Category : Stories

Sub Category : YoungAdult

It wasn't until the third day of treatment when someone had asked if I took medicine, to which I said, “I need it,” holding back what felt like an ocean of tear-filled humiliation. 
He told me to stand in line to talk to the psychiatrist who came only once a week. I was still writhing in depression. But, while in detox, the staff had signed me up for a psychiatric evaluation which put me at the top of the list of people seeing the shrink. I guess all those sessions with my irritating counselor paid off. 
I needed to be back on my antidepressants more than anything. Plus, this not being able to sleep curse had me looking like the walking dead. Having that one night of sleep rejuvenated me for a little while, but the guy didn't have anymore to give. This meant, I had to get my own from the doctor. 
I had the look of a ghoul — pale face with dark eyes as if I'd been beaten — so the lack of shuteye had me avoiding mirrors. Not to mention, everyone and their dog asking me if I was all right. 
“You look pretty bad, dude. Are you sick?” one guy had asked. 
Yes, I'm sick. 
Sick of rehab. 
Sick of my addiction. 
Sick of myself. 
Sick of my life. 
Sick of people asking me if I'm all right!
I'm in rehab, no I'm not all right!


At night, I laid there and thought about her. She was always there. Even during the day, the pain was still there. 
One day, Jack told us a funny story about his band on a tour. Skags, Patrick, and I were enthralled in his story about how him and his band had tried the “sixty-second cracker challenge.” The challenge consists of eating six crackers in one minute without a sip of water. It's funny watching people try and fail. 
This was the first time I had laughed since that horrible morning. But I didn't think about that. My first thought after hearing this story was, Oh my God, I have to tell Brianna about this!
Then, reality kicked in. I remembered that couldn't happen. 




While on one of our afternoon walks, Patrick asked why I was there, in treatment. 
“It’s a long story.”
He laughed. “Man, all our stories are long, brother. All our stories are the same, too. We go through our own personal hell before we find our ultimate redemption. So, what was your hell?” 
“Hmm…” I thought about what he said. 
“I mean… it's not like we got anything else to do.”
We both laughed. 
After that I told him about Brianna and what had happened. He put his arm on my shoulder. That's when I could feel he had experienced the same pain. I don't know what it was but somehow; I knew. He then proved it by telling me about how he had lost a loved one from an overdose. 
He also explained how he had first shot dope which occurred a long time ago in the punk rock era. 
“What about you? How did you start the chase that goddamned dragon?” he asked. 
Once he asked this, memories of everything related to dope, sadness, and pain flooded my brain. I came back to reality overwhelmed, but I could tell him with no problem. 
“Well, my heroin days had started with a girl,” I said 
“Don't they all?” asked Patrick, laughing. “Yeah, same thing happened to me.”
He told me a similar story to mine. Normally, my brain would have tossed this bit of information out, much like how his probably threw away my story. But it had kept it for a reason. 
It wasn't long after that, Jack told me how his story had involved a girl, too. Since I was about two weeks into sobriety and I had my new antidepressants tucking the grief from Brianna away, I could focus on figuring out what happened, what went wrong, and how do I stop it from happening again?
The answer was sitting, waiting for me in the back of my brain. All I had to do was go to my room to be alone and put the puzzle together. 
I had felt a connection to Jack and Patrick. At first, I'd thought it was because they were junkies, too. But that wasn't it. 
They were both musicians who could play any instrument, like me. That was a contributing factor. I could feel I was getting closer. 
And, our ages were exactly ten years a part from each other. That's when it hit me… 


They were me. 


I knew if I would die from my addiction, it would have already happened by now. It's had plenty of chances, and actually succeeded once, but then it let me go. Who knew the grim reaper was such a tease?
If I kept up my addiction, it wouldn't kill me physically, only mentally. By making me repeat this shit over and over again. A Groundhog’s Day for a junky. 
Jack was me ten years down the road if I kept using. Then that meant, Patrick was me ten years after that. 
Did I really want to end up like Patrick? 
Sure, he was a cool, punk rock, older dude, but did I wish to be him? 
Absolutely not. 


Sobriety became the one thing I desired.