Page 89 of Taste of Addiction

“I gathered that.”

Dr. Westinger crosses and uncrosses her legs. “Let’s dig deeper, shall we? Why did it take so many years after the accident to decide that you need the pills? Physically and emotionally, you should have been at your worst the days right after the accident.”

“I was emotionally numb then. And physically, I think I welcomed the pain.”

“Yeah? Tell me about it.” Her eyes stay fixated on me. Expectant.

“What’s there to say?” I answer with a bit of attitude. “How would you expect for me to act after my twin brother died in front of me?”

“A lot of people deal with tragedy, but not everyone gets hooked on pills. We need to figure out why you fell into that type of darkness. If we don’t know how you got there—beyond just that you were sad—then getting out will be harder.”

I shrug and slump into the cushions. My temple is starting to pulsate, and the telltale signs of a headache brewing are in the background of my mind. “I guess I am just weak.”

Dr. Westinger dismisses my flippant comment with the wave of her hand. “Sometimes guilt and grief are two emotions that often compete with one another. Did you get a chance to grieve for the loss of your brother?”

“I attended the funeral. I visit James’s grave every time I go back to my hometown. And I think about him often—even in my nightmares.”

“But did you have a chance to get angry? To cry? Scream? Place blame?”

“I’m still angry. I never stopped being angry. I still cry. I still scream. And as for placing blame? I still don’t know who killed James. I have these fragments of memories. They are buried deep in my mind. I thought it was a drunk driver who fled the scene. For years that is what I believed. I was the only surviving witness besides the driver who hit us. But then I went through a box of memories from the hospital. I also went back to the crash scene on Monday, and I keep having these memories…”

“Tell me more. Don’t stop.”

“It was not an accident that we crashed. We were being chased down after someone tried to drug and rape me at a college party. I called my brother to come get me, and we were going to go to the police station to report the attempted crime.”

Dr. Westinger takes a few notes. “Angie?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you blame yourself for the accident?”

I think about the question. “Yes. How can I not blame myself? I called James to come rescue me like he always did. I lived. He died.”

“What if I told you that you were both victims? That the only person who is to blame is the person at the party who did you wrong.”

“Sure, logically, I know that is true. But deep down, I have this guilt.”

“Guilt for what?”

“For surviving,” I admit.

Dr. Westinger points the end of her pen toward me. “Bingo. You just diagnosed yourself.”

I furrow my brow. “What?” I am struggling as is keeping up with her rapid-fire questions, let alone understanding her when she is rattling off comments.

“You have something called survivor’s guilt, which is a symptom of your PTSD.”

“I am an addict.”

Again, she waves her hand, as if my words are just unnecessary commentary on my part. “You are a survivor who feels guilty for living while a person you love died. You became an addict years later. And we are on our way to discovering more as to the reason why.”

I rub at my forehead as I feel the migraine starting. “I get migraines.”

“Withdrawal.”

I want to reach over and hit her. How can she be so certain? “That’s exactly what Dr. Lucian pointed out,” I mumble.

“Good. We are often on the same page. Why else do you feel guilty? And what brought this on at the moment in your life where you felt the need to abuse pills?”

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