Page 254 of Hooking Up
"Your ex drank a lot."
"Yeah. He did. That was normal for a while. One day, we were at his friend's birthday part. It was a little after I got my second round of terrible GRE scores. It was all I was thinking about. And I was so tired of thinking about it. I wanted to do anything to make it stop. Or I thought I did. Because when I saw his friend using—"
"Using?"
"Shooting up. Heroin. I thought it was ridiculous. Like something out of a movie. Who did heroin? Didn't they know about blood communicable diseases? Hadn't they seenRequiem for a Dream? We got into this huge fight about it. I told him I was never going to hang out with those people again. He called me uptight. I called him an asshole. We both apologized, agreed not to talk about it."
He moves closer.
"But his friend was at the next party. He looked so calm, so at peace. Like nothing could be wrong. And everything felt so wrong. And I thought… well, I thought that maybe Ross was right. Maybe I only judged because I didn't know how good it could be."
He drags his fingertips up my arm.
"I hadn't been drinking. I knew better than to mix opiates and alcohol. Well, back then, I cared enough not to do it. And it wasn't like the guy was doing heroin. He was just swallowing some prescription stuff. Stuff I could get from a doctor. I convinced myself it couldn't be too bad. After all, I'd taken Vicodin when I got my wisdom teeth out. It didn't make me feel much besides tired. So when he offered me one, I took it."
"Was that the first time?"
"Besides after my wisdom teeth, yeah."
"How did it feel?"
"Like nothing would ever hurt me again."
"You hated your life that much?"
"Yeah." I stare at the bright stars. "I wasn't ready to confront it. I wanted to feel anything else. Anything good. But I wasn't going to start using drugs like one of the people I'd read about. Like some pathetic addict. I convinced myself it was like drinking. It is. Just stronger. More addictive. Dangerously addictive."
His exhale is heavy.
"For a while, I'd get high on the weekends. Then it was all weekend. Then most nights. I… I made a lot of bad decisions. But I held it together pretty well. Until I didn't. I'd get to work late. Skip meetings. I got reprimanded. I told myself I'd stop. And I did, for a while. I tried, I really did. But I couldn't take the withdrawal. I caved."
"How many times?"
"Half a dozen."
"For how long?"
"Two and a half years. More or less. I tried, hard, to stop after my sister found my stash. We were getting ready for a wedding. She saw it in my makeup bag and freaked out. Threatened to tell our parents. I promised I'd stop."
"Did you mean it?" He stares into my eyes, demanding an explanation.
I wish I had a better one. I wish the truth was less ugly.
But it is ugly.
And I'm done running from it. "I wanted to stop. The look on her face—it was awful. I never wanted to see that again. I tried. But… you know what it's like when you try to kick caffeine?"
"I never have."
"When you go too long without a coffee? Get a headache? Get irritable? Want caffeine like you've never wanted anything?"
"Yeah."
"Multiply that by a thousand. I wanted to make her proud, but it was easier being high. More comfortable. She caught me again. Asked me to choose. I told her I chose her, but—"
"You stayed high?"
Is that judgment in his voice? Or is it understanding?
