Page 56 of Antidote

Four months clean flushed down the drain. Just. Like. That.

I feel sick to my stomach just thinking about it. Defeated doesn’t even begin to cover it. I can’t believe I let Lucy down like that—one step forward, one thousand steps back. I didn’t just slide back, I also tripped and fell on my face.

After four months of sobriety, I forgot how fucked up the comedown is from the Oxy. Maybe I didn’t truly forget, maybe my brain just plays tricks on me to convince me to use again. Before I went to rehab, I was at a point where I needed more and more and more in order to feel high. It was a dangerous place to be because I needed more pills to feel the high, like in the beginning, and it didn’t matter if it killed me as long as I could feel the rush. And the problem is that, what was next? Heroin?

Eventually, when consuming pills, there comes a time when you’re just surviving. You don’t score to just get high; you do it because, without it, you’ll go into withdrawals… and that feels worse than dying. An overdose would be a mercy.

My usual dose didn’t bring me a high anymore. It was mostly an itch I needed to scratch—one that I didn’t ever want to ignore. And yet, I had to scratch it several times a day. It was miserable, living my life minute by minute, hour by hour, until I needed to feed the monster again. It ruled my life. When Lucy died, I promised myself I wouldn’t let the pills control me ever again. And yet here I am, three days sober.

A fucking failure.

I sit in the very back and listen to a man talk about how he’s been sober for over twenty years, and my eyes sting. Hunter was right. I’m a disappointment, a fucking disgrace. I can’t believe I ever thought things between us could go back to how they used to be. I’m not worthy of him. I’m not worthy of anyone. Fuck him, and fuck being sober.

Even the promise of death tastes sweet on my lips as long as I’m numb when I go.

Pressing my hands against my eye sockets, I rock back and forth in my chair. I don’t look up to see who’s staring at me; frankly, I don’t care enough. I wish I brought Jamie with me for emotional support, but I haven’t been honest with him about who I am. What I am. An addict. A junkie. A disaster of a human being. I can’t control myself or my urges, and I’m a disappointment to my family and my loved ones.

To top it off, I don’t know if I care enough. Why should I? My dad has never cared about me, and the love of my life wants nothing to do with me.

The past few days have been weird with him taking care of me. I know now everything will go back to normal again—and he won’t care about me anymore. However, for a few days, I could pretend. Pretend he gave a fuck about me. Pretend things could’ve been whole again. Pretend there wasn’t a chasm between us. But pretending doesn’t do me any good. It’s better for me to have my feet firmly planted on the ground. Maybe in another life, we would’ve been good together, but this thing between us—it’s a fucking tragedy.

Lisa—the woman at the podium—keeps talking about how one day clean is a miracle. She’s been clean for eighteen years, so of course, it feels that way. But I don’t feel like a miracle. She keeps saying that this is a judgment-free zone. That people here are understanding and will help each other. Help me help you stay sober, she says. And for some reason, it all sounds like bullshit to me. So why am I sitting up in my seat, back ramrod straight, when she asks if anyone wants to share? Why am I looking around to see if someone volunteers? And why am I standing up when no one else does?

My hands shake and sweat as I walk up to the podium from the very back of the room. I was thinking this would all be a fluke, and soon enough, I’d be leaving and never coming back. Yet here I am, sharing. Am I seeking some sort of validation here? Is that what this is? I don’t know, but someone needs to stop me from making a fool of myself, please.

I stand at the podium and clear my throat, my neck, and face heating with all eyes on me. There are a lot of people here, and they’re all giving me their attention. I decide to focus on the back of the room instead. Looking at no one in particular.

Gathering some strength, I clear my throat again. Fuck. “Hi, my name is Ollie, and I’m an addict.” My voice cracks at the last word, and I try to remind myself that I can recover. “I’m three days sober.” I pause, looking around, and people clap. “My drug of choice is Oxy. It has been since I was eighteen years old. I won’t get into why I started using. It was a petty decision I made—one that ruined my life.”

I take a deep breath and try not to cry.

“I’m here today because life has been hard lately. And I won’t lie, I want to use. I want it so damn bad.” I close my eyes so I don’t have to see the faces of the people I’m confessing my deepest secrets to. “Last May, I caused my mom’s death. She was taking me to the hospital, thinking I was overdosing. I took more than I usually did…and I was incoherent.”

I pause, opening my eyes and looking around.

I see nothing but understanding on each face, making me breathe a little easier. At the end of the day, even if they judge me, I know they’ve done fucked up things due to the drugs too. Everyone in here has been a sinner at some point.

“She was speeding in the rain. I asked her to stop.” I say hoarsely, tears gathering in my eyes and tracking down my cheeks. “But she wouldn’t. We crashed, and she was killed on impact. I thought I wouldn’t survive her death…but here I am. Still breathing. It pushed me to get sober.”

Another pause.

More silence.

“I went to rehab and thought long and hard about sobriety. I thought long and hard about my steps and a sponsor, and I thought I could make it on my own—without community.” I swallow hard. “I was so fucking wrong. I was clean for four months, and even though I thought I wasn’t struggling, I was. All it took was a little shove in the wrong direction, and I caved. It was my fault, I got the drugs. I told myself I wouldn’t take them, except let’s be serious. I was going to no matter what I told myself.” I smile tightly. “I’m three days sober and don’t feel like a miracle. Instead, I feel like I failed. I failed my mom. I failed myself. I failed everyone around me.” I failed Hunter. “I hope to one day look back and see this as my last time. I’ve been told that if you don’t remember every detail of your last time, it wasn’t your last time. And I remember every single thing. I’m here to acknowledge I need help. I will accept help. I need a sponsor.” I look at Lisa, who nods. “And in one year, I hope to still be sober.” I pause. “So, here’s to sobriety.”

Cheers erupt, and I smile, even though all I want to do is sob. I bite my cheek to keep it in, drawing blood. It grounds me, though, and as I go back to my seat, I realize it feels like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Even my chest feels lighter, like all my emotions are no longer crushing it.

The meeting ends, but I stick around. I don’t know why. Lisa comes to me immediately, standing at my side. “Are you a hugger?” she asks.

“I could use a hug,” I reply with a small shrug.

Lisa envelops me in her warmth and pulls back. “Congratulations on three days sober.” She says softly. “The first few days are the hardest, but I’m glad you found a meeting. You said you need a sponsor. Have you met anyone?”

“I haven’t.” I shake my head. “I don’t even know how to get started.”

“Well, I have been sober for eighteen years. My drug of choice was heroin.”

I understand she has to share this with me to make me more comfortable, but I don’t know how I feel about it yet. Maybe she’s doing it so I don’t feel like a fuck up, but I don’t think anything is going to make those feelings disappear.

---