“One of the side effects of prolonged cocaine use is paranoia. Right now you’re experiencing an episode. Fortunately for you, you’re in a place where you can’t harm yourself or others.”
“I am not paranoid.”
“Do you always accuse people of stealing your clothes? Or what about throwing your clothes around?”
I stare at her for a long moment, waiting to see if her gaze will waver. She stares back, challenging me.
“Why are you here, Bodhi?”
Sitting down on the bed, I lean forward. “I had to come. My life…it’s complicated, and people like to tell me what to do, my dad being one of them. I also like to party, and people around me think my partying is a bit out of control.” I shrug, as if being here isn’t as big a deal as people are making it.
“How long have you been using?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s not like I kept a diary every time I snorted.”
Dr. Rosenberg stands, placing the clothes she was holding back on the chair. “We are going to meet later and we’ll talk more. I’ll give you something to help combat what you’re feeling. You’re going to continue to experience flulike symptoms for the next few days, but we can manage those with some pain medication. I usually recommend people stay here for sixty days when we’re working with an addiction. I know you’re here for thirty days, so we’ll work hard to make sure you leave here healthy.”
“Okay.” I don’t know what else to say. I mean, I’m here, in some type of rehab facility, because I fucked up. I had everything I needed handed to me on a silver platter, and instead of running with it, I took it all for granted. Dr. Rosenberg nods and exits, leaving me with my mess. And what a mess it is—and not just the one on the floor.
Chills run through my body, causing me to shake. I remember when I was a little kid my mom, who was born in Romania, once told me that an unexpected shiver was a lost loved one reaching out to you. I wish I could believe her now and think that my grandfather is holding my hand, but the truth is, he’d kick my ass if he knew about this. I reach for my sweatshirt and slip it on over my head. The thicker fabric doesn’t do much to curb the chill, but it’s something. At least I now know this is part of the withdrawal symptoms that I’m going to experience. I’m not cocky enough to think this is going to be a cakewalk. I know some days will be better than others and it’s all a matter of how I deal with it. The asshole in me wants to say fuck it and walk out the door, but the son in me who’s always trying to please my parents wants to stay and see this through.
“Whoa, did we have a hurricane and I miss it?” I look up sharply and find Kimberly standing in my doorway, looking at the mess I created. Embarrassment washes over me, and I can only imagine how red my cheeks are right now. I bend down and gather up as many of my clothes as I can, not wanting her to see my underwear. I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about her that makes me feel safe and welcome. She’s beautiful, but not my type, and yet I’m worrying about her seeing my room this way.
“I, uh…can’t find something,” I mumble incoherently, afraid to make eye contact with her.
“Yeah, I’m always losing things. My dad says I’d lose my head if it weren’t attached.” Kimberly does some awkward movement coupled with an even stranger face, and it makes me laugh. It’s a genuine laugh, one that isn’t forced or being required because of a social situation. And she doesn’t seem embarrassed that she’s acting like a dork.
“It would be bad, losing your head.”
Her face lights up, seemingly happy that I got her joke. “Yes, losing my head would be bad, but I still have it, so I think we’re okay.” She knocks on the side of her head, laughing again. I chuckle, but it doesn’t last long, since my mind is on the ache I’m feeling, along with the chills.
“Anyway, I’m here to walk you to dinner.”
“Um…okay,” I say, looking around my room and finally chancing a glance at her. She’s watching me, probably wondering if I’m going to break down at any moment. The chances are yes, but I’m trying to hold it together. I scramble to pick up the rest of my clothes and at least put them on the bed. They may be a bit disorderly, but so is my life. From this point forward I’ll be classified as an addict, and unless I learn how to deal with temptation, I’ll be struggling to survive in everyday life.
One day—that’s all it took for me to get addicted to cocaine. How fucked up is that? I was tired. So fucking tired of rehearsals, choreography classes, and sleeping on a fucking bus. I just wanted something to take the edge off, and Aspen was there and gave it to me.
Kim motions for me to follow her, and I find it easy to do so. As soon as I step out of my room, she points at the wheelchair. I shake my head, choosing to amble behind her. I don’t want to be caught dead in that thing if I can help it. Earlier I was letting a weakness control me, hoping my father would take pity on me and bring me back home. I’m stuck here until I walk out the front door.
“This is the common
room,” she says when we enter a massive space. There’s a pool table, ping-pong table, a large-screen television, and an array of couches and chairs. “At Serenity Springs we believe that your path to recovery shouldn’t be hindered by too much structure. Sure, you’ll have a list of things that you have to do daily, but in between those times you can explore the grounds, come into the common room to play a game, go to the library to read or write home. You will not have access to your cellphone or computer, and any phone calls have to be placed with a staff member present. Your father provided a list of people you’re allowed to call, as well as names for family day.”
Kimberly continues walking, saying hi to other patients here. They all seem happy to see her, and a few stop and gawk when they recognize me. I ignore them, but Kimberly reminds them that it’s dinnertime, and each of them moves, almost robotically, to follow us down the hall.
The dining room is as big as the common room, and it’s cafeteria style. She grabs a tray and motions for me to pick one up as well.
“The dining area is open from six in the morning until eight at night. You’re welcome to come in and eat in between meals, but breakfast, lunch, and dinner are mandatory. We encourage you to talk to the other patients, especially since you’ll be getting to know them in your group therapy sessions.”
“My dad said this isn’t like a typical rehab place.”
“It’s not,” she says, reaching for a salad plate. “Talking about your problems is a good thing. You’re not forced to participate, but you do have to go. You never know—there may be something you have to say one day, and we’ll be here to listen.”
Listen to what? How I’ve had everything handed to me on a silver platter, and because I could, I fucked it all up? That I’m in fucking rehab because I’m a selfish prick and thought I could quit at any time? How it’s damn pitiful that my father had to come bail my ass out of trouble? I know that’s what parents are supposed to be for, but not my dad. Mine wants to hand out movie scripts and tell people what to do, not clean up after his drug-addicted son.
The writing’s on the wall. Finish the program and get clean, or I lose everything. Seems simple enough. Except it’s not. I’d give anything to score some blow right now, anything to feel the rush of adrenaline move through my system. It’s a feeling I’m never going to forget, no matter how hard the people here try to make me feel otherwise.
After our plates are full, she leads me to an empty table. I’m grateful because the last thing I want to do is be social. I don’t mind talking to her, though.