I shake my head, much like I always do during the group sessions. I don’t know these people, and sharing my life and secrets with them isn’t why I’m here. Who’s to say that whatever I say in here won’t make the tabloids when they get out? No one. I didn’t sign a confidentiality agreement when I got here, which probably means that they didn’t sign one either, so there is nothing keeping them from selling my story to th
e press. No thanks—I’ll keep my mouth shut.
The others share, though, and I’m supposed to find it therapeutic. I’m supposed to find some relatable instance that we both have in common. I think there needs to be a rehab for celebrities only; then we can share in group sessions.
“It’s important when you leave here that you surround yourself with good people,” Dr. Rosenberg says. “You want to avoid the triggers that were in place.”
“What are the triggers?” I ask, speaking out for the first time. “How do we know what to look for?”
“Well, people are your first trigger,” she says.
“So I’m supposed to tell my friends that I can’t hang out with them anymore because they might be a trigger?”
“In some cases, yes. Were they there when you decided to make a life-changing decision?” She looks around at all of us when she asks that question.
Aspen was there with the coke when I complained. She was there every single time I needed it. Is she my trigger?
“Do you remember the first time you needed more? Your addiction started long before then; you just didn’t recognize it. Whether it was your first drink or the first time you got high, or even your second, what was the trigger or the moment that caused you to commit the act? If you can find it, that’s what you need to remove from your life.”
Was Aspen my trigger? Or was it the demands placed on me by Rebel? It’s easy to blame Aspen because she supplied me with what I needed to get high, but why was I so easy to control after that?
Maybe the first time wasn’t my trigger. I can’t even say it was the second, but the third time—definitely. My triggers are simple: time, demands, exhaustion, and the fact that what I needed to achieve success was readily available. So what do I eliminate? What do I give up in order to stay clean?
Dr. Rosenberg studies me for a reaction. I have to look away because I’m not answering any of her questions. She’ll ask me again in individual therapy later, and that’s fine.
The lady next to me, Susan, who I’ve learned is married with two children, was hooked on meth. She’s been here for two months now and has just announced that her husband is her trigger.
“I struggled with losing weight after our second child,” she tells us, already wiping away tears. “I tried everything. Every fad diet I could find, I did it. Sometimes they’d be successful, but the holidays would come around and I’d eat. I didn’t want to pass up eating a piece of birthday cake, or having pie after Thanksgiving dinner. Once I did that, I always said I’d start over on Monday. Well, Monday came and so did the following Monday, and I was still eating, gaining everything back that I had lost. My husband started calling me ‘fat,’ ‘plump,’ ‘a little juicy around the sides.’ When I’d tell him that he was hurting my feelings, he’d laugh it off and say he meant it in a loving manner, but there was no love behind those words. He stopped touching me and wouldn’t go out on our dates anymore. So one day I looked up how to lose weight quickly and there it was. At first I used the pills that contained methamphetamine and saw the pounds coming off. I wasn’t hungry and I had energy to clean my house and go to the gym. When the pills weren’t enough, I started smoking it. There was a guy who hung out at the gym who had a suitcase of whatever diet supplement you wanted, so I bought from him.
“And one day I didn’t wake up on time. My kids freaked out and called their dad, who came home from work. By then I was awake and World War Three was breaking out in my house because my children were late for school and he had to leave work because they were scared and the only thing I cared about was going to the gym so I could get high.”
She wipes away her tears and inhales. “He took the kids to school that day and I went to the gym. On my way home I was in a car accident. I was so high that I was driving down the wrong side of the road. I ended up spending ninety days in jail because my husband wouldn’t post my bond and my parents had sold their house so they didn’t have any assets. I’ve been here for sixty days, and when you add that up, I haven’t seen my kids in over five months.”
When she tells her story it makes mine look like a cakewalk. I didn’t lose anyone. My parents will still be there as long as I stay clean. She’s lost her family, all because her husband is a piece of shit and can’t accept her for who she is on the inside. He was too worried about the part that doesn’t matter—looks. My dad has always said my mother is the most beautiful woman he has ever met and says that her beauty runs deep inside her. He calls other women pretty, but my mom has always been beautiful.
Dr. Rosenberg lets us know that group therapy for today is over. It ends on a somber note, leaving me uneasy. I don’t think that Dr. Rosenberg was prepared for that story today, and neither was I. From what I can tell, the woman speaking is like me, normally quiet and reserved. I’ve seen her a couple of times while I’ve been out walking—she was just sitting in a chair looking at the pond. I can’t begin to imagine how alone she must feel.
—
Today I’m cleaning the horse stalls. I have never done hard labor a day in my life. Sweeping floors or vacuuming, yeah, I’ve done those, especially when I had to clean up a mess I didn’t want anyone to know about, but this is something entirely new.
I have a pitchfork in my hand and a wheelbarrow by my side. When they were handed to me, the guy laughed, knowing full well I don’t have a clue as to what I’m doing or what this tool even is. I do remember, from elementary school, what they’re called, though, so that’s a bonus point for me.
After a short lesson I’m staring at the task in front of me—cleaning up the manure. Clad in jeans, rubber boots, a T-shirt, and gloves, I walk into the stall, much to the amusement of the horse in the next stall, and start cleaning. It takes me only a few minutes to get the hang of how to use a pitchfork, and honestly I find it therapeutic. Maybe this is why we have chores, because they’re some odd form of therapy. Once I have a stall clean and restocked with new hay, I go over to the next, moving a horse if I have to.
The horses here are gentle and fairly easy to manage. Susan from group therapy this morning comes in. We make eye contact briefly before she takes a horse out of the stall. According to Kimberly there’s a network of trails throughout the property that we can hike, walk, and even ride on if we choose. I have yet to do anything except go to my therapy sessions and work. I find that time in my room, alone, is what I need right now. Besides, I can’t imagine going on a horseback ride by myself.
A few others come in and take the horses out as I clean, and when the final stall is done, I sign out on the chore list and head back to the main house for a shower. I smell horrible, and between the stench of shit and sweat, I can’t stand to be around myself.
“Where ya running off to?” Kimberly’s voice stops me dead in my tracks. She’s wearing shorts today that show off her tan legs. Once again her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, but she’s left a few pieces of hair out that frame her face. And her eyes are as blue as ever.
“I need a shower,” I tell her. “I worked the stalls today.” I’m sure she already knows this, but I feel the need to tell her anyway.
“Well, I thought maybe we could go for a ride. I could show you around some more of the property.”
“I need to shower,” I say again, stupidly. I chastise myself for saying something so dumb. I’d already told her I needed to shower, and since I reek, she probably didn’t need the reminder.
Kimberly laughs; it’s sweet and melodic. I want to hear it again, but I’m in no shape to make her laugh. There isn’t anything about me that’s funny.