The Forest For the Trees
"Alright, so you got three phone calls last night from a guy who says he's your boyfriend," I tell Sylvia from the doorway of her room. "Which is weird, 'cause you keep telling me that you don't have a boyfriend."
She groans and sits on her bed, her fingers gripping two giant handfuls of her blond hair. I hate the entitlement that comes with celebrity addicts, but the doctor seems convinced that I'm the only tech in this place who can get through her bleached skull to the issues beneath her 'whoa is me' demeanor. On any other day, I would kick and scream and throw a fit. But ever since that damn . . . thing that happened in Texas, I feel the need to tackle someone else's huge problems just to get away from mine.
Sylvia groans again and reaches for the bottle of water on her bedside table. If I didn't know better, I'd think she was on something. But I know that squinty look. Something's on her mind, and it's making her miserable. And she wishes she was on something, but she can't be, so she shoots death daggers at anyone who bothers to look her way. I have been there. Many times, actually.
"So who's the guy?" I ask, allowing the door to shut behind me as I perch myself on the end of her bed.
She just rolls her eyes and shrugs. "How the hell should I know?" she challenges. "Told you. Don't do boyfriends."
Easing into a simple conversation isn't going to happen. Not when she's in this mindset. So I go for the direct approach. It'll probably piss her off, but sometimes that's the easiest way to get us to open up about something we addicts don't really want to talk about. "Why?" I question, crossing my arms over my chest.
"Why what?" she asks, reaching for a cigarette.
I shrug, just like she did a minute ago, if for no other reason than to show her that she doesn't rattle me. Everyone here thinks they're so tough - they don't seem to understand that every one of us working around this place have been where they are. They're not clever. Not new to the game. Some of us mastered it before they even started playing. "Why don't you do boyfriends?" She rolls her eyes and rests her head against the wall. "And why are you still trying to bull shit me? Haven't you learned anything in our precious time together?"
She smirks at that, a glimmer of the girl I thought I was getting to know shining through. "I'm an addict, Tate," she reminds me, taking another puff. "Habits? They die real hard."
"That why you don't do boyfriends?" I push on as though she isn't trying to bait me. "Because of your habit?"
Her eyes flit to the door, like she's trying to make sure that nobody is listening in. "Yeah, I guess," she finally gives in, looking toward the window. I'm not sure she's even aware that she does it, but every time she's about to say something potentially damaging to this rock-hard facade she's created for herself, her eyes dart around the room. Like the paparazzi maybe snuck in through the window when she wasn't paying attention. "Easier to fuck randoms, ya know? I know I'm not gonna remember most of 'em anyway.
"I mean, if you're with a guy you care about? And if he cares about you?" She shakes her head and smiles a little bit. "You don't wanna fuck that up 'cause you can't get your shit together, ya know? 'Cause you can't fuckin' remember who you are, let alone who you're with." A cackle rips from her throat, surprising me just a bit. "Even I'm not too damaged to know that."
I nod my head and mumble, "I know," before I even realize it's popped out of my mouth. The doctor says that sometimes the best advice you can give someone in rehab is to open your own personal experiences to their scrutiny. Supposedly, it not only strengthens my own sobriety, but shows them that I'm just like them, at the core. Gives them hope that maybe they can be where I am someday. I've never really had a problem with that concept. Except when it comes to Randy. I don't talk about Randy. Ever.
"You do?" Now it's Sylvia's turn to sound surprised. But when she asks, "What happened?" it's me who's thrown off guard by her tone once again. Wow, I'm really off my game today, huh? Usually, nothing shocks me, but it seems like, in the span of a few seconds, I've been completely thrown.
Glancing up, I see that Sylvia is now leaning forward, elbows on her knees, hungry for whatever story I may have. Whatever morsel of trauma I may have lived through that will show her some way through her own personal hell. Don't I owe it to her? I mean, isn't that why I'm here in the first place? To help other addicts find their way out? Like Randy helped me?
"Um," I clear my throat and reach for her cigarette, taking a puff and handing it back. It's against the rules, for me to smoke while I'm working, but I know that Sylvia's not going to say anything. And I'm pretty sure I won't get through this without some kind of synthetic courage. "I was actually in love with the greatest guy on the face of the planet. For three years," I begin to explain, the story sounding almost foreign. It's been awhile since I've told anyone, even my own sponsor, about Randy. "He tried everything to save my from myself, but I," I stop and swallow the lump of emotion in my throat, my eyes fixed on the strap of my shoe, "I couldn't see it."
Sylvia points her cigarette in my direction. "See, that's what I'm sayin'. I mean, people get hurt when you form attachments."
I can't argue with that. They do. People do get hurt. "But you're wrong, Sylvia," I correct her, my eyes meeting hers. "It's not easier." She seems confused, so I scoot further onto the mattress and turn my body fully toward her. "There's nothing easy about recovery. Nothing easy about clawing your way back to the surface of your own life." And there is certainly nothing easy about pushing people away. Of course, she doesn't need to know how much I hate that part of my past. Not now.
Of course, this has to be the moment when she chooses to have an intelligent, clear-headed, sober thought. Of course it is. "You still love him?" She poses it as a question, but I'm not sure she really means it like one.
Honesty first. It's the only way to heal. Only way to stay sober. Complete honesty with others, and especially with yourself. Lying helps no one. With a nod, I close my eyes and remember the sparkle in his blue eyes the other night. "He stood by me when I needed someone more than anything, and I will love him forever for that," I confess for the first time out loud. Or at all really.
"But are you still in love with him?" Sylvia pushes me.
How in the blue hell did this become about me? Isn't this her counseling session? "No, I'm not," shaking my head to clear him like an Etch-A-Sketch from my brain. She smiles like the Cheshire Cat and opens her mouth to call my bluff, but I just stand and hold up a finger. "And this is why I don't watch your movies," I inform her defiantly. "Because they infect your brain with fairy tale fantasies. Besides, we are not talking about me. We're talking about you," I remind her, standing from the bed and walking toward the window, if for nothing more than a change of scenery.
Sylvia relaxes back against her headboard and when I turn, she's still watching me. "I don't know," she says doubtfully. "If I thought about a guy and got that look in my eyes? I think it'd be a whole lot easier to stay clean."
Oh, if she only knew. If it were that easier, Randy and I would still be together, living one of those fairy tale endings that I claimed to hate just a second ago. We would still be together, if she were right. "Not always," I assure her as I lower myself into a chair to continue the rest of our session.
And forty irritating minutes later, I'm desperate for an escape. Letting myself out of Sylvia's room, I mentally consider my schedule for the rest of the day. Talking about Randy seemed to help her, but it's got me itching for an old fix. I have to talk to the doctor. Maybe grab a quickie on his desk. That should help me get through.
"Tate."
Spinning at the sound of my name, I know my face registers the shock of seeing the man in my doorway. "John!" I squeal, skipping across the distance between us to throw my arms around his neck. "What are you doing here?"
Releasing me, he raises an eyebrow and considers me critically. "You're not wearing scrubs," he states matter-of-factly.
I just push a piece of hair behind my ear. "I'm not a doctor," I remind him, though I'm pretty sure that I told him that about a thousand times the other night. "What are you doing here?" I question again.
He glances around the room, just like Sylvia did an hour ago and then takes a deep breath. "I need to know if you think I have a drinking problem," he sighs.
What? I mean, I knew that Maria was worried about him, and I saw the way he was downing those beers the other night. Even Randy mentioned something about the tension that always seemed to arise when John started drinking. But surely he wouldn't fly across the country just to ask me that, would he? "Well, John," I start, shaking my head at the surreal nature of the entire conversation, "I can schedule an eval for you with the doctor, if you want. I'm not really qualified for that myself."
He stuffs his hands in his pockets and smiles at one of the other techs passing behind me. "Can't you just, like, give me test or somethin'?"
"Sure," I agree, accepting the chart that one of the nurses offers me. Glancing over it distractedly, I let my eyes drift back to John and then over the page again. "Wanna know if you're pregnant? I can get ya a stick to pee on or somethin'," I say, returning my full attention to him. "Otherwise, it's not so cut and dry." He doesn't seem to find that funny, so I smile and hug the folder in my hands to my chest. "Of course, if you start peeing on sticks, that might be an indicator that you have a problem."
Though he returns the grin, it doesn't quite reach his eyes, which is weird. Even when Randy and I were having our problems, I don't remember a time when John wasn't one hundred percent positive. About everything. He's an upbeat guy. "I ain't peed on nothin'," he assures me dryly. "I just," dropping his shoulders, he looks at the ground and then around the common room, where a few patients read magazines and chat, "I just wanna know what you think."
By the way, this is one of the joys of being a recovering addict. Actually, this is one of the joys of people knowing that you're a recovering addict. Everyone thinks you're the expert on addiction of every kind. I know the basics. I'm not the text book, folks. "My professional opinion?" I question, leaning my hip against the couch at my side.
"No," John shakes his head, his blue eyes piercing straight through me. They're not as deep as Randy's, but the color still reminds me of my ex. "I want my friend's opinion."
So what do I tell him? Randy says he thinks John's okay. Maria says he's practically the company drunk. I've seen him once in the last three years. "I can really only go off what I've heard, and what I saw last week," I remind him. "But I think you might be standing on the edge of a problem."
Ya know, with Sylvia it's easy. I can tell her that she's screwed up. I can tell her how to fix it. We can argue, and I can tell her the stuff that she doesn't want to hear. She's not my friend. And if she walks outta this place and into another party, it's not my responsibility. But with John? If I fuck him up, I have to live with that forever. And hear about it, from Maria, for the rest of my life.
"What does that mean?" he presses.
Shit. Ya know, most days I don't regret the path that my life has taken. I mean, it's made me the person that I am today, and those experiences and mistakes and bad choices have allowed me a golden opportunity to help other people who are in the same place I was just a few years ago. But on days like this, with John staring at me like I hold the secrets to the universe, I wish I'd never taken a hit from a joint when I was fourteen. I wish I'd never snuck that beer from my dad's fridge in the garage when I was twelve. I wish that I had never snorted my first line or shot my first hit of heroine. I wish that I wasn't the addict in the group.
Reaching out, I rest a hand against his warm arm. "John, you have to make this call for yourself. Everybody can tell you that you have a problem, but until you tell yourself that you do, you're not gonna do anything about it." He just rolls his eyes, like he's heard that before. So I squeeze his bicep and offer him another smile. "If it means anything, I think that you've gone beyond drinking just to party. Seems to me like maybe you're doin' it to escape the problems you're havin' with Maria."
He hangs his head guiltily and I know I've hit the nail on the head. The truth is that I've always been so into my problems with Randy when I've been around John, that I never realized just how much he looks like a little boy. Maybe it's because he's vulnerable right now, but this guy isn't trying to hurt anyone. He doesn't want to worry his wife or his friends. But I'm willing to bet my sobriety that Maria's never asked why he does it - only nagged him to stop. And I'll bet this entire life I've built for myself that it only creates more pressure and perpetuates the cycle.
"John, drinking to avoid the issues, to numb the pain? You're standin' at the gate to the world of twelve steps, man. Whether you step through is up to nobody but you."