My therapist said I’m an asshole.

I tell Naz to give me a few days before I agree to get on the plane, I say I need to get the apartment packed up (half cleaned sorry Derek) but really I still have a little money left over and a part of me that wants to die. But the day has arrived and I’m still breathing, so I guess it’s time to take the plunge. I have two bags left – I shoot them the second I wake, there is no relief in them, only a brief interlude of calm before I am reminded that was the last of it. I tried to save more for the day but like any good junkie I had little self control and the compulsion to do them the night before.

I throw some clothes on and make my way down the stairs out our front door which is adorned in bullet holes (came with the place free of charge! 💁🏼‍♀️🤣) It’s still really fucking cold for March – I pull my north face tightly around me; the air, bitter. I need a cig. I stop some random kid on the street (kid as in like 23), “you got a cig?” He says no but that he’ll get me one. I follow but he’s walking opposite how I need to go. This motherfucker. I need the cig, and I’ve walked several blocks by now so I better just get it. He buys me a loosie (I used to think they were Lucy’s and who the fuck was she?). I try leaving, “I have things to do. I’m going that way.” I point north. He looks me over again, his eyes fixate on my neck- there’s probably dried blood, or he’s noticing the tracks by my jugular, either way he gets an idea. “Well uhh, I can get you some her-ron, if you wanna .. ya know do somethin. There’s an alley over there.”

Mehhh. I pause. Jay* would never allow something like this. It would piss him off. I say no- I don’t want to make my inmate lover mad. I say no because it’s the one thing I haven’t done for drugs. My yet.

I walk north, half regretting my earlier choice cus this is a bitch of a walk, and I’m short on time. I told Oz and Pony I was going to rehab; asked if they would throw me some bags to stay well on the plane. They’ve been looking out for me since Jay went away, say it’s no problem, to come through.

Pony tells me not to come up on the spot just go to his house – he and Oz meet me there hand me some bags and give me a hug. I say thank you as I’m wrapped around Oz, he pulls back and says, “I got you. Call me from Florida mami, keep in touch.”

( Prob to like have pillow talk cause why else would I call my dealer from Florida 🤷🏼‍♀️🤣)

I walk back to the apartment, I’ve got 6 bags – I’m trying to do the math, my flight doesn’t get in until 11pm. It’s 11am. That basically equals “fucked. And just taking the edge off”.

I mix two bags- my veins are shit, and my needles dull, i’m scared to go around my neck with such dull tips – they’ll break off and then I’ll be pissed. I try and find a vein in my arm, I dig around, there aren’t many good ones left. My barrel fills with blood from veins that won’t take, I worry it will clog and I’m not about to waste this dope. I get frantic, I need to hit and I think I do but quickly find out Ive hit a nerve – i wince, it burns. Fuck me dude . I have to do more immediately – that didn’t count. I try to relax, to pack. I am a ball of nerves, I think maybe I’d rather just be dead but I suck at killing myself.

Around 3 my ride pulls out front- I do my last two bags and swallow a handful of Jays neurotin and remron – I know I’m not going to make it comfortably to Florida, I hope the pills knock me out.

We fly through a thunderstorm, I wake up when we hit turbulence, and spill the drink I’ve nodded out in all over myself. This poor girl next to me is like what the fuck. Concerned.

I don’t remember much after that but someone picked me up and brought me to RTC, the detox at 1st Step.

So I’m sittin there in the tech office feeling like a blob of jello (that’s what a buttload of neurotin makes you feel like I don’t know how ya noodles abuse it on the reg but whatevs) when all of a sudden this crazy manic looking chic with a towel wrapped around her head bursts through the door during my intake. She’s talking a million miles a minute and could use a kolonopin. I barely have time to process her presence before she ballerina twirls and sashays back out the door. The minute she leaves, one of the techs looks at me and laughs, “that’s Melody, your new roommate,” in her thick Jamaican accent. What the fuck. I’m not high enough for this shit.

Detox is a few days – I refuse the full dose of suboxone – I want it to hurt, not a lot but just enough – I need to feel something. They get mad, say I’m not a doctor which is true and all but I don’t need more than an 8mg strip a day, I don’t want to detox off that too.

My roommate seems less crazy by the day but we don’t exchange many words. Mostly we lay on the couches miserable or go outside to smoke cigarettes, also miserable.

The staff says I look kinda dead, I lost a ton of weight since my last stay, and I feel sorta dead too so it fits. I don’t talk much to anyone right away, my guard is up, when in reality, this is one of the few places I actually feel safe. I don’t want anyone to know there is still a part of me that wants to be with my husband, that still thinks I can find a way to make it work if we can just get clean. I don’t have the energy to fight about it now, everything in me feels defeated, I stay quiet.

I don’t fight treatment this time, I’m tired and full of apathy, at first. Im one of those people that detoxes and bounces back in the blink of an eye. I could come in with a black eye, and broken ribs but give me a week, and I’ll look like Im late for a shift at American Eagle. The porn star looking owner says its scary how Fast I do it, as if nothing ever happened.

See I know how to swallow my demons, I’ve done it all my life, it’s keeping them down that’s the problem, I never know when they’re going to crawl out. But something in me feels like this place knows how to silence them once and for all. So I do what’s suggested of me – I surrender. It’s not this beautiful poetic process. It’s raw. No ones stroking my ego, or doing my nails and eyebrows in treatment (cough cough .. the gardens), they’re telling me I’m an asshole, that I’m going to kill myself. They make me scream at the top of my lungs, they make me cry, they help me heal.

I do 83 days in treatment – in the beginning I write Jay almost every day, somewhat secretly.!I draw in highlighter on his envelopes, they are filled with hearts and rainbows and I miss yous. But how can I miss someone I hardly know?

My heart aches, I’m a sucker for almost anyone in need of saving but I have proven time and again that I cannot even save myself.

My therapist Nancy says I’m not really in love with him that I just have love for him. Apparently there’s a difference.

It takes me a while to see but as the days pass I start to get a clear head. I miss him less and less, realize our letters are filled with empty promises and false hope. I consider the fact that maybe this wasn’t one of my better ideas. I know I am going to end it but I want to tell him over the phone, a letter feels, I don’t know? cruel. Really I just don’t have the courage or the heart to tell him, so I don’t. I wait till I’m forced to.

I am the worst.

I meet a new guy about 4 seconds after I get to halfway and casually forget I’m married. (But it was True love right? 🤣)!Jay* is out of jail and getting high again, so it’s kinda just whatever, I don’t really feel bad. The New guy has five years clean and takes me to Taco Bell, says I can order anything on the menu. My therapist says, “you’re an asshole but at least this one has teeth.”


There’s always more stories and this ones not over . Stay tuned.

Love and Light,

Lexie PS 💙☀️

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s