Page 43 of The Darkness Within

He’s so fucking strong. I couldn’t have done it.

“I was such a joke. A living, breathing oxymoron. There I was, high as a fucking kite during my residency, counseling others on the dangers of addiction. Most days I could barely fucking stand myself, could barely stand to look in the mirror.”

I still can’t.

“That was when I hit rock bottom. It was the anniversary of my buddy’s death, and I took his wife and two little girls to visit his grave. I was sort of Uncle Brewer, guardian of his family. That was the hardest part for me, seeing this beautiful family grieve for him, an honorable, responsible, wonderful man, and yet here I was, still alive, a worthless piece of shit. The unfairness of it all just made me so fucking angry and bitter. Angry at God, angry at fate, angry at myself.”

I know that anger well. It fuels my veins, makes my heart pump, and gives me the energy to crawl out of bed every day.

“But my moment of clarity was when they walked back to the car and left me standing there alone, with just me and Eric. His wife thought I was some sort of hero or some bullshit, but Eric knew better. He could see me for what I really was. He was watching me from heaven, or wherever the fuck he ended up, and he could see every fucked up deed and sin I committed. He saw me for the fraud I was. I was in the middle of a long tirade of apologies and self-recrimination, making empty promises of how I would do better when I spotted a man slumped against a headstone. Maybe he was a homeless vet or something, he sure looked like it, and I caught myself getting angry at him, like a self-righteous prick. How dare he desecrate someone’s grave, their honor, and their sacrifice, by sleeping there, making a home there, with his dirty, unwashed body and his bad choices. He held a paper bag in his hand, and I knew there was alcohol in it. I fumed with anger. I was so fucking full of shit.” He laughed. “I had no right to judge him. Maybe he knew the person buried there beneath him. Maybe he felt responsible for putting them there.”

His voice breaks on a sob, and fresh tears fall from my eyes.

“I realized I was him. I was certainly no better than him, except my clothes were cleaner, and I had a decent haircut. There I was, looking after the family of the man who died for me, high out of my fucking mind. If I could have taken my life right there in that moment, I would have. Instead, I dropped to my ass in the dirt and swore to Eric and God and myself that I would do better. That I would get clean. And that I would use my degree and my experience to help others. I owed it to Eric and his family to make something of the life I was spared, to live the life he would have that he no longer could. That day, that was both my weakest and my strongest moment.”

I owe that to Gutierrez.

“After that, I found BALLS, started to attend meetings there and NA meetings, got a sponsor, and began working the twelve steps, and when I celebrated two years clean, they offered me a job. Can you imagine? Me, an addict, a fuck-up.” He laughs without humor. “Been clean ever since.”

I’ve never felt more grateful for this man than right fucking now. Brewer knows what I’ve been through, he feels what I feel, and he knows my pain and anger and the guilt that gnaws at me daily until I’m completely empty inside.

He continues to stroke through my hair, his voice soft and low. “One day, you’re gonna be able to say the same thing. Maybe your story will help inspire someone to hit their knees and find their moment of clarity, and all your suffering won’t feel so worthless and futile.”

If it brought me to Brewer, it wasn’t worthless or futile for even one second.

“This coffee tastes like shit,” he grumbles.

Don’t. Laugh.

“We’re not here for the coffee,” I remind him in a whisper.

“It sure as shit ain’t the ambience, either.”

I can’t help that my shoulders shake with silent laughter. There’s no hiding it. He’s right, the dimly lit basement beneath the church isn’t what I would describe as warm, or cozy, and certainly not inviting and inspiring.

What I love about Nash is that he can be the most compassionate and sympathetic man one moment, and then turn completely sour the next. It’s his misery talking. He has no idea how to sit still within his own skin and just listen.

For the next forty-five minutes, Nash grumbles, shifts, fidgets, and basically just does his best to drive me out of my mind. But when they call for a celebration of clean time, for addicts to come forward and claim the poker chips that denote how many days, months, or years they’ve been clean and sober, Nash becomes as still as a statue.

The meeting moderator asks, “Is there anyone who would like to pick up a white chip and surrender?”

“What am I supposed to do?” he whispers, sounding panicked.

“Surrender, Nash.”

“But I already have a white chip that you gave me.”

“Can you have too many?”

“Fuck,” he mumbles under his breath, pushing to his feet.

I know he’s nervous, scared, full of fear, but this is something he’s got to do for himself. I can’t surrender for him.

They close the meeting with everyone joined together in a circle as they recite the serenity prayer, and I can feel Nash beside me, stiff as a board from having to touch the man beside him. It’s not because he doesn’t like to be touched, it’s because he’s afraid that any sort of stimulus might trigger him. How exhausting it must feel to be on guard every single day, afraid to experience life because the experience might ruin you.

Sliding my arm around his shoulders, I squeeze him to me a little tighter, hoping to absorb some of his fear.

“God, grant us serenity to accept the things we cannot change, courage to change the things we can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Keep coming back, it works if you work it, so work it, you’re worth it.”

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