head again. I reached for another cigarette just because I had to have something. I sipped the coffee I'd brought with me out onto the deck and lit my cigarette and thought of Ellie. I could see that look on her face, that wave of disappointment, and I knew I put that look there. It was like, the instant I realized I couldn't have her she was all I wanted. I could see her smooth long red hair, her eyes, the shape of her nose and her lips, her nails short and painted dark red or black. The scars on her wrists and arms, little ghosts of scratches. I wanted to call her, talk to her, see her. I clenched my hands into tight fists, feeling that frustration. I wanted to call her, like some baby, some irrational Id, I wanted what I wanted.
This sucked. I didn't want to be living with Joey again while my music career stalled, I didn't want to go to college and be bored to death in classes, thinking of all I should have been doing instead. I wanted to be with Ellie since she had pushed me away. And what if she hadn't done that? Would I be sitting here smoking and dying to call her? What if she had been all smiles and kisses at the airport and said she'd wait, however long it took, that we'd hook up and everything would be great? Would I still want her the same way?
"Craig?" Joey came out on the deck, hugging himself in the cold morning air. I saw the look he gave me and my cigarette and I didn't care. What did cigarettes matter at this point? He'd seen me in the airport when he came to pick me up, a high mess. I'd done some in the bathroom before I'd left and I was high as a kite by the time I saw him, babbling almost incoherently about god knew what. It was part bipolar manic, part cocaine high, part heart break over Ellie, and Joey had just looked at me with that sad look, that shaking head sad look that I'd come so accustomed to over the years. Cigarettes were the least of my problems.
He eyed the cigarette with disapproval but he didn't say anything. I'd given up trying to be who people wanted or needed me to be. I couldn't do that anymore. It never worked anyway. Look at my dad. I had structured my life around him, being home when he wanted me to be, and I'd tried to say everything right and do everything right and be exactly who he wanted me to be, and he beat me anyway. So it didn't matter. I guess my dad taught me that you couldn't please other people, not really. You could barely please yourself.
"Have you given college anymore thought?" he said, and I inhaled on my cigarette.
"Yeah. Joey, I really don't want to do that. It isn't for me. It would be too much like giving up, you know? And I'm not ready to give up yet,"