If I stopped doing pills, I'd be able to control myself; if I
learned to control myself, I could stop doing pills. A despair-filled circle,
one that could be an upward spiral if I'd let her in, let her help, my
counselor says. I had pondered that circle many times before I had even come
here.
I can still remember the times before I became this. I
remember feeling strong, in control of my body and mind. I can still feel the
feeling of triumph, if I think hard enough about it.
Then, February came and the memories followed. I had
lost control of my mind before my hobby ran rampant. The problem is it was a
hobby to begin with, she says. People like me can't indulge in unhealthy
hobbies, they will always become habits. Just thinking about my condition makes
me want another cigarette.
I tried to kill the ghosts in my head with
painkillers. Though they died for a couple hours, they always returned. My
tolerance grew and so did theirs. So it took more and more, until chunks of my
nose fell out with the congealed clumps of narcotic powder. The cough came as
the weeks became months, love became lost, friends became lenders, and I
became...nothing but a feening shell.
I'd cry, then try to do a pill, then cry some more
because I was too congested to enjoy them to their fullest. I tried to wean
myself too, only to find myself parked outside of my dealer's house after one
of my fits of rage, after, of course, ruining yet another relationship and
convincing myself an empty fridge was worth just three more pills. I even tried
medication, the acceptable kind, for my mood disorder, the one I know I was
treating with the pills. I stopped when the last bout nearly ended me. They can
cause suicidal thoughts, you know, and you have to be very mindful. Something
that is very difficult when you're withdrawing too.
It was when I lost everything -- home, him, and will
to live -- that I brought myself here. They sat me in a room. They left me
there for what felt like an eternity. It was long enough for me to begin to
scream and sob, begging for some sort of change. Patience was never a strong
suit of mine. They took me out then, assigned me room and routine.
It's been two weeks and I still am not sure if it was even
worth their trouble to try to help me. I've not stopped thinking about him or
the pills, not for a moment. I'm not even withdrawing anymore. Not physically,
at least. The world, though, is a much different story...
The light beneath the door is eclipsed by what I know
to be footfalls. They pause to the right of the door where there is a computer
-- there, they can check the temperature in the room (in case someone has
opened a window, which is prohibited), how many times the bathroom was used
(the door must remained closed for monitoring), and any weight changes in the
bed (for obvious reasons). Now, I can only wait for the tech to open the door
and beckon for me.
The door opens and I get up. My roommate only
grunts and flops over. The artificial light seems to singe my eyelashes as I
follow him. I knew the second time I got up without opening the bathroom door I
would be brought out. The third time I got up, I began marshaling my thoughts
around my pacing enough for this midnight consultation.
This place could almost be a retirement home, it
looks that nice. A lot of us agree that they made it that way so if we got
visitors -- though most of us don't allow any -- they wouldn't feel as if it
wasn't such a horrible place to be.
It's really not; the horrible place to be is
inside one of us, anyone who knows anything ought to know that much.
He stops and I enter the open door without glancing
into his face; he took the easy job, what interest would I have in knowing who
he might be? The doctor looks up from my file. "Well, good morning,
Brooke."
Glancing at the clock on the desk, that my file now
lies next to, I find that it is, indeed, morning. Three in the morning,
actually. "Good morning. Looks like my patience has improved since the last
time we encountered each other." I sit on the sofa.
"Meaning?"
"I laid there for six hours before being brought here,
without throwing a fit."
"True, very true. So what is it that's kept you
up?"
My initial answer was 'a lot.' Answers like that are
discouraged, as, often times, there is a central theme the many thoughts and
memories revolve around. Considering the night, I gaze at the furniture in the
office. Brown and green tones, for grounding and growth. "The problem
tonight is me. I feel weak, as if I've always truly, been weak."
"I'd like to remind you that you not only recognized
your problem, but also sought treatment. Not everyone is capable of that on
their own, you know." I raise an eyebrow. "Not that you didn't
already know that. Would guessing this feeling is not related to your addiction
be an accurate guess?"
"I guess," I pull the pillow from next to me
and hug it. "The addiction stemmed from it all I think. I ruin things, I'm
bitter, resentful -"
"Pardon my interruption, but I'd like you start
viewing these feeling differently - well, more accurately, in a more unbiased
fashion. You are not bitter -- you often feel bitter. See how
that feels."
Sighing, I begin again, "I tend to ruin things, I
often feel bitter, resentful, and slighted. As if no one understands, no one
will ever understand, which leads to the ruining part. I become -- I feel
angry at any person who tries and fails, so I lash out, say a lot of things I
don't mean, and then...feel bitter and resentful all over again." It does
feel better that way -- like saying 'I am not my feelings' without so many
words.
"All of this was true before you became addicted to
narcotics?"
"Yes. The shame and regret that stemmed from all
these crashed and burned relationships led to it.".
"Do you remember a starting point?"
The pillow I hold is an earth green, like a fern in
the forest sort of green. It has a fringe frame and a couple tan silhouettes of
unfolding ferns on the front. It's very soft. I squeeze it once and clench my
jaw. "My last boyfriend," I sigh and look at the doctor's crossed
knees, "He had been my best friend for several years before we started
dating. We thought we'd get married. Then...he lost interest, I guess. Told me
he didn't love me, not like that. I think he met someone else." I pause
and glance out the window. It's too dark to see the flowers waving in the
breeze. "So, I broke his heart with all the hurtful words I could find.
Shattered it, really. That was the first outburst of mine."
"Did you feel him to be a liar -- having said he
loved you then taking it back?"
"Yes." The word cracks upon the carpet at my
feet. A tear slips from my chin onto the pillow, where it blooms into a dark
green flower.
"Do you think you could be transferring this
feeling to the others that had followed his footsteps?"
Nodding, I rest my chin on the pillow and look
up into the doctor's face. "How do I stop?" I whisper.
"Forgive him."
I blink. No writing or drawing exercise? No meditation
or running? Has it always been this easy? Can I even forgive him without
him apologizing? Can I forgive myself for letting it ruin me for so
long? "I'm not sure I know how." I confess, arms contracting around
the pillow.
"Repeat after me: He thought he loved me, but he
didn't."
As I do, my voice stumbles over 'but' and I begin to cry.
The doctor challenges me to do it again, though I begin to storm instead of
rain, the words nearly unintelligible. Again and again, until I'm sure I'm on
the verge of a psychotic break -- or, perhaps, just a hypoxic rage from sobbing
with so little room to breathe. On the thirtieth repetition, I'm sure that I
will black out with the next, but as I say, "He thought he loved me but he
didn't," my tone slackens, as does the rest of my self. Then, again and
again, until I'm saying it as calmly as I might say what I'd had for dinner.
"He thought he loved me but he didn't, and that's
okay." I add, and look back at the doctor.
"Feel better?"
"Exponentially," I chuckle, replacing the
pillow.
"I encourage you to employ that tactic with all of
these sorts of things. I imagine you're tired, so I'll ask the tech to tell the
morning crew to let you sleep until ten. Remember this for your scheduled visit;
I think you'll agree that there is more in this to be dealt with than just
that." I nod and the doctor stands as I do, reaching to shake my hand.
"Sleep well."
"Thanks, have a good one, doc." I tell him,
passing through the door, feeling incredibly lighter than the last time.
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