I hate recovery…ugh!!!
Ever since my detox, Dare has been nothing short of irritatingly formal. Feeding me on a strict meal plan, monitoring my activities, taking down rolls of stuffy notes in our sessions. He has become everything I hate; an authority figure. He’s even taken away my music privileges. Every session, I have to ‘confront the silence’ as he calls it and rehash things that honestly have no correlation with my addiction.
It’s almost time for our session. They always leave me drained. I’m always so weak. He’s gotten rid of my stash. At least I can still write with an amazing clarity even meth couldn’t provide, one good thing from therapy.
Ding Ding! It’s four o’clock.
I make my way to the living room, grabbing two pillows and a glass of juice. Who knows what today’s session will bring?
“Good afternoon doctor,” I didn’t tell you? I now refer to him as doctor in our sessions – the preppy bastard.
“I was going through your pieces today. You write very well, guaranteed you still have a long way to go, but the talent is visible. I noticed however that you reference a lot of real life characters from our sessions in your pieces, but never your actual family. I’d like to think they have some correlation with your addiction and you haven’t talked about them, not since our first meeting. I’d like you to tell me about them.”
Yeah, she hates me now. It’s for her good, better for her to hate me than all the awkward feelings previously thrown around.
She shrugs, makes direct eye contact for the first time since our ‘proper’ sessions began and starts talking.
“My family is relatively normal. I told you my mother is a simple businesswoman who has never made it to the big leagues. She is happy with the way her life is, and she lives as her religion stipulates. I think she also does this because she is trying to atone for the sins committed during her younger years. In that sense, she was very much like my father. I guess it’s why they are both very protective of their children, especially as we are all female and I have the misfortune of being the first. They had absolutely nothing to do with my addiction. The end.” She finished with an intense stare
“Oh and one more thing…they think I’m dead. I kinda faked my death so they wouldn’t deal with the disappointment of having an addict as a child.”
I’m silent…I wait for her to keep talking. I can sense all that repressed emotional frustration about to burst out. But she stays silent and then she leaves for her room and comes back holding a stack of papers. She passes them to me and shrugs as she begins speaking.
“They’re letters I wrote to them. I kinda figured with my addiction, I wouldn’t live past 24 tops. I was going to post it to them sometime before I die.”
“Can I be excused while you read?”
“Yes. Or… no. I would like you to read them to me. Think of it as a mental exorcism of sorts.”
“I hate you.”
He keeps staring with that psychiatrist look that borders on pity and revulsion. The bastard! Still, I pick up one of the letters and start to read.
March 3rd, 2009
Hello mother. Today I watched a couple of shit movies. I’m sorry I used the s-expression; you can’t be too pleased with that. I’m sorry for a lot of things, but mostly I’m sorry you think I’m probably dead. I got the idea of continuous letters from the shit movies I watched. Sorry about that…again. I don’t know why I’m writing to only you, but despite our huge fights, I’ve always loved you the most, beyond daddy, beyond all of my sisters because you are a good person. I’m not dead mummy, I’m in blissful hell, the kind you would never approve of, the kind that would prompt you to go on prayer marathons. But I’m fine mummy, I’m surviving, and maybe one day when I gather enough courage to get my act together, you might see me again. I love you and I miss you.
April 21st 2009
I’m chuckling and writing this letter, because I just went past Mrs. Frank and she didn’t recognize me. She still has that horrible ugly look on her face that looks like she wants to spit out a pebble. I always hated that woman; ironic because I loved her children. I’m doing fine…as fine as a drug addict can be. Oh yes I forgot to tell you, I’m an addict now mummy. How’s that for all the years of training? I bet you’ll start crying when you read this and get very embarrassed and then pray for me. Pray for me mummy, I need it. I love you and I miss you…oh and I have a boyfriend now. His name is David and you will absolutely detest him. Peace, love, kisses and hugs.
I can’t go on. This is a joke to him. I can see it in his damn face. The bastard. He’s suppressing laughter. Oh I HATE him.
I get up.
“Where are you going?”
“I can’t do this. I quit.”
“You can’t quit Fareeda. Get back on that couch.”
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I’M A FUCKING ADDICT. ADDICTS HAVE NO HOPE. WE ALWAYS FUCKING RELAPSE. WHAT DO YOU THINK I AM? SOME POSTER KID TO EXPERIMENT WITH YOUR PITY ON YOUNG ADULTS?”
“I am in Pain Dare, I’m in fucking pain…and it doesn’t stop, doesn’t go away, it just keeps piling up. You can’t help me. I don’t want your damn pity.”
He gets up. I didn’t realize how tall dare was till he was hovering right over me. He grabs my wrist and starts in his slow angry voice:
“You don’t have my pity. You came to me seeking help expecting it to be a breeze. You messed with my head, drove me to near insanity and you really think I’d let you go away just like that? NO young lady. Nobody said recovery was fun. You work for it and you fight it day in day out. I am not leaving you till my work is done…and God help me because you sure as hell don’t make it seem like it’s worth it in ANY FUCKING way.”
Now she’s got me swearing. Calm down man. She’s overly emotional, relax.
“Please sit down.”
I release her hand and she flops back on the couch silent, eyes glazed over with some unknown emotion.
“Will you continue with the letters?”
“Do you know how it feels?”
“The pain of an emotional detox…have you ever felt it?”
“I’d like to think we all have at one point in our lives.”
“Okay. Have you experienced a physical and emotional detox…all at once?”
“No, but that’s why I’m here. To help you through it… if you’d let me.”
She starts crying.
“I want you to. Hell, I need you to. I’m in pain.”
She looks so fragile huddled on one corner of the big couch, eyes getting wet.
This is a bad idea, but nonetheless I get up and pick her up.
“There, there. Let it all out; release all that pain. It’s recovery from here, blissful recovery.”
She’s sobbing and holding on to me.
“I need you Dare, I need you.”
I have to let her go. Gently, I carry her to her bedroom, lay her to sleep and watch as a young girl succumbed to her human instincts to sleep.
But she doesn’t release me.
“Stay. With me. Tonight.”
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