Page 88 of Taste of Addiction

I shake her hand and admire her grace and elegance at how she carries herself. She definitely doesn’t look her age. She gets settled back in her chair, resting her clipboard on her lap. She extends her hand toward the sofa and I take my place.

I stare up at the diplomas and awards perfectly displayed in bronze frames in a diamond pattern on the adjoining wall. A beautiful bonsai plant rests on the coffee table, and the room suddenly fills with silence. My silence. I freeze up and instantly feel vulnerable. I expect her to judge me, and maybe that fact is making it harder for me to accept my responsibility.

I watch the water flowing from the fountain and wish it was louder. Anything to break her watchful silence. I don’t want to face my fears. Or the truth. Or the past. Yesterday I wanted to. But at this moment in time? No.

“Why are you here today?” she asks. Her question is blunt and in complete contrast with her sweet voice.

“Dr. Lucian sent me,” I answer meekly, suddenly losing my voice.

“Not good enough.”

Excuse me? I raise my eyebrow.

“Why are you here, Angie?”

“Because Graham and his personal doctor think I have a problem with the painkillers I have been taking.”

“I don’t care what Graham thinks. Or his doctor.” Her response is almost like a slap in the face. “I want to know whyyouare here today. Because as far as I can tell, you came in willingly.” Her arm gestures toward my attire, as if highlighting the fact that I am not bound.

What the hell is her problem? And why is her tone in contradiction to her intrusive questions? It is extremely unnerving.

“Remember, Angie, everything you say is protected by doctor-patient confidentiality,” she reminds me.

I get up from my solo couch and pace in front of the coffee table. I don’t know how to answer the question. I definitely don’t know how to give her a response that will make her move on to the next part of the interrogation.

“I’m here because I have a medication problem.”

“Quit sugarcoating.”

“Drugproblem.”

“Keep digging.”

I turn and stare back at her. Her eyes are a soft gray. “What?”

“Surely there was some turning point in your life that started this whole thing. It’s not like you woke up one day and decided to take some painkillers and some antianxiety drugs. So, keep digging. And maybe”—she taps her pen on her clipboard—“just maybe, we will learn something of value today.”

“I don’t even think I remember taking any antianxiety meds. If I did, they were never prescribed to me.” I pause and look at the doctor who is simply listening. “I think someone is drugging me,” I whisper.

She nods. “Maybe. But before that happened, you made several choices all on your own. I want to know what led to those choices. Tell me the backstory. Tell me how you got to where you are at this very moment.”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes you do. And only you know the answer. So, I have no one to ask but you. If you want my help, you have to come clean.”

Come clean.

“My mom died when I was twelve. Six years later, my twin brother, James, died in a car accident. I was the passenger. I watched him die. I never got over it. Doubt I ever will. I was not myself after the accident and started to cut. I had injuries I was coping with.”

“So, why not start abusing drugs then? Seems like that would be the logical time for this all to start. In addition, you had easier access to the medication.”

I shrug. “I guess I didn’t need to cope then as much as I have needed to recently.”

“That doesn’t logically make sense,” she points out.

My eyes narrow at her. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, I am just calling bullshit on your answer. That’s all.”

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