The Rest Will Follow

August 23, 2007
0 days sober
10 days relapsed
7 weeks, 4 days out of rehab

The walls aren't supposed to be red, are they? With those turquoise swirls? Seriously, I don't think they're supposed to be. And I'm almost positive that they're not supposed to be moving - the patterns, not the walls. Or are the walls moving? I can't be sure. I think it's just the swirls, though. Yeah, definitely the swirls are moving. And I think there might be glitter in them. Who paints glitter on the walls? I know I didn't paint glitter on the walls.

I know, of course, that there are not really swirling patterns on the walls. I know that, in my head. But they still look like they're moving, which can only mean one thing.

I'm high.

One hundred percent for sure, I'm floating like a kite. If the dancing paisley on the walls didn't tip me off, the giant, mutant, dancing strawberry that keeps waltzing into my line of vision definitely would. He's not supposed to be here. If I had invited him, he would be tap dancing.

I know why this is happening, ya know? I remember everything that happened. I was on my way back from Dex's - I was so pissed off and freaked after Randy left me on that sidewalk. And, as Dex always used to tell me, 'Why freak when you can tweak?' So I called him and I headed over there. All I picked up was an eight-ball, but it was going to be enough. Just enough to take the edge off, to make everything better, to ease the ache of knowing that Randy was never coming back.

And then I pussied out. Half-way back to the safe house, I looked at that baggie in my hands, and I totally wimped. For the first time in my life, I was scared about how the drugs would effect me. I was scared that it had been too long, that I was going to die or something. I know it's not totally rational, but no junkie is totally right in the head, ya know? So I panicked. Driving down Lakeshore Drive, rolled down my window, and tossed the eight-ball into the rain.

One of the biggest struggles for an addict is finding the delicate balance between your sober self and your addiction. It's about knowing where one ends and the other begins. And until that day, on the way back from Dex's, my line was so blurred. Oh, I had talked to my therapist, ad nauseum, about goals. Where I was going. What I wanted out of life. Who I was without the drugs. I talked until my tongue was numb. But talking is easy in rehab. You can't do anything else, so you might as well speculate. Imagine the best-case scenario.

But once you get out, and even when you're still in, that little voice is whispering in your ear from the seat in the back of the class. It doesn't tell you that you're a complete failure, just asks questions to make you doubt your resolve. Who's gonna want you now? Who would hire a junkie? How can you expect to stay on the wagon when you've failed so many times before? What kind of future can you possibly hope to find for yourself? What does it even matter if you can't stay sober? It's not like it's the end of the world, right?

Doesn't really matter if you want to believe that you can, you can't help wondering if the voice is right. And it doesn't matter if you want to believe the voice, you can't help wondering if you might be able to beat it. It's a total tug of war, and it never stops. Or, it feels like it's never going to stop.

I'm not gonna bull shit ya. I mean, I haven't to this point - why start now? It's not like, in that moment in the rain, that I knew exactly who I was without my addiction. It's not like the future spread out like a bright sunrise on the horizon. In fact, I wasn't any closer to knowing who I am then than I have been for years.

But I knew, when I drove past our spot on the beach, exactly who I wasn't. I'm not a junkie. Not anymore. I'm not tied to it. It doesn't control my life. I do. I control what I do. Even if Randy IS gone. Even if my life is forever changed and I don't recognize it in the morning. This is my life and I don't need any "foreign substances"

That was my mindset. For about ten seconds, that was what I really, honestly, genuinely believed. And then that damn driver.

Fuck! I'm high again. Can you sue a hospital for reintroducing you to the shiney, happy feeling? Because that's what this is. It's the good kind of high. The one that blocks pain and makes me giggle for no reason at all. Well, not for no reason. There's a waltzing strawberry that I'm finding pretty fuckin' funny at the moment.

I don't fuckin' want to be here. I don't want to be like this. I don't want to be this girl. Not anymore. And yet. Motherfucker. What the fuck was his problem? Who thinks that searching your fuckin' satellite radio in a torrential downpour is a good idea? Who the fuck was this guy, caring more about his fucking Dave Matthews Band than my sobriety? Fuck, I hate this. My body doesn't, but my brain is in hell.

I woke up the day after the accident, long enough to see my mom and my sister and politely ask them to leave. Okay, so 'politely' might be an exaggeration, but I refuse to take responsibility for what I say or do when I'm high against my will. I told them that I never wanted to see them again, and I meant it. I pretended to be asleep until they left three days after that. I've watched some television, but none of it really makes sense. Neither does anything that the doctors tell me.

Something in one of my legs is shattered. I'm going to have to have surgery, I guess. My neck hurts, but it was something about a splash or a . . . a . . . . whiplash. Nothing broken there. My face? Well, I'm the first to admit I've never been a classic beauty, but the bruises and gashes on my cheeks and forehead are fuckin' picturesque, let me tell ya. I'd probably be curled up in the fetal position, crying about my broken body, if I could feel it. Oh, ya know what? I wouldn't, because I can't move my fuckin' leg.

"Hey, you," a voice sounds from the door way and I look up to see Maria smiling brightly.

I love my Maria. I really do. She's been here for two days, by my bedside. She was here when I told her that I couldn't do this, that I wasn't going to be able to get past it. When I finally explained that I wasn't talking about the physical rehab, but the addiction part, she was here to assured me that I was going to kick it again, and that she was going to make sure of it. I don't know how she plans to do that, but my brain hurts if I think about anything but the strawberry for more than thirty seconds, so I guess it'll have to wait for another day.

I motion to the chair beside the bed and she moves to it quickly, pulling her laptop from her bag. "Okay," she starts. "I thought we would take a break from the magazines and do the online gossip thing for a change." She fires up the computer, but she doesn't look at me.

I know I look like a mutant. Like a big-faced, mutant freak from another planet. A really unattractive planet. But is it really so bad that my best friend can't stand looking at me? Seriously? "Maria," I say firmly.

Lifting her eyes, she glances at me and then looks back to her computer. She's such a perfect picture - silky hair falling over her shoulder, pouty lip trapped between her pearly, white teeth, long legs propped up against the side of the bed, wide, bright eyes wide with concentration. My best friend is pretty spectacular, but she's fuckin' irritating right now. "Hm?" she asks distractedly as she enters her password and ignores the beep of the blackberry that is piercing the air.

"You gonna get that?" She shakes her head. "Because you don't wanna talk in front of me?" Again, she shakes her head, but never lifts her eyes. "Can you please fuckin' look at me? So I don't feel like a complete freak of nature?"

Jesus, that was a stupid move. There is a fine mist in her eyes, as though she is a scolded child, and I feel guilty in an instant. I don't want her to pity me. This wasn't my fuckin' fault. I was trying to be good. I had just done the right thing. This isn't my fault, and I'm not going to let people feel sorry or disappointed because of that.

Clearing her throat, Maria shook her head. "It's not the way you look, Tate. Not at all, Sweetie." She tucks her hair behind her ears with both hands and sets her computer onto the table at her side. "I just . . . I don't know how to do this, ya know? I don't know how to keep your spirits up. I do this all the fucking time, ya know? I visit people in the hospital all the time, for work." Shaking her head, she stands and lets out a frustrated groan. "This isn't work, though, ya know? This is my best friend with her shattered hip and a huge IV drip. This is bull shit."

Okay, I've known Maria for a few years now - at least five. And I honestly don't think I've ever heard her use the word 'fuck.' Even drunk, she doesn't lose her cool. So either something deeper is going on with her, or I'm really fucked up right now. "You don't have to pretend to be anything other than who you are, ya know?" I tell her, my eyes fighting to focus on her instead of the banana that is now asking the strawberry if it would like a partner against the window. "I don't need you to keep my spirits up, 'Ria." She looks at me with a guilty face that says she never been to burst out like that. "I have drugs for that," I smile.

Rolling her eyes, she sinks back into her chair with a 'thud,' propping her feet back onto the bed. "Just sucks, ya know? I mean, you've been working so hard. And you've been doing so good. I mean, it just sucks that this shit has to happen now."

I want to agree with her. I do know that it sucks. But I just can't. The morphine drip at my side beeps, and another rush of 'happy' floods my brain. Sweet Jesus, that's like . . . uh . . . whew. Oh, Mr. Strawberry, just one little tap dance. Please? Ms. Banana will show you how. Show him, Banana. Yeah, I know, I'm going crazy. And I know that Maria is watching this internal dialogue, her head turned to the side like the cute, little puppy that she is. Like a cocker spaniel. Or a Pekinese. Shih tzu. Like a chi-WOW-ah. Wow. Wow. Wow.

"You okay?" I hear Maria ask, and all I can do is smile, my mouth still forming the word 'wow' as I point, sort of, to the IV at my side. This is the good stuff. The shit you couldn't buy on the street. Correction. The shit that I wasn't brave enough to buy on the street. The shit that can seriously fuck you up. "Okay," Maria nods, standing and running her hands over the thighs of her pants. "I'm gonna go call John, and I'll come back when you come down a little bit."

I nod, mostly because the motion of my head moving up and down doesn't hurt when the drugs are coursing through my veins. The absence of pain is fun. I like it. A lot. "Tell the boys I said 'hi.'" She agrees with a nod and starts for the door. "OH!" I burst out, because the sound of my own voice is hilarious right now. "And ask Randy if he'll come visit me. I need to see him. I need to tell him I'm not a fuck up and a junkie, okay? And tell him that I'll sacrifice Mr. Strawberry to prove it. We'll dip him in chocolate an eat him together. He won't mind. He knows he was bred for market."

She leaves and I turn my face back to the fruit by the window, assuring Mr. Strawberry that I was only kidding and that Maria won't tell Randy anything anyway. She won't tell him because it will only prove his point - that I'm destined to be an addict forever, whether I want to be or not. That I'm destined to be a junkie. That we will never work because I am seriously fucked up. God dammit, somebody tell the walls that paisley can't move like that. And that glitter . . . fuckin' glitter paint.

Okay, I need to take a nap. Last night, in my dream, I thought of the perfect way to get Randy back again. Maybe tonight I'll think of one that doesn't involve tying him up and throwing him into the trunk of my car.